A Fine Prickly Pear

If only there were more clues what happened here…ah, but it doesn’t matter. The important thing is that what he’s looking for isn’t here. Maybe it isn’t anywhere, he decides with an outburst of hysterical laughter. The sudden noise echoing through the silence startles him. What is important, anyways? The never-ending conundrum. The unanswerable question. What is the meaning of life? For the first twenty-two years of his life, Dazai believed there was no meaning and he’s still not entirely convinced that there’s a meaning. That maybe, perhaps, the meaning of life is its meaninglessness. So why not give up here?

Memories come back in flashes. Silky red hair on powder blue cotton sheets. The smooth curve of a neck that fit his cheek perfectly, ligature of finely sculpted shoulder blades cascading down to a slim waist that he grasps desperately at, never wanting to let go, fingers leaving marks like bruises and lips and tongue bleeding into the softer, more liquid parts of a flesh so delicate and sweet, he drowns in its taste. Eyes, sharp as steel, that met his and dared him to never look away. A laugh, loud and brazen and uncontrollable. To think, he once believed he hated the sound, and now he langured in it through his delirious dreams.

“Get up…” He’s not sure if the words come from his own mouth, or from some distant, aching place inside of him. “This isn’t your place to die. Get up.” The snow packed around him crumbles as he shifts and shudders and manages to dig himself free. His teeth clatter, he can’t feel his arms or legs. He pushes forward. Or is it backward? Yes, back. He has to go back.

…

Dazai wasn’t certain what woke him first. The incessant ringing of his phone, the screeching of his alarm clock, or the whining of his bedmate. He peeled his eyes open long enough to silence his alarm, the phone stopped on its own, and he rolled over to ignore the unclothed woman sitting up next to him, whose name he didn’t want to admit he couldn’t remember. He briefly tried to recall if he’d even asked for a name but couldn’t conjure a memory from last night before he’d downed three glasses of whiskey on the rocks. His phone started ringing again.

“This Kunikida person is desperate to get ahold of you,” the woman, unhelpfully, provided, “He’s been calling since nine.”

It took a second to register. Dazai sat up and stared at her, drool down one side of his face, “It’s nine already? As in, nine in the morning?”

“No.” The woman reached for her undergarments on the floor. “I said he started calling at nine. It’s twelve.”

“Fuck,” Dazai tossed the covers off his legs and scrounged about for clothes. He gave her a once over, not a bad body, he determined, and said, “You need to leave.”

“I figured. You just need to pay me.”

“You’re a prostitute?” Dazai gaped at her. She blinked back, unamused.

“We went over it last night.”

“How much did we decide on?” Dazai groaned, searching for his wallet, even though he knew it was empty. Drunk him sure liked to waste his money on uninteresting people. His phone started ringing again.

“20,000.”

“There’s no way I would agree to that much for a night with you,” Dazai said.

She didn’t flinch. “If you don’t have the money, my representative can always swing by and take something for collateral.”

“Representative?”

“I’m in the union,” she pulled a stick of gum from her skirt pocket, popped it in her mouth, and shimmied into the skirt.

“Ugh,” Dazai looked over the random items scattered over the top of his nightstand, his eyes paused on a wristwatch, a pang of guilt in his gut, before he picked up a tiny statue that looked like it might fetch a pretty penny at the pawn shop. He tossed it over, and lied, “Ancient prayer statue from Thailand, used by the second Dalai Lama’s fifth cousin. Worth double what you’re asking, which is at least five times what you’re worth.”

She seemed satisfied, finished dressing on her way out the door with statue in hand, and called over her shoulder, “You’ve got the second smallest dick I’ve seen this month. Asshole.”

“Only the second? Why not the first? Ah, well. At least this was disappointing for the both of us.” The door slammed on her exit, and Dazai finally answered Kunikida’s call, “I know that I’m late…” “You’re not late, Dazai, you’re absent. You missed the entire meeting. It’s over.”

