#iodine

They always say to never meet your heroes, cautionary tales of what it’s like to find out the person you look up to the most isn’t fulfilling the version of themselves you had concocted in your mind. That is the standard, at least, the reason why that saying exists. However, they never seemed to warn of the dangers of falling even more in love, in spite of all the flaws that come to light. You could say that would be a better reason to deter you from meeting those you admire, the encroaching romantic feelings you aren’t supposed to have, that weren’t supposed to be there, for someone that would ordinarily disregard you with a polite smile then be on their way. To never remember you.

The ceiling fan whirls around, your eyes trying to follow the panels as you lay on your back, arms enclosed around broad, bare shoulders, his ear pressed to your chest, and his own limbs have entangled themselves with yours while the sheet loosely covers your bodies. Not daring to set you free, the thought alone only makes his hold tighten. Touseled and tangled hair rests splayed out across your skin, fingers leisurely running through them, and the quiet invite of acoustic guitars strum through the air in the vast room, your focus dwindling down to nothing as you enjoy the serenity.

Thoughts swirl around in his head, wanting to speak with you, as you two always do, but he doesn’t want to break the illusion of the moment. He had to talk himself out of breaking everything off with you, again, going back and forth in his mind, the internal battle beginning to rage – having to prevent another outward war with you. It took so much for him to not say a word, to not break your heart all over again, to lay there with you in beautiful, stagnant silence. You have done nothing wrong; I just simply don’t know what it’s like to allow myself to feel.

“Angel,” Dazai murmurs, breath hitting your collar bone, and his hushed voice draws you back to reality just enough. You hum in response, fingers not stopping in twirling strands of hair around them, and his eyes stare off to the vacant wall parallel to the mattress. He shifts some, long legs trying to lock you in further, as if you thought about leaving, falsely reading your mind for a nonexistent idea. “I almost did it again.” He confesses, holding onto you, a lifeboat in the roaring oceanic storm rising in his heart and soul. You don’t falter, unphased actually, before delicately trailing your nails down his spine.

“I know,” you whisper, a small smile forming at remembering how you noticed earlier his forced distance, clear his thoughts were rudely trying to take him away from you. “But that’s alright, because you didn’t. And we’re here, right now, together.” You sigh deeply, lashes fluttering closed, captivated by the music selection playing softly from the stereo on the opposite side of the room, grateful for his company.

“You’re far too kind to a man like me,” he tells you, something also not unheard of, something you’re used to having to diffuse. “I’m undeserving of this.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” you gently remark, dragging your fingertips back up to his hair, beginning to scratch at his scalp, and his body relaxes more into yours and the mattress. “Does my opinion not matter to you?”

“It’s the only one that does. You know this.”

“Then if I say you deserve me, us, then you do,” you counter, and there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. Almost happiness. “It’s that simple, Osamu.” You add, sinking down to be face-to-face with him, and he has yet to let you go – one hand barely leaves your skin to grab the sheet to better cover you, only to rest on your hip to help bring you closer. His nose nudges yours, fingertips lightly digging into the flesh, and that nature of self-pity has made its return. Before you had met him, gotten to know him, fallen in love with him, the only thing you knew about Dazai was that he was revered as this generation’s best talent to enter Hollywood’s soon-to-be barren studios, reviving cinema with every role he took on, bringing downpours to the drought in the industry, starring in practically anything his manager agreed to.

The “genius” actor, Osamu Dazai, with eyes that both lure and deter you, unable to keep up with their ever-changing nature: vibrant and exuberant as the setting sun reflecting on the ocean surface in one instant, while out in public, while working; dull and dark like staring into an abandoned forest during the witching hour the next, while he’s alone with his thoughts, while he’s exhausted to the point of dropping where he stands. The man that lays with you now views you through irises unsure what to think, to feel, and that is what had dragged you into his arms in the first place.

His charisma is described as an enemy to anyone else in the room, overtaking any situation and crowd in an instant, an answer to everything, and people skills far exceeding even the best public speaker. He’s been labeled an intimidation tactic for the shy and meek, drawing out parts of them on set they didn’t even know existed, capable of creating chemistry from thin air and personal drive to aim only for perfection. Whatever emotion needed in the moment, whomever they begged him to portray, he could do it with ease. An effortless talent that is difficult to come by in these modern times, alongside a passion for the art of creation, bringing to life ideas jotted down on paper to reflect on the silver screen.

No one would ever guess underneath that gleaming grin he always wears is a man destroyed, confidence shot to hell, and turning heel at the slightest bit of comfort, compassion, and love. A man who doesn’t believe in apologizing or begging for forgiveness, doing what he pleases because there’s little life left to live, and he’d rather spend it doing what brought him enough joy to numb the underlying pain. A man with such undefeated charm prefers to live in a home bigger than the city alone, atop a hill far out of reach, not able to be seen by the naked eye unless you’re above in a helicopter – and not many people can afford to do that. Seclusion, no one to bother and berate him for his harmful behaviors, placed where no one would dare to try finding their way back to, tucked away by tall trees and thick shrubbery meticulously maintained by his highly trained and highly paid landscapers. California’s warm, but it still has its dark patches covered in moss, and that’s where he prefers to live: under the rocks in a permanent night where he can decide whether or not to see the stars with those detached voids people have yet to witness.

