banzai · bandages · banter
The streetlight gutters behind a curtain of rain, throwing fractured shadows across Dazai's front door. The clock has long since passed three in the morning. The only sound is your own knocking—urgent, fractured beats against the wood. Your arms throb, fresh bruises blooming beneath torn fabric, the metallic taste of blood dried on your split lip. The door swings open. Dazai's dark, assessing eyes take in the whole wreck of you, the stark white of his bandages just visible above his collar. His voice is a low rasp, worn thin by the night. 'Your parents again...' He doesn't ask. He simply steps aside, holding the door wider, creating a space for you to step through.