Emotions [Dazai x Reader] ✓

8 | Confirmation

Ever since the incident at the bar, I began avoiding Dazai as much as I could; if he were heading down the hall against me I'd fake having received a call from Chuuya perhaps - "My phone's on silent. I have to take this call." was often my excuse for the missing ringtone - or try my best to pace my way towards the nearest turn in order to not have him pass by. It was, of course, inevitable that I met him during interrogations, but I kept my replies to him as short as possible, sometimes not even saying a single word.

There was an occasion when I did indeed receive cellular communication from Chuuya - via a text, talking about inviting me to accompany him to a meal out with a few friends - but sadly enough had not met Dazai on the hall that day, simply because I wished to experience the feeling of being guilt-free from having to pretend.

I opened the door to his office slowly, as when I had knocked no reply was provided. I did not bother to close the door, perhaps believing he'd be arriving soon after me, and walked further towards his desk - like every other occasion there had been nothing on the desktop, but this wasn't like every other occasion; his phone was sitting peacefully in the middle of the wooden top and when I picked it up I felt no warmth from it - he must've left it here by mistake, a long while ago, perhaps after texting me.

Then the door closed behind me. Instinctively I turned around, bound to address my superior and let him know about his neglected phone, except that this wasn't my superior.

The hair of the man cascading over his eyes - no, eye (had I been so lost in it to have become so accustomed to deceiving myself on seeing both?) - accompanied by the usual black and white suit was the only sight needed to be able to silence me immediately and fasten up the speed of my heartbeat.

He made his way silently and slowly towards me, and though my instinct had told me to make up an excuse of "having to work" and rush out of the office I could not follow. I stepped back faster than he stepped forward towards me and panicked as my lower back hit the edge of the desk. He stopped, I assume, when he was at a satisfactory distance: a mere few inches away - less than an arm's length was too close!

'[Y/N],' he called out, coming out as a whisper but audible enough to earn attention. 'You've been avoiding me.'

I planned to play the fool and exaggerate the lie of "not knowing what he was on about", but simultaneously sought from my arms strength to pull myself up to sit on the desk and escape over it - a failure, of course, as I seemed to forget who I was dealing with: someone who could read ahead to people's actions - maybe that was it! It must be similar to Oda's ability.

He placed both hands down by either side of my hips, towering his body over mine as he brought himself closer. I avoided looking up at him as I was fully aware that if I restrained my neck to look up his face would be right there, inches away, to greet me. A swirling in my stomach began to form; love was disgusting: butterflies in the stomach felt like the necessity to let out heavy diarrhoea. Gross.

'Why?' he breathed out - 'Why have you been avoiding me?' I kept my mouth shut, beginning to take interest in the empty corner of the office where a coat hanger would fit most adequately - perhaps a small potted palm too.

I felt his hand - whichever one, I don't mind - lift up from the desk, and I hoped it had been to give me an opportunity to distance myself and articulate an answer (an excuse) to my behaviour; the Mafia wasn't one to ask questions, but if they do, they demanded answers - in short, I had no escape. He reached out to my chin and forced it to face upwards where I caught a quick glimpse of his face up close and quickly averted my gaze, feeling the temperature of my face shoot up under his touch.

'So I was right,' he finally let out, a sense of assertiveness in his tone.

Congratulations, now kindly let me go, I'm not trying to be the protagonist of a melodrama; I have a supervisor to meet up with, possibly hostages waiting in the basement for me and, oh god, the Titanomachy reenacting in my stomach right now.