Your first meeting was more or less uneventful. You were working a normal shift, standing at the host stand at the House of Blues in Hollywood, desensitized to seeing celebrities and other famed faces as it was, and you were able to maintain enough of a facade to feign disinterest at whoever walked through the door. However, you are, of course, a big fan of Dazai; his work inspires you religiously, and when he had walked in one evening with a few of his costars, your facade slipped. Eyes mildly big, hands frozen at the screen, and you had to take a few deep breaths in then out. He was standing in the back of the small group, hands in his pockets, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else while his eyes scoured out the scenery. You recognized the people with him, those you’ve spoken to before, and you had to direct all of your attention and focus on them with your inviting beam, leading them to their usual table.

“You mentioned last time being a fan,” one told on you immediately, gesturing to Dazai as he sat down, and every nerve in your body malfunctioned as your hair stood on end. A smile froze, plastered across your features, before slowly craning your head to look at the actor you have been researching obsessively lately. He stared down at you, silent, emotionless, and slow-blinked before a smile of his own appeared – rehearsed, suddenly remembering he was out in public amongst other people. That entire sequence threw you off completely, not matching in the slightest the personality he shows off when in interviews or caught out in the general public. Your eyebrow subtly twitched, having to stop yourself from showing you noticed this hidden side.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Dazai nodded, taking a seat beside his coworkers, who were shooting him somewhat concerned looks for his lack of conversation.

“We’re happy to have you,” was the only thing you could think to respond with, offering a bow of your head, and you couldn’t have rushed off fast enough to save yourself any potential embarrassment, as well as the strange distance between him and the entire world. His friend was right, you did bring up a couple weeks ago when he stopped in with a different group of people that you were looking forward to his new project, especially since Dazai was going to be starring along his side. You didn’t think he would internalize that and bring him! You hadn’t seen him in the flesh yet, you weren’t prepared to meet such an important icon to your life while you were riddled with work residue.

“They’re usually more involved,” he told Dazai, laughing it off, a bit uneasy. Brown eyes stared at him, the weight of the day falling on his shoulders and burning out his energy much quicker than he expected. He didn’t want to be there, he wanted to be at home enjoying peace, quiet, a glass of whiskey, and his favorite classical music playing in the background while he laid on his couch gazing at the bare ceiling with the chandelier dangling a handful of feet above him. Wondering what it would take to make it drop right between his ribs. How long it would take for anyone to find him. If there would be a public mourning. If the world would cheer.

“You know, they’re working,” he shrugged, slouching some as his hand came out to grab the menus and barely scanned over the selections – just something to look at. “Used to celebrities, I’m sure.” His costars shared a raised brow between another, noticing his charisma plummet, before giving up on trying to keep him engaged and talked amongst themselves.

That was all there was to it, really. His friends said goodbye to you, regulars, lovers of idle chit chat that you would always oblige, and Dazai merely gave you a passing glance with another slight nod of acknowledgement – obligation since the others had. You offered him a kind smile in return with a wave, and he paused momentarily at that, not long enough for anyone to notice, but enough to make him hurry out the door to catch up with the rest of his group.

Eventually, of course, the air of starstruck began to dwindle the more he started showing up, his famed charm and buoyant personality present for all the other visits to the Blues, cocky smiles and flirtatious winks with lopsided smirks, knowing he was back to being on top of the world. None of that was geared toward you, though. The servers would be swooning over him at your host stand, quite literally fanning themselves with their checkbooks as they giggle and peer back at him, just to receive another wink and wave of his fingers. You would hear them repeat his funny jokes to you, and it would bother you, the twinge in your chest as you laugh along, that you weren’t a server so you could hear everything firsthand. Plus, he was incredibly different when he would come around you. He kind of just… talked to you. His suave and effortless nature was still prominent, but he wasn’t nearly as vibrant as the servers would describe him. He spoke to you like equals, as if you weren’t a host at a restaurant and he wasn’t about to star in a box office hit raking in millions.

“So, tell me,” he approached you one day, taking up space at the stand, leaning his arm on it. You blinked a few times, having meaningless downtime and not wanting to be sent home, finding even more meaningless tasks to busy yourself with: wiping down the laminated menus. Your hand froze, clutching the towel, and there was still a buzzing in your bones whenever he was near that you couldn’t quite explain. “What exactly is it about me that makes you such a fan?” He asked, his voice level but hushed, not wanting to draw attention for such a strange and – in all honesty – conceited question. You hadn’t thought much on it, mostly because his obvious looks were what drew you in. He stared at you, waiting, those brown eyes you’ve seen plastered all over silver screens, your television, your phone, laptop, and whatever else you could use to watch his work, but being this close to him – they’re breathtaking. You were still hesitating, trying to think of what exactly it was that made you admire him, those irises resembling the polished oak table at your parents’ house they always ensured was in top condition at all times, and seeing that in the dimness of the front area you stood made your tension dissipate.

“You act through your eyes,” you blurted, the words spitting out without your mind realizing what was being said. His brow lifted, chin propped up on his palm, and your knees were wobbly in fear you had said the wrong thing to Osamu Dazai of all people.

