Shower Thoughts
Something that Dazai came to realize during his time in London, living with these peculiar rich French people was that their taste in music was just as strange as their behaviour. Dazai never thought that people who had classical music as their favourite music genre existed, yet here these three people were. Dazai had never listened to Mozart or Beethoven to this extent ever in his life before. His thoughts sounded like Rondo alla Turca and The Moonlight Sonata. He didn’t even know who Johann Sebastian Bach was before coming here. And if he heard Chuuya play Für Elise one more time this week he was going to lose the remaining pieces of his sanity. He was listening to more operas than squeaks in the hinges when you closed the doors in the house, or creaks from the wooden floor. Infuriating and insufferable, truly.
At the moment Dazai was in his bed with a pillow over his head, trying to block out the loud ass piano composition (Probably Chopin) from Chuuya’s Walkman that was on a way too high volume because he could hear it all the way from his bottom bunk, with the pillow over his ears.
“Oi!” A familiar red headed face hung down from the top bunk. Dazai groaned, lifting the pillow from his head.
“What.”
“You stink.” He spoke. Dazai turned his head to look at the boy.
“Fuck off.” The brunette grunted.
“We’re going to Diagon Alley today, like Paul said. Take a god damn shower before you leave.” God, the ginger’s whining sounded so spoiled and rich kid-like, the French accent didn’t help in the slightest. “You reek.”
“Sorry I can’t keep up with your rich, noble standards.” Dazai rolled his eyes.
“It’s not “rich, noble standards.” It’s having some decency. And you stink. On top of that, you look like someone dunked a bucket of oil over your head.” With that said, Chuuya’s head disappeared and retreated back to listen to his awful choice of music.
Dazai sighed and rolled out of bed to go shower. The house had 2 bathrooms; that was weird to Dazai, since well, his home didn’t even have one. So to not only have one shower, but two showers, was incredible to him. It must be super expensive if he can’t even have one in his container, but Verlaine and Rimbaud have two. Another good thing was that the bathroom was at a distance so that he wouldn’t have to be tormented by Chuuya’s music no longer, and his very off beat humming.
Dazai didn’t like showers. Usually, he’d take a bath, since it was easier, and he had also found a dumped bathtub by the dumpster sit near his beloved home sweet home that he had stolen. Since he had no real water supply, he’d use rainwater, so his baths didn’t really help much. To further add, Dazai usually kept his bandages on while bathing. But since he “Stank” and “reeked”, he figured he should take this opportunity to change them, they were getting quite itchy, an itch comparable to the stinging he felt whenever magic was in his presence, or an ability. That vulnerable feeling without the strips of fabric sickened him. He hated it, every second of that shower felt like hours. The hot, steamy water burned his frail skin, the warm air making him lightheaded.
When he stepped out of the still raining shower he just stood there, eyes not focused on anything, head feeling empty. How he loathed everything.
The foggy mirror left his face in a blur, a water droplet started drifting down the polished and shiny surface, Leaving a strip of clearness after itself. Even though it seemed so much more accurate then, he still felt it all looked so distorted.
His inky bulbs blinked and at the sight - eyelashes fluttering like the furry legs of the most venomous tarantula - staring into themselves, into their holes without any bottom, like you could see all the way down to his squished, bleeding heart. The sounds of nails scraping against the sides of the holes intensifying as you go deeper and deeper. But when you finally reach the end, with a thud like the rustiest, most bloody gun being fired, there’s only emptiness.
Maybe he was trying to hide that emptiness as he started to tie back his pearly white, new bandages around himself. Or maybe he already knew there’d be no point, but being a naïve child, tried to cling onto that dream, that there was something inside there.