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It started with one cut.
Then another, and another, thick, dark hair falling to the floor.
It was just supposed to be a trim—Dazai had possessed no intentions of anything grander—but the sight of himself in the small, intricate mirror, so tired and ghostly and wrong, distracted him in the cruelest way possible, and suddenly he was cutting, cutting, cutting, left with a horrible mess he called his hair.
With an aggravated whine, the boy tore the pocket knife away from his head—despite his instinct to keep slashing—letting it fall to the floor. He didn’t care where it landed. He could handle it if it sliced him, tearing through his lavish pants or breaking through his polished shoes. He wasn’t concerned if it cut through the costly, red-colored rug, and Mori lost a few hundred dollars replacing it—despite not even needing to.
Dazai didn’t look at the sharp, scratched weapon when he finally heard it fall, thudding quietly against the soft flooring. All he stared at was the monster in the mirror, with hair just as ugly. Suddenly, a pang shot through his chest—not even possessing the mercy to kill him, just like everything else.
He couldn’t keep his hair like this. He realized it quickly, a swift, powerful snake coiling around his lungs, beginning to squeeze. He knew it like the living knew they needed water: instinctively. If Chuuya saw him, he started to think, growing all the more frustrated, he’d laugh.
The thought irked him, the very imagine of Chuuya’s toothy, mocking smile disgusting. He couldn’t give the ginger any leverage. After all, he hadn’t been a good enough pet to earn it.
So, he needed—not wanted; Dazai did not want—someone to fix his hair, and he needed them to fix it immediately. He couldn’t die looking like this—and who was he, if not someone who dreamed of death?
In a hurry, the brunet looked around the office, opening stiff, heavy drawers, only to huff when he found nothing useful. It was only when he determined that he could use his coat as a suspicious, temporary cover that he finally found something: a stupidly colorful baseball cap.
It had been for a disguise that he had used only once, when he had left the loud, busy stadium before others had realized that the man he had sat beside wasn’t asleep, but dead. It was such a shame, too. If he had let that man live just a little bit longer, the clumsy spy would’ve gotten to watch his favorite team win.
Dazai knew that Mori could help him. The man would be pleased to, even—a tug at his lips; a shine in his eyes. The only issue was that Mori was weird—he had diffused every costly, complex bomb that Dazai had ever tied around himself in the hopes of a beautiful demise, crushing his dreams—and so the brunet left the office, his feet making the decision that his brain could not.
When he finally knocked on the door of Kouyou’s office, he felt empty—a black hole stuck inside of him, posed as his intestines. Nobody would listen, if he voiced it. They would sigh, or laugh, or coo—and each reaction was cruel, in their own way.
The seconds ticked away. Just when Dazai began to form a new plan—he was going to drown himself inside of the dirtiest lake, where no one could find his corpse—Kouyou opened the door. Her pink, painted lips parted in obvious surprise.
“Dazai?” she asked, almost seeming concerned. He did not come to her. He did not come to anyone, really. He kept to himself, when he was more upset, as his brain rotted and pulsed inside of his skull.
Instead of speaking, he simply stared, waiting for Kouyou to reach a conclusion on her own. The woman was smart. Mori was fondest of the people that benefited him, after all—even if the benefits varied. Elise’s benefit, for example, was far different from Kouyou’s. Only one of them could provide elaborate guidance.
Unsurprisingly, the young woman inched closer to the truth, her thin eyebrows raising in unconcealed judgement. “Did Chuuya give you that hat?”
“No,” Dazai said flatly—and he could already feel himself doing it: putting on an act. How awful it was, pretending to be human. “His taste is even worse than this.”
The other mafia executive, to his aversion, made no effort to entertain his hilarious insult. She only hummed, staring at his hat like she wanted to burn it. Dazai would be fine with that, truly, if he was able to be incinerated, too.
“Take it off.”
“Ane-san!” Dazai gasped, mimicking surprise—as poorly and as exaggerated as possible. “I was actually fishing for compliments,” he lied, “and here you are, insulting my taste!”
At the remark, the woman tilted her head, salmon-colored hair moving with her. Oftentimes, Dazai questioned how her long, thick bangs didn’t bother her, but, then again, the bandages on his face couldn’t be all that different. Once one got used to it, it wasn’t difficult to navigate with just one eye.
“Are you planning on wearing jeans, too?” Kouyou pried, leaning forward with a certain surge of energy. “An oversized shirt, perhaps?”
Dazai only glared at the teasing, knowing that he would wear no such thing. Though, he had no preference, truly, when it came to clothing. He wore what was expected of him. That was all. That was how it had always been. If the material of his clothing was too uncomfortable for his liking, then he deserved it.
Kouyou hummed at his reaction, unyielding. There were very few people that didn’t fear the Port Mafia’s Black Wraith, and she was one of them. “Shall I let Ougai-dono know your new tastes?”