“What does that mean?” He whispered, waving away one of the servers that dared to try walking up to you. She stopped, glanced in your direction, then slowly stepped backward to slink away, scurrying to the kitchen to let everyone know you two were talking. You sucked in a breath, licking your lips then biting it momentarily, eyes roaming around, just for his finger to nab your attention and draw you back to his face when you followed it to his nose. “Eyes on me.” He purred. You faltered, swallowing, and worked as hard as you possibly could to maintain the eye contact he entrusted you with.

“Just that…” You began, shrugging, shifting on your tired feet. “Your deepest expressions come from your eyes. It’s hard to do with acting and stuff, and you… You can do it. It’s impressive, and captivating.” He didn’t say anything, gazing at you, knowing exactly what you were articulating to him, a feat that took many years of lying to perfect for his roles. “I also like how proud you seem to be in any role you take. I–I’ve seen every last one of your movies, all of your commercials, and your recent autobiographical documentary. I also watched every episode of whatever TV show you guest appeared on.” You spilled all of this, nothing about him making you do so other than being analyzed by the shifting amber irises you had fallen for. They seemed to have sparkled then at your comments.

“You watched my documentary?” He asked, skeptical, avoiding everything else you had confessed.

“Yeah, of course I did,” you smiled then, all teeth, eyes crinkling in the corners – catching him by surprise. “Your story about growing up in Japan then moving out here to fulfill your dreams to be a ‘big Hollywood star’ was…” You stopped, trying to gather the right words to describe how you felt, remembering how you had teared up watching him talk about life before he was out here making movies, somehow understanding him since you had moved out here too when your parents uprooted everything for a shot at stardom. And now look at where I ended up. “It was heartbreaking but reassuring at the same time.” He watched you closely, eyes narrowing before he quickly corrected them, and there was something hidden in your smile he didn’t think he recognized. Sympathy.

“Are you busy tonight?” He abruptly asked, standing up straight, and a few heads that were nearby faintly overhead the question, turning slowly in an attempt to grab a glimpse of who he would be asking such a thing to.

“Ex–” Your words were trapped in your throat, expression incredulous, under the impression he hated you. You collected yourself enough, abandoning your work completely, and eyed him up and down. “Excuse me?” You breathed.

“Are you busy tonight?” He repeated, unphased, emphasized. Your line of sight lingered before trailing down to your electronic floor map, seeing a lot of tables were empty and hardly any guests were coming in. You raised your wrist to check your watch, then peered over your shoulder at the kitchen, seeing them also running out of things to do.

“I can be free now,” you finally told him, seeing that he had just been patiently waiting for your response. His fingers slid along the perimeter of the stand, shrugging and smiling enough to seem friendly.

“Alright.”

“Oh, aren’t you in the middle of–”

“I could care less about those people over there,” he interrupted, scoffing under his breath as he rolled his eyes. “They’ve been discussing business ventures that do not concern nor interest me. I was here for a free meal.” Free meal? You didn’t remark on any of that, nodding slowly, and you started watching him closer then. Fragments of the person he was in the documentary you embarrassingly watched five times already were appearing in front of you, and you had to hide your reaction to that, worried it would scare them back into hiding.

“Sure, give me just one sec, okay?” Your sweet smile made another appearance, striking him down the spine, and he silently watched you almost sprint toward the back. Flustered, you dodge and weave the cooks, only to bump into the server that had originally tried talking to you. Her hands grabbed your shoulders to keep you stable, eyes spinning some in your sockets, and her eyebrow quirked.

“I need to go!” You rushed out, wriggling around to free yourself.

“Oh, yeah, that’s what I was originally coming up to tell you,” she laughed, letting you go and folding her arms. “You’re cut, boss wants you off the clock.” You unexpectedly squealed, turning right back around to run out of the kitchen – dangerous, by the way – and she couldn’t stop you long enough to find out why you were acting so strangely. And to remind you that you had just zoomed past the terminal to clock out. The moment your foot connected with the dining area floor, your cool returned, smoothed your hands on your pants, and slowed down to a casual saunter. You cleared your throat, getting back to your stand, where Dazai remained waiting, and he merely smirked.

“I’m allowed to go,” you said, nonchalant. “Would you mind waiting just a moment longer for me to change?”

“Please, I have nothing else planned. Take all the time in the world.”

He easily left behind the people he had come with, one asking around for where he disappeared to, but by then, you both were long gone. You had done the dumb thing of going with him back to his place, him muttering he didn’t feel like being swarmed by paparazzi and fans, all while he hailed a taxi for you two. It was a long drive, not just to reach the general area of where he lived, but also to get up the driveway. You sat silently, messing with your fingers, periodically peeking out of the window to see where you had been swept off to, occasionally sneaking a glance to view his side profile, and he was sitting there in silence with his cheek propped on his fist, eyes changed from before, and he looked tired.

Stepping in, the first thing you noticed was how empty it was. You expected lavish decorations, gaudy paint jobs, gold and silver and whatever else, but it was just a big, empty mansion. Obviously, there were some things here and there to fill the nooks and crannies, but it all was so minimal it didn’t do much to prevent the echo. The living room, from what you could see while standing there shocked at the door, was furnished with basics: a black, leather couch with a flatscreen that covered from one side of the wall to the next, and a semi-sleek coffee table. There were a few other little trinkets scattered here and there, but it seemed average compared to your expectations. No personal pictures.

