Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Tell me, Dazai, why is it you wish to die?”

“Let’s turn that question around—is there really any value? To this thing we call living?”

Dazai had always longed for death.

Why fear such a thing; it always seemed so beautiful?

You see, he was a tainted sorrow—his life a heavy burden of pain and emptiness staining every moment. He couldn’t find any meaning in it, only a lingering weariness that weighed on his soul. Everything felt like a performance for an audience that had long since left. Even joy, fleeting as it was, tasted bitter on his tongue.

Smiles felt like masks. Words, like empty vessels. People came and went, voices blending into one indistinguishable haze. Even love, when it dared touch him, never stayed long enough to soften the edges of his despair.

To him, death was an end to the noise; a hush to the screaming static that filled the silence between every heartbeat. He welcomed it—craved it. For death, he believed, was the only escape from the absurdity we call life. Why waste such a chance to be free? To slip quietly from the slow asphyxiation of this oxidising world; a release, at last, from the corrosion of existence.

There was comfort in the idea of vanishing. There’d be no more expectations, no more pretending to be something he wasn't, no more playing the fool, the genius, the weapon, the friend.

A silent escape, with no pain, struggle, or pretending.

Why must he cling to breath, when each one only draws deeper into suffocation? This world, rusting in its own meaninglessness, its own contradictions, corroded by hollow promises and decaying ideals, never held anything for him.

Not love, nor peace, nor purpose.

The people, the chaos, the ideals—they all bled together into one long, colourless smear of apathy.

Only death, in its quiet certainty, still promised peace; death made sense. Death was honest, it didn’t lie, or ask questions and demand explanations. It was always there, but it was patient and still, waiting like an old friend, like a lover with an open embrace.

But now, with death lying silently in his very arms: he was confused.

The stillness of the body cradled against his was not beautiful.

It was heavy.

Unfair.

Wrong.

He had always seen the stillness of death to be freeing—but this stillness?

This stillness was suffocation. And suffocation wasn’t quiet, it was screaming—a single voice echoing again and again in his skull, stinging in his ears, fragile yet stubborn, refusing to be drowned, refusing to be ever forgotten.

“Since both sides are the same, become a good person. Save the weak, protect orphans...” 

It was a voice full of hope. Of resolve. Of a kind of righteousness Dazai had always dismissed as childish.

“…You might not see a big difference between right and wrong, but to you, there isn't a big difference between the two…But, doing that would be better.”

They weren’t just words, they were a plea, a promise. 

Even after they were spoken, the words burned behind his eyes—a slow, smoldering ache he couldn’t put out.

Dazai stared down, his hands trembling against the weight of a life already slipped away. He hated how small the body felt now. How empty. Like the warmth had been pulled out of the world with it. How could someone so alive, so stubbornly full of belief, be so still?

He had always longed for death. But now, for the first time, he couldn’t understand why. There was no peace in the cold skin beneath his fingertips; no liberation in the absence of breath. There was no serenity in silence when it came at the cost of someone else's voice.

It felt like theft. A cruel, senseless theft. And he was the one left holding the broken pieces.

So long, he had spent reaching for death’s embrace, only to realise—with death cradled in his very arms—that maybe…maybe there could be something worth living for.

Right?

He knew what needed to be done. He couldn’t let it end here, this wasn’t just another exit, nor a beautiful line in a tragic book.

Because this time, for the first time, Dazai couldn’t disappear. He didn’t…want to disappear.

He wanted to stay; he had to stay.

For his friend. For the last words that still ached behind his eyes,

“...become a good person.”

*

Dazai hadn’t shown up to the Port Mafia in over a week. That useless mackerel had skipped every mission, ignored every check-in, and failed to submit a single report Mori wanted on his desk yesterday.

“Unbelievable,” Chuuya snarled, kicking the door to Dazai’s office so hard it rattled on its hinges. “The bastard disappears for one day and I already know stuck cleaning up after him. But this?” He gestured sharply. “Two whole weeks, nearly? Two weeks! He hasn’t filed a single mission report, hasn’t answered a call, hasn’t sent so much as a useless text about wanting to double suicide with some random stranger—nothing! ” 

The office looked exactly how Dazai had left it: papers half-stacked, files untouched, the faint smell of cigarette smoke clinging stubbornly to the air.

Kouyou stood near the far cabinet, calmly leafing through a thin folder, her movements precise and unhurried. She didn’t look up at first, which only made Chuuya’s irritation spike.

“Kouyou,” he growled, “if I have to pick up one more thing Dazai abandoned, I’m gonna lose it.”

She gave a soft hum, sliding one document back into place. “Has he missed something else?”

“Try everything!” Chuuya threw an arm toward the empty chair beside him, Dazai’s chair. “He bailed on three surveillance jobs, missed the scheduled briefing, and left me to negotiate with the south district informants alone. Alone! Do you know how many of them tried to kill me?”

Kouyou replied mildly, opening another drawer. “You handled it, though. You always do. You were bragging about how easy it was yesterday.”

“That’s not the point!” Chuuya snapped, pacing across the room. “He was supposed to oversee the weapons shipment last night. Guess who had to cover for him at two in the goddamn morning? Me. Again. And that undercover assignment Mori gave him? He vanished from it! Vanished! Didn’t send a report, didn’t send a message, didn’t even leave behind some creepy suicide note—nothing!”

He paced, boots striking the floor with sharp irritation. “He was supposed to oversee last night’s weapons shipment. Mori noticed when he didn’t show. Guess who had to step in at two in the morning?”

Kouyou paused, eyes flicking briefly toward him. “Mori noticed.” 

“Yeah,” Chuuya muttered. “Which means I’m the one getting glared at.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the soft rustle of paper as Kouyou continued searching, clearly looking for something specific rather than helping with the workload piling up on the desk.

“This isn’t like him,” Chuuya went on, frowning. “He disappears all the time, sure, but he always leaves something behind, like a message, or some stupid suicide note. This time there’s nothing.”

Kouyou folded her hands neatly. “Dazai has always been unpredictable.”.

“Yeah,” Chuuya said, exasperated. “But not sloppy.” Chuuya jabbed a finger at the air. “The idiot usually won’t shut up. But now? He’s gone radio silent for a week, leaving me to handle everything while he’s off doing—whatever the hell he does when he decides to disappear.”

He let out a frustrated groan, gripping his hat.

“When I find him, I’m dragging him back by the hair and making him do every single report he ditched. I don’t care if he cries about it. I’ll tie him to the damn chair. Oh, and guess what? On top of all that, my car exploded yesterday. Just, fuckin’, blew up out of nowhere. No warning—just: boom, right in my face?! How does that even happen?”

Kouyou didn’t look up from her paperwork. “Mm.”

Chuuya’s eye twitched. “Mm? That’s it?”

She shrugged lightly, returning a file to the cabinet. “Vehicles are replaceable.”

Chuuya growled, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, my life is continuing in flames while he’s off doing…whatever the hell he’s doing, probably committing some tragic suicide over‑the‑top stunt with—” He cut himself off with a scoff, throwing up a hand. “---I don’t know. Whoever’s dumb enough to indulge his theatrics this week.”

That earned him another pause from her. “Chuuya,” Kouyou said calmly, finally turning toward him, “you are aware of the recent events.”

His jaw tightened, of course he was, Oda Sakunosuke was dead. Killed during the Mimic incident. And Dazai had been…close to him. Close in a way Chuuya never quite understood, and never bothered to pretend he did. Oda wore the same suit, took the same orders, but he’d always acted like he was above it all, like refusing to kill made him some kind of moral authority instead of just a liability. Playing hero, saving orphans, clinging to ideals that didn’t belong in the Mafia.

Pathetic.

“So what?” Chuuya snapped. “That means he gets to disappear and dump everything on me?”

Kouyou’s gaze sharpened, just slightly. “It means,” she said, “that this silence could be intentional.”

Chuuya stopped pacing.

“In the Port Mafia,” she continued, “grief is not displayed. It is endured. Or ignored.”

He scoffed. “That doesn’t sound like Dazai.”

“No,” Kouyou agreed. “It does not.”

Another stretch of quiet.

“Mori has not ordered a search,” she added. “That alone should tell you something.”

Chuuya frowned. “You think he knows where Dazai is?”

“I think,” Kouyou said carefully, “that Mori is waiting to see whether Dazai returns of his own accord.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

The question lingered, unspoken.

Chuuya clenched his fists. “Tch. That bastard better not be pulling something stupid.”

Kouyou turned back to the desk, searching through another drawer, “Dazai Osamu,” she said softly, “has always been doing something stupid.”

Her words hung in the air, sharp and unavoidable.

It was strange, though, that no one had seen or heard a damn thing from that bastard. No sightings, no rumors, nothing—just silence. Weird.

Maybe he really was grieving. Ha. Dazai, grieving. Chuuya scoffed, running a hand through his hair. Ridiculous. Yet even as he thought it, the irritation in his chest only deepened. He hated that the silence was somehow heavier than the usual chaos Dazai left behind.

Seriously, where the hell could he be?

Not that he necessarily missed him or anything. Just, Chuuya could usually never get rid of the guy. Always lurking around corners, throwing snide remarks like confetti, acting like Chuuya was the most interesting thing in the world and the most annoying in the same breath. Like some smug stray cat with a death wish. Chuuya really hated it.

But right now, though, he did kind of wish Dazai would show up—if only so he could hand back all the work the idiot had abandoned. He was tired of covering for a man who apparently thought the world owed him a week off.

He really hated him.

Every smug look, every word out of his mouth, every second he had to spend breathing the same air as him—it all made his skin crawl. His hair raise. Just his presence alone enough to give him some kind of unexplainable…dread in his stomach.

And now? Now the bastard had disappeared, Chuuya was stuck in his office surrounded by stacks of his paperwork, the faint smell of his cigarette smoke lingering in the corners, and the ticking of the clock like a mocking countdown. 

Chuuya’s fists clenched so hard it hurt. He could feel the ache radiating up his arms as he stalked past the desk, glaring at every report, every memo, every mission sheet Dazai had abandoned. It was his work. But it’s his responsibility now.

He imagined Dazai somewhere, probably lounging, smirking like he owned the world, maybe scribbling yet another idiotic plan that would inevitably leave Chuuya to clean up the consequences. And the thought made his teeth grind together.

Chuuya flopped into Dazai’s chair, slamming it back in frustration. The papers slid across the desk like little white flags of surrender, mocking him. He leaned over them, scanning names, dates, and reports, but his brain wouldn’t focus. All he could see was that smug little look on his ugly face, and the memory of the last time Dazai had popped up around him, tossing a remark over his shoulder like it was some kind of performance art.

Normally, Chuuya would’ve been relieved to have a week without that infernal shadow always at his heels. Normally, he would’ve enjoyed the peace. But now, the silence was…heavy. The absence was infuriating. Because peace came at a price—and that price was him doing everything Dazai had abandoned, while imagining what the idiot was doing off somewhere, probably laughing at the world, at him.

The fire in Chuuya’s chest burned hotter, fueled by exhaustion, frustration, and just the wrongness of it all. He really hated him. He despised him. And he hated that he couldn’t hate him fully, because part of him was still, annoyingly, curious, waiting, maybe even worried.

Pftt, what was he even thinking, worried?—no, he was just majorly pissed.

And the office felt smaller, hotter, tighter, as if Dazai’s absence had somehow left a void that made everything worse.

“Where the hell are you, you insufferable bastard…” Chuuya muttered under his breath, pacing again, kicking the leg of the desk as he passed. “I swear, if I see you, I’m not letting you walk out of here without explaining everything. Every. Single—”

Without looking up from her paperwork, Kouyou sighed, “Chuuya, please don’t talk to yourself. It’s unbecoming.”

Chuuya froze mid-sentance, jaw tightening. Cheeks warm with irritation, he shot her a glare. “I’m not talking to myself.”

*

His apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The kind of silence that presses against your ears and refuses to leave. Chuuya could feel it crawling under his skin, tugging at something he wasn’t ready to name. Every shadow in the room seemed to stretch a little too long.

He needed something. Something to chase the edges of that gnawing tension down his throat.

Chuuya reached for an old bottle sitting on his table, nothing fancy, just some cheap shit, still mostly full. Not for long. He popped the cap off, pouring it into an old glass he found on his table and took a long, burning swig.

He was really pissed. Really really pissed. The nerve of Dazai to just disappear, leaving everything for him to deal with? Partners, his ass. The first burn of alcohol sharpened the edge of his anger, making everything taste like frustration.

He pulled out his phone without thinking, thumb hovering over the contact he’d pretended to block more than once. The cheap booze buzzed through his veins, sharpening his irritation.

He needed answers. He hit Call, maybe he would actually grow up and answer this time.

Straight to voicemail.

He frowned. Right. That was expected. Dazai ignored him last time, too. He ignored him all the time. Sometimes for days. Hell, he swore the bastard lived for ignoring him. 

He hit call again.

Straight to voicemail.

His annoyance flared. His second swig of shitty booze stung harsher this time, a bitter companion to his simmering irritation.

Typical Dazai, probably screening him on purpose, what a dick. Being dramatic. He always was a drama queen. Hah.

He took another swig, the burn even duller than before.

He tried again. And again.

…Again?

Now that…that was cruel. Chuuya lowered the phone slowly, staring at the screen like it had insulted him. The call log glared back, all those stupid, red ‘cancelled’ signs stacked in a neat line. His jaw clenched, seriously, five calls? Who is he, his bitch? Pathetic.

Taking another gulp, longer this time—the liquor loosening his thoughts, making them sharper, louder, angrier—he stared at the contact photo: some old, blurry shot he couldn’t remember saving, Dazai leaning sideways into frame, grinning like an idiot, stupid face half-obscured by bandages and bad lighting.

Why the hell hadn’t he deleted that?