The teenager’s eyes widened, the snake in his chest squeezing once more. “Don’t tell Mori-san anything!” he spat, not wanting to play along.
The other executive’s lips curled, confident and knowing. “You’re aware that he’ll get it.”
She was right, of course. Dazai wasn’t oblivious to the power he held, as Mori’s accomplice. When Mori’s life had changed—when the weight he bore grew heavier; when the decisions he made were bigger—Dazai had been right there. Psychologically, it made sense for Mori to favor him, despite the threat that he was. As funny as it sounded to waste the man’s money, however, Dazai wasn’t going to pretend to have such poor taste. Mori already had Elise. He didn’t need to dress anyone else up.
Looking away, Dazai whined. Some strangers found it endearing. It had only led to their demise. “I don’t want tacky jeans.” He paused. “Or weird shirts.”
“What is it that you do want, Dazai?” Kouyou inquired—not recognizing the mistake that she had made.
The answer came immediately, embedded in his rotten being. While Dazai didn’t want, there was only one thing that could bring him true happiness—because no one would ever understand him, completely and utterly. “Death.”
“Ah,” the young woman voiced, her face falling. “Unfortunately,” she started, clearly not meaning it, “we are not enemies, so you’ll have to look for that elsewhere.” A beat passed, and then her raspberry-colored gaze sharpened. “Goodbye, Dazai,” she said, dismissively, as she began to close the door.
“Wait!” Dazai yelled, sudden and loud, feeling a flash of something—panic, perhaps. His feelings could not be decoded, but it gave him a rush, for a second, and then it was gone just as quickly as it had come, swallowed by the ravenous void that resided inside of him.
At the reaction, the older executive halted—like she had already planned to—the pure, brown door freezing in her hold. “Hmm?”
“Don’t laugh at me,” the boy commanded—an unfit tyrant. The words were not strong, like he wanted them to be, but weak—an admission of fragility. He was a broken creature, scruffy and hollow, parading as something that he was not.
“I don’t find you humorous,” Kouyou remarked in return, deadpan—honest. Very few people offered him honesty. It tasted just as stale as lies.
“Ouch,” Dazai voiced, not meaning it. He knew hurt—rather intimately, at that—and Kouyou’s words did not hurt. They would have to be much sharper, yet, even then, if there was anything bad to say about him, he had likely already thought of it himself. He was nothing more than a sluggish clown.
How fitting it was, truly, that his hair matched the scheme.
Slowly, the brunet reached up, slim, bandaged hands grabbing at the ridiculous hat that he bore. Knowing that he could delay it no further, Dazai took the item off with a pinch of his pale fingers, averting his gaze.
Kouyou was silent, for a moment. Then, she spoke, her voice like velvet. “You’ve made quite a mess, haven’t you?”
It was only then that Dazai glanced back, the corner of his lips tugging downwards. “Can you fix it?” he questioned, cautious.
In response, the woman merely sighed. “Come in.”
She turned away from the door with the grace of a dancer, walking inside. Mindful, Dazai followed, holding his hat with one hand while the other shut the door. In confirmation, it made the softest click, like it knew its owner well—all hushed praise and dispersed sips. The mafioso made no attempt to lock it, even if there was a piece of himself—so very small—that wished to.
Kouyou navigated her organized office—the embodiment of confidence, each step measured and precise. “How did this happen?” she inquired, without glancing in his direction.
“My hair was too long,” Dazai answered, not dishonest. “I cut it. Pretty exciting, huh?”
Again, the woman hummed. It was a bad habit of hers, truly, revealing more than she must have thought. The sound was nice, at least. “It looks like you gave up at the end.”
Embarrassed—or something close to it, when his feelings were not right—Dazai looked down. Like the actor he had always been, he shared only a sliver of the truth, stating, “I was mad.”
“Those poor shears,” Kouyou murmured, almost impishly.
“I used a knife,” the teenager countered.
At his remark, the older executive clicked her tongue. “Of course, you did,” she said, only to sigh. Then, she pivoted and walked forward, holding an undoubtedly expensive pair of shears and a pink-colored comb. “Look at me.”
Slowly, Dazai followed the command, gazing upwards. In a few swift motions, Kouyou slipped the pristine items into one of her pale, manicured hands and cupped his face with the other—gentle, like a mother; gentle, in a way that he didn’t deserve.
Carefully, the woman tilted his head, his jaw pointing upwards. Her raspberry-colored eyes, like gems, stayed fixed, focused solely on him and his hair. “It doesn’t seem irreparable,” she noted.
Unable to help himself, Dazai found himself mumbling, “If only I was the same.”
Before he could move, jerking away like a wild animal, Kouyou let go of his face and flicked his forehead, her nails red and thick. “That’s enough.”