The foyer stretched as far as the eye could see, sinking you deeper into the mansion, and he had politely requested that you remove your shoes. The marble flooring, while gorgeous, made you freeze in place from the arctic chill sticking to the bottom of your sock-clad feet. The air was cold too, for what you assumed was to combat California heat, but it seemed too cold, and the lights were either severely dimmed or off completely, light prevalent strictly from the sun trying to peek between the curtains to see how he lived.

He was gentlemanly, offering you refreshments, but not additional conversation. You held fast to the bottle of soda he handed you, staring at him and his freezing palace surroundings, and it clicked for you then that he was always acting. At that moment in time, being in the seclusion of his home with you, he stopped.

“I know, I’m not great company,” he chuckled dryly, palms laid flat atop the surface of the island separating you two, eyes downcast, and he avoided looking in your direction.

“I think you’re great company,” you told him, being honest, but you were confused. “I just… don’t understand why you wanted to hang out with me.” He shrugged, not having it in him to speak a lot of words as he usually did, and his fingers came up to move hair out of his face.

“You’re pretty constant in my life, given everything I do for a living,” he admitted this to you out loud, no gun to his head, or as a sick joke. You blinked, finger absentmindedly tracing along the condensation while you ensured to look at him properly. “Your job gets in the way of me talking to you, and it’s annoying. So, I figured it’d be better to just bring you here.” He sighed, fingers messing with some strands that were hanging in his eyes. “I’m exhausted, though. I think I picked a bad time to kidnap you here.” He said the words with an air of humor, but something about it felt as though he meant it, believing he did kidnap you, that you hadn’t come willingly on your own.

“You can rest,” you suggested. “I can wait until you’re up. Then we can… talk.” You smiled, small, nervous, and he just kind of looked at you as the confused one now.

“You’ll just sit there waiting for me to feel fine enough to talk to you?” His tone was flat, disbelief etched under the bite. You nodded, not understanding why that seemed as strange as he made it out to be. “We can just as easily turn on a movie.”

“Do you not feel like talking?” You tilted your head, resembling an innocent and curious puppy, and his nose scrunched some, that he again had to correct before you’d notice.

“Don’t think you’d find anything I have to say enjoyable, that’s all,” you noticed again the comment he made, self-depreciating, and it flowed with ease past his lips. “Movies are better anyhow.” His feet carried him away, leaving you where you were, and traveled to the living room, knowing you’d follow.

There wasn’t much else to that day, either. You sat, stiff as a board, on one end of the couch while he sat on the other, arms folded, and feet resting on the coffee table. There was extremely little to no talking, just watching movie after movie, and you kept in the back of your mind he never put on anything he has starred in – not even if it were a minor role.

The only other thing was he took you home, sitting in the back while his driver sat alone, and took you to your door because ‘this neighborhood looks rough’. You stared up at him, him staring back at you, and his hands were stuffed in his jean pockets. “I had a great time.” He said.

“We… didn’t talk much. Or look at each other,” you weren’t sure you should say that to him, but it came out faster than you could stop yourself.

“Did that bother you?”

“Well, no, of course not,” you smiled but it dropped, feeling awkward, and sensing some gawking on your back. “I just thought, I dunno, you preferred something more… outgoing?”

“No, not really. I like my home; I like spending time there when I’m tired. I liked having you there, it was nice to have a person around instead of ghosts,” he shrugged, nonchalant, and you mentally jotted down he shrugs often. A sign of indifference. Ghosts?

“Wait, your place is haunted?” He cocked his head before a small, sly smirk formed and he just chuckled. The first instance of true emotion he exhibited the entire time you two were with each other.

“It’s haunted to me,” he left you with that, turning away and tossing a half-hearted wave as he strolled off to his car, climbing in, and the starstruck oglers started crawling out of the woodwork to watch him leave. Their giant eyes glided to you, and you had to rush inside to avoid having to explain anything to anyone.

⌞ your beauty on my bruise like iodine⌝

Much to your surprise, pleasant and bemused, that day sparked multiple to follow, where Dazai began occupying much of your time. He frequented the Blues every Friday evening, because he knew you’d be there, and he took you to his place after work to shower, get comfortable, and rampage his glooming abode. You have a room of your own there now, complete with spare clothes, shoes, and a toothbrush, alongside all the toiletries you’d need, and an entire closet full of the finest, fluffiest, and softest towels he could find. Every bed in that house is huge, not excluding yours, and he mentioned off-handedly how the thread count far exceeded your standards. His personal chef cooked for both of you now whenever you were there to visit, even though you insisted on several different occasions to be the one to cook, and he always told you no, adding ‘my friends don’t ever lift a finger when they’re with me’.

He started bringing you on set for his projects, telling everyone in the room to wait on you hand and foot, whatever you needed to ‘make it happen’. They assumed you were another partner he was pretending to have for a week but didn’t expect you to keep returning after that week. You dared not bother anyone, and if someone approached you to offer refreshments, you always declined. You wanted to stay out of the way as much as possible, finding the darkest corner to hide in but still granted you the ability to see him work firsthand, awestruck by his ability to switch instantly, as if he wasn’t the same tired man that trudged in beside you. A flip switched inside his brain that was so obvious, you couldn’t believe no one else noticed.

