Work Text:
Some days it’s an act of love, others it’s a form of routine. I fool myself that it is some sort of calming ritual. The cold water hitting my scalp does numb my brain a little. I can say it’s nice, I can say that it’s there, I can say that. The pouring water hits the floor, stepping away from it.
My hands run through my waves, shampoo caressing my head. A pathetic piece of comfort for the start of the day. Dragging the soap along my body, first starting with my face all the way down to my feet. Making sure to take my time, being late to work never hurts. When the water washes it all away, I can never say I felt clear.
Wet footsteps hit the carpet floor of the apartment. Careful to not kick any of the bottles, some half drunken, some empty, some not even open. Clean water mixing with the stains. Trash littered the area yet he still felt like the filthiest object in the room. The itch that never left his body did nothing to soothe the notion. Sitting on the plastic chair, he let the fan just dry him off as he stared off.
When the agency gave him his “home” it was fully furnished. He wasn’t used to so many things to take care of. The place had too many dimensions to work with, a sense of personality that was thrust upon him. He hasn’t bothered to tell the president to remove the unnecessary. Maybe he would bring it up one day. Currently, it was in a state worse than the shipping container he used to call a living arrangement. After only about a few months the burden of a cozy house was too much to bear. The only thing that he could keep clean was his body.
Dazai was no stranger to letting go of his needs. However taking a shower twice a day was a habit he never seemed to let go. Even in his days in the Port Mafia, the lingering stench and sluggish feeling of sweat, dirt, smoke, and blood was one of the many discomforts he would not tolerate. Though it only applied to his form, anything outside of it would be left to rot. The bed, the kitchen, his hunger, or his need for sleep. Yet never failing to step into wet tiles two times a day.
His body was now dry enough for clothes, the beige coat felt as natural as the first day he wore the black one. Usually on days where nothing of note will happen, the unkempt bed in iron walls was where you could find him. But now he was in an office, bothering his co-workers out of boredom.
On the side that saves lives or one that takes, Dazai couldn’t feel much of a difference. Things did seem brighter but he felt the same fog in his brain that no cold water can wake him up from. No amount of washing away that can clear his mind. Yet he would take the constant scent of paper over smoke any day.