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Chuuya remembers everything from that night.
The memories will always stick with him, no matter what. The Port Mafia hallway, azure astounding in it’s crystallised windows, purple light shining down on them. Tears fresh on his cheeks- Chuuya never cried, never cries- never shed one tear at a situation. Not to his friends in the Sheep dying, not to Q’s arms fresh with razors, not to the news of his past. But he cried, tears streaming down his cheeks, salt fresh on his tongue, teeth gritting grounding down on each other. He cried, for the loss of his best friend.
“Dazai, please.” Chuuya sobs, hand gripping tightly on the coat of his partner, wrist clenching so hard he could pinpoint bruises forming around the elder’s hands. “Please. You know I have nothing to lose. Anymore. Please- don’t do this to me.” He’s almost on his knees now, begging like someone on the verge of death. It’s ironic- Nakahara Chuuya never begs, never cries, never prays. Nakahara Chuuya is known for his stone cold eyes and that satanic glint in his stare, the way he does not flinch when gunshots echo in the distance. But Nakahara Chuuya is playing the game of a man about to lose, and he knows- once Dazai leaves, he will lose.
A simple game over.
Did Achilles feel like this when he lost his Patroclus? Was he ever warned of losing his beloved in this tragic battle, a battle filled with serial swords slashing, slicing away the hopes of humanity? Was the pain the Greek warrior felt as tragic as his own, as painful as the blade that seemed to protrude from his lover’s stomach? When Achilles felt his rage stem from lover’s death, Chuuya found that hilariously pittable. Now, he was not so sure anymore.
“You know I have to do this.” Dazai murmurs, a weak smile on his face. “You hate me, don’t you? It would be better.”
“You know very well that I don’t.” Chuuya manages a helpless snarl from the bottom of his throat. He seems to have given up all hope, fist clenching harder. He knows it’s no use, no use for the fact that Dazai will leave anyways, and he is only preventing the unpreventable. Like witnesses witnessing a murder, like pedestrians looking amongst a man about to commit suicide, like cars crashing into each other. He cannot stop this situation, and he cannot do anything to prevent it.
Dazai will leave him. Dazai is leaving him.
“Please,” Chuuya begs, fist clenching harder on Dazai’s coat, now wrapping around the brunet’s wrist. He knows it’s no use- Dazai cancels his ability, and Chuuya can’t use brute force to make the man stay. He can only beg, beg like the beggars living on the street, the ones he was so afraid to be. “Please- just- just one more day, okay? One more. For me. Please.”
“I can’t. I promised him.”
“You are so fucking selfish.” Chuuya hisses, tears threatening to brim from his eyes again. “Just leave now, won’t you? Leave for all of us. Leave Akutagawa- who’s worked so hard to keep your praise. Leave Q, who hopes to hold your hand every single day. Leave me- me- me who loves you so dearly you don’t even see it. Leave, Osamu Dazai. Leave me.”
Dazai seems to understand- and his wrist flings away from the grip- and Chuuya watches as the taller man walks away, feet echoing against the marble floor, and the footsteps- the footsteps don’t stop until the swing of a door is heard.
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Chuuya wonders, wonders about a tale he once heard, wonders about Penelope of Ithaca, about how she felt while waiting for darling Odysseus to return to her side. Would he feel the same, so lonely, so little, cast away in the dark shadows of the mafia, waiting, wondering, worrying for Dazai to return? He wonders if Dazai will be pressed against his side once more, the way the taller man seems to press his fingers into his waist, the way his touch leaves bare traces of hot heavy hellish magic all across his body.
Hopes are unnecessary. Odysseus returned with a babe and a new son, and within murderous rage, was killed by the child produced through infidelity. Hopes will only be crushed. Chuuya knew he would never see Dazai again.
___________________________________
Until the present day.