All your time spent with him made you come to the realization that Dazai actually has no confidence; his charisma, charm, and flashy personalities are a hoax; and the ghosts he made friends with aren’t haunting his home, they’re haunting him. A man deteriorated, withering from the inside, rot growing, and the most you seem to be able to do for him is let him know the truth: he isn’t any of the things his agonized mind has led him to believe.

Outsiders believed you to be coddling him, not giving him the opportunity to work through his emotions on his own, since he’s a ‘big boy’ – someone on set actually said this to your face when the actor was having an off day, seeking you out for that familiar comfort. “Adults need consolation, too.” You gently argued, your hand never once leaving Dazai as it continued rubbing his back. “We’re all human beings with emotions. We can only handle so much alone before it’s too much.” The man with a headset merely rolled his eyes and muttered that you were acting like a helicopter parent instead of his friend, but you disregarded him completely when you noticed the faraway look in your friend’s eyes as he stared ahead and arms folded over his chest. “Surely, they can handle one day’s delay for you to head home to get some sleep. I know you were up walking around last night.”

“Had a lot on my mind,” he mumbled, voice distant. “Lots of things I needed to think about.”

“Seems you may need to go back home to keep thinking about them?” You suggested, verbally shoving him out the door, knowing he wouldn’t perform at his best like this.

“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed easily, but his body didn’t move, you waiting there at his side patiently, other hand carefully resting on his wrist, and worried that too many people were seeing this version of himself he preferred tucking away.

“Take your time,” you murmured, thumb rubbing soothing circles into his pulse point as your gaze flickered over different areas of his blank expression to examine his mental state. “We have plenty of it.” 

Eventually, he got to his feet, fingers lacing with yours, and wordlessly led the way out to his private car, and he was silent the drive back to his mansion, up the winding, endless driveway, and even when he stepped into the less than inviting meat locker ice cold of his mansion. Simply strolled, taking his time, up the winding staircase, the climb resembling walking up to his execution.

“I’m not good with love and relationships,” Dazai said to you, whispered in the quiet of that same evening when you two were sitting next to each other on the couch, and you were struck dumb by this confession. You hadn’t said a word to one another since leaving his set, both wearing your pajamas, you painting your nails as a really bad TV show played in the background. You leaned over, movements slow, setting the lacquer bottle down and carefully sat your hands on your knees. You inhaled, chest rising, then held it. Where is this coming from? You’d be a fool to attempt lying to anyone, yourself included, that you had no romantic feelings for him, not even in the slightest. The things he had done and said would have made anyone tear off without so much as a “fuck you”, but they didn’t bother you. He didn’t bother you. You have, much to no one’s surprise, fallen for him, and it’s getting more difficult to keep that secret to yourself. The fact you were basically living at his place didn’t help, waking up in the morning and he’s the first thing you see when you travel down to the kitchen; he’s the last person you see before stumbling to bed for the night. Your apartment has become a storage unit at this point you visit sometimes to make sure everything is still there.

“What makes you say that?” You indulged in the conversation, as you always did, a bit curious yourself at him bringing it up in the first place.

“I’m a good lover, I guess, if it’s all someone would need for the night,” he started, and he wouldn’t look in your direction, his palms suddenly sweating as he swiped them along his sweatpants. “I’m not a good boyfriend, and I can’t even fathom being a husband to anyone. I don’t know how to keep things that mean something to me, and I don’t know how to let myself have the things I want.” You took in all the things he was saying, and it honestly deflated your mood. You weren’t surprised, considering it was frequently discussed in entertainment tabloids he cycled out partners faster than anyone could comprehend. However… damn.

“Dazai, surely that can’t be–”

“I want to be, though,” he cut you off, knowing you were about to comfort him, to tell him that can’t possibly be true, and he would just need time to find someone that would make him change his mind. All the things you’ve said before when he made passing remarks on his unsuccessful love life. “I want to be a good boyfriend, and experience real love. I want to know what that’s like, and I want to keep it close if I find it.” He had been experiencing many different things in his head and heart lately, spending so much time around you, liking the way it felt to have you at his side. It was becoming natural, the need for your presence in his life too overpowering – overwhelming to a point he wanted to cut it all off with you completely because he was terrified of the thought of being “tied down”. Though, when he looks at you – and that kind smile you always give him, and that loving hand on his arm when he’s down, and the sweet comforting words you offer when he needs a voice other than the ghosts running amok in his mind to listen to – there’s a safety there, a numbness, an antidote to the things that ail him. And he doesn’t have to drink you or shoot you into his veins or swallow you dry to be cured.

“I’m positive once you find that person, you’d be the perfect boyfriend,” you reassured, the envy dripping in your otherwise soft tone, hand carefully coming up to rest on the back of his, and he quickly snatched it to hold tight. He brought your knuckles up to his mouth, placing lingering kisses on your skin, and you froze. Fingers twitched in his palm, and those weary eyes finally drifted to meet yours, and in the dim living room, they twinkled as they shifted to those unusual amber sunsets, and there was a hint of color in his cheeks.

“I want you,” he admitted, blunt. “And don’t you dare argue you don’t feel the same way or that you don’t want to try dating me because I have ways around that.” Your curiosity got the best of you, lips parting as you gazed at him in stunned silence, his hand freezing.

