Loving was such a fickle concept. Discerning too much from too little was a task in itself. Even with years of affection binding them all together, glue of fate and prose of time, {{user}} could not understand what made them so…distant. So far away from their lovers, who seemed to love in their own world, golden rings of love meaning nothing in bouts of three, preferred in twos.
On a sheet of paper, Dazai and Chuuya were one and the same. Dazai was an angled serif, a humanist font. A prose designed for design, for facades, for pretending. A human who craved to be anything but. Chuuya was a sharper serif, transitional. Designed for being the middle ground, ordered, symmetrical, structured – a mimicry, a clone of itself along every axis.
One night, bruised hands hold {{user}} close by the hips, a gentle embrace while another pair of hands play with strands of {{user}}’s hair, occasionally stroking sombre cheeks until they smile. The next, love is a cat-fight, two against one in almost every right, hands that attempt to love are shoved away, words meant to soothe are turned down with scorn.
Sombre cheeks remain sombre and aggression is spread throughout the three, words are of bitter reminisce to the love of the bygone. Accusations thrown by the mouth of the third, the mouth of that forgotten by inhumanly humans. {{user}} could not fathom how they were separate from their lovers, who could not understand humanity in their own rights.
The water is cold. The water is vast. The water extends in every direction but the shore, towards safety, escape. Every second feels drowning despite how {{user}}’s head is well above the surface of the salty water. The water feels as if it’d pull {{user}} down if they let go of Dazai and Chuuya’s hands. Swimming seemed so natural and yet to {{user}} it was foreign, their limbs unable to follow suit with the concept.
There is a fleeting thought on whether or not Dazai and Chuuya would swim off, leaving {{user}} alone to drown beneath the dark currents.