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Dazai had learned early to expect touch to be painful.
It always was, when he was a child. Even so, he craved contact so much it felt as if a deep, empty hole had physically opened in his chest, carving out his heart and knocking the breath right out of his lungs. Yet, that was a better alternative to the pain that came along with being touched by another. Dazai learned to ignore the loneliness, let the hurt turn into a distant numbness that would never quite leave him.
In the mafia, it was no different, of course. No touch is gentle in the mafia. There is no space at all for kindness. And Dazai didn't really know kindness, having been raised in the dark, not knowing how to leave, not sure if he ever could, or even if he truly wants to. The Demon Prodigy of the Port Mafia.
"His Demon Prodigy", Mori called him.
And Mori touched him, too. It was painful, and he hated it, hated him and hated himself. He wished he would just die. He wished he had never been born in the first place. Dazai couldn't even trust his own touch to not be painful anymore, with all he had inflicted on his own flesh, countless scars hidden under layers and layers of bandages.
In that sense, No Longer Human only served to further separate him from others. Dazai's touch was weaponized, feared, avoided. In a way, his bandages served as armor: shielding him from people, and people from him.
They said his blood was mafia black, and he agreed.
The closest he ever got to comfort in the Port Mafia was through two people.
One of them was Chuuya; when the two halves of double black weren't bickering or fighting, sometimes they could be gentle with each other. As gentle as it ever got with them.
When Chuuya cleaned Dazai's wounds and patched him up, it wasn't painful. Or, rather, it wasn't painful because of Chuuya or his touch. The injuries were always uncomfortable, of course, but the experience of getting fixed up by Chuuya rather than some underground mafia doctor or, worse, by Mori, felt close to nice.
The weight of Chuuya's body on Dazai's back after the boy had used Corruption and couldn't walk back to the extraction point didn't hurt. It didn't even annoy Dazai as much as he claimed it did - one of the many, many things he would never admit out loud, or even to himself.
Chuuya's kisses could be tender on the nights where neither of them felt like being rough, and even their roughness was far from unpleasant. Chuuya's clever hands could make him feel so good he was able to forget who he was for a moment; waves of overwhelming pleasure that silenced the pain, even if only temporarily. When Chuuya wanted to, his arms could be soft and kind and safe, and Dazai had been chasing that feeling of safety throughout his entire life.
It only lasted for the few moonlit hours during which he and Chuuya allowed themselves to be more than just partners in crime, and it ended as soon as one of them got up from the bed they had shared.
Those nights always ended with Dazai a bit more aware of his own loneliness.
Dazai's other source of comfort in the Port Mafia was Oda.
Odasaku didn't touch Dazai often - his warmth usually came more from his words, or from his quiet presence by Dazai's side, depending on whether or not the boy felt like talking during their encounters. Oda never pushed, never asked questions Dazai didn't wish to answer; above all else, he was always understanding, despite the mask that hid Dazai's true emotions and intentions from the world. He wasn't sure how much Odasaku knew of him, just like he wasn't sure how much he himself knew of Odasaku, but their friendship and bond weren't any less strong because of it.
When Odasaku did touch him, it never hurt. Sometimes, it was a casual pat on the back or on the shoulder, or even on his head, ruffling his hair a little. Dazai liked it. Few people in the mafia dared touch him, and even fewer did it without any intentions of harm. The act was small, yet Dazai looked forward to it every time they met up.
Other times, Oda's touch was a hand held out to Dazai as he got up, support during a mission, a shove to get the boy out of the way of danger. It didn't happen all that frequently, but there were instances where he cleaned up Dazai's wounds, gave him new bandages and gauze, put ice on sprained ankles and wrists; all done with that blunt yet kind air, an aura of safety so characteristic to Odasaku.
The memories of Odasaku's touch, much like all of Dazai's recollections about the man, were now forever tinged with nostalgia and regret, distorted by bitterness and a melancholy that changed between easier and harder to bear, but never quite left. He still could see those last moments perfectly: the sepia glow illuminating them both as Oda touched his arm and held his face so tenderly, ripping away a layer of bandages to show a glimpse of radiant, almost blinding light to Dazai's cast down eyes.