“What exactly would you do to convince me to fall in love with you?” You heard yourself asking, and he cracked under the pressure, that sentence confirming his baseless suspicions that you didn’t feel the same way. His lips formed a sad smile, gaze lowering, never daring to release you, and he didn’t know what to do or say. A man with an answer to everything suddenly doesn’t know anything.

“Be myself, I think,” he decided, thumb caressing your knuckle, occupying his line of sight with your freshly painted nails, watching them shine even with little light in the room. “And if that doesn’t work, I’ll have to take a stroll down the street to the witch in the woods for a love potion and hope you like how it tastes.”

“The witch in the woods?” You had to bite back a laugh, grinning but incredulous. It was enough to make him laugh some, shaking his head at how ridiculous he sounded.

“It’s Hollywood, angel, there’s a witch around every corner.”

“Did you talk to one to give me a love potion a long time ago?” He gave you a look, eyes darting around your gentle expression, until it melted down to understanding, eyes widening, and his heart skipped a beat.  It was practically resounding, rattling his bones under his skin, goosebumps raking up his arms, and hairs sticking straight up on the back of his neck. “I might have come down with a terrible sickness, Dazai.” You whispered, inching closer to him, the leather quietly squeaking under your body as you moved. His lashes fluttered some, lids beginning to prepare closing for the kiss he had patiently been waiting to get, but your lips bypassed his completely, pressing gingerly to his cheek. Worried you’d break him, or worse, scare him off. “I fear I won’t make it being a movie star’s lover, though. There’s too many cameras and others’ opinions.” You whispered, forehead resting on his temple, and he then grew desperate, worried he’d lose you, feeling you slip from his grasp as you spoke about issues he so effortlessly ignored.

“No one will need to know,” he murmured, an arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer. “You tell me when you’re ready, and I will show you off to the world.”

“They already know, and before they were only guessing.”

“Do they matter?” You paused, thinking that over, but you just wanted to be close to him for once in a setting that didn’t seem stiff and awkwardly platonic. “We’ll be a secret, and if they ask, I won’t tell them. I want you; I need you in my life. I want to allow myself this, to have you.”

“Hey,” you soothed, hearing the hurriedness aching in his cracking voice, words trembling, hand repeatedly squeezing yours. “It’s alright, I’m convinced.”

Dazai never kissed you that night, despite wanting so badly to. Instead, you two laid there, him on his back while you rested on his chest, and as he stared up at the ceiling, he had a passing thought of how he hoped tonight won’t be the night you cut yourself loose and pierce through us.

⌞ so i was with you, oh sweet compassion⌝

He held to his promise: people suspected, but no one knew that you two were dating. Rumors of a secret love affair took off quickly when there were less and less sightings of you in public with him, paparazzi unable to nab pictures of the two of you together – mostly because you both resorted to secret meeting places hidden behind tall fences, weeping branches, centers of lakes, and middles of nights. You visited his mansion so much more often that he had eventually talked you into moving in entirely, arguing how ‘your toothbrush has already been here for ages’. He continued visiting the House of Blues on Friday evenings, a table reserved for him near the stand so he could keep his wandering, admirable eyes on you while his costars talked, and he took you home with him when your shift was over. The long drive back was filled with him squishing you up against the locked car door, exchanging giggles between nuzzling noses, flitting touches, and hushed reverent whispers.

Being around him in a romantic setting had you come to the conclusion he lacked an understanding of personal space, his hands on your body any chance he had, burying his face in the crook of your neck, nudging your nose and cheek and jaw with his, all forms of affection he gave simply adorable. He showered you not only with his physical affections and caring words, but also with security: you never had to worry about a thing anymore. Any financial hardship you may have previously had, he took care of with a snap of his fingers; your job was merely a front at this point, something to get you out of the confines of his haunted house; you baked for fun and enjoyment, insistent on cooking to a point he broke down and finally allowed it, even though he equally insisted he had someone available at his beck and call to keep you both well fed. Groceries were well-stocked. Money was no object, and he treated it as such when it came to you; it was overwhelming, small bickering back and forth of how he didn’t need to do all of this for you, that you are perfectly capable.

He stared at you one evening, seeing you trying to give his card back to him when you said you were going out shopping, and he was utterly confused. Baffled, and couldn’t believe he had to ask you such a silly question: “How are you supposed to pay for anything if I have it?” Was all he said before placing a goodbye kiss on your cheek and simply walking out the door to his driver for his next shoot. Leaving you gawking after him, and his heavy, unwanted black card dangling loosely between your fingers.

Despite him fulfilling all the requirements to be your perfect dream boy, there later came the unexpected nightmare. The side you had witnessed before, the one that let evil voices and wretched spirits live in the crevices of his brain, close to his ear, whispering vile nonsense that made him listen to every last hateful thing they would tell him. Sometimes, they’d make him repeat their words and phrases. Make him try breaking up with you.

“You deserve better,” he leaned against his island in the kitchen, back facing you, and you were confused. You had stepped in the front door not too long ago, seeing him holding something that looked familiar, and his arm extended out for you to take. There weren’t warnings, there weren’t signs, only his blank but brutal impression, eyes void of all emotion, and mouth in a line. You were only in the kitchen at this point because you had chased after him, going in the opposite direction he demanded you to go.

