Dazai Osamu X Oc - Blog Posts

[By The Sea]

Gif can be found here.

The beach sat in the sunset, the waves mulling over the sand endlessly. The sea was always restless, it had always returned to find something on the shore. Whether it was the remains of dead sea creatures that no longer lived, or the abandoned toys of a kid that once played there but had now succumbed to being a memory. 

Lotte sat on a bench, observing the endless life of the forgotten shore. Her fingers gently held the cigarette. It was unlit, yet she would still hold it. She didn't know how to let go. If it was just there, that was enough. The tears of the sea splattered once more on the sand, curdling as it was dragged back into itself. 

"You like the sea." He said, approaching her. His footsteps were muffled by the sand. 

She glanced at Dazai, before looking back at the sea. She remained riddled with silence, the cigarette brought to her lips once again; no smoke followed. The sea and the sand, even with all their different hues, seemed tainted blue. 

"I need the sea," She said wistfully.  "I can't be somewhere without the sea. I'd be miserable." 

Dazai sat next to her. "I suppose I can understand that. The sea is serene – consistently doing nothing." 

Lotte looked at the waves once more. "No, it's not doing nothing. It's moving forward. It may not look like it to us, but it is." 

For a moment, she became a window. She had allowed some form of understanding to be made –  a translucency. Her eyes looked close to tears, yet remained firm and unchanging. The wind yawned past the two of them, the shiver of nearby trees soon halted. Everything was unwilling to move. The air was damp, the faint scent of salt haunted its being. 

"I want a house by the sea." She said. 

She said it like a prayer. 

There was a moment's rest of silence. Dazai smiled at her, a pitiful expression painting his face. They sat for a moment, watching the same wave return to nothing. 

"A house by the sea? That won't be enough for you." He said, sighing with emphasis. He peeked at her with one eye open. She snickered and nodded. 

"You're right, I'm too greedy." 

"Tattoos hurt, don't they?"

Just a random prompt I had in mind! :) It was inspired by this Yakuza tattoo fanart of Dazai and Chuuya, if I can find it again, I'll link it!

Dazai entered the private room, a giant traditional painting hanging on the wall behind the woman. She did not move, and a veil left only her mouth visible. Her fingers were delicate like a that of a pianist, her back straight and her eye contact made with the wall. He sat down, his back facing her.

“You’re the tattooist?”

“Are you the prodigy?” She replied, a faint smile on her face as cleaned her knife. The pale complexion of the cloth was irritated with the splotches of red from a previous client. She glanced at him, though unclear through the opaque veil.

“I don’t like questions,” He said. “But I’ll take it that you are the Port Mafia’s new tattooist.” He revealed his back. It had a few scars, merely sketches on the surface. He lay down, looking ahead to the open window, his chin resting on the edge of the futon. The moon glided through the seas of the sky, aggressively resting it’s eyes on him.

“The moon is bright today,” Lotte commented, looking at the open wound on her palm, pulling the skin to separate the scabbing. The skin was puffy, a gently feverish red surrounding the cut.

He was silent, looking at her hand. “Is that so.”

She nodded. “The moon shines the brightest on the coldest nights.” She examined the blade, her smile soft. “How sweet the moon is, to try and mimic the sun’s warmth.”

Dazai looked at her once again, the brown hue of his eyes now tainted with the night. She barely moved; he could only tell by the hushed shifts of her clothes against the knee pillow. Her skin was dark, like water under the sunset. She had no presence, she was careful not to exist in a manner that would let her be seen easily. At the same time, she was as prominent as the last ember on the tip of a candle.

“Can I have your hand?” She asked.

He offered it in an uncaring manner. Even after she had made a small cut on his fingertip, he did not flinch. She rested the knife on a new white cloth, the old one miserably curdled in the bin, sagged.

“My apologies, but it makes the process easier if I use my skill,” Lotte said, a glow emitting from their open wounds. She had not summoned it verbally, and the only glow emitting around her came from the moonlight.

She took to the tattoo, working in silence. As she did, the scent of chrysanthemums became more pungent. She hesitated, before lifting the pen. She lay it down, withdrawing from him.

“Your skill must be effective for this.”

“I suppose so.”

She then looked at his face, which was barely contorted with a look of pain. He scoffed. He had barely changed, his presence eerie whilst charismatic. There was only the presence of a ghost, as if he wasn’t truly there, only his body holding him hostage in his pain.

“You should’ve realized my ability nullified yours, most of your clients talk about the ungodly scent of earth during the process. I didn’t smell anything.”

Lotte glanced at him, tilting her head to the side carefully, the veil slanting alongside her actions. She cleaned the knife with one clean swipe, casting aside the used cloth into the black bin, disappearing amongst similar cloths with similar blotches.

“Silent suffering is a sin. Take it as punishment.”

________

 Quitting.

____________

Lotte sat on the bed, Dazai sitting up. He leaned on the bed frame, grabbing the whiskey from the bedside table. The sunset bled on the sheets, pure of any stain. The stubs of a cigarette fell and sizzled onto it. The bedsheet had now learnt impurity, the ashes making the delicate fabric curdle.

The glass clinked as it was solemnly lain on the table, the glass distorting the ugly brown.

 “There’s something funny about me, “ He began, tilting his head back as he looked at Lotte. Her thin dress strap fell off her shoulder as she patiently waited for him to finish, her cigarette amber at the tip.

 “I don’t actually like whiskey. “

She stared at him blankly, no distinct change in her face. “Then why do you drink it?”

 He sighed and looked to the window.

 “Isn’t better to taste something than nothing?“

 “No,“ She puffed out, “You'll lose your sense of taste with meaningless drinks.”

“Then why do you smoke?“  He leaned his cheek on his hand, watching the sun turn her dark eyes a luminated shade of orange, a pit in the middle.

 “Because I feel less stressed.”

They looked at each other for a moment. A lock from the hairs of time had fallen, chopped with the scissors of misery.

She took the glass and squashed the cigarette into it, letting it hiss until it burnt out.

 “I'm quitting today.“ 

He fell silent, watching the soggy cigarette butt fold in the cup.

 “I'm sure healthy lungs will look cute on you. “

____