He hit call again.

Voicemail.

His thumb hovered over the screen. For a second, he almost hit ‘Leave Message.’

He snorted. He didn’t. Of course not. Did he seriously consider that? Was he seriously that far gone—why the hell would he, he’s not a desperate ex?

He grabbed the bottle again, taking yet another long swig. The silence pressed in tighter than it had any right to.

And for some reason, with every sip, this hollow pit in his chest grew heavier, as if someone had carved out something and forgot to put it back. Chuuya had this gnawing pit in his stomach that wouldn’t shut up. And something about it itched, something off in a way that wasn’t just absence. It was a silence with weight. Intent.

Wait. What if he’s dead?

For a second, Chuuya really considered it. He laughed. A short, bitter sound, half a scoff. Wouldn’t that be something? To be honest, it wouldn’t be a shock—Dazai finally getting what he always said he had always wanted. Death. Just like that. Curtain closed, no spectacle.

Hm. It was fitting, in a twisted way.

But no. That didn’t sit quite right.

He was a suicidal maniac, sure, but Dazai didn’t just die. Not quietly. Not without theatrics. Not without making it everyone else’s problem in the most inconvenient, idiotic way possible. If Dazai ever went out, it would be with fireworks…literally, knowing him.

Chuuya took another drink, the bottle nearly half-empty now and the cheap liquor biting down hard on his tongue. He could feel the warmth spreading, loosening the sharp edges just slightly, nudging his thoughts sideways.

Dead?

No.

If anything, the bastard was probably alive somewhere, causing trouble, being dramatic, ignoring his calls on purpose, lying in a ditch for the bit, or doing God knows what else just to spite him. Dazai wasn’t dead. 

He couldn’t be.

He was just being an asshole. Yes.

And the silence—the complete, suffocating silence—felt so…wrong it made Chuuya’s stomach twist.

His brow furrowed. A flicker of something surfaced in his mind: this meeting, weeks ago. That last executive briefing. Dazai had leaned over during a dull report and whispered something strange—some cryptic nonsense Chuuya couldn’t even remember. At the time, he’d brushed it off as another one of his sappy suicide metaphors.

But now…thinking about it, the phrasing felt heavier, loaded.

Wait.

Could it have meant something more? He gritted his teeth; something wasn’t adding up.

Wait. He remembered, a few days after, he just so happened to walk past Dazai’s apartment. Not on purpose. Obviously not. He just so happened to be in the area. Patrol route or something. Checking on some turf dispute nearby

…Okay, maybe he’d made a slight detour. But it wasn’t because he actually wanted to see him or anything—he’d just not seen him in a while and just decided to see if the idiot was holed up inside doing something stupid like fasting to death or composing a suicide haiku. Someone had to make sure he hadn’t turned the place into a damn crypt, that’s all it was.

He had knocked, waiting.

Knocked again. Still waiting.

He’d just guessed Dazai had just gone shopping or something. But…he checked the hallway, made sure no one was watching, and picked the lock. It was an old habit. Quick work. Not like Dazai ever upgraded his security or anything. The door creaked open, the air inside still.

He stepped in, half-expecting to find a body on the floor, or some dramatic bullshit like a ‘farewell’ scrawled in blood on the wall. Maybe even a noose and a bad poem, knowing Dazai. But there was nothing. No body. No blood. No melodramatic suicide scene. Just…emptiness.

But not ‘emptiness’ like someone wasn’t home. Empty like someone moved out, every trace of him, gone.

It all clicked—that weird ambiguous line. Then the silence, then the absence, and then the cleared room. Dammit, how did he not realise sooner, he had practically spelled out right in front of him in big, red, glowing letters!

That bastard. He had run away.

Chuuya’s jaw tightened, the warmth from the crappy liquor crawling up his chest and head now mingling with his frustration. Run away. Just like that. Gone. And he’d left him with all the mess, all the work, all the responsibility.

The fire in his chest surged anew. Every sip of booze tasted angrier, each gulp feeding the thought that Dazai must’ve deliberately abandoned him. It wasn’t unlike him, no; that was the worst part. Knowing Dazai was capable of it, and had actually gone and done it, left a bitterness on his tongue far sharper than the alcohol.

Chuuya’s mind wandered back to Sakunosuke. Chuuya never really knew him, but what he did know was that he was never cut out for the Mafia. He was always too thoughtful. Always fighting to save people, not kill them. Always looked like he belonged in some charity drive, not shootouts—apparently he saved orphans and shit in his free time or something, he was a bleeding heart with a gun.

Maybe that’s why Dazai liked him so much.

Chuuya clicked his tongue, irritation flaring before he could stop it. He could picture it easily enough, the way it must have gone down: a quiet, heartfelt conversation in that run-down alley. Maybe he had told Dazai that he didn’t belong in the Port Mafia anymore, that he was meant for something cleaner than blood-soaked deals and bodies left to rot in the dark. That there was a way out, if he wanted it badly enough. 

Like he knew what Dazai needed, like he understood him.

And Dazai must’ve listened. Really listened. He could imagine him standing there, watching with that faint, misplaced gleam in his eyes—hope, thin and almost embarrassing in its sincerity. The thought sat wrong with Chuuya. In all the years they’d worked together, he couldn’t remember seeing Dazai look like that at anyone, let alone believe in something so openly. The unease crept in slowly, and he swallowed it down with another drink, telling himself it was nothing more than bad liquor and a worse mood.

Chuuya frowned, swirling the cheap drink in his glass. But why the hell would he listen? It didn’t make sense. Dazai never loved the work, per say, but he never exactly hated it either. He played his role well enough, almost like he found something to chew on in the chaos, the schemes, the blood-soaked logic of the Mafia. So what could’ve changed? What the hell could Sakunosuke have said that made Dazai decide to walk away—from the Mafia, from Chuuya, from everything they were tangled in together? He took another drink, letting the question sink somewhere he didn’t have to look at it. The alcohol burned a little less and numbed a little more, dulling everything down to something manageable.

Tch. Why was he complicating things so much? This was all bullshit.

Something ugly curled in his chest, anyway, low and bitter. He hated self-righteous bastards who acted like they knew better than anyone else.

Especially when they got listened to.

You know what?

Gone without a word, without looking back. Thinking about it, it's sort of ridiculous. Could’ve at least saved his dignity by writing an actual note or something. Whatever, it was good. Great. About goddamn time, but definitely would’ve been better if he didn’t leave him to clean up the consequences of his shitty mistakes.

Chuuya smiled, taking another sip of his crap booze. He didn’t know how much longer he could’ve tolerated that smug, manipulative, suicidal freak hovering around him like a curse anyway. Always watching, always talking in metaphors, always digging at things he wasn’t supposed to see. Let him vanish, let him stay gone. Should’ve done it years ago, hell, he’d waited for this moment way too long.

Chuuya laughed—sharp, too loud—but to be honest nothing close to happy.

He stared at the spot near the wall Dazai used to lean on. He remembered that arrogant smirk, that blank stare that somehow still knew too much.

He knocked back more of the crappy alcohol. It tasted like shit.

Was all that really over?

Another gulp. It tasted even worse than the last.

No goodbyes. No note. No last shitty insult.

Just…silence.

Hell, thank fuckin’ god, finally!

Good riddance, Dazai. Good fuckin’ riddance.

He took another swig—how much had he had by now? Whatever, who the hell was counting anyways? Sure as hell not him!

There aren’t gonna be any more words from that insufferable prick. No more smug voice and shit-eating grin. No riddles to decipher. No pathetic attempts to get under his skin. Perfect. Peace at last.

He could taste the freedom already, and all he wanted was to get wasted–-totally smashed—to celebrate like there was no tomorrow. Yeah, sure, getting piss-drunk wouldn’t change anything, tomorrow's hangover will be a brutal reminder of that, but that's future him’s problem. Right now, all that mattered was drowning the night in even more booze! To celebrate, obviously—not to, like, drink his sorrows away or some sappy shit. Hah.

He lifted the bottle again and tipped it back. Nothing came. It was empty. Fuck, already? He stared at it, turned it over just to be sure, like maybe it had magically refilled. It hadn’t. Of course not. Figures. He tossed the now empty bottle toward the couch, not caring when it thudded against the cushions and rolled off.

He turned, stormed into the kitchen, yanked open the cupboard, rummaging through the different liquors. Most were half-empty, or total garbage. Nothing worth wasting his mood on. Then he saw it: the bottle that had been sitting there untouched since he bought it way too long ago.

That ridiculously expensive 1889 Pétrus wine, the one he said he’d drink it the day Dazai finally left his life. Said he’d celebrate. Toast to never seeing that smug, infuriating face again.

Fine.

Today was that day, wasn’t it? To be honest, he didn't expect it to come so fast—not that he's complaining or anything—at least now that means he could finally cash in on that promise. He ripped the bottle out, popped the cork with too much force, and grabbed a glass off the counter.

“Here’s to you, asshole.” he half-laughed, pouring the wine in one quick, reckless pour, some of it spilling over the edge. “I hope wherever the hell you are, it’s fuckin’ worth every damn second, after making me wait so long.”

He raised the glass and downed it in one go.

And for some reason, even after waiting all that time for this, it didn’t taste like victory.

Why didn’t it taste like victory?

His eyes stayed fixed on the empty glass as if it could give him some kind of answer. But it didn’t. It was just glass: cold, empty, and meaningless. Like this whole situation. Like shitty Dazai himself.

He sighed, pouring another glass.

The silence of the apartment pressed in heavier than before, filling every corner that had once been crowded with Dazai’s unwanted chaotic presence. The space felt too big now, too still. Like the ghost of Dazai’s laughter was still hanging in the air, mocking him for ever thinking it would last.

Why didn’t it last?

Something squirmed uneasily in his chest. Not panic–why would he be panicked?—just a kind of static buzz, a tension he couldn’t quite name. Probably the crappy booze mixing with how damn quiet it was, that was all. It was kind of annoying. He tried to shake it off.

He stared at the screen a moment longer, thumb twitching over the button like he wanted to try again–but didn’t. Chuuya shoved the bottle onto the counter, a little too hard, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

God, he hated this. He hated feeling like he was losing something he never really had but couldn’t stop needing.

What?

No. He didn’t need anything from that bastard.

Still, he hated the way his chest tightened every time his mind drifted to Dazai, that idiot who had somehow burrowed under his skin so deep he couldn’t scratch him out. But that was just irritation. Pure, sharp irritation. Yeah, that’s what it was.

And yet, the thought that he might never hear that god-awful voice again, never see that smug bastard slink back in like he owned the place—it hit in this strange, offbeat way, like something was missing and refusing to be ignor—

He scowled. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Must be the wine. Wine does do weird things to his head.

He paced, fists clenched, restless. The urge to call him again clawed at him, stupid and futile, but it was there anyway.

Why?

Why?

Did Dazai even care? Did he give a damn? Or was this just another game, another way to push everyone away, to disappear without a trace and watch who’d come running after him?

Chuuya didn’t want to be the one running. Not anymore. But hell, maybe he already is. And what did that say about him? No fuckin’ idea.

The wine bottle sat like a challenge on the table, already half empty. He grabbed it again, like maybe, just maybe, it held something beyond bitter disappointment. He grabbed it again, taking a slow sip, the deep, rich taste slightly cutting through the haze of his thoughts.

A small part of him hated that the wine was good. That the taste didn’t match the sourness rising in his throat.

He slumped against the counter, the weight of everything crashing down at once.

Dazai.

He hated him. No, hate wasn’t exactly right.

He resented him. Yeah, resented him. For all the mess, the bullshit, the way he’d always been a goddamn puzzle Chuuya didn’t want to solve.

And no matter how much he told himself it was over, that it was finally goodbye, a part of Chuuya couldn’t accept that.

Not yet.

Oh, fuck him raw in his ass. There’s no way he was still thinking about that weasel bastard.

But, some part of him was still waiting. Waiting for, needing, that smirk to appear, that sharp tongue to cut through the silence, that impossible, infuriating, maddening presence to come crashing back in and ruin everything.

No. Fuck. It wasn’t waiting. It wasn’t needing. Why the hell would he even be thinking that anyway? It was just expecting him to screw up. Again.

All he needed was more wine.

*

◀ Voicemail

Slug
11 January 2010 at 22:34

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0:25 0:37
[ ▶︎ ] [ ❚❚ ] [Call back] [Delete]

Transcription
“Oh, come on! What the hell? Did this damn’ brat just fuckin’ ignore me again!? OI, you mackerel–-I-I know you’re gonna be listening to this! Think you’re slick, huh, sneaking off without a damn word? Yeah, real mysterious. You always gotta pull some half-assed stunt like…like that, huh? You stupid waste bandages, what, you think running off makes you, like, noble or some shit? Newsflash! It makes you a COWARD. Should’ve known you’d bail the second shit got serious. That’s your thing, ain’t it? Scardey-cat. Hahaa—yeah, you disappear when we need you, leave the mess for someone else to mop up; that’s all you ever do, you damn self-righteous, hopless drama-queen…bratty suicidal…brat..?...Uh. Were you too scared to even say goodbye, huh? Figures. You never could face things head-on unless you were gettin’ shot at… god, mark my words m…mackerel, I’ll wreck your ass so hard your own reflection won't look at yo-wait what the hell?! Not like that! No! I’d-I’d–...shit, Dazai, why do you always vanish when things get hard…like we don-didn’t matter. Like I didn’t—...WAIT, what am I even saying? The fuck am i talking about, ‘Like we didn’t matter’, bullshit! Eugh…ah shit, how do you redo this thing? What the hell?…WHATEVER! Just…just, d-don’t even bother crawling back, you selfish, nihilistic scarecrow with commitment issues! I’LL BREAK YOUR DAMN FACE IF YOU DO, I SWEAR I’LL BEAT YOUR PATHETICALLY-SMUG-PIECE-OF-SHIT-FACE INTO THE PAVEMENT MYSELF YO—”

*

Chuuya stirred awake, groaning as a sharp bolt of pain lanced through his skull. His entire body ached, muscles stiff and uncooperative, like he’d been dragged through a gravel pit in his sleep. 