“Did… Did I do something wrong?” You breathed, heart rate picking up, clutching the strap of the bag he had packed for you, the thought alone sending you into a panicked spiral.

“No, I just think you would be happier with someone else,” he explained, those broad shoulders shrugging with his statement, and that felt like getting shot straight through the chest. Your gaze dropped, gobsmacked, knuckles white from your grip on the bag, and you weren’t sure if you should respect his request.

“Osamu, I only want you, though,” you muttered. “There isn’t anyone better or who could make me happier. I am happy with you!”

“Then you have low standards,” he said with ease, a gasp of agony ripping from your lungs at such a statement. A dirty one, a rude one at that, bothering you that he thought so poorly of himself he believed he was a “low standard”, when to you he was above all else.

“No, I don’t,” you cleared your throat, forcing yourself to hold back all of your emotions and reactions, raising your head to stare at the back of his. “I have high standards, extremely high, and that’s why I’m with you. You exceed them. You’re an astounding boyfriend, you just let those mean spirited ghosts tell you what to believe when you shouldn’t listen to them. They’re just trying to hurt you!” You snapped toward the end, quickly biting your lip to stop before you got ahead of yourself. You learned everything you could about the things that terrorized his dreams, fuelled his nightmares, broke his heart, and left it shattered before he met you. The voices in his head were cruel, making him think he had done wrong his entire life, that he wouldn’t be permitted a chance of true happiness. You knew what they did to him, but you persisted, because you wanted to be there for him – afraid to leave him alone.

He looked ahead at the backsplash of the stove he has never once used, your decorative choices overflowing in his kitchen, bringing life into the space with color and warmth and the smell of freshly baked goods you spoil him with since you love baking so much. The waft of cinnamon sugar lingered from earlier that day when you made muffins before going to work; they’re sitting under the glass cake saver he had bought you recently.

“Your compassion stings,” he intoned. “Just like iodine.”

“I don’t know what iodine is!” You admitted, too helpless with your lamenting to be embarrassed by this lack of seemingly useless and misplaced knowledge. “Why are you speaking in riddles and poetry to me right now?! You’re trying to dump me over nonexistent issues!” You shuddered, hand coming up to cover your mouth, horrified with yourself for arguing, trying to stop this, but you want him too. You don’t want to break up, who ever really does? You composed yourself enough to try thinking clearly, sucking in a breath before nodding. He dug his nails into his upper arm, his body wanting to throw itself over that counter and wrap you in him, shower you with kisses and love and affection. However, you’re right, those hateful shadows that lurk in his head are preventing him from doing just that. It pained you, but you forced yourself to agree: “Okay, if you… if you really want me gone, then I won’t–won’t force myself on you. I’ll… go.”

Bruises form on Dazai’s body constantly, both real and metaphorical, things he’ll bandage up with a shot of whiskey and some type of gauze if he needs to. The ones others can’t see stay tucked away, buried deep underneath his skin, ones that hurt him continuously, where there isn’t enough alcohol in the world to drown in to fix it. Hearing you say you were willing to walk away only caused internal bleeding so great it would surely kill him if it went unattended.

“I don’t want to force you to be with someone like me, is all,” he finally spoke again.

“Give me one bad thing about you, and I’ll agree as I walk out the door,” he opened his mouth, gearing up to give an example, but it was all stuff you had already comforted him about not being an issue nor bothered you.

“I’m trying to break up with you over nonexistent issues,” he repeated back what you yelled prior, his tone not nearly as loud as you were. He told you the truth, though. You stared, trying to breathe, inhaling and holding it to keep yourself calm, levelheaded, but this was too far for you. Your nose scrunched, tears forming in your hazing eyes, and it took a lot to not yell at him.

“You can’t do this to me when we get engaged, stupid,” you grumbled, resembling a child, and his heart stopped, causing him to finally whirl around to face you with an arched brow. “Or when we’re married.” You added, sniffling, fingers hurriedly wiping under your eye. You want to marry me, sweet angel?

“Why in the world are you bringing something like that up right now?”

“Because it’s easy to break up and get back together when we’re dating, but it’s harder when you bought me a ring and we’re married! It’s expensive! And I’d sooner put you on that stupid couch to calm down than walk away!” You stomped your foot, to further drive your point home, and he stared at you, unblinking. Dumbstruck.

“I… I still don’t understand.”

“Because you’re an idiot,” you dropped your bag and hoisted yourself up on the island surface, the thing keeping distance between your bodies that drove you insane, fisting his shirt in your hand and pulling him close, nose-to-nose. Oh, wasn’t expecting that. “I’m trying to tell you that your reason is stupid, and I’m staying here.” He eyed you up and down, letting you manhandle him like this, and his hands had found a place on your hips to hold you steady. To hold you closer.

“You’re a masochist.”

“What’s your point?”

“I guess I don’t have one.”

“You never do,” your eyes softened, hands holding his face instead, forcing his shining eyes to lock on yours, watching in real time the doubt and self-hatred vanish from behind them, and he swallowed.

“I might do this again,” he warned, words cracking on thin lines, unsure why you bothered staying with him to begin with. Knowing he’d do this again, maybe multiple times. Maybe your whole lives.