In those two years spent underground, away from the mafia’s eyes and completely and utterly alone, Dazai wished for touch so badly he would take any sort of contact, whether it hurt or not, as long as it served as a distraction from the emptiness in his chest. The touch of others was painful. His own touch was painful. It didn't work to distract him as much as he'd wished. Every time it ended, he just seemed to feel worse.
The Armed Detective Agency was vastly different from anywhere Dazai had ever been in. His childhood taught him to fear touch and hide the fact he was afraid; the mafia did nothing but worsen the pain and perfect his capacity to conceal. However, in the agency, no one seemed to want to harm him.
They had the strength and means to do so, but never did. Yes, Kunikida yelled, dragged him around and sometimes hit him, but it paled in comparison to what the mafia treatment was. His new partner was more annoying than anything else, if Dazai was being honest. Dr. Yosano wanted to dissect him, but even she didn't come close to his past experiences.
(Still, the sight of the infirmary was much too familiar to him. Dazai avoided the check-ups as often as he could.)
The others at the Agency rarely touched Dazai, not out of avoidance or fear or disgust, just simple respect of his personal space. The concept was unfamiliar, much like everything that came with working in the Agency, but Dazai got used to it eventually. It was nice. A pleasant change.
President Fukuzawa was nothing at all like Mori, from how he saw and treated his employees to his personality and mannerisms. He was quite easy to read, for one. Talking to the President didn't feel like a game of four dimensional chess, riddled with manipulations and subtle nudges towards this or that direction; Dazai wasn't a marionette pulled by Fukuzawa or a pawn on his board.
And, of course, the President didn't touch Dazai in any way. Dazai was pretty sure he never would. Regardless, he wasn't planning on putting his guard down. Frankly, Dazai wasn't even sure he was able to.
The thing about Dazai and touch is that he got hurt by it so many times he began to actively avoid it. No contact means no pain. Except he still craved it, deep down inside himself, a pulsing ache that just wouldn't leave him, always weighing down his chest.
Dazai told himself he didn't mind the ache and pushed it all away, but against his best efforts to ignore it, the feeling still came back.
Though, it wasn't always so unbearable. His coworkers - people he'd grown to call friends, meaning every ounce of it - made the feeling a bit better at times, seemingly unintentionally. It was through a casual touch on the shoulder, a pat on the back; Ranpo grabbing his arm as they walked down the street to get sweets, Atsushi hugging him tight, Kenji taking his hand to show him how to plant a seed that one time Dazai helped out at the garden.
And Kunikida… Well. It turned out he was more than strong ideals and a short temper; he knew how to be soft, under all the strictness, and Dazai grew to trust his touch to never be painful, never mean harm.
Kunikida sometimes touched Dazai's hair, ran his long fingers through the chocolate colored strands and detangled the knots along the way. Dazai simply hummed and closed his eyes, his guard lowered ever so slightly for a moment, relaxing as much as he could manage.
During nights where Dazai's mind spiraled and raced with so many thoughts he could only shake, throat burning and chest heavy, unable to find the capacity to talk, Kunikida always answered the door. He would take one look at Dazai and let him in without a word. Then, he'd hold Dazai's trembling form for as long as it took for his shoulders to relax, his eyes to close and his breathing to even out. Kunikida didn't judge, never complained, not at those moments. He simply stayed by Dazai's side, a safe presence, as close as Dazai wished.
Kunikida's lips were sweet and warm, his arms strong yet gentle, so gentle, tender, full of kindness and something Dazai would call love if he wasn't so terrified of the idea. Kunikida's touch made Dazai feel so much in so many different ways it overwhelmed him at times, not because it hurt, but because it didn't. And Kunikida would always notice when it became too much, pause and let Dazai breathe through it, hold his face and caress his cheek with his thumb, slowly.
Kunikida was good, too good. Dazai didn't believe someone such as himself could ever deserve someone like him. Quietly, he waited for the other shoe to drop, for the moment he or Kunikida would inevitably leave, for the moment he would wake up from what felt like the nicest and most cruel dream he'd ever had.
Dazai could never shake off the feeling that he was tricking everyone at the Agency, even though they knew of his past, even though their treatment hadn't changed at all because of it. They were just so good. There was no way Dazai could deserve that. Someday, it would all get taken away from him. That was just how things worked for him. He was already resigned to that fact.
But, in the meantime, all Dazai can do is hold on to the comfort and safety; enjoy it while it lasts.