The world swirled in slow, agonizing circles around Chuuya’s head. His mouth felt like a desert, dry and cracked—no, worse, like someone had shoved cotton balls and cigarette ash in there and left it to marinate overnight—while the pounding in his skull throbbed like a furious drum. The sharp tang of stale booze lingered on his tongue, a cruel reminder of last night’s choices.

The morning light bled through the blinds in unforgiving slashes, stabbing directly into his eyes with all the subtlety of a blade. It was cruel, really, as if the sun itself was mocking him, dragging him out of a booze-soaked slumber he hadn’t asked to be freed from.

He groaned and cracked one eye open, squinting into the pale light filtering through the grimy curtains. The room was a mess: empty bottles littered the floor, some spilled, some just abandoned in shameful neglect. The air smelled like regret and cheap liquor.

Chuuya groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to piece together the fragmented mess of last night. He blinked slowly, forcing his vision to settle into something stable. The room looked like a war zone.

Just how wasted did he get last night? 

His phone buzzed obnoxiously on the table, vibrating against the wood like it was begging for attention. Chuuya cracked his neck, muscles stiff and aching, and lazily reached for it, vision swimming with the remnants of last night’s booze.

The screen lit up, flooded with notifications—dozens of unread messages. He scrolled through the relentless flood of messages, most from the Mafia—urgent texts, worried inquiries, orders waiting for his response. Nothing important. But then something caught his eye: a new voicemail notification. The sender?

Dazai?

Wait—no. It wasn’t from Dazai. It was sent to Dazai.

He blinked, confusion prickling through the fog of his hangover, rubbing his face.

He did have a hazy, uncomfortable memory of calling Dazai. More than once, according to his call history. Maybe even a lot.

What the hell made him do that?

He scoffed under his breath, irritation rising like bile. No way he actually left a voicemail, though. He wasn’t that far gone. Right?

Then his gaze dropped to the screen.

A single line of text stared back at him like an accusation:

Voicemail Sent
To: Mackerel
Length: 0:01:02

The fuck?

He narrowed his eyes, as if squinting hard enough would make it disappear. Sixty-two seconds long. Whatever. Must’ve been an accident, he told himself. Maybe his thumb slipped. Maybe he hit ‘record’ by mistake while he was drunk and rambling to himself. He probably didn’t even say anything coherent. Just background noise. Static. Maybe a grunt or something. 

Whatever. Not a big deal. Not worth thinking about. He was hungover, not sentimental.

Still…

His thumb hovered over the message. Then tapped.

His voice blared through the speaker: raw, furious, and slurring—his stomach dropped.

Fuck his entire life.

“OH, COME ON! What the hell? Did this damn brat just fuckin’ hang up on me again?!”

Chuuya froze.

That was not background noise—that was rage. Drunk, unfiltered rage. His jaw clenched as his own words poured from the phone like someone else's confession.

God fuckin’ damnmit. 

He didn’t stop the playback—not yet, though he probably should’ve. But he didn’t. He needed to know what the hell had Dazai done to make him this pissed

And his voice sounded so…bitter. So pathetic. It made something twist in his gut, secondhand embarrassment creeping up his spine like a chill. He made a mental note to keep his phone locked the fuck up next time he goes anywhere near alcohol.

His brows knitted, a scowl forming as his own voice snarled back at him through the speaker–loud, slurred, furious. Chuuya couldn’t even remember recording this. Had to be the wine. Or the cheap whiskey. Or both.

“Think you’re slick, huh, sneaking off without a damn word?”

Huh?

Sneaking off witho—oh.

Oh.

The words hit like a glass slammed into his head. 

Sneaking off. Dazai.

Last night’s memories started coming back—slow and messy. 

Wait. Wait…what the hell?

Did he seriously let himself forget that?

His jaw clenched. A pulse of irritation flared behind his eyes. What kind of idiot drinks himself stupid the same night Dazai, of all people, decides to disappear, probably for good? He should’ve remembered. He should’ve remembered. 

And the fact that he hadn’t pissed him off more than anything else.

He remembered pacing. Drinking. A lot of drinking. Cheap booze—that fancy as hell wine. The wine he promised to drink only when Dazai was gone for good. Saying he was glad, saying he was free, laughing at the silence like it was some kind of joke he’d finally won. 

He had finally won.

He’d toasted to Dazai leaving like it was a damn promotion. Like he’d wanted this. 

And he did, didn’t he? Fuck, yeah.

He was happy. Relieved. Finally done with all that smug bullshit.

But now, standing here with his own voice still echoing faintly in his ears, furious and pathetic, the entire thing made him feel sick. 

Whatever. It shouldn’t matter. Dazai leaving, all of it. It didn’t matter. He hated that damn mummy bastard—him being gone was probably the best thing that could've happened to him. He kept telling himself that.

Chuuya groaned again, leaning against the wall, running a hand through his hair. He hated it. Hated that he hated it. That relief mingled with rage and a small, begrudging amusement, like a bitter aftertaste he couldn’t spit out.

This was Dazai.

Dazai, who'd always pushed every button he had like it was a damn game, and now Chuuya sounded like some rejected middle-schooler, screaming into a voicemail in the middle of the night. Eughh. What the actual fuck.

He stared at the voicemail, and it stared back, taunting him. He was too hungover for this right now. Delete. Delete. DELETE. How the hell do you delete that shit?

His face flushed hot with humiliation, ears burning. His thumb slammed against the screen as he opened the message options.

The interface blinked back at him, offering no clear answer. Options for forwarding, archiving, saving…but nothing for deleting. Great.

He groaned in shame, jabbing at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. It had personally betrayed him. Sounds kind of familiar, if you ask him. It was still there, sitting in Dazai’s inbox. Not like he’d ever listen to it anyway.

Chuuya dragged a hand down his face, groaning into his palm.

God. Fuckin’. Dammit.

*

Chuuya was having a crap week—no, fuck that—he was balls deep in some world-class bullishit, the kind that just kept stacking with every hour, like the universe itself was running a personal vendetta against him.

And on top of that, he was still furious that he had to clean up the mess Dazai left behind. He had vanished, leaving stacks of unfinished contracts, half-signed deals, and errands that nobody in their right mind should have to handle alone. And now, of course, the Port Mafia had the audacity to act like he had something to do with that slimy mackerel’s disappearance. The nerve.

And yet, here he was, juggling Dazai’s unfinished work, managing the fallout, dodging the accusations, and still feeling that sharp edge of betrayal lodged in his chest. Every time someone muttered a complaint or sent a terse message implying he’d helped Dazai vanish, Chuuya’s blood boiled. Did they really think he’d assist that bastard in disappearing? That he’d throw his life away to cover for Dazai’s mess? He’d only joined the Mafia because of blackmail—sure, over time he’d made peace with it, maybe even found some twisted sense of pride—but that didn’t mean he’d risk everything for a suicidal, manipulative prick.

But…

He’s not gonna lie—all hatred for the bastard aside-–if Dazai had come to him, if he had asked him to run, to fuck it all and burn it down and disappear together?

He might’ve gone

Maybe.

He wasn't too sure.

But it’s not like they were friends, he didn’t actually like the slimy mackerel. No way. He hated that suicidal brat more than anything. They'd been forced to work together, partners by circumstance, not choice. Always at each other's throats. Always one second from throwing punches. 

But, deep down, even if he himself didn’t realise, it did piss him off that he hadn’t had anything to do with Dazai disappearing.

Because how could he just leave without any kind of coherent note? He couldn't even have told him? It’s just, Dazai left without so much as a proper goodbye. Not even a half-assed insult scrawled on a bar napkin.

Nothing.

Sure, yeah, if you thought hard enough there were signs. He did act slightly…off, but that wasn’t exactly abnormal for Dazai.

But fuck that. How was he supposed to know—what kind of goodbye was that supposed to be? Did Dazai think he couldn’t handle the truth? That he wouldn’t understand? That he’d stop him?

Did he not trust him?

Why would he not’ve trusted him?

They were supposed to be partners.

Were they ever partners? 

What the hell did that even mean—and after everything they’d been through? After years of bleeding side by side, fighting back-to-back, surviving every hell the Mafia threw at them? Wasn’t that worth at least a clear goodbye?

Apparently not. What an asshole.

Chuuya’s gut twisted, sharp and sour, like a glass shard dipped in bleach slicing through his insides. His head throbbed. Probably the hangover from the other night. Everything was starting to blur together now, anyway. 

Well, at least Dazai’s role as an executive was open now.

And of course, right then, some junior from the Port Mafia poked their head into his—Dazai’s—office, frowning like they had a clue about what he was dealing with. “Uh…Chuuya? There’s been a—”

“What now?!” Chuuya barked before the kid could even speak. His hand shot up, slicing the air. “Do you think I have time for this? Do you think I signed up to deal with every screw-up, every disaster, everything left for me to clean up by cowards who don’t do their job properly?!”

The kid blinked. “Uh…well, sir, it’s just—”

“Just?! Just?!” Chuuya roared, slamming a fist on the desk. Papers jumped and a coffee cup teetered, threatening to spill. “You think I care about your excuses? You think I’m here to fix what someone else abandoned, to pick up the pieces of someone else’s chaos while they just fuck off?!”

His eyes blazed, furious. The junior shrank back, frozen in terror.

“And another thing! From now on, every single mess that lands on my desk is your problem. Not mine. Not mine!” Chuuya’s voice shook with rage. He leaned forward, jaw tight, veins standing out in his temple. “Do I make myself clear? I am done cleaning up other people’s messes!”

The room went completely silent. Chuuya took a sharp breath, chest heaving, glaring at the trembling junior.

“Chuuya,” the kid squeaked, voice trembling. “Your…m-meeting? Uh, it was just rescheduled. To—uh…next week.”

Chuuya froze mid-gesture. His fists slowly unclenched. His face drained of color as the roaring anger drained out of him, leaving behind a ridiculous mess.

“Wait,” he muttered, voice cracking slightly. “that’s it?”

The kid nodded, wide-eyed. “Yeah. That’s…all. Just a schedule change.”

This was going to be a long week.

 *

The bar was quiet that night, all low hum and dull clinks of glass. Chuuya sat alone, whiskey in hand, coat draped over the back of his chair like a shadow.

It wasn’t loneliness, exactly. It was just…quiet.

The amber liquid in his glass caught the flickering light, casting fractured shadows across the polished wood. He swirled it absentmindedly, watching the tiny whirlpool spin and settle, much like his thoughts, he thinks—though he’d never admit it—restless, turbulent, never quite still. Gnawing at him in ways he couldn’t quite name.

Even with the warmth of the room, he felt a cold knot tightening in his chest. The scent of smoke and old whiskey wrapped around him, comforting and suffocating all at once.

Dazai was gone. 

Not just physically gone, but gone from the Port Mafia, from the world they had shared, from the fragile, twisted alliance that had been their…well, whatever it was. 

A partnership—that’s all it had been. They worked well together, that was the truth of it; no one else could match Chuuya’s strength like Dazai could cancel it out, no one else could watch his back with that same infuriating ease, that same smug grin that made him want to throw something. 

And now he was gone, like it was nothing. Like the years they’d fought side by side, bled together, survived hell together, like all of that had been a game he could walk away from, like it’d meant about as much to him as a passing joke.

Which was fine, really. Good for him. Less of a hassle for Chuuya, in the long run.

See, Chuuya didn’t care. Not really. It just…it messed things up. Tactically. Strategically. That was all. You didn’t lose a partner like that and expect things to run smoothly.

To be honest, Chuuya hadn’t known how much space he’d been giving, how much he’d relied on someone who didn’t even belong to him, until that space was empty, vast and echoing.

He’d told himself he was glad to be rid of the bastard. 

But in truth, the consequences of Dazai’s departure weren’t something you could measure in simple terms, they were complex, tangled, and bleeding into everything. 

For years, Dazai had been a wild card in the Port Mafia’s deck, unpredictable but indispensable. 

His abilities, his intellect, and his chaotic nature had made him both a threat and an asset. When Dazai left, it wasn’t just a resignation; it was a rupture, a fissure in the Mafia’s foundation. The undercurrent of tension that had always run beneath their operations suddenly surged to the surface, threatening to drown that delicate balance they’d maintained.

Some questioned whether the Mafia could survive without the very man who had embodied their chaos and cunning, but it wasn’t just the Mafia’s external position that suffered. 

Dazai had been Chuuya’s equal and rival, a complicated mirror reflecting all the parts of himself he both despised and needed. 

Not that he liked the guy, obviously not. He was annoying, condescending, depressing, emotionally constipated, always five steps ahead, and acted like it was boring to be right. But still—when he was there, things made more sense. Less falling apart, more...function. 

Not better, just…easier, cleaner.

Their fights, their begrudging teamwork, their ‘strange connection’, it had kept Chuuya tethered, kept him from falling into the abyss alone. Without Dazai, the nights almost seemed to stretch longer, get colder and emptier. Not that Chuuya noticed. He slept fine, mostly. Sometimes.

Did Chuuya think about what might have happened if Dazai had stayed?

Sure. In quiet moments, when the low hum of the bar and the burn of whiskey made it easier to think. He told himself he didn’t care, but the questions didn’t leave him. They hovered, silent and accusing.

Would the Mafia have crumbled anyway, under the pressure of outside forces and their own internal rot? 

Or would Dazai’s presence have held the cracks together, kept their world intact just a little longer—if only out of habit, or boredom, or that cold way he always seemed to know what was coming before it hit? 

