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Blue, but not sky blue, dark blue—bottom of the ocean blue, withering autumn succumbing to frost bitten wind and starless twilights blue. Red sheets would just piss you off. The red of cliché passion, love, and adoration—besides dark blue looked better underneath his chocolate locks sprawled out and messy (according to you). At first he presumed you were putting on a show for his sake. Never love the escort—never love the client. An unspoken agreement that didn’t need proper citation in any of the contracts piled high in his personal folder. Dazai never broke that rule (and he didn’t need to try either), but his patrons were another story. Blondes, brunettes, jet black hair and all toting bright, bright eyes. It didn’t matter how beautiful they looked, in his eyes they mirrored dollar signs.
Lavish cars, high-priced sake tasting far too rich but delicious nonetheless; perfect dolls stacked in a row waiting for his touch to send them spiraling down. His price went up as often as his age did; from a young boy of sixteen to a polished man with a silver tongue and skilled fingers to match he had become the highest priced escort in all of Yokohama. Socialites, politician’s wives and daughters bored out of their mind, groups of girls all pooling their money together for one single night with Dazai Osamu.
He was never surprised nor taken back by the freshly manicured nails tugging at the skin of his shoulders. Wine-stained lips begging for his attention, moaning sweetly like the morning song of humming birds—“Oh, Dazai!”. As plain as red coated apples plucked from the very same tree—absolutely vapid .They recited his name entirely too sweet for his truest of tastes, but this was a game of masks and charisma. Often he would catch a glimpse of a slanted line of crimson hidden under heavily jeweled bracelets. The unmistakable curse of this twisted world, where there no secrets anymore? As if he couldn’t tell with their star crossed eyes and puckered lips each time he bid them good-bye.
Falling in love was too damn boring; they were boring, vapid dollar signs.
Tuesday, it was raining in early October. Raindrops pounded the sidewalk and soaked the browning leaves clinging to life on reddened tree branches. It was late, half an hour past the appointed time. Dazai fiddled with his watch before pouring himself a glass of whisky. Amber liquid swirled against his tongue as he leaned against the window. High above the streets with the after-glow of sunset washing faded gold and pink swirls over the water. Thirty-second floor, presidential suite—not bad. He’d been here once on the lower levels, some Port Mafia leader’s daughter borrowed his time for an hour.
The car was blacked out, windows tinted far too dark to be legal and headlights glowing off-white. Expensive, he thought, watching the figure escape from the car to the front door quickly to avoid the rain. It took seven minutes from the front door to the room. His glass was nearly empty, but Dazai fell abruptly into his role as a gentleman and a lover.
“Care for a drink my sweet?” Dazai noted the way your eyes flickered over his thin form and pressed suit, but there was no spark behind those vivid, sharpened eyes. “Or would you prefer a nice warm bath. You look exhausted.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”
Buttons scattered over the floor bouncing on the tile and disappearing beneath the dresser. His hands couldn’t move fast enough for your liking and his lip stung from your teeth. Something ignited, but he presumed the ferocity of your kisses and unfiltered need to prevail over his dominate tendencies merely shot his adrenaline through the roof. For a night he could play submissive, he thought, but that dream wound like sand through his fingers as the night wore on.
You baited him, pressed buttons he didn’t realize he had, pushed him to the edge and made him want to jump head first. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades, the mark on his neck faded his vision and he saw galaxies burst to life as your nails dug through his neck. Riding this high was nothing he’d ever experienced. He couldn’t help but comment how beautiful you looked underneath him; it was the truth—but he loved how it made the grip on his neck tighten.
It was weeks before you came back, off on business as you said, and it didn’t take long to figure out what that business was. Port Mafia—executive—murderer. He didn’t care, but he often wondered why someone with your looks and money would even think about paying for attention. Once every few weeks became weekly, then twice a week, and then every night you could muster. A revolving door of cash to him from you, from him to dinner dates and yachts and high-priced love hotels catering to even the darkest of desires. Why bother with talking when getting rough between the sheets was the all the connection needed?
Until it wasn’t enough.
Dazai glared at the red mark on his wrist as if it was trying to kill him head on. He hadn’t notice at first between the scratches and bites left so consistently on his body. He ignored the feeling of dread each time a patron that wasn’t you touched his skin, called him their lover, begged for his hands on their body. Hot showers weren’t enough to scratch away the dirt and grime and that disgusting smell of perfume clinging to his hair. His phone felt heavy in his hand; his throat constricts as he dials.
“Are you lonely?”
Dark blue sheets sweat slicked, messy. His hands roam your stomach and the scar over your hip from a childhood of darkness written in blood. Winter surrounds the city and falling snow encases sidewalks and streets and windows iced with frost. You’ve never worn a bracelet before, it’s new and sparkles much brighter than the moon. Curiosity arches a single brunette brow as he traces the pattern of white gold over your wrist. Hips grind; his back arches. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that cocky smirk is gracing your bruised lips. The pad of his finger traces a single black line beneath gleaming gems; an identical match to the one beneath his bandages.
“____,” Dazai teases as his hips grind upwards, “you’re looking at me like you’re in love~”. Hidden desperation laced in conscious avoidance. Stardust twinkles beneath your fluttering lashes before your eyes roll.
“You talk too much.”