“Hey!” the younger executive whined, as the pain began to blossom—nothing more than a delicate gaura plant. “Ouch!”
“Come sit down,” Kouyou commanded, and if Dazai was an unfit tyrant, then she was primed for the throne: strong, regal. She strode to one of her plush, red chairs with an air of determination, pausing in order to stand near it. With no reason to argue, Dazai followed and sat down, ignoring a sudden rush of diminutiveness by discreetly fidgeting with the hat in his lap. “Don’t slouch,” the older executive added, moving before him, and the teenager forced himself to sit just a little bit taller.
The shears, rose gold and intricate, were placed on one of the arm rests. Without turning, the brunet glanced at the tool, imagining a death from sharp blades. He pictured a man in white, with false compassion, gazing downwards. He pictured white sheets stained with red. He pictured darkness and disposal.
Nobody would care if he died. Nobody even cared for him while he was still alive.
The pink-colored comb brushed through the boy’s hair: soft, tender. The motions were precise, formed by a woman with hair so long and thick, and in their wake, a few locks of brown, wavy hair fell onto his clothes, hacked.
“I can book you hair appointments myself, if it stops this from happening,” Kouyou remarked, her actions unyielding.
Still, the offer wasn’t particularly enticing. “I always cut my own hair.”
“It was different, this time?” the woman inquired, her comb catching on his hair. She did not comment on it. She merely began to work the small knot out, and if Dazai was anyone else, perhaps he would’ve been grateful.
“I was mad,” the teenager repeated, knowing that he could never truly describe his emotions. There wasn’t a single word that could properly reflect his feelings. Shattered, depressed, suicidal—how could a feeling so terrible be contained in just one word? No, none of those terms were fitting. Whatever he felt was much worse—so much so that it couldn’t be voiced.
The young woman sighed. Like all of the other adults in his life, she must’ve known that there was nothing she could do to fix him. “The offer is there, if you change your mind,” she voiced instead of scolding, grabbing her shears.
“I won’t,” Dazai stated, confident and barren, and the pair fell silent.
Quiet snipping filled the void, as Kouyou tried to restore Dazai’s ruined artwork. In respect, the boy closed his eyes and tried not to move, but the act did not distract his mind. Even with a goal, his thoughts wandered. How annoying he was, bothering Kouyou. He noted it as another reason, on a list of many, as to why he needed to die.
The woman, oblivious, continued to work. She cut. She parted. She cut, again. Many long, torturous seconds passed before her painted lips finally parted. “I believe I’m getting somewhere.”
“That’s”—Dazai paused, his thoughts doing the same—“good.”
With a quiet breath, Kouyou moved around the chair. She brushed through brown strands. She lifted small sections. She fixed his thoughtless cuts with ones more meticulous.
If his hair was ruined, Dazai decided, while the older executive worked, he would just wear a hat. A normal hat. Hair wasn’t like limbs. It would grow back—and, perhaps, if he deigned childish passion while he waited for it to flourish, others would grow less wary. Maybe Hirotsu would even offer him a hat, fancy and aged, that smelled like dust and cigars.
Minutes passed. Then, fingers began to card through his hair, just as gentle as they had always been. They pinched, at certain places. They smoothed, at others.
Once Kouyou deemed his hair properly styled, she spoke. “I’ve finished.” Quickly, Dazai opened his dark, tired eyes, watching as the woman placed both the comb and the shears on the arm rest of his chair. “Come,” she instructed, and she took one of his bandaged hands, her palm cool yet comforting. “I have a mirror.”
Curious, Dazai lifted the colorful hat in his lap and stood up, dropping it into the chair, where hair clippings resided. He paid them no mind. Instead, he stepped forward, his shoes silent against the soft flooring. Noting his effort, Kouyou let go of his hand, placing her palm on his covered back. Although it wasn’t necessary, she guided him towards her mirror, halting behind him once he did.
It was shocking, really, how much his hair had improved. Dazai watched his reaction through the mirror—his eyes widening; his chest rising. Stunned, he reached upwards with curling lips, running a hand through the short, dark strands. “You fixed it,” he said, his words breathy.
Kouyou did not laugh. Kouyou did not grin. Instead, she smiled faintly, reaching over to adjust his black-colored tie, like the work had meant nothing. “I’m glad you think so, boy.”
At the term, something fuzzy filled the teenager’s stomach: warm, reassuring. Boy, he thought, repeating the term the same way that Kouyou had said it: firmly, easily. He stared at his haircut in the mirror, so much better than anything he had ever done himself, and realized that he liked it—as much as he could like things, anyway.
Someone was smiling at him. He was wearing pants. His hair was short.
Slowly, he turned his head in the other executive’s direction, his lips still curled. “Thank you, Ane-san.”