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After another affair, he felt drained.
The women were beautiful, but they didn't make him feel anything. You look at art, but you see only a draft, only lifeless clay, only torn sheet music.
He wanted to enjoy sex, to receive pleasue, to remember such moments with a slight smile on his face while he was stirring tea, ideally — to love sincerely and fervently. But he never succeeded.
At best, he felt strangely at peace. All bad thoughts are forgotten, blurred and drowned in passion, it seems that nothing exists in the world except a wildly beating heart and sweaty palms, except strands stuck to the forehead, except a pliant body that reacts so acutely to any touch. But there is no happiness there. An attempt to distract yourself is nothing more.
At worst, he was overwhelmed by a wave of self-loathing. It is impossible to ignore the world around him for too long, awareness still rolls in like a tsunami and destroys the cities of the mind. Dazai dug his pale fingers into his own thighs, tore his hair and bit his lip, asking unknown demiurgists the question: why would he do this?
Why is he not normal?
Why does he sleep with a lot of women, not just because he messes around and plays, takes the side of absolute hedonism, but because he is desperately trying to hide from the horrifying truth, from cuts on his hands (which his passions looked at a little timidly, carelessly kissed, probably to comfort, but Osamu from such gestures only became more disgusting) from sleepless nights and empty bottles that are lying on the floor.
Why is he deprived of the opportunity to bring a new person into this world?
Most likely, because the world does not need a second Dazai Osamu with slightly larger eyes and a neat nose, with the same cracked lips and bandages covering most of the body. He is disgusting to the world and exists only to suffer and accept it with a big smile and poisonous humor.
Like God's personal buffoon, he is desperately trying to pass away in order to drink alcohol down every failed attempt.
Sometimes he thought about his family.
About a beautiful wife, with whom he would be madly in love, about smiling and naughty children who would playfully dangle their legs at the table and laugh at their father, hugging him tightly and truly loving him. He thought about a small house outside the city, about a front garden, about peace, about the noise of trees and ripe fruits.
About a life that seemed not only far away, but completely impossible.
Because there is no life in Osamu.
He is the personification of death. He is horror, he is cold, he is indifference. He cannot bring life into the world, he can only take it away, gorge on it like a hungry animal, which leaves behind a trail of drops of saliva and blood. Perhaps life just flowed out of him. It was left on blades and someone's knives, on bullets and fists.
He is standing barefoot in a rice field. He looks somewhere into the distance, at the sun, which is slowly but surely setting over the horizon, as if playfully smiling goodbye. Dazai is not cold — the summer turned out to be warm, sometimes hot. He stands in his shirt sleeves and tries to feel more alive. He tries to find life in the way the wind strokes his chest, in the way his toes dig into the wet ground, in the way the sun plays with his hair and looks into his eyes.
He sits on his knees and digs into the ground with his fingers, as if trying to pull life out of it, the ability to generate it. But nothing helps. He's just as dead, just as empty. A shell that wanders the world, it is unclear why, only tormenting itself.
"Well, why are you so soft, mackerel?" shiny black shoes (albeit slightly stained with mud) stop next to him. The voice sounds rough, there is no tenderness in it at all, as it sometimes happened. Most likely, it's because Nakahara is too upset about the ruined shoes.
"At least I'm just soft, and didn't fall as low as you," Osamu mutters, clearly not in the mood to listen to insults right now, and gets a brutal punch in the gut. He falls to the ground, soiling his clothes and getting wet, sighing heavily and moaning softly in pain. Dazai clutches his stomach and restrains himself so as not to shower Chuuya with insults.
"Watch your mouth," Nakahara snaps and grins proudly, looking at the horizon. And so, while he is distracted, Osamu takes advantage of the moment and abruptly grabs his foot in a shiny shoe. Roughly pulls and hears a magical «plop!» next to him, and then he turns a satisfied look at Chuuya.
He's covered in mud and water. Dumbfounded, he looks somewhere into the void and nervously moves his hands, as if trying to turn back time so that this does not happen, so that he does not get dirty like this, so that he does not fall so shamefully in front of dirty and ridiculous Dazai. Predictably, it doesn't work out, and after a couple of seconds of unconscious attempts, Chuuya raises an angry look at Osamu.
"You bastard..." he hisses and attacks Dazai. Roughly knocks him to the ground and sits on his hips. Now Osamu is all at his disposal: weak and malleable, unable to escape and hide. Nakahara can't help but chuckle in anticipation.
He dips his palms into the water, gets his fingers into the wet ground and runs his hands over Dazai's face. He is outraged (although he laughs), tries to push the Chuuya off him, but nothing comes out, he squeezes his legs only harder, digging his knees into Osamu's waist.
"Got it?"? Like it? Satisfied?" Nakahara whispers with sadistic pleasure, and Dazai desperately tries to ignore the fact that Chuuya, disheveled and playful, is sitting on his hips.
It is impossible to ignore this fact for too long.
Nakahara is still playfully smearing dirt on the doll's face (it seemed that only the painted tears on his cheeks were missing), and Osamu abruptly grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him to himself, greedily kissing him.
At first, Chuuya does not react. Then he thinks about pushing away his loveraster, who apparently felt desire at the most inopportune moments, but then gives up, accepts the madness that was hiding in their heads.
Finally, he thinks that he will have to wash everything, including himself.
And responds to the kiss. With dirty hands, he holds Dazai's face and kisses him fervently, so as to warm his lover, who is dumped in mud and cool water.
Everything happens raggedly, but because of the coolness and stickiness, the sun, which turns their bodies red, as if slowly and poetically, even though they are writing poems and a novel right now.
Chuuya is another proof that Dazai is dead. But it's even better this way. Nakahara can't create life either, but it's not Osamu's fault. The two of them are like... like protecting the world from death by absorbing it.
Absorbing it through wet kisses and tremulous touches.
It is not difficult to get rid of Dazai's clothes. Very soon he is discarded, while Chuuya leaves greedy and biting kisses all over his body, completely ignoring the cool water on his chest, shoulders or hips. He only touches some places, squeezes them so as not to eat dirt. Osamu is writhing in his arms, wheezing, crying out to the gods of life to look.
Here he is! Feels! Alive! Although he can't convey life.
While Nakahara kisses him impatiently, Dazai tries to undress his lover with trembling hands. He immediately throws off his hat, burying his dirty fingers in his red hair (otherwise, Chuuya would have killed him immediately, but now he just mumbles contentedly), unbuttons his vest and shirt, pulls off his trousers until Nakahara remains completely naked in front of him.
Beautiful and real.
He doesn't like lying on the ground, but he likes to look into Dazai's eyes, likes to tremble a little under him, grab his shoulders. Osamu likes to come to terms with his death, watching Nakahara's trembling hips, moving slowly, periodically dragging his lover into a kiss. The sun has almost completely gone below the horizon, the empty rice field is quietly rustling under the gusts of wind. They, in love and mad, cling to each other greedily in search of peace of mind.
Chuuya's hands can calm Dazai, and Dazai's hands — Chuuya.
The whitish spots on the body do not seem to be something disgusting, something that would remind Osamu of his inferiority. No, combined with Chuuya's heavy breathing, with his lovesick and exhausted babbling, it seems like a blessing and, hearing a surprised but satisfied sigh, Dazai hurriedly licks the seed from his stomach.
Sprouts will not give him fertility, nature will not make him normal, but Nakahara will at least make him happy.