It hadn’t even been that long: barely a month since he’d vanished from the Mafia, but already, the weight of it hung over everything. 

Operations were slower, people hesitated—though no one dared to admit it—they all felt the shift. 

And Chuuya, he wasn’t dwelling on it, not really, but the silence Dazai left behind had gotten loud. 

Too loud. 

It screamed with all the things they hadn’t said, all the arguments left half-finished, the missions they’d barely survived, the tension that had never really gone away. 

Maybe if Dazai had stayed, things would’ve cracked slower. Maybe they would’ve cracked worse. Chuuya didn’t know. He didn't want to know. And he wasn’t going to waste any more time thinking about someone who clearly didn’t give a damn. 

But still…he couldn’t help but think about it. Sometimes, when it got quiet enough and the bar noise faded. When the drink hit just right. Not because he missed him. Just because, shamefully he’d admit, things were easier when he was around. 

That was all.

He took a slow sip from his glass, the burn of whiskey spreading warmth through his chest, a temporary balm. Around him, the bar’s noise ebbed and flowed, strangers laughing, the low murmur of conversations, the scratch of a bartender wiping down the counter. 

Life moved on, indifferent to the wreckage in his mind, which was fine. The world didn’t stop for anyone: not for Dazai, and sure as hell not for him.

Chuuya’s gaze drifted to the darkened window, where the city’s neon lights flickered and pulsed like distant stars. The world outside was relentless, unforgiving. But inside the bar, in the quiet corners where lost souls gathered, the pain was real and raw. 

He was caught between what was and what might have been, suspended in a moment that stretched too long. 

Not that it mattered; it’d pass. Everything passes.

Chapter Text

The street was too loud.

Too loud, and too bright, and somehow too far away from itself, like the buildings had shifted an inch to the left when no one was looking. Neon signs flickered even though the sun was only just setting. He walked, heavy steps cutting through the buzz, hands in his coat pockets. He didn’t know where he was going. 

Maybe nowhere. Maybe that was the point. 

He hadn’t slept last night. Or the night before. The nights had bled together lately. The walls of his apartment were starting to look like they had veins.

“Chuuya.”

He stopped.

The crowd didn’t—the street kept moving, its rhythm unchanged. It was too loud, too bright, too much, but still almost…distant,  as if it were happening to someone else. It blurred at the edges of his vision, and the flickering neon carved strange shadows across the faces passing by. None of them mattered. No one looked up, no one turned. The world kept moving, but that voice froze something inside him.

But that voice.

He knew that voice—knew it in the way you know a scar you’ve stopped looking at, but still feel every time it rains.

He knew it, every syllable, the cadence, the weight of it.

And it made his stomach twist.

No. No, that wasn’t right. He didn’t want it to matter. Didn’t want it to mean anything—so why the hell did it feel like the ground had just cracked open beneath his feet?

Something in the back of his skull reacted before he did, recognition sinking in before the rest of him had the chance to reject it.

No.

No, it wasn’t.

It couldn’t be.

He stayed facing forward, jaw clenched tight.

He didn’t want to turn.

Because if he turned, and no one was there, then maybe he was losing it.

But if he turned and someone was…

His chest ached. With what, he couldn’t name. Anger? Grief? Something worse? He didn’t have time to untangle the mess in his head—he didn’t want to.

His pulse stuttered as he turned slowly, heart hammering.

There he stood, Chuuya had braced himself for it, had warned himself it was possible—even inevitable—yet, still, it hit like a punch to the sternum.

It wasn’t exactly shock, no, shock wasn’t the right word; it was something deeper, messier, like a memory clawing its way out of the dark, like grief tearing open a wound he thought had long since healed.

What the hell was he doing here? Why now? And why did seeing him feel like drowning in something warm and sharp all at once?

Chuuya exhaled, too harsh, like the air itself had betrayed him, and for a moment, the street fell away. The noise, the lights, the blur of the people—it all flattened into static—a muffled hush, as if the world had ducked underwater.

In the silence that followed, it was only him.

Him, standing just a few feet away, close enough to touch, yet somehow so impossibly distant—almost like a figure behind glass—real, but wrong. Familiar, but distorted. Him, with the same dull brown hair, though it seemed darker now, as if it had soaked up shadows. The same cold, dark eyes—still sharp, still so bitter yet somehow so irresistibly inviting.

And yet…

There was something...off.

His face was full of emotion, but none of it made sense. A strange contradiction pulled at his features: a softness in the corners of his eyes, a ghost of sorrow in the way his mouth tilted, but none of it felt real—it didn’t fit. It was like watching someone imitate grief, like watching an actor in a play whose lines had long been forgotten.

He was smiling. That same, infuriatingly gentle, maddeningly calm smile. Warm, even. Soft at the edges, like nothing ever happened, but he just stood there, silent, not saying a word.

Chuuya’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he stood frozen, unable to move, unable to think—his heartbeat thumping too loudly in his chest as the world around them blurred. 

It was always like this. Every. Time.

Even now, after everything, after all the silence and space and years—Dazai could still get in his head without even saying so much as a word, it was infuriating. Unfair. And so familiar, in a way that made his jaw tighten. 

The world around them didn’t stop; the street alive, pulsing with a thousand different sounds and lights all at once, and Dazai stood in the middle of it all. But he was like an island in the middle of a storm; untouched by anything, unmoved. It was like he didn’t belong to it. 

To be honest, he never had, not really—but now, there was something worse about it—he stood too still. Too clean. The city swirled around him, chaotic and fast and loud, but Dazai was still untouched by any of it. Like he wasn’t in it, just layered over the top of it, painted into the scene as an afterthought.

His face was familiar, yes. Infuriating, always. But wrong, somehow, though Chuuya couldn’t exactly figure out how. 

But wrong. 

Not in a way Chuuya could point to—just in the way that made your skin crawl when a mannequin’s smile lingers too long, or when a voice echoes without reason. He just stood there, smiling. That same weirdly soft smile Chuuya had never seen on him before. It was as if, to him, none of it mattered. As if nothing had ever happened.

But maybe that was just Dazai. Wasn’t it?

Nothing ever stayed, nothing ever meant anything; no matter how deep it cut, no matter how real it was for everyone else—for Chuuya—Dazai always walked away like it meant nothing. Like it was all just some elaborate game only he understood.

And now he stood there in the middle of the street, hands in his pockets, calm as ever, that soft, infuriatingly friendly smile plastered across his face.

It was patronising him.

Mocking him.

Chuuya’s fists clenched at his sides. His chest felt tight, brittle—like if he breathed too hard, it would all crack open.

The world blurred at the edges—too loud, too fast, too far away to make sense. The crowd surged past, a hundred faceless strangers moving around Chuuya like water around stone.

But all he could see was him.

That smile stretched just slightly wider, like he knew something Chuuya didn’t.

Like he was indulging him.

Like he pitied him.

And something in Chuuya broke.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until someone brushed his shoulder, barely a glance spared his way.

“Don’t—” The words caught in his throat, twisted by the heat rising behind his ribs. His hands clenched into fists. His legs moved before he told them to.

He shoved forward—fast, sharp, reckless—like that was the only thing he had left, pushing through the bodies crowding the street, uncaring who he hit, who stumbled past him. 

“Dazai!”

He kept moving.

But Dazai still didn’t move, didn't so much as blink, he just watched him—smiling—still fuckin’ smiling with that infuriating smile he wanted to rip off his infuriatingly smug face, stood there like it was funny. Like Chuuya was a child throwing a tantrum, like he hadn’t been there, hadn’t bled beside him, hadn’t stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him through fire and smoke and betrayal.

Bet that was all just a joke to him, too.

Chuuya’s breathing was sharp now, every inhale slicing like glass. He was trembling with something he couldn’t name.

Then Dazai moved. Not much, just his hand—slowly, deliberately, he lifted it.

Palm open. Fingers loose, reaching out.

But it wasn't urgent, or desperate. It was soft. Calm. Almost pitying.

Like he was humoring him. Humouring him.

Like Chuuya was something fragile, broken. Like something to be handled. Like something pathetic.

He spat, “Fuck you.” and with his feet pounding against the pavement, he ran, shoving past faceless strangers who didn’t look, didn’t flinch, didn’t even exist in his periphery. The crowd blurred around him—just motion, just static. All he could see was Dazai. "You think this is funny?”

He didn’t care who he hit—he shoved shoulders, tore through the faceless blur around him, eyes locked on that hand, that face, that smile.

And Dazai—Dazai still didn’t move. Didn’t so much as blink.

He just stood there. Watching.

Smiling.

That soft, taunting smile Chuuya wanted to rip off his face with his bare hands. Maybe he’d actually feel something then.

“Say something!” he shouted. “Fight back! Don’t just stand there like you’re above it all, like you always fucking were!”

He reached out,

But Dazai wasn’t any closer.

Chuuya blinked, heart hammering. He’d just…he should’ve—

He ran harder. Faster.

Shoulders slammed into him. Hands shoved back. He pushed through anyway, teeth grit, arms pumping, lungs burning. He could almost touch him—he swore he could. But Dazai stayed just ahead. Always just ahead; a few feet. A step. A breath.

Always. Just. Out of reach.

It was like something in the air bent around him, as if the world itself refused to let Chuuya close.

“Stop! What the fuck?”

The street surged on around them, people brushing past without so much as a glance—cars crawling along like beetles in the periphery, but none of it mattered. None of it felt real. It was like the whole city had been reduced to noise, like the dream had hollowed it out just to keep him here. Just to keep Dazai standing in front of him.

Chuuya’s voice dropped, cracking low

“Why are you doing this?” His throat burned. “After everything, Dazai, you bastard, what the hell do you want from me!?”

But Dazai was still smiling. Still watching him with that unreadable, aching gaze. His mouth opened, just slightly, but no words came out.

It was unbearable.

Chuuya stumbled back, breath ragged. His vision blurred, the neon lights streaking into colours that didn’t belong to the real world.

“You coward!” Chuuya hissed, voice cracking. “You never face anything, do you?!” He shoved forward again, desperate now, fury clawing through his ribs, but he couldn’t touch him. Couldn’t grab him. Couldn’t reach him.

His smile didn’t fade, or waver. It was still gentle, still wrong, still...distant, almost like Dazai wasn’t really here at all.

Like he never had been.

And that was the worst part.

No matter how fast Chuuya ran, no matter how far he pushed,

He had never been able to reach him.

Suddenly, the street twisted, the light fractured, the sound warping into something low and sickly sweet, like static under skin. It melted. Buildings groaned and stretched like they were made of rubber, bending and twisting into impossible shapes. Neon signs dripped down like melting wax—their flickering lights pulsing in uncanny rhythms—the air thickening, sticky, like syrup made from broken glass and forgotten screams.

The sounds around him warped and warped again, turning into dissonant laughter and whispers that looped endlessly, saying things that almost made sense—but not quite. Colors bled into each other, bright reds humming like they were alive, blues writhing and twitching like restless skin. Shadows grew teeth and smiled too wide, then vanished in a blink.

Dazai still stood there, unmoved, but his face...it shifted, sliding like a cracked mask. His eyes flickered and multiplied, too many to count, staring from every direction at once, drilling into Chuuya’s mind like a swarm of locusts. The street twisted and folded until it wasn’t a street anymore, but a cavernous void filled with pulsing colors and impossible sounds. The ground beneath Chuuya’s feet throbbed like a beating heart, then fractured into a kaleidoscope of shards that spun and spun, pulling him deeper and deeper into the void.

He tried to run, but his legs turned into tangled vines, wrapping around each other, rooting him to the spot. With the taste of rust and old paper, the air turned thick, and from the shadows emerged faces, smiling, singing, but with eyes full of endless, empty darkness.

And Dazai?

He was gone, like a breath exhaled into cold air.

Gone.

Chuuya jolted awake in a cold sweat, heart slamming like a war drum in his chest, echoing against the silence of the dark room. The room was too dark, too quiet, spinning with the ghost of motion. 

The walls were still, solid, just shadows and silence. He dragged a hand down his face, nails catching on stubble, and started at the floor until his vision adjusted. The clock on the table blinked 3:07 in red digits that burned afterimages into his vision.

It was still dark outside, still too quiet. He swallowed hard. His throat ached like he’d been shouting.

A dream.

It was just a dream.

It was always just a dream.

He sat, in the stillness, the only sound his own breathing, sharp, ragged—like the dream hadn’t quite let go yet—and the echo of the voice that never stayed gone, resurfacing when he least expected it, bringing with it a dread he had learned to fear.

*

The ticking started long before he realised it was real.

“Chuuya…” a voice whispered from somewhere just beyond reach, playful, mocking, so light it nearly blended with air, “You really think you can keep up with me?”

Chuuya tensed, jaw tight. He didn’t move, didn’t respond. The voice came again, closer this time, soft as silk but sharp as a blade, the sound slithering down his spine, it was the kind of voice that was both memory and wound.

“You slug, always looking so serious.”

His pulse stuttered. The shadows stretched and folded around him, and he felt the presence before he saw it—a weightless figure slipping through the dim light, moving with that lazy, infuriating grace that could belong to no one else. The smell of cigarettes and old leather, faint but certain, rolled through the air.

He wanted to hit something, to strike out and prove he wasn’t just some puppet that could be toyed with even now, but the figure drifted just out of reach, its shape bending with the dark.

“You’re so predictable, you know that?” the voice said, teasing. “Pacing, frowning, pretending you’re in control. It’s truly pathetic.”

Chuuya’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to shout, to strike something, but the figure drifted just out of reach, slipping between shadows and light. His name came again, soft and sharp all at once.

“Come on. Don’t look like that. You’re supposed to be unshakable.” A pause, almost thoughtful. “But look at you—always losing your cool over nothing.” A laugh, low and quiet, wound itself around his spine. He felt it in his chest, rattling something loose he didn’t want anyone to see.

