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Glares blow Dazai's eyelids, the lashes swing in a sluggish rhythm, still lethargic he wrinkles the corners of the eyes and caresses his cheek over the refreshing pillow where Chuuya's scent and the lavender of the sheets meander in a harmony of fragrancy.
Rusty hair radiate the pale of the pillowcase, blossoming like brilliant spirals, locks fall gracefully along his face and hide ethereal features as if they were envious of his beauty.
Chuuya is light; his naked body is sculpted by golden rays soak into his skin, almost embarrassed to reach the purity of his shapes, and his mind still hooked into Morpheus's arms, wandering in a land of dreams — Oh, why should Dazai meddle between him and his dreamlike dimension?
Dazai is darkness; he is shadow under his crinckled bandages, he is shadow inside his heart, hunger and control, and yet he manages to ride the light every time Chuuya is with him.
Whenever his former partner's silhouette knocked on his door, whenever a layer unrolled from his protective armor and allowed Dazai to creep inside, and he, dived in good intentions — I'll not do it anymore, you'll no longer suffer —, drowned in the usual jagged promises.
Dazai is darkness because darkness belongs to him. But perhaps it's not enough displeasing to coax him to withdraw from his influence.
Chuuya's chest swells and shrinks at a slow pace, his lips split up and a whiff of air paints the the ambience, a stream of drool plummes peacefully along his chin.
Fondness crosses Dazai's face.
How many times had he surveyed Chuuya sleeping. How many times had he waited for him to wake up from their loving lair after a night of passion and disclosed desires.
They were honest only in sex. They were honest only when their mind didn't rebel against the truth of their emotions.
Dazai flutters his fingers on his partner's skin, traces his body as if he wanted to mark it in his thoughts and make it resurface every time Chuuya is not with him, every time his absence is suffocating.
He draws a line through his collarbone, his Adam's apple, his cheek, as the lips slip on his, awarding them with a feathery kiss that tastes of adoration, his fingers hide inside his hair, creating plays of light in their twirling.
"Wake up, sleeping beauty." Dazai sighs warmth against Chuuya's lips.
It takes little for two blue jewels to be reflected into his gaze, it takes little for his mouth to answer in an elusive tune: "You're the one who has to wake up, Dazai ..."
A frown and Dazai's forehead ripples in a sea of questions. He stammers his lover's name before swallowing restlessness.
Why does his heart flickers? Why do nerves lurches? Why is the daybreak is suddenly twilight and the room margins seem to swirl around them?
A vexing and fragmentary sound ricochets inside his ears. It boosts and hammers the brain in a jarring symphony.
Dazai's eyes wide again.
The phone is shaking on the bedside table and the screen twinkles for still a couple of seconds.
A call. Then stillness captures the walls again.
He shifts the eyes angle to the only bright source in the room: this time the sun is already at the epilogue of his path, this time the air is freezing, the bed has a different smell and even Chuuya is vanished.
Yet until recently it was all so vivid, almost as if it was ...
Real?
Dazai ruffles a fist in the folds of the sheets and the fabric stretches around his hand. He pinches his arm with his thumb and forefinger, feeling a nod of pain on the affected skin flap.
Now it's reality, he's sure of it.
Not only for the marginal pinch, of course, but because his soul is a desolate palace whose fortifications tremble and crumble in a fracture maze. Tight teeth and jaw clenched; the muscles of the face like a roll of sorrow.
The dream is melt away and what remains is silence and the sparkling evening air.
But at least in that chimerical locus Chuuya is his, at least during his sleep Chuuya visits him and he's no longer alone, he's happy. He can still be happy.