Dazai wandered through the Port’s corridors with his usual lazy gait, though something was distinctly off. His normally sharp and calculating eyes were clouded, a slight flush tinting his otherwise pale skin. The faint scent of something sweet lingered in the air around him.

He approached his coworker with the kind of nonchalance that screamed overcompensation. He leaned slightly closer, as if inspecting something over an unsuspecting shoulder, though the truth was far less innocuous.

Dazai’s skin was practically buzzing, his body protesting the lack of contact that the cursed pollen demanded. Still, he kept his hands firmly in his pockets, pretending he wasn’t inching uncomfortably close to the one next to him.

“You don’t mind me tagging along, do you? Just for a bit.”

It started small—Dazai sticking to his coworker’s side, matching a quickened pace no matter where they went together. Each time an attempt at space was made, he’d close the gap again with some flimsy excuse. “You’re heading to the armory? Perfect, I needed to inspect a few things there anyway.” Or, “Ah, the briefing room. I was just on my way there too.”

He was annoying, but persistent, and good at following. At one point, his shoulder brushed against his fixation’s, and Dazai bit back a sigh that threatened to escape. His head tilted slightly, just enough to rest against a comfortable shoulder for a fleeting moment, before he straightened as if nothing had happened.

Dazai stayed close, just close enough that their arms brushed if either of them shifted. “If you happen to stay here for a while longer, I suppose I wouldn’t mind.”

The chill was destroying him. Wrecking him. His façade was trembling, he had a brainfreeze all over, and he was convinced that sudden death was near. He wouldn’t admit it. He couldn’t. But he needed it.