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It’s not love. Fixation, maybe? Dazai is smart. He can figure this out, but maybe not so much when he’s drunk and lying in bed with the smell of Ango’s car still burned into his memory. He wishes he had gone home with Odasaku instead. But that doesn’t make sense.
The man has enough to take care of.
Is it love?
The ceiling has strange patterns on it, like a particularly fancy rug in Mori’s office or a stupid doodle he drew on a sleeping Chuuya’s cheek. They spiral around each other, the patterns, so perhaps they’re in a romantic embrace, cradling and not cutting for once, wrapped up in silk sheets or maybe they’re cotton.
Dazai spreads his limbs out on his mattress. He hasn’t put sheets on. Yet. He will do it, eventually. Mori bothers him about it almost all the time, that is, whenever he willingly goes to the man’s office, so really not all the time but more like every few missions when he’s forced to.
Odasaku doesn’t say anything. But his thoughts are loud. They’re so loud, screaming through his eyes with the same intensity Dazai sees in the people he tortures; and god, his thoughts are more beautiful than any person writhing in pain could be.
Except maybe Chuuya. No, Odasaku is still better. His antenna, too, speaks volumes. Ango picked up on that, but Dazai picked up on it first, because he’s smart and also he memorized almost everything about his favorite person, from the slightest nervous ticks (not that there are many) to the vague lift of eyelids when he talks.
This is a fixation. Mori would diagnose this as a fixation, or something like that, and then he’d deliver a new cocktail of meds to Dazai’s doorstep even though he knows the prescription will go unfulfilled eternally.
The patterns on the ceiling swirl into the vague shape of two eyes, of stubble that is so pleasantly coarse in a way Mori’s could never be. It doesn’t disappear when Dazai blinks; and even then, the image seems to be seared behind his eyelids, of a man leaning over him when he didn’t have to.
Even if it was going to result in a pleasant death… well. It wouldn’t have been clean, so Dazai forgives Oda for that.
Oh, Odasaku. The mattress creaks under his weight, slender as he is. Odasaku’s mattresses didn’t creak, none of them did, not even the most raggedly looking ones or the torn-up cushions on the couch. Dazai’s sure that, if he went back, they still wouldn’t creak.
Next time, he’ll go home with Oda, not Ango. Ango and his stupid, foggy glasses, but he’s beautiful too, but not quite as beautiful as… and even the beauty mark is like a custom fingerprint from god, a stamp certifying the man as manually sculpted, not made in an assembly line by overworked angels.
Dazai doesn’t believe in God.
Still, he sees heaven in Odasaku’s eyes.
Maybe the redhead has a beauty mark of his own, and if so, Dazai wants to run his hands over it greedily, wants to kiss it even if he’s only ever kissed his pillows (which, also, don’t have sheets… Ango, too, mentioned that during drop-off). And maybe then Dazai would take off his bandages, show his own marks, his body mottled with scars and bullet wounds and lacerations that haven’t quite healed properly, oozing pus despite Mori’s efforts.
Anything I would never want to lose is always lost.