“Stop it,” he muttered under his breath. The words felt hollow, swallowed by the air. The figure leaned closer—smirking, invisible, untouchable.

“You can’t run from me, Chuuya. You never could.” The shadow shifted, closer still, lips brushing his ear, “Even now, you still need me. Don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But the silence was an answer in itself.

“Poor thing,” the voice whispered. “You always mistook dependence for affection.”

His vision blurred. The edges of the room, or whatever place his mind had slipped into, began to shiver, trembling between light and dark.

“Tell me,” Dazai said, almost idly. “Why you claimed to hate me yet never forgot me. Tell me why even though you say you hate me I still live in your head, uninvited. Why my name echoes when you swear you’re done. Why you flinch at memories you pretend don’t matter. See, Chuuya, if you truly hated me, I would be gone. I only haunt you because hate is not absence, it is attachment turned sharp. I was the memory you argued with, the version of me you kept alive just to fight. I showed up in the places you swore were empty, because part of you still listens for my footsteps. Even now, look at you, sitting in silence, pretending you’ve moved on. It’s almost cute, really.” A grin glinted faintly in the dark. “You can’t let go. You’ve built your entire self around something that doesn’t even exist anymore.”

Chuuya shook his head. He wanted to say something—you don’t know anything, you’re not real—but the words stuck. The air around him vibrated. The ticking pulsed like blood.

“Maybe that’s why I left,” the voice went on, lilting. “Because deep down, you were already mine. I just got bored once I’d won.” 

The sound of laughter, sharp, bitter, alive, scraped through the room. It filled every inch of space, bleeding into the corners, swallowing the light.

Chuuya’s breathing quickened. His vision flickered, white and gold.

“Dazai…” he whispered, barely audible.

The figure leaned forward, close enough for Chuuya to see the faint shape of his mouth curve into a smile.

“Yes, Chuuya?”

Something broke. He felt it—a snap behind his ribs, a ripple through his chest.

The ticking exploded into silence and the words curled around his chest, tight and suffocating. The ticking grew louder, the room sharpening around him. 

“You’re talking to yourself again, Chuuya, is everything okay?”

Her voice cut through the haze, calm, deliberate, and utterly real. It scraped against his nerves because it didn’t belong anywhere near him.

Chuuya blinked, lungs tightening as if he’d been holding his breath without knowing it. The room was still and painfully beige. The ticking of the clock no longer mocked him—for it was just a clock.

The room smelled wrong. Too clean, filled with a stillness that wasn’t peace—just waiting.

Light leaked through half-shut blinds, carving pale stripes across the carpet, across his boots. The clock on the far wall ticked slow, deliberate, like it was mocking him. Every sound, every shift of the chair, every shallow breath, all seemed too loud in here.

He sat back, arms crossed, jaw tight, pretending not to notice the way the cushion dipped beneath him. Everything was beige. Soft. Forgettable. Like it was built to wear a person down until they talked.

He hated it.

The woman across from him didn’t look like she hated anything. She sat too straight, too calm, pen balanced between her fingers. There was a faint smile on her face—professional, polite, the kind people used when they wanted to look safe.

Chuuya kept his eyes on the floor—he just didn’t need to see whatever pitying, soft look she was trained to have. The hum of the fluorescent light above drilled into his skull. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to the air, sharp and sterile.

He didn’t want to be here, he didn’t even need to be here.

But apparently, people had been concerned.

Not about him, of course—never that. The Mafia don’t do concern; they only care about what it might mean if one of their executives started slipping. He’d heard the word tossed around more than once this week—first from Gin, then Mori, and finally from Kouyou. Said he’d been off his game, restless, that he couldn’t afford distractions.

In other words: get your shit together before you become a problem.

Anyway, next thing he knew, he was sitting here, in some sterile little room that reeked of false calm, while a stranger picked apart the silence between his breaths.

A therapist.

Seriously. 

A therapist.

At least, that's what Kouyou said she was, Chuuya just thought she was a waste of time.

The hum of the fluorescent light above was like a drill against his skull, and the faint antiseptic smell clung to his clothes, sharp and sterile. He didn’t need to be here. Of course he didn’t. He was fine. Perfectly fine. Just a little off lately. Busy—he was so busy. Tired.

Everyone was overreacting.

That was all it was. A few bad nights. A few too many thoughts that didn’t know when to quit, nothing worth sitting under a microscope for.

He leaned back in the stiff chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. 

Gin, Mori, Kouyou…all of them circling like predators worried more about their schedules than him. They acted like they cared, but it wasn’t concern, it was control. They didn’t want him to crack, because that made things 'messy', and he wasn't allowed to be messy.

But, apparently, he had been. 

It started with a few comments about his temper, his lack of focus. Then Kouyou had pulled him aside, voice calm but firm, saying he was taking Dazai’s disappearance out on everyone else.

The words still pissed him off. Her nerve.

“You’re projecting,” she said. “You’re feeling things, and pretending you’re not doesn’t make it go away."

He’d laughed in her face.

Projecting? Please. He wasn’t some fragile thing mourning a ghost. He was just angry, and obviously he’s feeling things, that's no secret, Dazai had left, that was all. He’d vanished without a word, without reason, left Chuuya to clean up the mess like always. Who wouldn’t be mad?

They called it ‘grief.’ They called it ‘fixation’, whatever that’s supposed to mean. He called it bullshit.

It wasn’t mourning, or anything like that. Maybe he thought about him more than he’d like to admit, but seriously, they were partners for so long—what would you expect? Still, he was mostly just furious at him, furious that he’d been so reckless, so selfish, so damn typical.

He didn’t miss Dazai’s jokes or his smirk or the way he used to push Chuuya until he snapped. He missed the stability of a partner who could keep up with him, someone who made the chaos feel almost manageable. Someone useful. Nothing more.

That was all it was.

He wasn’t ‘losing it’. He wasn’t ‘spiraling’. He just wanted to punch something every time someone brought Dazai’s name up because apparently everyone else could say it so easily, while he couldn’t.

He could still hear their voices, constantly nagging at him:

“Keep this up and we’ll start charging you overtime for conversing with yourself.”

“You know, staring at the ceiling like that doesn’t solve anything. Not even remotely.”

“Chuuya, stop talking to yourself, it’s getting creepy” 

They just didn’t get it. None of them did.

They didn’t have to work beside Dazai every damnned day. They didn’t have to watch him flirt with death like it was a game, or pretend it didn’t matter when he stopped showing up. And maybe he had been short-tempered lately. Maybe the rookies avoided him now, or he winced slightly when they said his name. But that wasn’t anyone's fault but their own, for acting like everything was fine when it absolutely wasn’t.

They acted as if missing a night of sleep or spacing out on a mission made him some kind of liability. He could handle it. Like he always did. He had to.

Still, Kouyou’s words stuck to him like oil.

“You’re taking it out on everyone else.”

Pfftt, as if, he wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t. 

He pressed his thumb to his temple, the dull pulse there syncing with the clock’s ticking.

He didn’t miss Dazai. He just couldn’t stop thinking about him. Because when you lose a partner that good, you notice the silence that comes after. You notice how no one else quite fits into the space they left. And maybe that silence got under his skin, but that didn’t mean anything.

He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening until it ached. It wasn’t grief. It was anger. And anger, he could live with.

He shifted again, scratching at the back of his neck. The chair creaked beneath him. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, couldn’t bring himself to meet the woman in front of him. Was it shame? Maybe. Or irritation. Maybe both. He didn’t want to admit what he knew, even to himself. 

What would he even say? That he’d been running from the same shadows in his head every night? That the dreams clawed at him, leaving him raw, hollow, restless? 

No. 

That would be admitting something he refused to admit even to himself.

“Chuuya? You look a bit distant, are you still with me?”

He shifted in the chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that” he muttered finally. The word felt sticky in his throat. “‘M fine. It’s nothing important. It doesn’t matter.” He tugged at the sleeve of his coat, fingers fidgeting

He could feel the therapist’s eyes on him, waiting for something. A confession, maybe. An admission. But there wasn’t one. There never was.

“If you insist. So, you’ve been having these dreams, is that correct? Tell me about them: sometimes dreams can sometimes tell us more than we realize. Anything…or anyone recurring?”

Chuuya stiffened. Hands gripping his knees, fingers drumming lightly “No. Just…stuff. Weird stuff. Like I said.”

“You muttered something to yourself, earlier…‘Dazai’, I think it was. Who was he to you, Chuuya? A friend, perhaps?”

He stiffened, a hollow laugh tugging at the back of his throat—low, bitter, edged with something that almost sounded like pain. “…friend?” he said, voice tight, shaking his head. “Not my friend. Pfft…never was. He’s…he’s nothing.”

The woman tilted her head slightly, pen hovering just above the page. Her voice, when it came, was quieter than before—it was careful. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed that. Well, if not your friend, who is he, then, to you?”

The question landed like a punch to the ribs. It was so simple—clean, yet cruel in its honesty.

Chuuya froze. For a moment, his mind went white, just static. The hum of the fluorescent light above seemed to swell, louder and louder, until it was all he could hear. He blinked hard, and in the silence that followed, the air seemed to shift.

The answer clawed at the back of his throat, words that wanted out but didn’t have a shape yet—anger, betrayal, something darker he didn’t want to name. He thought of the way Dazai used to smirk like he knew every secret Chuuya hadn’t said aloud, the way silence between them had always felt too charged, too sharp to be nothing.

His fingers twitched where they rested on his knees. Something cold and tight coiled in his chest, twisting until his throat burned. He didn’t know if he wanted to hit something or laugh. Maybe both. The room felt smaller now, like the walls were leaning in, like the air itself was pushing at him.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. A thousand answers, and not a single one he could say.

What really was Dazai to him?

His partner, right? Or maybe a ghost? A mirror? Or just the part of himself he, shameful as it is to admit, couldn’t bury no matter how hard he tried?

For a second, it almost slipped—the truth, or something close to it—but he bit down hard and looked away. A breath hissed through his teeth.

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered finally, voice low, like the words might burn if he said them louder. “He doesn’t matter.”

Maybe if he kept saying it, he’d start to believe it. But his heart was still pounding too hard for the lie to stick, and he hated that she could probably hear it.

“It seems he—”

Chuuya cut her off with a sharp exhale, leaning back again. His fists twitched at his sides. “No. Stop. Don’t even bring him up. He’s not relevant. Not here. Not anywhere. I—look, it’s not important.”

The words left a bitter taste in his mouth, his jaw still tight. He stared at the floor, tapping a foot almost subconsciously, his annoyance simmering beneath the surface. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it. But the name lingered anyway, sticking to the edges of his mind like a shadow he couldn’t shake.

It’s not important. It’s not important. 

The lie echoed, heavy and hollow, and the more he repeated it, the less it sounded true. He could feel the pulse behind his eyes, that faint burn that came when he hadn’t slept in days. Every time he closed his eyes, the world tilted sideways—streets half-flooded with moonlight, voices that weren’t real whispering his name. And always, always, that silhouette walking just out of reach.

He didn’t know why the dreams always came back to that same figure. The coat, the quiet laughter that sliced through the dark. Sometimes it was just a shadow. Sometimes it spoke. Sometimes it fell. And every time, he woke up gasping, fingers clenched around nothing.

He didn’t tell her that part, he wouldn’t. If she knew what his nights looked like, she’d start talking about trauma, unresolved grief, whatever other bullshit label they used to make people sound fixable. 

He wasn’t broken. Just…wired differently. That’s what the job did to you.

“You look tired,” she said softly after a while. The way she said it wasn’t pitiful, but that only made it worse. It was observation, quiet, clinical. “How long has it been since you’ve had proper rest?”

He scoffed. “Rest? Yeah, that’s a luxury.” He ran a hand through his hair, smirking without humor. “You try sleeping when everyone’s waiting for you to slip up. Doesn’t exactly make for sweet dreams.”

“This has something to do with Dazai, doesn't it?” Her voice was careful, but it hit like a blade.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because he realised she wasn’t wrong, and he hated that.

The silence stretched. The hum of the light seemed louder now, crawling under his skin. He thought about standing up, walking out, maybe slamming the door on his way—just to prove a point. But his legs felt heavy, like if he moved, something in him might finally give way.

His throat went dry. He didn’t respond right away, just stared at the window blinds, at the stripes of light cutting the room into neat, cruel sections.

“He left me.” Chuuya said finally. “He ran.” He swallowed hard. “Like he always does.”

She didn’t interrupt him, didn’t look away. Just waited. And that patience was worse than any accusation.

“I don’t care about it though.” Chuuya continued, voice sharper now. “He’s gone. Good riddance. I don’t…think about him.”

“But you dream about him, don’t you? So you do think about him, a lot.”

His jaw clenched. The pen in her hand tapped once, faintly. The sound was enough to make him want to break it. He felt more lies twisting in his chest, bitter and tight, but for the first time, he wasn’t sure he could swallow it whole. He dragged a hand down his face. The edge in his tone faltered. “You ever had someone who just—won’t leave your head? Even when they’re not there anymore?” He gave a humorless laugh. “Doesn’t matter what you do, where you go, they just show up. Like some ghost who doesn’t know when to stay dead.”

For the first time, the woman didn’t write anything. She just watched him, eyes calm but not cold. “That sounds lonely.”

The word made him flinch. Loneliness wasn’t supposed to apply to people like him. Executives didn’t get lonely; they got results. They didn’t dwell—they endured. But her words slipped past his armor before he could stop them.

“Loneliness,” she said softly, almost to herself, “is a kind of sickness you can only recover from by helping others.” 

Chuuya leaned back slightly, staring into the distance, lips pressed together, as if weighing her words carefully, trying to understand what she was talking about.

“What happens in the dreams?” She asked after a pause. “Is it always the same?”

