Work Text:
The sky was incredibly clear. Across the sky, lavender faded into soft, pastel marigold, and into the most adorable blush likely caused by the sun’s lingering warmth. Sparkles waited impatiently on the edge of the evening, spilling into the purple. You could see for miles, to the horizon, as there was nothing other than grass on this forgotten piece of land. The lovely wind played with the wilderness, gliding across the surface of the land, gently running its fingers through your hair. Wildflowers were sprinkled far and wide, springing up lovely within every glance taken. Though of course, no one came here to “glance” at wildflowers.
You smiled knowingly, clutching the thing you carefully protected in your arms tighter, and turned around, facing east.
Though the dehydrated meadow still extended a few yards ahead, it eventually enveloped an intruder, which was a tiny tin-sheeted shed that had the eastern wall missing. It housed two discarded chairs, and recently, someone else.
You slowly treaded your way over to the tin shed, making the grass rustle in protest. Your breath maintained a calm tempo, though your heart was certainly following a much faster rhythm. When you got next to the shed, you took a deep breath, hugged the bouquet closer to your chest, and peered in.
You blinked in slight surprise.
The boy still sat, in his usual relaxed yet proper posture, in his chair on the left. His black coat was still lazily draped over his shoulders, and bandages still covered his right eye and limbs. He still exudes that same serene, dreamy aura akin to the essence of the cosmos, as if the world was just another dream of his for him to understand and explore, as if inviting the space around him to melt, to join his illusive state.
He often came, always at dusk, and left at dawn. Between those times, he sat, looking to the horizon or past it into an area unknown to anyone but him. Sometimes he cradled a barely usable white guitar, playing songs he must have gotten from where he belonged, as they were rhythms unfamiliar to you, unlike any music you’ve ever heard before.
Yet today, his eyes were closed like he didn’t have a care in the world. It seemed almost peaceful, the way his face looked when he was finally freed of being a thinker. It was as if he no longer had to hold himself together in the form of a human in those quiet sessions of solitude and privacy, free to disintegrate into starstuff.
Your feelings, upon seeing the sight, mellowed down from nervousness and anticipation to something much softer, tenderness flowing in, your heart swelling with adoration. The desire to show him emotions words cannot yet describe had increased tenfold. And so, you walked up to him quietly, and gingerly placed the many-hued bouquet in his lap, as an expression of simple affection that yearned for disclosure yet needed not be returned. It was simply a longing to tell the teenager what you felt, more a confession than anything demanding a reply.
You backed away just how you came, silently watching his resting form. A feeling of unrealness hit you, as this moment was too peaceful to be true and too disconnected from the mundane world to be confirmed as existing. As much as you’d like to stay, there was always the thought in the back of your head, reminding you that this place was too trance-like, too detached, and too ethereal to stay for long without falling into the hope of a dream. And so you faded away, leaving no indication that you ever visited.
After the stars started to spread happily throughout the sky and the cool night breeze began to pick up, swaying the grass this way and that, Dazai’s eyes slowly opened, called upon the physical world to continue living. He tried to move his hands to stretch, only to find the bouquet on his lap, plastic gently crinkling and vivid flowers made monochrome due to the lack of light. He simply stared at them for a moment, observing what he could see of them, his gaze thoughtful, as if guessing instantly the possibilities of what the flowers meant and pondering if they were plausible. Then, after a minute or an hour, a look of acceptance washed over him, and he closed his eyes once more, not because of tiredness this time, but rather letting tender emotions flow from the flowers through him, ending at the top of his head and the tips of his toes, as if your intentions were understood and accepted wholly without anything lost over misinterpretations. Savouring the flavour of each sensation, he exhaled, cradling the bouquet closer to him, the flowers vibrating a frequency led by his slow heartbeat.
He understood. A stranger of his had decided to present unadulterated affection by the means of flowers.