“Oh. In that case…uhm…erm…I’m sick. I’m down with a terrible case of the flu and…”

“And the woman leaving your dorm room right now is a nurse that was caring for you all night?” Kunikida cut in.

Dazai took a deep breath. Let it out slow. “Yes.”

“I see. Well, I suppose it’s for the best you weren’t there to meet the new professors, spare them that joy on their first day of the job, but you missed the opportunity to volunteer for student orientation,” Kunikida said.

“Drat. That sounds like so much fun, too,” Dazai replied with a self-satisfied smirk. Student orientation was the worst responsibility. It involved coordinating with faculty from every department at the university, printing, and collating pamphlets, and, greatest of horrors, waking up early on orientation day to deal with the bright eyed and over eager new class of freshman. They were always too chipper, too willing to please, too young to know what a hell their lives were about to be for the next four or so years – a fine introduction to the endless abyss of despair that awaited them after graduation until the bliss of their deathbed.

“I’m glad to hear you think so, because I volunteered you in your absence,” Kunikida said, dripping smug triumph. Dazai winced, he’d walked right into that one. He blamed the whiskey, or the girl, or the watch still staring him down from across the room, eating away at his insides until there was nothing left. He sucked at his teeth for a second, mulling over the news.

“Student orientation is such a big event for the university, it sets the entire school year up. I couldn’t be trusted to attend this morning’s meeting, surely, no one thought I could be trusted with such a great responsibility as orientation,” Dazai decided to appeal to Kunikida’s typically grounded sensibilities.

“I agree. I expected you to fail miserably and finally be fired.”

Dazai made a face, though he knew Kunikida didn’t have a stomach for that kind of conniving. Despite all the time he spent with Dazai, he was still as innocent as a butt naked cherub on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

“Fortunately for you, one of the new professors also volunteered.”

“I see,” Dazai relaxed, ran a hand through his hair and across the back of his neck, “One of the new professors, as eager to please as our incoming freshmen, volunteered first, and you, the dutiful veteran of these hallowed halls, realized they would be in way over their head but didn’t want to crush this novel feeling of team spirit, instead offered me up to guide them along the process. I might be willing to forgive you for this subterfuge, my so-called friend, after all, I was home, an invalid, near death’s door in bed, but I won’t hold a very justifiable grudge against you, if and only if, this professor I have to work with is a leggy young maiden with raven hair, dainty disposition and a willingness to commit double suicide with her handsome, yet tortured, lover. Which will, of course, be me by the end of student orientation.”

“The only one that calls me your friend is you, and that’s only when you want something. I’ll have to live without your forgiveness. The professor is a man, and he is not leggy, dainty, and, without a doubt in my mind, even slightly interested in being your lover – not now, certainly not by the end of orientation, or really ever,” Kunikida said without missing a beat, “He also seems a reliable sort, I regret burdening him with you. You might be interested to know, he took the position, in part, because of high recommendations from your benefactor. Perhaps it’ll serve as an ice breaker.”

Dazai steadied himself against the nightstand and swallowed back his knee-jerk response. The wristwatch stared up at him accusingly. His “benefactor”, Dr. Mori Ougai, was a sore subject and Kunikida knew it. Dazai certainly was interested and absolutely did not want to meet whatever man came with Mori’s compliments. Later, Dazai would cite this as the reason he chose not to show up on campus until well after student orientation. He also ignored any phone calls that came from Kunikida or unknown numbers and ducked out his back window should Kunikida come knocking on the door. He thought the matter over and done with, when he walked into his office for the first day of classes to find a petite man with fierce blue eyes sitting, leaned back, in his chair with feet dressed in mud caked black motorcycle boots on his desk crossed at the ankle.

Dazai hung his jacket, scarf, and messenger bag at the coat rack by the door while casually surveying the scene, mulling over how to handle it. The man was small in stature, lithe, and had a smooth, youthful face. His ruddy colored hair was cut in a dramatic style, bound into a tight knot at the base of his neck. He wore a black t-shirt, and form fit dark denim pants, and leather gloves. Atop his head was the most audacious black hat with a crimson band, chains dangling off the side. Dazai immediately decided he disliked the man, and his loud fashion sense.