Chuuya’s throat went dry. He wanted to tell her it was just nonsense—random shapes, meaningless flashes—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he shrugged. “I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters if it’s keeping you awake.”

He huffed, eyes flicking to the window. The blinds cut the sunlight into bars, striping the carpet like a cage. “Maybe I don’t wanna sleep,” he muttered. “Maybe that’s easier.”

She looked at him for a long time then, eyes calm, too steady. It made his skin crawl. “Easier than what?”

“Waking up.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. They hung there, fragile and ugly in the air between them. He blinked, jaw tightening, fists curling in his lap. “Forget it.”

But she didn’t forget it. He could see it in the way she sat back slightly, pen paused midair. She didn’t press him—just let the silence stretch, long and heavy. It made him want to get up, to walk out, to breathe anything but this antiseptic air.

He thought about the door. Thought about the hallway outside, the cold metal handle, the way freedom would feel against his palm. Then he thought about what waited beyond it—the noise, the eyes, the weight. Maybe the room was safer after all.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The clock ticked on, deliberate and slow. He knew it was just a clock, yet each tick seemed to echo his own impatience, unyielding and almost cruel.

Finally, the woman sighed softly, closing her notebook. “Sometimes,” she said, voice low, “the things we don’t talk about are the things that hurt us most.”

He looked up at her for the first time. Her eyes weren’t pitying like he expected—they were steady, maybe even kind. And that, somehow, made him angrier. “Yeah?” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Then maybe I’ll keep it that way.”

She didn’t respond, just gave a small nod, as if she understood something he didn’t want her to.

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable, more like the air right before rain. The ticking clock on the wall marked the passing minutes, steady and patronizing, until she finally set her pen down beside the notebook.

“That’s all for today,” she said quietly. “You did well.”

He wasn’t sure what that meant. He hadn’t said much—barely anything, really—but maybe that was enough for her. Chuuya rose from the chair, the legs scraping softly against the floor. His shoulders felt stiff, his throat dry, and he couldn’t shake the strange sense that something inside him had been left open.

“Same time next week?” she asked.

He hesitated at the door, hand hovering over the handle. The urge to say no flickered sharp and instinctive, but for some reason, he just shrugged. “We’ll see.”

She gave a small, knowing smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. He didn’t return it. The click of the door behind him sounded louder than it should have, like it sealed something away.

The sunlight burned through the haze of his exhaustion, and his shadow stretched long on the pavement ahead of him. He told himself it wasn’t following him. He told himself to never look back.

But somewhere in the distance, a laugh—soft, familiar, almost teasing—echoed through the back of his mind.

And for a moment, Chuuya couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming.

Chapter Text

Death. 

The singular event that none may reverse. Man fears it—yet at the same time are drawn to it. 

Death was, as always, fascinating. It hovered at the edges of thought like a moth to a dim flame, delicate, inevitable, and infinitely cruel. 

Dazai had known it intimately, had courted it in ways most could not comprehend, yet even now, even after years of so-called living, it retained its allure. The idea of vanishing entirely, of slipping out of existence with a finality so perfect it could erase all sorrow and memory, remained tempting. 

But he could not. Not yet. Not while a certain promise hung over him like a specter, fragile but unyielding.

It was curious, the way life went on after chaos. After the Port Mafia, after the reckless dances with death that had defined him for so long, he had found himself drifting into quieter currents, almost as if the world had granted him a brief reprieve. 

He had wandered through the city like a ghost with purpose, untethered yet tethered, observing, cataloging, always just beyond reach of the ordinary. Contracts, organizations, the predictable motions of human ambition—they were now only faint echoes, background noise to the more intricate machinery of human folly.

He often thought about Chuuya, though he would have denied it to anyone. Not that Chuuya would have noticed; he had never been the type to see such subtle things. Dazai allowed himself these small irritations, these quiet musings. 

He stopped at a crosswalk, the light blinking red. The color tugged at some dim, irrational association and he scowled before crossing.

Sometimes, in the periphery of memory, he imagined Chuuya searching for him. The thought, tantalizing and infuriating, sparked a flicker of warmth, quickly snuffed by a sharper, colder truth: with Chuuya, it seemed affection had always been uneven, a cruel imbalance. Dazai had poured care and jest and attention—twisted though his way of giving might have been—into him, only to have it returned in half measures, in teasing shadows, in grudging loyalty. 

And now, even the possibility of reciprocation stirred a sourness in his chest.

It wouldn’t take much to find him, after all. If Chuuya truly cared, if he’d ever truly wanted to, he could have. But he hadn’t. And Dazai despised him for it,despised the ease with which Chuuya seemed to let him go, the quiet indifference that mocked all of Dazai’s careful provocations and half-offered truths. He told himself it was easier this way, that indifference was safer than wanting, but the bitterness lingered all the same, coiled tight beneath his ribs.

Still, some perverse part of him couldn’t help but find meaning in the pattern—the push and pull that had always defined them. Even in absence, Chuuya remained a constant in his thoughts, the echo to his silence, the light that made his shadows take shape.

Perhaps what had always drawn him in was how stubbornly human Chuuya was. Not in any tender or sentimental way, but in the small, infuriating gestures that betrayed a heart still tethered to the world, the unthinking, visceral way he lived: his temper, his laughter, every impulse of his unrestrained, the way he cared without so much of a calculation—all of it burned with a clarity that Dazai, who so often felt like an imitation of a person, could only observe from a distance. 

It was the raw and unfiltered being that fascinated him, the unselfconscious aliveness, so vivid it almost seemed cruel. He could never decide if he wanted to understand it or destroy it, stand near its warmth or smother it entirely. There was something painfully beautiful in that kind of humanity, the sort that burned without asking why.

Maybe that was what amused him most, the parallels of it all. He had forever longed for death as though it were a lover, a constant companion waiting just beyond the veil. Meanwhile, Chuuya had always been full of life, blazing and uncontainable, a comet streaking recklessly through a world that barely contained him.

It was almost poetic, Dazai thought wryly, that the arcs of their existences were bending toward some inevitable symmetry, though he would not yet reveal which end each would reach.

But yet, here he was, clinging to life, feigning attachment to its trivialities, because promises, no matter how seemingly meaningless or burdensome, had weight. 

He walked through the city streets, hands buried in pockets, eyes tracing the cracks of the pavement, noting the dance of shadows across brick walls. People passed him, unaware, and he allowed himself the rare amusement of observing them. 

They moved with purpose, driven by trivialities that would seem absurd if he bothered to think too hard about them. Each gesture, each word, was a microcosm of futility, like actors in a play of his own devising, and he the invisible stagehand, orchestrating their inconsequential theater. This, this buffoonery, was the world in its most honest form, and he, inevitably, the audience and the fool simultaneously.

Dazai’s thoughts meandered inevitably back to Chuuya, as they always did, and to the faint possibility that he might stumble upon him if fate was sufficiently cruel. 

The notion irritated him beyond reason. He had been the first to care, the first to extend hands and words, to attempt connection across the chasms of pride and stubbornness. And yet, even in imagining Chuuya’s search, Dazai felt a gnawing sense of injustice. 

Was this what it had always been? 

A slow, twisting lesson that affection alone was insufficient, that the heart could be both blind and evil? Perhaps. But it was hardly worth pondering too long; the mind that lingered on such questions risked entanglement. Better to observe, to note, to move.

His has been a life of much shame. 

Perhaps that was why detachment came so easily to him, why he found a strange satisfaction in the deliberate calculation of survival. Life, once so easily discarded, had become a tool, a stage for subtler mischiefs. He moved through the undercurrents of society, through arrangements and alliances, sometimes helpful, sometimes obstructive, always entertaining.

Each encounter, each human weakness unveiled, reminded him that life, though infinitely less elegant than death, had a peculiar charm of its own. And so he lingered, playing the part of the living, the buffoon who could slip between roles with practiced ease, always watching, always waiting, never truly involved.

And yet, despite this careful orchestration, the mind wandered; it always did. A glimpse of memory, sharp and sudden, intruded: Chuuya’s laugh, the reckless flare of his temper, the rare moments of unguarded affection that were gone almost as soon as they appeared. It sparked a mixture of irritation, fondness, and something unnameable—a quiet ache he would not admit, even to himself. 

Longing? 

He dismissed the notion. Longing was for fools, for those who allowed themselves to be ensnared by sentiment. He was far too seasoned for such indulgences, yet the stubborn ghost of what might have been lingered, and he allowed it its small, silent corner in his mind.

Dazai paused, watching a child stumble and recover, a shopkeeper arguing with a deliveryman, the ordinary absurdity of human existence unfolding in real time. It amused him, in the same way a well-written farce could amuse someone who knew the script too well. There was poetry here, if one cared to see it. And in the margins of that poetry, he imagined Chuuya searching, or perhaps not searching, imagining Dazai’s absence as deeply as Dazai imagined his. 

It was a thought that provoked a sharp, inexplicable irritation—after all, affection should have been simple, should have been easy. His imagining and longing and unreciprocated devotion was a mistake he would not make again.

And so he moved on, through streets and alleys, through the everyday clownery of the living, his mind a careful garden of detachment and observation. Death was patient, as it always had been, and he remained, for now, an unrepentant participant in this chaotic theater. 

Dazai’s eyes drifted over the city, taking in the motions, cataloging the patterns, noting the repetitions. It was…adequate. Satisfying, only briefly.

The city would continue its endless dance of trivialities, and he would watch, waiting for whatever small spark might catch his attention. 

He drew a cigarette from his coat and struck a match. The flame flared, a fierce, fiery red that burned brighter than it should have, its color alive with something almost willful and tragically familiar. He watched it for a moment before bringing it to the cigar’s tip, the glow reflecting in his eyes, his thoughts alone enough to pass the moment.

*

“Get the fuck outta 'ere you fuckin’ lunatic,” The man spat, jabbing a finger at Chuuya’s chest. The smell of spilled beer and smoke clung to the air, the muffled thump of music fading as he stumbled toward the door. 

Chuuya waved his arms in defense. “Hey, hey! I wasn’t—don’t—you can’t—”

“You’re a walking disaster and a goddamn nuisance! I don’ care if you can’t control yourself—you’re done here, you little bitch, go back and rot in whatever madhouse you came from!” the man bellowed, grabbing Chuuya by the collar and hauling him toward the street.

The man had thrown him hard. Chuuya landed on the sidewalk with a thud, a spray of dust and cigarette butts kicking up around him. “I said out! And I don’ wanna see your sorry ass in 'ere again!” he roared, spitting into the gutter for emphasis.

Chuuya rolled onto his back in the alley beside the bar, groaning, too drained and drunk to even sit upright. The alley reeked of smoke, vomit, and other things he didn’t want to think about. With the city spinning around him, he tried to sit up, tried to speak, but the world tilted violently, laughter and shouting melding into a single, incomprehensible roar.

He propped himself weakly on his elbows, then slumped back against the grimy wall, staring at the cracked pavement like it might answer some unasked question. His thoughts swirled and tangled, memories and emotions bleeding together.

He could barely feel where his body ended and the alley began. The world tilted unpredictably, and every distant sound—the echo of footsteps, the drip of water, the faint rumble of traffic, felt both threatening and meaningless. He muttered curses under his breath, half coherent, half gibberish.

A shadow shifted at the edge of Chuuya’s vision. At first, he thought it was just the flickering alley light, the way the streetlamp bent through the smoke and grime. But then the shape solidified—tall, lean, impossibly calm—a shape he knew all too well, leaning against the brick wall with an air that made Chuuya’s stomach twist.

“Oh…fuck, no, not this again...” His voice was barely more than a rasp, dragging through the alley air like a broken gear. He sagged further against the wall, limbs trembling, the effort of staying upright already too much. “No. No.”

His hands shook as he tried to lift them, tried to push the whatever it was away, but his body refused. The city spun violently, the walls bending, the pavement rippling like liquid under his weight. “Go away! Go the fuck away! I—I'm…not…seeing you! Not again! You're not real! You're not real, dammit!” His words cracked and slurred, repeating like a broken record in his head.

The shadow didn’t move, it just leaned there, calm and patient, like it, like he, was enjoying his misery. 

Dazai. The dark hair falling over his forehead, the crooked smile that was both teasing and menacing, the long coat draped like he belonged to the shadows. That effortless, unnerving grace, like he belonged to shadows rather than the alley itself. And that, that, made Chuuya’s chest tighten, suffocating him with his presence.

He pounded weakly on the pavement with shaking fists. “Stop it! Stop appearing! I don’t care! Leave me alone!” His words came out in broken, slurred bursts, a mix of fear, exhaustion, and rage.

His vision swam, the alley tilting and twisting around him. “No…no, this—this isn’t happening again…I can’t…I can’t…” He clawed at his head, as if trying to physically tear him out. His chest heaved, a hot mix of shame and anger burning in his veins. “I’m not doing this again! I’m done!”

The world around him blurred, each sound twisting into a mocking cacophony, the drip of water, distant sirens, his own ragged breathing. The shadow tilted its head, faintly smiling, perfectly still, impossibly composed. And Chuuya, drunk, exhausted, unraveling, could do nothing but stare, caught between fear and the fragile hope that maybe, somehow, it wasn’t real.

He banged his fists against the wall, cursed himself, cursed the city, cursed the figure that haunted him, cursed the world for letting it happen again, and cursed himself for being weak. 

For letting himself fall apart, for letting the alcohol drag him under, for letting this—Dazai, this impossible, infuriating, mocking presence—corner him again. Every thought spiraled into shame and fury, every heartbeat a drum of rage against the inevitability he couldn’t escape. Every breath was a battle, every heartbeat a drum of rage against the impossible inevitability: it wasn’t going away.

