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She slept with a knife underneath her pillow. It was unsheathed and held clumsily to the darkness, a strand of glowing hair tangled around the blade. The girl who was wielding it was panting, her garments soaked with sweat, and her hair, knotted. Her eyes were trained on the strand, filled with fury, grief, and terror. Her form quivered there like a blade of grass in a typhoon, barely rooted to the dirt below her, awaiting the embrace of the wind and the rain.
Through the night, a figure approached her.
It was hardly unfamiliar for her to wake up in a cold sweat these days. The approaching woman knew that too, blinking in and out as the moonlight hit her through the windows, then was rebuffed by the walls.
“My dark flower,” the woman called as she neared, affection in her voice. “My beloved Kyouka-chan. What is it that ails you tonight?”
The girl did not budge, nor did she sheathe her blade, or speak.
“Did you have a nightmare again? The past cannot hurt you, dear.”
These words finally made her lurch back into action. She slid the blade back into its case, then into its unsuspectingly intimate place of rest. She put her hands in her lap and faced her head to the floor, the picture of subservience. “Thank you for your care,” she whispered, the emotions on her face being overwritten with the emptiness of bravery.
The woman smiled, sitting in front of her and using her hand to raise the girl’s head. “My child, why don’t you look me in the eye?”
“Yes, Kouyou-anesan.”
The woman let go, and Kyouka kept her face still, gazing into her dark brown eyes. Kyouka’s eyes were brown too, but so dark they might as well have been black. Or perhaps that was just the shadow enveloping her, and their true shade was lighter, prettier. Nonetheless, tonight, they were black.
“Yes, tell your anesan what happened. Anesan will listen.”
She parted her lips, but no sound escaped them. Her dream had been a wonderful flashback, before Yasha Shirayuki appeared and killed it from within, just the way it’d killed her parents, then bowed to her, duteous and innocent, as if it hadn’t just destroyed the only thing she cared for. The blood was still dripping from its katana, which it held with two hands towards the little girl. Simply remembering it was too much. Her facade shook for a second, then a crack appeared, and her eyes watered.
Kouyou’s painted face grew cautious and terrified. She raised the sleeve of her kimono and covered the girl’s entire face, then spoke with a stony tone. “Tell me with your words, child, and shed no demonic blood from your eyes. Your tears will entice the rabid dogs to tear into your flesh. Tell me, and do not cry.”
“But I-”
“Kyouka-chan. Shut up.”
Silence reigned, but the beat of her heart told her how much time had passed in solitude. Though Kouyou was across from her, she’d never felt more lonely than when she was in the woman’s presence. In the mafia, she had no right—she had no right to mourn, no right to cry, and no right to feel rage. She must simply obey, quiet and unfeeling. Only then would Kouyou praise her.
She doesn’t want a child; she wants a doll. I’m not her imouto, I’m her Shikkoku Yasha, her jet-black demon…
Kyouka stayed silent for a few moments, and then she corrected her speech. “I did not have a nightmare.”
The sleeve fell from her face, and Kouyou looked at her with pride. Perhaps it was because of the lighting, or maybe it was just her face that looked loathsome… “Very good. Goodnight, my darling.”
“Goodnight, Kouyou-sama.”
“Kouyou-anesan,” the woman corrected, frowning.
Yet another thing she lacked. She had no right to her own feeling—her own defiant coolness. “Goodnight, Kouyou-anesan.”
—
Although it was night, she suddenly felt captured by her futon and targeted by the door to the closet. She grabbed her dagger and walked with snow-light steps across the tatami floor, sparing one single affectionate glance at the unconscious Nakajima Atsushi. He, too, looked like he was having a nightmare. Just like she was sneaking outside, she knew better than to pry about his vulnerability. He’d tell her, of course, but he knew nothing of how dangerous it could be to expose his weaknesses. Even though she liked that he trusted her, she’d prefer he didn’t. What if-
The door creaked open and closed, the only noise she’d made while escaping. Next time, she’d jump from the window: the window slid open and shut silently, and it wouldn’t risk waking Atsushi up.