“You must be a new student. Lost, I presume. I can escort you to the dean’s office if you’d like,” Dazai finally said.

“Dazai Osamu,” the man replied, his voice a lower octave than Dazai would’ve expected. Dazai raised a brow in acknowledgement and the man jutted his thumb back at himself, “Nakahara Chuuya. You stood me up. That Kunikida guy said you would, but I couldn’t believe that a professor of ethics and morality would really do such a thing.”

It took Dazai a moment to understand the man’s meaning. He blinked several times in earnest surprise.

“Are you saying you were the one that volunteered to do student orientation? You’re joking. You can’t possibly be one of the new professors. You’re so small! And tackily dressed, too. What even is that hat? I could barely believe a freshman at the university, but a professor?”

“Listen, asshole,” the man dropped his feet to the floor, and sat up, jabbing his index finger at Dazai, “I know your type. Lazy, good for nothing lout that thinks they’re better than everyone else, and they can just get away with pawning all the work off, but I just wanted to let you know that I rocked the student orientation, the freshmen here all love me, and you’re on my shit list.”

“Should I be impressed by any of those statements?” Dazai droned, folding his arms over his chest.

“Not yet,” the man stood up and pushed his way past Dazai - at least a head shorter, Dazai noted, with a strange sense of triumph. The man paused in the doorway long enough to say in a grave voice that brokered no argument, “But you will be.”

With that, the door slammed shut and Dazai stared at his now empty office in stun. He snorted lightly, muttering, “Nakahara Chuuya. I will be impressed by you, huh? Doubtful, yet I can’t help but wonder what that means.”

What it meant, Dazai learned throughout the day, was that Professor Nakahara had ‘informed’ the new freshman class that it was school tradition to prank a professor on the first day of school. They shouldn’t feel bad, because the professor was in on it, he had even volunteered to be the target. The pranks should involve fish, stinkier the better, and Nakahara had given them the professor’s class times, office number, and if any of them could get fish into the professor’s dorm, well, Nakahara would treat those auspicious hooligans to drinks himself.

The ‘volunteer’ target professor was, of course, Dazai, and apparently, a lot of the freshmen wanted drinks with the tiny new professor.

It took three days for Dazai to find all the fish and another two weeks before the smell finally faded away. By then, the entire student body and university staff alike were referring to him as Professor Mackerel, a moniker coined by Nakahara. In turn, Dazai had taken to calling the other man ‘slug’ because, he argued, Nakahara was small and slimy. Dazai was disappointed it didn’t catch on in the same way as his own new nickname.

“I’m pretty sure he’s stealing candy from the student union store,” Dazai complained to Kunikida as they waited in line at the campus coffee shop. Despite his treachery, Kunikida was still the last professor at the university that pretended to put up with Dazai.

“Why would he do that when there are free snacks available in the faculty lounge?” Kunikida reasoned. “I don’t know. We can never truly understand the motivations of kleptomaniacs, can we?” Dazai hummed lightly, rocking on his feet.

“Let me see if I understand you correctly. You believe Professor Nakahara is stealing candy from the student union store because he’s a pathological thief?”

“Obviously,” Dazai said, impatiently.

“And this has nothing to do with the fish?”

“Fish? What about fish? I’m not sure I know anything about fish,” Dazai fidgeted with the hem of his coat.

A few students chose that moment to walk by and greet them, “Hello Professor Kunikida! Hello Professor Mackerel.”

Dazai sighed, hanging his head and shoulders, and Kunikida snorted a laugh.

“I think most of the student body is under the impression that’s your real name,” Kunikida said, enjoying the moment way too much for Dazai’s liking.

“What kind of depraved individual directs students to hide fish all about the campus?” Dazai demanded, “Have we truly considered his mental stability? What happened to standards at this university? It seems they’ll take any thug off the street these days. He completely lacks maturity and professional decorum.”