Dazai is tangled underneath him, bare naked except for a few bandages that linger around his wrists. His hands are in Chuuya’s hair, and his eyes mirror his own. His lips are touching that exact spot on Chuuya’s neck again, head leaning against his own. Chuuya feels the rise and fall of the latter’s chest, feels the way Dazai’s breath fans over his shoulders, feels the way his fingers unconsciously tap a rhythm against his lower back. He feels nothing, and everything all at once.
They lay there, catching their breaths. It’s silent, almost as eerie and calm as the moonlight reflecting outside, the way the sea seems to calm during Yokohama nights. Chuuya can hear nothing but the cicadas chirping outside, the quiet hum of the air conditioning, and nothing else. He feels full, though. Full from a burning feeling in his heart, a pain so majestic, so terrifying, yet he accepts it and lets it tear through. He knows this is wrong, this is immoral- why is a Port Mafia Executive like him sleeping with the enemy?
“You’re thinking too loud. It’s clogging up my brain.” Dazai comments, a lazy drawl mumbled against his neck. Dazai makes no movement to shift from the position he’s in- only to pull Chuuya closer, to wrap his arms around his waist, to press him into his own body. Chuuya feels whole, strangely. Whole, warm, weathered- he feels so tired but so joyful.
“Piss off.”
“No. You’ve got something on your mind, and it’s not related to me fucking you into the bedspread. Spill.”
“I don’t have anything to say.” Chuuya argues- though he knows there’s no point. The moonlight shines on their pale bodies, illuminating every feature. Chuuya can see the raw red of Dazai’s scars, the way the broken skin pulls and pushes to heal, the way pale pink clashes against rigorous red. Every curve, every mole and every blemish, standing still beneath the light, features so human, yet so ethereal. Dazai’s ability suits him- No Longer Human, in both a physical and emotional way. He does not seem human to others, but to Chuuya, with his scars and blemishes all across his pale skin, he seems like home.
“I’m leaving.” Dazai announces, and the hot, heavy fear comes into his heart again. His chest tightens with a murderous rage- but the rage seems sad, fearful, frightened for what is to come. The fear seems to swallow him whole, rising from his stomach and roaring in his throat, raising the urge to throw up. His grip on Dazai tightens, and the latter seems to notice.
“Ah, so that’s what got you in a twist, Chuuya.” Dazai seems to be smirking, and the urge to throw the nearest item he can grab is increasing by the minute. Dazai doesn’t seem to move, but Chuuya’s heart tightens with fear, scared of what is to come. He waits, plays the game of a dead man alive and walking. Every step he takes drags him closer to Tartarus, to the place where souls are condemned, where souls no longer exist, to where they cry out for a glimmer, a sliver of light, something to urge their hungry shells to live on.
Chuuya huffs, but he makes no comment, holding tighter onto Dazai’s body. Tears seem to brim at his eyes, and ridiculous red rage flushes his cheeks and the tips of his ears, a roaring running rage that seems to come with the embarrassment of crying. He moves his arms to wrap them around Dazai’s neck, skin gently brushing against dried blood and old scars. Dazai makes no protest, and Chuuya takes that as a signal for him to bury his face in his chest.
He’s tired- agitated, affright, alarmed at every single chance Dazai could escape from this hold, for him to leave.
All destined lovers, all the destined soulmates- they end up leaving anyways, don’t they? Jason left Medea for his new wife, the man seeming to forget about his old lover’s enticing ways as he joined hands with his new one. Romeo, frightened at the thought of losing Juliet, left her for the mysterious murky murdering ways of Death, a dear old friend. Every single lover who was thought to be destined- ended up leaving the other for a new one.
Love doesn’t exist. Love would never exist. They never existed for these famed heroes- so why would it exist for him instead?
Instead, he clings onto Dazai, hoping the man would never leave him.
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They were once called Double Black, the raging menace that ravaged the streets. The way they caused screams all across the alleyways, blood spilled across cracked pavement, panicked cries and frightened begs of mercy echoing in dark streets.
