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“Why not?”
It’s a simple question that Dazai posed—two simple words to represent how he was so
sure
that, for once, his flirtations towards someone weren’t just to tease and annoy. How he was so
sure
that his flirtations worked, how the other would find himself falling too.
Maybe Dazai’s wishful thinking was nothing but a vain effort: a firm reminder to him that everyone he has ever cared for or indulged with would leave eventually: whether those relationships were platonic, or romantic, or familial.
Maybe in this case, it had left before it even started.
Dazai’s eyes are settled on the man in front of him longingly: his hands are at his sides, posture not as confident as it usually is: his shoulders slumped, his hands dangling by his sides as if they were
useless
, as if they were no longer a part of Dazai’s body to control. His feet are rooted in the ground.
Kunikida is in front of him: he was the receiver of such a question. Kunikida sits there, notebook clasped in one hand, thumb on the bridge of that damn book: the warm sunset glow gently illuminating through the agency windows settled over him, setting Kunikida in an orange spotlight.
Normally, the sunset gave both of them a sense of tranquility: the warm, orange light flickering on the streets, basking everything in a beautiful glow that made the scenery easy on the eyes: making a brunette’s hair illuminated in the sun, shining gently off one’s glasses. It gave the day a sense of closure: to both, it was a sign they had survived the day, however tough it was, and could finally rest.
But how could Dazai possibly feel a sense of closure in this?
He saw how Kunikida’s gaze flickered unsurely between his book and Dazai’s face: as if his eyes couldn’t settle on what to look at. Maybe Dazai’s expression hurt too much to look at, maybe the decision Kunikida had to make hurt more when looking at the latter.
To Kunikida, maybe Dazai’s lack of his usual ear-to-ear grin, Dazai’s usual light in his eyes as he saw kunikida’s annoyance, Dazai’s
usual
flippancy was too much to look at, too much to bear.
Kunkida’s lips quivered, his shoulders also slightly slumped and just as unconfident as Dazai’s posture: he glanced at those muddy brown eyes one final time before turning back to rest his gaze on the wood of his desk.
A heavy sigh leaves Kunikida’s lips, one that must shake his lungs.
Then, a small, forced smile rested on Kunikida’s lips. He turned to look at Dazai, the sad, unsure smile making his next words all the more painful.
They were simple; Dazai should have predicted it. He knew everything. He
always
knew everything. He was always one step ahead of everyone, wasn’t he?
“I wish you were a girl”
Kunikida’s response was just as simple as Dazai’s initial question: yet, Dazai had to bite his cheek to stop his lip from uncharacteristically trembling, to force his eyes not to go wide and feel boiling tears trickle out of them.
He should have predicted it: surely, he should’ve. He should have known, he should have known, he should have known. How had he let his feelings get the better of him, allowed himself to be rejected in such a painful way?
Dazai’s heart aches. He’s not sure how much more heartbreak he can take—he’s sure Kunikida feels the same way; at least, he hopes so, that the rejection is not simple and easy for the other.
Dazai can’t bear to tear his gaze from Kunikida, no matter how painful the eye contact is.
Dazai would have been fine loving a boy if it didn’t mean it was Kunikida,
and Kunikida would have been fine loving Dazai if it didn’t mean he was a boy.