Ango and bad habits
He was now in the habit of listening to the recording while he was working. It was the only way he could calm down. If he didn’t hear it, if he didn’t have proof that Dazai had lived, had escaped, he could not function anymore.
It was creepy, he acknowledged that. A little (a lot) stalkerish. But Dazai had not asked to get rid of that tracker, and Ango liked that he could know what was going on with him at any time. If he was too close from the edge. Knowing that if he needed help he could talk to him, and nothing could prevent it. He had never known how to give up.
The sound, now, of that regular heartbeat, was soothing.
And every day, first thing, it spelled good morning, ango; and every night, last thing, it spelled good night, ango.
He wished he still could stop time for him to tell him that, yes, he was still listening.
Listening so intently he didn’t notice when the door opened, or when the tracker indicated that the location was nowhere near the usual haunts; in fact, it was close, closer than it had been in weeks, since that last glance exchanged after the decay of angels was cared of.
So he was unforgivable for not noticing when two arms wrapped around him from behind his chair and a voice said softly, teasingly, lowly, in his ear, “it seems I’ve acquired quite the cute stalker”