They were once called soulmates. Mori had once called them a pair which held one soul, a pair that would cease to exist without the other. Chuuya needed Dazai, and Dazai needed Chuuya. They were a matched pair- ones that you played in card games, ones that made the table spin with jealousy and awe, the way they realised that they were betting on losing dogs, betting on the wrong side of the game. They made sure everyone knew their power, and they were good at it.
Eternal, almost.
Until Dazai left.
Now Chuuya roams the street- figures still look at him, and they still shout, with pain, with frightened fear in their eyes. But now, the figures- they do not look at him as if he is a God, anymore. They look at him like he has lost everything but himself, a man only living to kill, to ambush. He has lost his partner, and in return, he has also lost his soul.
Chuuya wonders about the tarot card he had once received from Gin- the Lovers. Dazai grinned at the card, saying something about how his Chibi could never live without him.
Was he really living now, or was he living a lie that he had sought to make after his lover had disappeared?
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“Chuuya.”
“Shitty mackerel.”
“You know I would never leave you, right?” Dazai whispers, and the tone in his voice is genuine. He always knew how to read Dazai, how to understand what his partner was thinking. The way Dazai speaks now, soft sighs slipping past his lips, he knows.
“You clearly left four years ago.” Chuuya mutters, refusing to look up. He presses himself deeper into Dazai’s chest, wanting to memorise the tobacco flower scent from his cologne, the way it lingered after a long day of work. He presses himself further. What if Dazai left him one day? What if he lost Dazai, one day? What if he returned home one day, without his partner? Without the man that swore to stay by his side for a lifetime?
“For the greater good.”
“You left me, and you left everyone behind.”
“That was the past.”
“Yes- but didn’t you realise how much it hurt me? How much it hurt all the others?” Chuuya shouts, head turning up to face him. Tears fall from his eyes, and he clenches his fists tightly, the nails making small indents in his palm. It hurts, it hurts to live every single day, hurts to wake up, hurts to report back to the mafia without Dazai. Without his partner, without his lover.
“When you left, I drank so much I threw up all over Tachihara the next day. Akutagawa trained harder, faster, almost- it seemed like he was throwing every punch he could at me. He was fourteen- fourteen, Dazai. He was a killing machine at the fucking age of fourteen. Yet I held him. I held him when he cried, when he cried of panic, of what would happen to you if you had been found.” His words seem like a knife-dangerously trailing against the latter’s throat, poking at threads that would spill at an edge. He was taunting him now, his raw red truths all coming out, and it seemed to affect Dazai.
“And the day- the goddamned day where I saw you drowning- Fuck, I wish you died right there and then.” He scoffs, and Dazai raises an eyebrow at his answer.
“You had wished I died?” His answer is calculating, cold almost, and Chuuya fears the backlash that will come. Instead, he continues.
“I wish you died, you fucking imbecile. I could live on- live knowing that a certain wonderful part of my life was over. Maybe if you had died, I could bury my past. But that tiger boy, that Atsushi- he saved you. I watched as you shouted to your partner- the one in blond- and I wished, I wished so terribly that I could just- forget. Forget whatever happened to us. Forget how you left.”
“I never forgot about you. Yet I wish I had.” Dazai whispers, hands trailing to grasp on his own. They nudge apart his nails, soothe the fresh red marks on them, and grips them tightly. “With you, I felt immortal. Eternal, almost. Like I was a God of Destruction, raging hell on all of the world, with you pressed by my side. Like I could almost do anything amongst your side.”
“Humanity is a fragile thing, Chuuya. It makes us feel whole, and it makes us feel raw, but yet so insignificant and small at the same time. You made me feel like a God- and that was too dangerous.”
“So you’re saying- we shouldn’t be together? We’re dangerous? But wasn’t that- wasn’t that the whole point of it?”
“No. We should be together- because you’re the only person that makes me feel whole, Chuuya. Makes me feel like myself again. Makes me feel completed. And that is what I’ve always wanted.” Dazai murmurs, stroking Chuuya’s hair with one of his hands.