A slow laugh—low, rich, unbearably familiar—slid through the alley like oil, smooth and glinting under the flicker of dying light “Well…if it isn’t Chuuya Nakahara, reduced to a puddle of whiskey and self-pity. How cute.”

Chuuya pressed his forehead against his knees. “Shut up,” he rasped. “You’re not real. You’re not—”

A sudden pressure on his head silenced him. A boot, Dazai’s boot, pressing down until he had to lift his chin, forcing his head up until their eyes met.

“Not real?” Dazai’s voice was deceptively light, a note of feigned innocence threading through it. His smile glimmered, too sharp to be kind. “Then what’s this, Chuuya?” Dazai’s voice was light and mocking. “You feel that?”

Chuuya’s breath trembled. The air felt thick, unreal. He could feel it, the weight, the rough drag of leather, the cold kiss of the night air on his skin. He wanted to laugh, to scream, to disappear. “No, no, it’s not—you’re just in my head again. I’m drunk. I’m—”

“Drunk?” Dazai interrupted, tilting his head, the mockery gentle, almost fond. “You’re always drunk, you’ve been drunk your whole life, Chuuya. On pride. On rage. On the illusion that you’re anything without me.”

That voice, so calm, so cruelly entertained, made Chuuya twist. “Shut up.” he muttered, the words shaking as they left him.

But Dazai only smiled wider, crouching so they were level. His expression was almost tender, if tenderness could cut this deep. “You know, I almost admire you,” he said, studying him like he was some kind of specimen. “You keep fighting ghosts you made yourself. You call it strength, but really, it’s just desperation dressed up pretty.”

Chuuya forced himself upright, shoving weakly at Dazai’s leg. “I said shut up!”

“Why?” Dazai’s grin softened, voice lowering to something close to a whisper. “When all I'm saying is things you already think?” He leaned in, the scent of smoke and rain clinging to him like a memory. “You hate yourself, don’t you? For being weaker. For still thinking about me. For needing me to exist, because without me, you aren’t anything but noise.”

Chuuya lurched upward, shoving at Dazai’s leg, but his movements were clumsy and drunken.

Dazai laughed, not loudly, but quietly, almost sweetly, the kind of laugh that said he’d already won. “You still don’t get it,” he murmured. “You don’t hate me, Chuuya. You hate the part of yourself that still wants me."

Chuuya’s head snapped up, eyes glassy but burning. “I’d never want you.” he slurred, voice cracking halfway through the sentence. “Don’t flatter yourself, you smug bastard.”

For a second, Dazai just stared at him. Chuuya scoffed, tried to sit up straighter, but the motion just sent the world spinning. “You’re…” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head, “…you’re so full of yourself. You think everyone wants you, huh? You think—you think I’d ever—” He stopped, grimacing as his words tangled.

Dazai crouched again, the edges of his coat brushing the grime of the alley floor. His eyes glinted with quiet amusement. “You’re saying it like you’re trying to convince yourself that, not me.”

“Go to hell,” Chuuya spat, but even that came out weak, half-hearted, the slur softening the edges of his venom.

“Mm,” Dazai hummed, pretending to consider it. “Tempting offer, but I hear the company’s better up here.” He smiled again, almost gently. “Besides, you’d just follow me anyway.”

“Over my dead body,” Chuuya mumbled, slumping against the wall.

“Exactly,” Dazai said, voice laced with quiet laughter.

Chuuya’s vision blurred again. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut him out, the shape, the voice, the way he spoke like he’d already mapped out every corner of Chuuya’s heart.

When he opened them again, Dazai was still there, perfectly composed, perfectly cruel, perfectly unreal.

Dazai tilted his head, that faint, knowing smirk tugging at his mouth. “Unreal?” he echoed softly, as if plucking the word straight from Chuuya’s thoughts. “You keep saying that, but…” He crouched again, leaning close enough that Chuuya could feel the ghost of his breath against his cheek. “If I weren’t real, Chuuya, you wouldn’t feel me.”

Chuuya stiffened, instinctively jerking back, but Dazai’s hand shot out, gripping his chin, thumb pressing just below his jaw. The touch was surprisingly warm. Firm. Unmistakably there.

“You feel that?” Dazai asked, voice dropping into a murmur, almost tender, almost cruel. “Skin, heat, weight…all those beautiful human sensations. How can that be unreal?”

Chuuya’s heart hammered so hard it almost hurt. He wanted to deny it, to spit in his face, but the words got tangled somewhere in his throat. The pressure under his chin, the closeness, the faint smell of paper and gunpowder and rain, too specific to imagine. He swallowed hard. “You’re not. You’re not here. You can’t be.”

Dazai smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Then explain how.”

Chuuya’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Go on,” Dazai continued, voice soft as silk, wrapping around the words like a noose. “If I’m just in your head…then why do I feel realer than the world spinning around you?”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Chuuya’s hands trembled where they rested on the pavement. “You’re…just another dream,” he muttered weakly, “a bad one.”

Dazai’s grin widened, “Chuuya,” he said, almost fondly, “you’ve never had dreams so honest.”

And he let go, just like that, letting the warmth of his touch linger long enough to feel like a brand.

Chuuya sat frozen, breath uneven, the echo of that grip still tingling beneath his skin. He wanted so badly to believe it was nothing—hallucination, guilt, madness—but the part of him that still felt the weight of Dazai’s hand whispered otherwise.

And, for a moment, the world slipped. The alley walls bent and stretched, the sound of the city fading into a low hum. His body didn’t feel like his anymore, just a shape, just weight. He stared at his hands, watched them tremble, but they might as well have belonged to someone else. The grime on his skin blurred with the memory of red wine and blood, a thousand missions ago. The air tasted like metal.

He blinked once, twice, nothing moved. His heart felt distant, like it was beating somewhere outside of him.

Then the numbness shattered all at once, and the anger came rushing back—hot and alive.

“Then why,” he muttered, voice rough and distant. “why the hell are you here now? Why come back?”

The alley didn’t answer. Dazai stood there, or maybe didn’t, Chuuya didn’t know anymore, but the shadow still burned into the back of Chuuya’s mind.

He slammed a fist weakly against the wall, the sound dull and wet. “You think this is funny, bastard? You vanish, just vanish, and then show up like this?” His voice cracked, the edges fraying between fury and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “You left! You didn’t even—didn’t even say anything! Just gone, like the whole damn world wasn’t enough to keep you around!”

The silence seemed to mock him. It was always mocking him.

Short and ugly, Chuuya laughed. “Yeah, that’s you, alright. Always showing up when I least need it. Always making sure I look like an idiot.” He dragged a hand down his face, nails scraping against skin. “You think I sat around missing you? That I wondered where you were? Pft…as if.”

His voice faltered at the end, a raw tremor betraying him. His chest ached. Every word, every breath, felt like it scraped something raw inside him. “You just left me with your goddamn mess,” he whispered, staring down at the pavement. “All of it, everything you built, everything you ruined. And somehow, I’m the one who’s supposed to clean it up.”

He looked up again, half expecting, half hoping, to see Dazai’s grin, that insufferable calm that always meant he was three steps ahead. But the space where Dazai had been was empty.

Only the sound of dripping water and his own ragged breathing filled the alley. The absence hit harder than the hallucination ever could.

“Coward,” he muttered, voice shaking. “You couldn’t even stick around long enough to let me hate you properly.” His eyes burned. He wiped at them roughly, smearing grime across his face. “You’re not real,” he said again, softer this time. “You’re never real."

Swallowing hard, his breath stuttered. Something sharp caught his eye, a shard of broken glass half-buried in the dirt, reflecting the weak orange glow of the streetlight. He leaned toward it, blinking through the haze.

His reflection stared back, fractured into jagged pieces. The cracks split his face into uneven fragments, but when he looked down, he could still see faint marks where Dazai’s fingers had gripped his jaw.

And that, that, made him laugh, a hollow, bitter sound that echoed through the narrow alley. He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. The city moved around him, sirens in the distance, footsteps fading, laughter from some bar down the block, but he didn’t hear any of it.

Because all he could hear was Dazai’s voice, soft, mocking, fond—lingering like the smoke in his lungs.

You hate the part of yourself that still wants me.

The words twisted in his skull, spinning him faster than the alcohol already had. His knees buckled, the alley tilting violently, and the world snapped into darkness before he could even think to brace himself.

*

When he woke, the city was gone.

There was no neon glare, no traffic rumble, just the dim buzz of a dying light fixture and the tired wheeze of an ancient air conditioner. The smell hit him next: cheap motel disinfectant failing to cover decades of cigarette smoke.

Chuuya groaned. Every joint protested. His head throbbed like someone was driving nails into his skull.

For a moment, he let himself sink into the fog of yesterday’s alcohol and exhaustion, letting the memories of the past wash over him. It all made his chest tighten, his thoughts spin. He shook his head, trying to deny it. He was fine. He was handling it. He didn’t need to think about it anymore—he was gone, and that was that.

And yet, he could never get Dazai out of his mind, how he seemed to hold the weight of the world without ever bending. The way he moved, the effortless charm, his eyes—cold yet oddly inviting at the same time—how they seemed to see right through every carefully guarded layer he thought he’d built around himself. 

And Chuuya hated that he could never look away.

He hated himself for even thinking about it, for how inescapable Dazai had become in his head. He hated that if he were to admit it, let himself truly acknowledge the way Dazai had wormed his way under his skin, he would have to confess something else, something he wasn’t ready to face.

It was maddening. Dazai was everything Chuuya despised, everything that made his life unbearable at times. That heat creeping up his neck, that tightness in his chest? It was anger. Pure, searing anger. Nothing else.

He blinked slowly, trying to gather his thoughts, and for a moment the panic from the alley returned. But then he shook his head, forcing a dry laugh. It was just a dream. 

God, no wonder Kouyou got him that therapist, he really is losing it.

Still, something in the room felt wrong. A weight, subtle but insistent, faint but unmistakable, pressing against the edges of his awareness. The subtle shift of air, a shadow just beyond the edge of his vision.

He blinked, opening his eyes, and froze.

Sitting casually on the edge of the bed, coat tossed over one arm, legs crossed like he owned the world, was Dazai. Wearing that same crooked smile Chuuya had spent so long trying to forget.

Chuuya’s stomach dropped, bile rising in his throat. His head throbbed harder, and every instinct screamed at him to bolt, to rip himself off the bed and get as far away as possible. But he couldn’t. His body felt like lead, his limbs refusing commands.

What the hell?

“Oh, you’re awake,” Dazai sighed.

“Dazai?” His voice cracked, humiliatingly thin. “No. No, this is—this isn’t…You aren’t, I-I’m just—”

“Dreaming?” Dazai echoed lightly, eyes half-lidded. “You really think your imagination is capable of recreating me this perfectly—I’m flattered, Chuuya, though I suppose if I’m in your head, you must think I'm rather beautiful, don’t you think? But no. I’m real.” He gestured loosely at the room. “Dragged your half-dead carcass out of that alley. You’re welcome.”

Chuuya groaned, pressing a hand to his face. “You…you’re actually here? Wait.”

“Mm-hm.” Dazai’s smile twitched, amused. “Disappointed?”

Chuuya scoffed, looking anywhere but at him. “Hell yeah, I’m disappointed,” he snapped. “I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to see your damn' face again.” The words came out too sharp, too fast, defensive in a way that made his own ears burn. Great. 

He swallowed once, hard, as if trying to shove the slip back down his throat. “Anyway,” he muttered, voice tight, “You know I don’t care,” He tried to sound firm, but his voice trembled. “I don’t care that you left. I…” He swallowed, forcing down the lump in his throat. “I’m doing just fine without you.”

“Are you telling me that, or yourself?” Dazai tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He chuckled softly, almost to himself. “Well, of course. You’ve always been good at pretending, haven’t you? Hiding all that messy, messy emotion.”

Chuuya’s chest tightened. He wanted to yell, to tell Dazai to go away, but the words tangled in his throat. He wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been fine. And yet, even as he felt himself spiraling, even as denial clawed at him, some part of his mind whispered that he didn’t want to admit it.

“Stop talking,” he muttered finally, shaking his head. “I don’t want you here.”

“Hmm?” Dazai tilted his head, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. Then he leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting with that too-calm sharpness he always weaponized. “Chuuya…this is my motel room, you know. I paid for it. It’s my receipt, my key.”

His smile widened, soft and cutting. “If you didn’t want to see me, you could simply walk out the door.” He waved toward it with one idle hand. “But yet, here you are. In my bed. Keeping me all to yourself. How considerate of you, Chuuya.”

Chuuya's eyes flicked to the rumpled sheets around him, the faint lingering warmth pressed into the mattress, the stiffness in his own muscles from last night. His chest tightened, and a creeping horror began to dawn on him—it all reminded him, far too clearly, that they’d shared the bed.

“DDazai.” he gulped, heat crawling up his neck. 

Dazai’s smirk widened, his tone soft and cruel. “Oh, I see…could it be…that Chuuya is embarrassed at the thought of keeping me so close last night?” He brought a hand to his chest, eyes widening in an exaggerated innocence, “Or perhaps, wondering just how…hands-on you were?”

Chuuya’s face ignited in rage and mortification. “What?! No way, shut up, you sick bastard!”

Dazai sighed, “Oh my, Chuuya…you really think I’d do something like that? That’s so very beneath me. Really, you shouldn’t even imagine such things. Though, judging by the red creeping up your neck, I’d presume that's exactly what you were doing, is that right?”

“What the hell are you talking about?!” Chuuya snapped, shoulders stiff, fists clenched. “Stop twisting things!”

Dazai leaned back, eyes glinting with amusement, voice dropping into that slow, teasing drawl. "It's okay to be disappointed. I suppose you would have such high expectations.”

Chuuya’s fists tightened at his sides, his jaw stiff. “You! You’re impossible.” he spat through gritted teeth, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m not disappointed in shit.”

