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“Though they were far apart their love made nothing of the light years separating them and together they entered a dream of love.” - Kunikida Doppo
Ten minutes and fifty three seconds to 6AM.
Dawn is barely peeking through the curtains. Kunikida sweeps them aside just a little and opens the windows. Fall has brought along a brand new sharpness to the early morning air that feels like small pinpricks on his skin. It is not very unpleasant, but enough to make him tug his coat tighter around himself. He can no longer bear the drop in temperature as well, these days.
His Ideal lies before him on the tatami mat. He picks it up and turns to the page dedicated to today’s schedule. The smell of fresh ink has long dispersed. He rereads the letters his own hands had written last night. The penmanship looks shaky. He wonders if the tremors in his hands are the result of his age or of something else entirely.
“Kunikida-kun.”
He looks up at the sound of his name. Dazai is sitting across from him, amber eyes glittering playfully under the early sunlight. Brown locks softly fall down to frame his oval face. He is smiling, tender and fond like the first time they ever kissed, and Kunikida’s worn old heart cannot help but skip a beat at the sight.
God, all these years and he is still rendered helpless before this gorgeous man.
“Still have a habit of breaking into my house, I see.”
Dazai only grins wider at the accusation. “I came to greet you early, didn’t I?” As soon as the last syllable leaves his mouth in a gust of wind (airily, with the familiar lilt Kunikida spent his entire youth trying not to fall for and failing), the brunette soundlessly stands up and walks over to where he is kneeling. Not even the bad spot of floorboard right next to Kunikida creaks under Dazai’s feet.
“So you did.” He is about to close his notebook when a dainty hand spreads the pages open once more. Dazai rests his chin on the blond’s shoulder, humming an offkey tune while he reads. Kunikida suspects it’s one of those made-up suicide songs of his again, but he does not have the energy to chide the other man for it anymore.
“Look at that.” Even without turning around, Kunikida knows Dazai is looking as smug as ever. “I made it into your Ideal again. What an honor!”
“Last year, you said the exact same thing. And the year before that.”
They have had this very conversation for a few years, now, on this exact day. Dazai never fails to point it out that Kunikida has, once again, written his name into the Ideal. Kunikida never fails to blush at the teasing tone, even though he thinks himself long past that particular phase.
“Doesn’t make it any less touching, for me.”
Now that is something new.
Kunikida turns around, curious as to what kind of expression the brunette is making. A shift, and Dazai is smiling at him. Not the annoyingly jolly smile that used to get on his nerves all the time, but the small, barely-there ghost of a smile he only reserves for Kunikida when they are alone together; warm and sweet like honey, yet so indescribably sad. The smile that makes Kunikida’s heart ache for him. His arms long to wrap around that frail body to chase away the loneliness that resides in them both.
A breath, and Kunikida feels soft lips pressing against his hair. It’s just as wretchedly gentle as the hands caressing his face, and he knows, oh he knows, that he will never love any other. He is simply incapable of it. Dazai has already made a home inside Kunikida’s ribcage and there he will forever stay.
The moment passes too soon. Kunikida can feel Dazai starting to pull away. His trembling hands instinctively reach up to keep the other man right where he is, but he is no longer as fast as his younger self and the brunette has already slipped out of his embrace like water.
“It’s time, Kunikida-kun.” Dazai is once again standing by the windows across from him. His tan coat flutter in tandem with the curtains. “You won’t be able to keep up with your schedule if you stay here.”
But you used to throw my schedule off all the time, Kunikida wants to say. The words, however, are stuck inside his throat, and he can only look at Dazai with desperation, committing him to memory.
Dazai’s eyes bear straight into his own, affection laced with steely resolve.
“It’s time you let me go.”
And then he is gone.
Kunikida stares at the spot where the other man just stood a second ago, his arms still stretched towards it in an aborted motion. The air feels cold and damp on his cheeks.
One minute and eight seconds to 6AM.
Kunikida lowers his arms. His phone buzzes several times in succession. He bends down to pick it up along with his Ideal and scrolls through the texts. Yosano and Kenji have picked up some flowers. Ranpo, a brand of whisky he insists Dazai would love. Atsushi, Tanizaki and Naomi are on the way with some cheap sake.
Kunikida slips the phone into his coat pocket and wipes away the moisture gathering in his eyes with a dry hand. His knees creak a little as he stands up and reaches for his new poetry collection on the desk. Later, when they meet again, Dazai would probably laugh at him for writing something as sentimental as poems solely to dedicate to the brunette, and then turn right around to read the book cover to cover.
He hopes that day would come, soon.
6AM.
Outside, the town where the wind blows is waking up.