“I think you are always what I wanted, in a way.”
“Way to own me, you piece of shit.”
“Of course I own you, you little shit. Chibi’s little body can’t even reach for the cupboards in his own house, he needs my help, boo hoo~”
“Shut your damn mouth.”
Chuuya wants to believe him badly. And in this embrace, in this hold, he believes him. In Dazai’s arms, he feels so loved, feels so powerful, so fragile all at once. He feels like he comes undone at Dazai’s hands, at Dazai’s touch. It’s ironic how the touch of his finger causes him to lose his ability, but it almost causes him to unravel, to lose his fight, to lose everything. To love him at his weakest, and to protect him. Chuuya knows this won’t last, but all he can do is hope. Pray for a better future, one where Dazai stays by his side, chest against his head, pressed against him, forever,
All he can do is hope.
“Chuuya.”
“Shitty mackerel.”
“...You came.”
“Of course I would. Did you mistake me for a fool?”
The alarms blare loudly, ringing against his ears. The red lights flash on and off, and all Chuuya can focus on is his lover’s face. Pale, haunting features etched upon the brunet’s skin, brown hair dry. Skin a pale shade of yellow, eyes lost within the hope of dying. Dazai looks frail, dead, almost. A living corpse, someone who ceased to exist. His cell consists of nothing but a bed- tidied, sheets made and folded, desk pushed to a side. The white jumpsuit does not suit him, Chuuya realises.
It only makes him look like a ghoul in the middle of Asphodel.
And so, he clenches Dazai’s hand, grips it tight, making sure to never lose his beloved ever again. To lose Dazai out of his sight would be a disaster, something he could never imagine happening again. He could not bear to lose his lover again. Like Achilles- he had gone mad, raged at the news of Dazai’s arrest, the way he was ripped apart from his own grasp.
Like Orpheus, who once led his lover out of the dark damp dismal depths of Hell, grasping his lover’s hand until they met the sunlight, the way it shone upon them. Who had the bravery and the pure urge to be reunited, to be loved, to be joined once again by the person he needed him most. Like Orpheus, who risked all for his Eurydice.
Orpheus failed, but Chuuya never would.
He would lead Dazai out of this hell, out of this torturous world. He would kill anyone if it meant that his Dazai would live.
“I was waiting for you. You were late.” Dazai whispers, voice dangerously teetering to the point of hope. Chuuya knows- hope from Dazai is spare. Happiness is spare, and it will only exist in spare moments of time. But he longs to be loved, longs to be alongside Dazai, no matter the situation.
“Where should we go after this?” Dazai asks, and Chuuya- for once, he smiles at him.
“Anywhere. We could ravage the streets once more, y’know. I know you love seeing people scream for mercy.”
“You know me best, Chibi.”
And so, Chuuya feels his power tighten, but it blossoms in love, in the warm wretched feeling against his heart, the way it blooms in small flowers, beautiful marigolds blooming in his heart. Chuuya used to fear his power, used to be terrified of the way it destroyed him. Now, Corrupted burns in his chest with a loving feeling, the way it beats bright in his heart, the way it makes him feel like every touch that Dazai lingers on his skin.
He once heard the tale of Daedalus and Icarus flying across the sky, searching for a way to escape, their golden wings in the sky. Too close to the sun, and they would burn. He remembers Icarus falling, floundering, screaming as he hit the water, the horrified look on Daedalus’ face.
As he held Dazai, towering upon the shitty European facility he was placed in, he smiled. He knows the joys Icarus felt when he flew. Knew the love Michaelangelo had for the creation of wings. For all he felt was love, this rushing roaring rapid rivers of love, coursing in his heart. He never wanted to lose Dazai, and he knew he never would.
It was always them against the world. It would be them against the world, until the world ended.
Chuuya had never held Dazai as tightly as they flew across the sights of the city, because he knew- he would never lose Dazai.
Ever again.