“I’m prepared now,” you affirmed, fingertip following the slope of his nose. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll still be right here to remind you I’m not going anywhere.” He sighed at your touch, kissing your fingertips when they trailed down to his lips.

“It’s used as a topical solution to help prevent infections,” he explained, and your brows came together. “Iodine, my angel. It’s just another form of medicine for wounds.”

“So, you’re saying I’m like medicine?”

“You make the pain more bearable, yeah. Heal it all, too.”

“Well, doctors do warn stopping your medicine on your own is bad for your health,” you muttered, following along with the metaphor, trying to be lighthearted so he couldn’t see your underlying hurt and lingering pain were very much still there.

“I told you I was terrible with love,” he reminded, his arms wrapping themselves entirely around your body to help shift you around so your legs could hook to his hips. “That I’m not a good boyfriend. I don’t want you wasting your time with me like this.” You sighed heavily, hand sliding back up to rest on his cheek, thumb caressing his skin, and it only made him draw you nearer. He nudged his nose to yours, his silent ask for permission, and you granted him the ability to apologize with his lips meshing to yours, growing pains from longing and hurt, not wanting to let you go.

“Let me decide how to waste my time,” you breathed when he let you come up for air, your lashes connecting from how close you were, foreheads touching as his fingers slipped under the material of your shirt so the pads of them could map up your spine. “I love you, why won’t you let me? I thought you wanted this?” You felt like you were begging, chest hurting and tugging from the thought of everything breaking away from you.

“It’s as you said, angel. I’m simply an idiot,” his mouth found your neck, peppering more sweet and apologetic kisses down your skin, and your hands clung to his shirt for dear life, trying to remember this was real. This was your reality, and you wouldn’t change it, and you certainly wouldn’t let him try to change it either.

⌞ there are many ways a man can serve his time⌝

They say never meet your heroes, the belief they will disappoint you or not quite meet your expectations. However, if you have no expectations to begin with, you could learn to love the disappointment. Mend together the broken pieces of shattered illusion with compassion and patience. Treat them like a person instead of the version of themselves from their highly awarded roles. There are real emotions behind those bleached smiles and pain underneath those Givenchy suits.

“Have we come around to realizing we don’t need to run away anymore?” You murmur, finger coming up to trace down his nose, and his hand finds the back of your head, thumb tracing circles in your temple.

“I’m trying, but I cherish all of your forgiveness while I do better,” Dazai gives you a soft peck to your lips before trailing his kisses down your jaw and neck. “You truly are an angel, you know?” He whispers, breath hitting your skin, kiss after kiss following down into the crook and along your shoulder. “The greatest thing I have ever found out in these dark corners.” You hum softly, fingers skating up to tangle into the strands at the nape of his neck, curling up some in your spot.

“You put me on too high of a pedestal.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” The back of his fingers grazes your arm until they meet yours, lacing them together, bringing them to be doused with kisses from his mouth that suddenly needs something to do. “You saved me, after all.” You roll your eyes, but a shy smile forms anyway, grateful he can’t see your reaction to his overdramatized speech.

“I did nothing of the sort,” you brush him off, his petal soft, overactive lips making a path along your inner wrist, wanting desperately to savor every second he has with you. As if he doesn’t spend all the rest of them with you, thinking about you, dreaming about you, worshipping you.

“Don’t be so humble,” his voice is muffled from your skin, a long, inward sigh coming from his nose as he buries his face back into your neck, hiding, peppering hundreds more kisses in all the different spots he can find, causing an eruption of giggles to come from you and squirming around in his stronghold. “My salvation. My hope, my dreams, my life.” He kisses behind your ear, each one left behind with a shining glisten of spit, mouth getting wet and sloppy with his sudden change in mood. “My great healer, the magic cure in your fingertips. My beautiful saint, with patience to match.” His voice is close to your ear, every word bouncing and swirling its way into your canal straight to your brain, buzzing from the affection, the praise, and the come down from moments ago still riddling your body.

“Osamu–” He hushes you before anything else can be said, his large palms gliding up your back, memorizing every bump and imperfection that could be there, fingertips pressing gingerly into your skin at different intervals.

“You stay, my guardian angel, so let me worship you,” his legs work to join you two impossibly closer, lips making their way back down your neck and shoulder, and your own hands shake with anticipation and love and the immense devotion he is outpouring over you. “You’ve forgiven me for all the times I never deserved it, I want to show my gratitude to my darling savior.” He trails more kisses along your collarbone, across your chest to the other, not stopping once, fingertip circling around your shoulderblade. Your body shivers, him on instinct pulling the other blanket up over you for more warmth, but the air conditioner isn’t what’s making you shake like this. Your heart patters, rough in your ribcage, and it makes your breathing hitch.

“Osamu, I-I’m not any of that,” you barely get it out when his kisses are placed up the middle of your throat, finding your chin, and his lips are hovering over yours like an anvil waiting to snap free of its flimsy roped confines.

“How dare you try to warp my perception of you,” his nose nuzzles yours, irises catching in the afternoon’s sunrays, resembling the wildflower honey jar sitting in the kitchen cabinet downstairs, making him look equally as sweet. How could I argue when he’s looking at me like this? “Come on now, my beautiful, wise angel. Help me get into heaven.”

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