The cool air felt good against her skin, which had gotten hot from her inner turmoil. Being alone like this was comfortable, knowing that nobody would-
“I wonder what Kyouka-chan is doing out so late? A smoke break?” a voice teased.
She lurched into action, crouching to the floor and reaching for a blade that wasn’t on her person, before realizing the identity of the man talking to her. It made sense why she couldn’t tell someone was approaching if it was him.
“Dazai-san,” she said respectfully, bowing lightly and returning upright. Then she hesitated and asked curiously, “Why are you out here?”
“I couldn’t sleep~ I kept having such scary nightmares about my former lovers haunting me!” He placed his hand over his heart dramatically, pouting with an expression unbefitting a grown man, but weirdly cute on him. “Boohoo. I guess you were dreaming of your ex-lovers too, huh, Kyouka-chan? Tough stuff, being so darn adorable.”
Unsure how to reply, she simply nodded. The two of them stood next to each other in silence, listening to the sound of the wind rustling the leaves of the bushes and trees nearby them. They stared at the dirt courtyard of the Agency’s dorm building, neither admiring the scenery nor lost in their own words. They simply enjoyed the peace.
“How do you reckon with everything, Dazai-san?” Kyouka asked suddenly and quietly. “How does it not kill you?”
He cocked his head at her in consideration. “Well, for me and you, it’s pretty different… But nobody blames a gun for killing someone, do they? It’s the person behind it they call the killer. Although you could say the gun was the cause of death, what’s the point of holding an object that can’t disobey its function accountable for someone else’s choice? The gun may be violent, but it’s not cruel.”
He kept observing her, and must’ve seen something even she wasn’t aware of in her face, because he hummed thoughtfully. “Then again, I guess logic doesn’t matter so much, so let’s do this.” He opened his arms wide and took a single step closer to her, inviting her to bridge the gap. “Kyouka-chan,” he said softly. “It’s alright to cry. Come here.”
At first, she felt confused. Why would Dazai's patronization provide her any sort of comfort? She stepped into his hug to appease him, that’s all, and for a second, everything seemed frozen and complicated. And then, helplessly obeying his command, tears started to roll down her cheeks. She tried to take a step back in surprise, but he gripped her tighter.
He shushed her. “You’re just hugging me to make me feel better. You’re doing this for my sake. You’re so very brave, refusing to let your tears flow in front of them. Even now, you’re ‘not crying’, right? You’re so very brave.”
She understood better than anyone that he was giving her an out. She furiously nodded, instead holding him closer, using her small hands to bunch the fabric of his pinstriped shirt up and pull it closer to her own body.
She admired Dazai in ways she couldn’t fully explain.
He was perfect by many meanings, and yet imperfect enough to be human. He was someone who had power even over the insurmountable Kouyou-anesan, even the frightening Mori-san. He was horribly irresponsible, but completely reliable in times of distress. In other words, although she laughed quietly when Kunikida had loud outbursts about his laziness, she knew that, at the end of the day, he would support the Armed Detective Agency in the best way he could.
He was rational and frank to her when she needed, and now, he was being so gentle. Even though both of them knew his saccharine sympathy was a front for the more rational urge of silencing her worries, it didn’t devalue what he was doing for her in the slightest.
“I-” she tried to say, desperate to explain herself and define her emotions.
“You want to stay like this for a while longer,” he corrected. “Kyouka-chan, some things aren’t meant to be spoken out loud, but that doesn’t mean we can’t hold them close in our hearts, and—hypothetically—shed tears over them. After keeping them buried inside for so long, it becomes hard to form the words to describe these things. That’s not the same as scared silence. I understand.”
That was all she’d ever wanted.
He held her for a while longer, and when she snuck back into her futon, she had no dreams until the morning birds greeted her awakening.