“If maturity and professionalism were qualifications required of our professors, you never would’ve been hired and I could get coffee without a headache,” Kunikida muttered, he cleared his throat and tried a different approach, “I know that you’re still upset with Professor Nakahara for his prank, but you can't honestly believe you didn’t deserve it. Besides, it was all harmless fun.”

“I’m not at all bothered by that juvenile prank, Kunikida! You’re not listening! He’s a menace. Have you seen the clothes he wears? That hat alone ought to be banned from campus on the grounds of bad taste. And why are all his pants so tight? It’s immoral. What about the way he roars onto campus on that motorcycle of his? What kind of example is he setting for the students? The students, Kunikida, that’s all I’m thinking about,” Dazai cried, exasperated.

“I don’t want to know why you’ve noticed the ‘tightness’ of Professor Nakahara’s pants, though, now that you mention it, I guess I don’t particularly care for that motorcycle either. But the university has no rules against it,” Kunikida stepped up to the counter to place his order and Dazai hurried to his side, blurting out his own order for the barista. She rang them up together, and Kunikida growled, “I’m not paying for your coffee.”

“Aw, come on, Kunikida, it’s already on your tab and we don’t want to put this poor, beautiful maiden through the trouble of removing it and ringing it up again. Think of all the time that would waste and just look at this line,” Dazai gestured to the crowd waiting behind them.

“Fine, but you’ll get the next coffee,” Kunikida grumbled, handing over his faculty charge card. “Of course,” Dazai grinned, never mind that he was supposed to get the ‘next’ coffee five coffees ago. They stepped aside to wait for their coffees to be made. “All I’m saying is he’s obnoxious.”

“So says the pot of the kettle.”

“He’s flashy!” Dazai flung out his hands in exasperation.

“Not against policy, and the students love it. They’re transfixed in his lectures,” Kunikida shrugged.

“How do you know that?” Dazai demanded, folding his arms petulantly over his stomach.

“I’ve sat in on a couple of his classes,” Kunikida said plainly. The barista called his name and placed two coffees on the counter.

Dazai stared at him as though large red and yellow pustules started popping on his face. He said, “Why?”

“First, and foremost, because it’s my duty as the head of our division,” Kunikida stepped forward to take his coffee. He sipped some before continuing. “Also, I’m on his doctoral panel. Like you, he’s a student teacher, a doctoral candidate working on his thesis research. I’m woefully ill prepared to grade his work, though, so I’m trying to catch up.”

“Why would you be on his doctoral panel? You’re a mathematician. He’s medicine,” Dazai said. It was Kunikida’s turn to give Dazai an incredulous look.

“What makes you think his field is medicine?”

“You said he got the position because Dr. Mori recommended him,” Dazai flourished his hand in the air, and swiped his own coffee off the counter, “Naturally, I assumed.”

“No. I said he took the position because of Dr. Mori’s recommendation,” Kunikida began walking from the coffee shop towards the Division of Engineering building where his office was located, and Dazai followed, even though his own office was in the Social Sciences building on the other side of campus, “We’d been trying to get him to consider our university for his doctoral studies for nearly a year. Dr. Mori was the one that finally convinced him. So, put your petty grievances against him aside, Dazai, he’s here to stay. He’s a brilliant theoretical physicist and the foremost authority in his subfield.”

“Ah. I see. Physics. Dabbles in the theoretical bits like any hamster on a wheel. And, at that, a foremost authority in…hm…his subfield. Which would be…?” Dazai refused to be impressed. He wouldn’t give the tackily dressed urchin the satisfaction.

“Multiverses.”

Dazai burst out laughing, his worries of being impressed cast aside. “His subfield is fantasy?”

“I assure you, Professor Mackerel,” Kunikida stopped, they’d reached the door to his office, “The school would not have been so keen to bring Professor Nakahara here if his research were little more than fantastical bilk. I think you should sit in on a few of his lectures, it might change your mind about him. Now, stop following me and go do some work at your own office.”

With that, Kunikida stepped into his office and promptly slammed the door in Dazai’s face.

................…