Dazai tilted his head with a lazy smirk. “Oh, remember how awfully you blacked out last night? Oh, you probably don’t, do you? Honestly, Chuuya, you’re lucky I’m not here to lecture you on just how utterly wasted you got. It was truly pathetic, really.”

“Shut up, you slimy bastard! You think you’re funny?!” Chuuya’s voice shook, half from anger, half from the familiar sting of shame he hated to admit. This is why he hated Dazai.  “I can handle alcohol just fine. You don’t get to—”

Dazai leaned back lazily, as if Chuuya’s anger were the most entertaining thing in the world. “Such fire. You really should learn to relax, after all, life’s far too short to scowl like that.”

Chuuya’s chest heaved. His fists remained clenched, but the sharp ache from yesterday’s alcohol and exhaustion made his anger falter, replaced by a dizzy, crawling awareness. The room smelled too real, the stale motel air, the faint remnants of cigarette smoke, and his head throbbed in a way no dream ever had.

He looked at Dazai, his smirk, his casual posture, realising he was here. After he had just vanished from his life for almost a year. Was he really going to sit there and act like nothing had happened?

He froze. His chest constricted painfully, but he forced himself to stand, forcing the anger to the surface. “Dazai…” His voice was low, sharp, trembling just enough to betray him. “You disappeared. For almost a year. No note. No nothing.”

Dazai leaned forward, his grin almost casual, as if the weight of Chuuya’s words didn’t faze him in the slightest. Not like they ever did.  “Oh. Yes. That. I suppose I probably should owe you some explanation. But explanations are so boring, aren’t they?” He let out a soft laugh. “As you know, I disappeared for a while. That’s all there is to say, really. Life’s short, Chuuya. Everything’s short. You know I get bored sometimes.”

Chuuya’s scoff was sharp, his chest tight with barely contained fury. “That’s it? You just…left? Went wherever you felt like, like some child?” His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. “Do you even realize how stupid that is? You can’t just…walk away from your job, from everything, because you’re bored! Some restlessness doesn’t give you the right to just vanish!” 

Dazai’s eyes glinted, amusement flickering in the dim motel light. “And you…I imagine you didn’t handle it gracefully, did you? Must’ve been quite the spectacle. All because I left for a while?"

Chuuya wanted to lash out, to deny it, but the truth stuck in his throat. Ashaming as it was to admit, he hadn’t handled Dazai’s disappearance gracefully. He’d drunk too much, started fights, wandered the streets hoping the chaos would fill whatever it was that Dazai left behind. He had just wanted to burn off the irritation, that's why, the hollow ache that had no name.

So, as mortifying as it was to admit, Dazai was right, and it pissed him off. Chuuya snapped, “Don’t you dare act like you’re better than everyone else, like this little disappearing act somehow makes you clever. You really think you’re above it all, huh?”

Dazai leaned back slightly, his smile slow and measured. “Above it all? No, I wouldn’t call it that. But I must admit, it’s entertaining to see you so worked up over someone as foolish as me.”

​​Chuuya snorted, a bitter, forced laugh escaping him. “Worked up? Is that what you call it? Hah…don’t be ridiculous. I’m fine. I don’t need anyone to—” He stopped abruptly, the words catching in his throat. Deep down, he couldn’t fully ignore it; reluctantly, he admitted to himself that there was something undeniably true in Dazai’s gaze, prickling under his skin despite his bravado. “I mean, I’m doing just fine.”

Dazai’s grin sharpened, his tone cold now. “Doing ‘just fine,’ right? That’s what you cling to.” He leaned forward, eyes piercing. “You tell yourself it so often that maybe you believe it, but really, you’re just scaring yourself. Because without me? You’re smaller, Chuuya. A lot smaller than you think.”

Chuuya blinked, then let out a short, sharp, bark of laughter—but it came out just slightly too loud, too forced. “Psh, what? No, no, you don’t know me.” His voice wavered a little now, uncertainty creeping in. “I’m doing better now. Way better. The Port Mafia’s better without you. I’m better without you. You’re not everything.”

“Chuuya,” Dazai’s voice was soft. Soft but not gentle, it was precise, like a knife laid carefully against skin. “If that were true,” he murmured, “you wouldn’t have to laugh when you say it.”

Chuuya’s face twitched, just barely, but it was enough. The laugh that had been stuck in his throat curdled into something harsher. “Wh—what? I’m no—” His voice jumped, sharper than he meant. His fists tightened at his sides, shoulders coiling like a spring. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, bastard.” He took a step toward Dazai without realizing it, heat rising up his neck. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to act like you know what the hell I’m thinking.”

Another step. His pulse was pounding now—anger, humiliation, something tight and ugly he had felt a lot recently. “I said I’m fine. I. Am. Fine.” His breath came out harsher, it was almost a growl. “You think everything has to be about you? You think I fall apart just because you walk off and vanish?” His voice cracked, just slightly, and he clenched his teeth, furious at himself for it. “You’re not as important to me as you think.”

Dazai’s expression didn’t soften—if anything, it became unbearably clear, like he was seeing straight through Chuuya with no effort at all. There was no smirk, no lazy playfulness now. Just quiet, surgical cruelty disguised as honesty. “Do you know what’s funny, Chuuya?” he murmured. “You keep shouting about how fine you are, how little I matter…but you haven’t once denied that my leaving hurt you. Not really.”

Chuuya’s breath snagged in his chest. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, like the words had hit somewhere he didn’t even realize was exposed. Then the shock burned off, fast and violent, replaced by something hotter, something feral.

He barked out a laugh—sharp and ugly, “Hurt me?” he snapped, stepping in closer, eyes blazing. “You think you hurt me? Don’t flatter yourself.” His voice rose despite him, cracking against the walls. “You ditch the Port Mafia for months like some dramatic little ghost and you really think I’m the one sitting around crying about it? Get over yourself.” He jabbed a finger toward Dazai’s chest, anger trembling in his hand. “I didn’t need you then, and I sure as hell don’t need you now.” But the edge of his voice, the smallest quiver beneath the roaring anger, betrayed him completely.

Dazai took another step closer, enough that Chuuya could feel his breath. “If this is you ‘doing fine’,” his voice dropped mercilessly, “I almost hate to imagine what falling apart looks like.” 

“I—What?"

“Oh, Chuuya. Almost a year, and you still fall apart the moment I speak.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “You really have nothing else, do you?”

Chuuya’s breath hitched, just once, sharp and involuntary, far too close to a flinch for his pride to tolerate. He jerked his chin up immediately, forcing a scoff out of his tightening throat. “Nothing? Don’t—” His voice cracked as he swallowed hard, heat rushing up his neck as Dazai’s cold breath ghosted across his skin. Chuuya’s pulse was pounding with fury, and with something he couldn’t name, a heat crawling under his skin that made his thoughts stumble. 

He took a half-step forward instead of back, like he’d rather burn than retreat, his awareness of Dazai so close it made his chest tighten in ways he couldn’t explain. “Oh, go to hell,” he hissed, low and shaking. “You don’t get to come back after disappearing for months and stand there acting like you know anything about me.”

His fists trembled at his sides, not from fear, he told himself, not from the way Dazai’s eyes pinned him in place, not from the electricity crawling up his spine. Just anger.

Dazai’s gaze didn’t waver, it stayed cold and precise, as if he were dissecting Chuuya piece by piece. “Look at you,” he said softly, dangerously calm. “All fire and bluster…pretending you’re fine, pretending the world doesn’t notice when you struggle to hold yourself together. You think hiding it makes you strong. It doesn’t. It just makes you pathetic. More pathetic than you’d ever admit.”

Chuuya’s fists clenched tighter, knuckles white, but a flicker of doubt gnawed at him. “I’m not…pathetic.” he snapped, voice harsher than he intended, the words tasting like lies.

“You lie so easily to yourself,” Dazai murmured, sliding a hand up to grasp Chuuya’s chin, tilting his face so their eyes locked. His touch was deceptively gentle, but the weight behind it was undeniable. “You convince yourself you’re strong, that you’ve moved on, that you don’t need anyone…but look at you. Still shaking when things go wrong, still flailing when the world doesn’t bend to your will. Still…” He let the pause drag, savouring it like a knife against Chuuya’s pride. “…so fragile, so desperate to be more than you really are.”

Chuuya’s eyes flared, a mix of anger and something he didn’t want to name rising in his chest. His jaw tightened against Dazai’s grip, but the words cut deeper than he wanted to admit.

“I’m not—” he stammered, voice shaking with frustration and disbelief, a tremor creeping through him. A bitter laugh escaped him, tinged with the sting of truth he refused to own. “You—you think this—this clever little speech of yours changes anything? I’m not…fragile! I’m—”

The proximity, the intensity of Dazai’s gaze, made his chest tighten and his thoughts stumble. Jerking his head back, his chin free from Dazai’s grip. He swallowed hard, trying to claw back the composure Dazai had so effortlessly stripped away, and through clenched teeth he hissed. “Why are you here? Why now?”

Dazai smiled once again, though he looked completely unbothered, it was almost predatory. “Why? Chuuya, I’ve always been around, haven’t I? Just, you never really looked.”

Chuuya’s jaw stiffened, a bitter taste in his mouth. He had told himself he was fine, that he didn’t need anyone, that he could handle Dazai vanishing—but the truth gnawed at him. He hadn’t searched, hadn’t tried to find him. He’d just waited, stewing in frustration, letting the world blur around him, as if expecting Dazai would return on his own. He’d buried it under rage, under excuses, under the illusions of control. And now…facing him like this, he realized just how hollow that had been.

“Huh,” he muttered, forcing another rough laugh and running a hand over his face. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. I…I don’t care anymore.”

Dazai’s grin widened, slow, deliberate, predatory. “No? Hm. Then why do you hesitate? Why does your voice crack, why do you flinch at my smile, my touch? You’ve been carrying something heavy, haven’t you, Chuuya? Now I’m here, you’re forced to stop running from all your problems, just for a moment. That must be unsettling.”

Chuuya’s chest constricted. He should’ve screamed, hit, and pushed Dazai out of his mind, and yet, he felt trapped under that calm, teasing gaze. “What do you want, Dazai?”

“Want? Me? Chuuya, you should know I’m far too interested in people themselves to waste myself on wanting anything from one in particular.” He let the words linger, eyes narrowing with amusement. “Human beings are fascinating, you know; they desire to live, yet they all die in the end. All that energy, all those contradictions…and yet, they are weak. So very weak.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Chuuya snapped, “Are you seriously just philosophizing people like you’re some kind of prophet or something? Dazai, you aren’t special because you get off on human misery—” 

Chuuya’s shout was cut off by the sharp ring of his phone. He snatched it up. The screen showed a name he recognized, someone from the Port Mafia, texting about a job waiting for him. He growled under his breath. “Whatever,” he muttered, sliding the phone back into his pocket. “I need to go. I’ve got work waiting, unlike you, who just disappears and leaves everyone scrambling. Everyone’s already thinking I’m a screw-up because of you, so thanks for that.”

Dazai’s grin widened, predatory, and he leaned just close enough that Chuuya could feel it. “Oh, is that what you’re really thinking, Chuuya?” His voice was smooth, deceptively soft. “Everyone thinks you’re a screw-up? Well…maybe they’re right. Don’t you want to prove them wrong? Or, maybe deep down, you know they’re not far off.”

Chuuya’s fingers tightened into fists, the phone almost burning against his palm.

“You’ve been slacking while I was gone, haven’t you?” Dazai continued, voice low and teasing. “Aw, how cute, the great Chuuya, thinking he can hold it all together. And now, they’re watching, waiting to see if you’ll fail. Isn’t that just…perfect? Don’t you want to disappoint them even less? Or maybe you want to see just how far you can push yourself, break the rules…just a little, to prove something to yourself?”

Chuuya’s jaw ached. He wanted to shout, to storm out, to grab his phone and go. And yet, every word Dazai spoke burrowed under his skin, twisting his own guilt and frustration into something heavier. Something he couldn’t quite resist.

“Don’t. stop trying to--” he stammered, but the thought died in his throat. His heart hammered, every instinct screaming to obey, to run, and yet.

Dazai’s smile was as sharp as a knife. “Go, Chuuya. Or don’t. Who knows? Maybe it’s better to stay. After all, you’re so much weaker than you pretend to be. And weak things…oh, they’re always so easily tempted.”

Chuuya’s pulse thudded in his ears. His resolve wavered, the line between what he should do and what he wanted to do blurring under Dazai’s gaze.

Chuuya’s chest tightened, but he shoved the swirling mess of guilt and anger down. “I don’t want to see you again, Dazai.” he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice sharp enough to sting. He turned around and yanked the motel door open, squinting against the pale, high sun, and stormed into the quiet street, slamming it behind him with more force than necessary. His boots pounded against the pavement, each step fueled by irritation and a stubborn need to prove Dazai wrong.

He didn’t pause to think where he was going, his destination was supposed to be the Port Mafia headquarters, supposed to be work, responsibility, proving he wasn’t a screw-up. And yet, as the city blurred past him, he realized his steps weren’t carrying him there.

Left, right, straight ahead, it all felt meaningless. The familiar route to the office never appeared. Instead, he kept moving, pulled by an unspoken energy, a mixture of defiance and something darker he didn’t want to name.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dazai’s words whispered, almost taunting.

“You’re so much weaker than you pretend to be. And weak things…they’re always so easily tempted.”

Chuuya clenched his fists, trying to block it out, but the pull of the hallucination, of his own restless guilt and frustration, steered him away from responsibility. His heartbeat drummed in his ears as he walked faster, his rational mind screaming at him to turn around—but he didn’t.

The streets grew quieter, the neon lights flickering over cracked asphalt, as he wandered farther from the path he should have been on. The Port Mafia headquarters wasn’t ahead. Not even close.