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Oh, Dazai knows he’s a fucked up little freak. He knows, in a distant sort of way, because no one else is like this. He doesn’t think they’re like this. It might just be him and Mori. They might just be the only people in the world that are hollow. Scooped out. That’s what happened to Dazai. Everything inside him was scooped out.
And Mori can fill that emptiness. Very briefly, but he can, and for that Dazai is constantly clinging to his fucking coattails like a little child. How he does it is a mystery. It’s with sex and pain and substances and gratuitous violence, sure, that’s the method, but when Dazai tries to seek out that stuff on his own it’s all wrong and twisted. It feels all wrong and twisted. But he still tries.
He tries so hard to no avail. Sex doesn’t feel good when it isn’t Mori’s hands. Pain doesn’t feel good when it isn’t Mori’s scalpel. Drugs don’t feel good when it isn’t Mori holding his jaw and pushing a pill down his throat. Violence doesn’t feel good when it’s Dazai acting out of his own desperate volition and not Mori’s orders guiding his hand, telling him what to do and where to hurt, who to kill and how to do it. Sometimes he feels a bit like a dog, obedient at Mori’s feet, waiting for him to tell him exactly how much blood should be pooled on the floor. And he’ll fucking make sure there isn’t so much as a drop more.
He touches himself in the shower. It just feels bad.
His own hands are as cold as ice even under the hot spray of water. They kind of feel like a dead person’s hands, massaging him roughly. He’s out of practice. His hands are clumsy and unsure. They’re so unlike Mori’s it’s not even arousing, it’s boring. Bordering on sickening.
Mori doesn’t fuck him half as much as he used to. He fixates on that thought and it moulders inside of him until he’s more limp than hard in his own hand. Gripped with a sudden frustration, he shuts off the water and scrambles out of the shower, barely bothering to wrap a towel around his body. Mori, Mori, Mori… he’s like a fucking obsession, constantly occupying Dazai’s thoughts, poisoning his mind, his body, until the only thing left is him. Dazai fucking hates him. Dazai needs him so bad it no longer makes sense. It has never made sense.
The dark hallway feels so much more daunting than it used to. Because Mori is at the end of it, and over the many years he’s been here it’s been beaten into him, over and over and over again that what happens when he reaches him will not be good.
But it’ll feel good.
The door creaks open. The floor falls out from under him. Dazai is a stupid child at his father’s door in the middle of the night because he’s afraid, except not really at all. It just feels like it. Mori raises an eyebrow.
“Yes?”
“Dad…” he hesitates, “Daddy. Can I come in?”
“You’re too old for that,” he responds, but he doesn’t say no. So Dazai does, still dripping wet, shivering in a thin towel. He perches at the edge of the bed.
The bed where, more nights than not, Mori fucked the empty feeling right out of his body. That’s kinda how Dazai knows he’s a freak, really, because he remembers it and at the same time as it scares him and makes him feel sick, he wants for it so desperately that there is no language for it anymore. Sitting on the bed where Mori raped him for half a decade, he’s suddenly so aroused he can barely think straight. Just from that. And his own stupid hand can’t even get him hard.
“You don’t fuck me anymore,” he whispers, “what did I do?”
Mori, who is sitting at his desk with his back to Dazai, hums thoughtfully. As if none of this even really matters to him. He doesn’t even turn around. It makes Dazai feel very, very small.
“Do you want me to?” Is what he says. Dazai looks down at his feet, his heels digging into the mattress.
“I can’t cum.”
“Is that my problem?”
YES, Dazai wants to scream. It is your problem because I can’t cum unless it’s YOU.
He shrugs, even though Mori isn’t even looking at him.
“Don’t you want me?” he tries, “Dad, please.”
Mori hums again. “Not tonight. I’m quite busy. Another time, Osamu.”
“Daddy,” he whines, a last ditch effort, which always used to work. Embarrassingly, his voice cracks. Mori huffs quietly, what could be a laugh or a sigh or genuine frustration. Dazai can’t tell, and he desperately wishes he could. Mori is always hard to read. Always has been.
“Go find someone else to fuck you and pretend to be your father. Because tonight, it isn’t me.”
It hits Dazai like a cold slap across the face. Go find someone else to fuck you and pretend to be your father. Numbly, he gets off the bed and goes to leave. Standing with his back to Mori now, both of them with their backs to each other, he stops.
“I wasn’t lying. I can’t cum unless it’s you,” he says quietly to the door.
“Then don’t cum,” Mori’s reply comes, swift and lethal, “and by the way, I do mean both of those statements as orders.”
Dazai clenches his fists and breathes harshly, then slowly lets it out as he relaxes.
“And by the way, I’m not pretending, Daddy,” he bites back and leaves, shutting the door with an angry click.
He doesn’t even need to verbally confirm or deny that he heard Mori’s commands. Of course he heard. Of course Mori knows that he heard. Just like they both know that Dazai is going to listen. Of course he is. He always does.