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It is beautiful to watch Dazai-san at work, Akutagawa thinks as they set off in the moonlight towards the safe house a few miles away from the Mafia’s last murder scene.
Dazai-san is a peculiar mix of quiet intent, empty hilarity, and sonorous boredom aimed at the rest of his world, a world much bigger and much more frightening than perhaps even the one Akutagawa has come to know. Dazai-san’s past is a mystery to all but himself. Among the Mafia stories have been traded about the elusive life before his days as the youngest, most ruthless and calculating Mafioso; these tales have come and gone, as is their wont, as is what happens to all tales that do not have enough footing to become a largely-accepted truth. But from all he has heard, Akutagawa knows only of one thing that all these rumours shared: Dazai-san had always been alone.
Such wonder he would take Akutagawa in. As a protégée. As a pet of sorts.
“A lovely night, isn’t it?” Dazai-san’s voice cuts through the darkness, pleasant and cool, distantly amused like it always has been. It may just be the lack of light, but Akutagawa sees Dazai-san’s shoulders fall a little. Not in his customary bored manner, no, it is different, though Akutagawa cannot place where the difference lies — then again, Akutagawa supposes he could never know. Not as he is now, heartless, emotionless, save for the deep respect invoked by Dazai-san and the sliver of hate in him left of that night.
Come to think of it… Akutagawa stares on ahead, remembering the same words being spoken by the same man years ago, under only slightly different circumstances, under the same solitary moonlight that shows them their way. It had been an odd night then. Perhaps tonight will be, as well.
Dazai-san’s figure – tall, lithe, proud – shifts to face him when he fails to answer, so lost in thought as he is. They stop walking and stare at each other for a short while until Akutagawa feels the need to look away first. He cannot gaze into the eyes of a godly demon long enough without feeling the chill run up his spine, familiar in the way Dazai-san’s crooked grin is, just now, as he watches discomfort claw at Akutagawa. Dazai-san smiles humourlessly, and then continues on their walk home.
(If Akutagawa had looked just a little longer, he would have seen in those devil’s eyes what the fallen shoulders meant. Dazai-san’s eyes mimic his figure – tall, lithe, proud – and speak volumes of exhaustion.)