#exdazai

JET Results are out this week or next, and I’ve been living through 2 months of fear because I have done everything in my power to optimize my chances, and I was anything but awkward or nervous in the interview, but....There’s still that % chance of me not getting in, and my anxiety is kind of up the roof waiting for everything.

♠ Chuuya takes a drag. He doesn't smoke often. The slow burn of nicotine is somehow welcoming. If he had a nickel for every time the voice behind him (disembodied in space due to Chuuya's refusal to even look him in the eyes) teased him like this, rubbing his fur the wrong way, he'd be a richer man than he is. He'd be wearing Louboutins that he bought from the store. The ones he currently owns in a special corner of his closet were stolen off of a dead man's body in the gutter...And lovingly renovated.

"People," Chuuya relaxes back in his chair and burns the end of the cigarette against Dazai's table. (It's Dazai's fancy furniture, not his. An ashen mark is payback for this labor-intensive conversation.) "What people do you speak of? Us two? The mafia? Your agency? The world?" His head swivels to face the ex-mafia. Blue eyes widen on emphasis, dredged in sarcasm. "People do a lot of things, Dazai. You could, you know. Learn from them. Like you never do from your own mistakes. Over and over again." A red eyebrow forms an angled arch.

"Lying isn't good." He stands, rolls his sleeves up delicately, revealing strapping forearms covered in an array of bruises and freckles. After a pause, he forcefully bridges the gap between them by slamming his black-gloved open palm directly into the wall adjacent to Dazai's head. "Especially to me. You can't hide that easily-- somebody's gonna notice right when you think you aren't gonna get caught. This little bird's gotten real, real good at reading you like a book. And, frankly-- I'm not too impressed." His voice drips out like syrup, low enough to growl, a smirk with bared teeth flitting across his face as his breath knowingly ghosts across Dazai's forehead. His face darkens, and the words are murmured--

lieat sentence starters // accepting

The accusatory tone does not faze him in the least; it is a feigned hurt, for the Devil cannot be slain by something so insignificant. The question is airy, almost jocular, yet it carries an impossible weight that sinks into the rabid dog’s core. Akutagawa knows this is not a careless prod, but needlework with a frightening precision.

A breath of silence preludes the ripples in his thoughts, the calm threatening to turn tumultuous in a matter of seconds. It swells, an innumerable amount of words stuck to his palate that yearn for the air. Then it recedes, a voiceless exasperation tugging at his features in its wake. It leaves only vestiges of the storm that has formed within. He is in control of this deluge. For now.

What reason does he have to trust Dazai, the one who placed fetters ‘pon his heartless vessel? Each time he is confronted with this dilemma, rationality at the mercy of frayed strings that had been severed without warning. At times he will remember the fall and it is graceless — shameful. But one force does not waver: his wrath, all-consuming and insatiable, demands a sacrifice corporeal in nature. The commandments of the mafia dictate his every action; traitors will receive no magnanimity from a dog of hell. The only salvation he has to offer is DEATH. (Will you not accept what he can gift unto you?)

Akutagawa’s expression is a scowl, yet watchful. Wary. His words are arduously dredged from mire, syllables comprised of what has been buried long ago. “I do not have a reason to yield my trust to you in the first place.” A pause, two coughs following the string of words. “You will surely spurn it once more.” A reply bitten forcefully through teeth, yet delivered candidly. It is merely a truth he has come to terms with. The other must be aware of this as well.

Though ichor flows through your veins, your existence is godless ━ tainted an unholy black from your sins and corrupts even the ground beneath you if you so choose; each genesis at your fingertips is accompanied by inevitable ruin. Perhaps what is most fearsome is how you wield each breath as you would a carefully sharpened knife. Ambrosia drips from your tongue, a potent toxin disguised as honey descending viscously onto open, waiting palms. Your words are enough to instill rot and you are content to watch the putrid decay of all around you. You do not care for mortals. You never have.