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The constant gurgling of blood echoed in the small kitchen as the pool grew beneath Dazai's body.
Lying on his back, he stared at the ceiling with a single, dull eye that retained the same darkness it used to have in life. His neck was bent to the side at an awkward angle, and his limbs remained fixed against his body; his shirt and trousers stained with a dark crimson. His face was swollen, distorted by the brutal blows he had received. His skin kept losing color as the minutes passed, taking on the texture of an unpleasant rubber glove.
Chuuya licked his lips, tasting Dazai's bitter metal against his tongue as he clenched the bloody bottle he held in his right hand.
How exactly he had gotten into that situation was beyond him.
He'd woken up after noon, and since it was his monthly day off, he'd spent the entire afternoon drinking and watching TV on the couch. When he ran out of cheap wine, he rushed to the cupboard and stole a bottle of whiskey that the stupid mackerel had left behind during one of his visits.
Drinking half the bottle made him remember he hadn't eaten anything all day, and he stumbled into the kitchen. He cracked a couple of eggs into a pan and scrambled them, too dizzy to even attempt anything more elaborate. At some point while his scrambled eggs were finishing cooking, he heard the apartment door open and close. When he looked back, Dazai was already in the kitchen with him.
He wasn't sure if it was the sandalwood scent coming off his body, his usual teasing smile, or something he said, but red clouded his vision for an instant and the bottle in his hand was just too convenient.
Chuuya closed his eyes for a moment and let out a shaky sigh, bringing the whiskey to his lips to take a sip. The bottle had barely touched his lips when he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a piece of brain stuck to the glass, causing his stomach to instantly clench.
He dropped the bottle and doubled over, vomiting on his own shoes as the glass shattered against the floor. The clatter of glass against the bloody tiles filled the lonely kitchen, as images of Dazai's skull crunching beneath his blows appeared in front of him.
He threw up until he could only cough up bile, his eyes watering and his nose running. At some point, the blood had stopped spurting, leaving Chuuya alone with the silence of the empty apartment and the corpse at his feet.
Even with his face destroyed, the ghost of that stupid smile he wanted to erase so badly still lingered.
The first time Chuuya crossed paths with Dazai Osamu, he only had two words to describe him: rude and irritating.
If they hadn’t been interrupted by the former boss, he would have enjoyed beating him to a pulp, even if it was just with his physical strength. Despite being the same age as Dazai, he wasn’t exactly what you’d expect from a teenager involved in the mafia. In his own way, he always seemed to look down on everyone else; as if the Port Mafia was, in fact, just a bunch of kids. No matter how high up the chain you were, that scruffy teenager would treat you as if you were an annoying toddler.
This particular situation wasn't something that mattered most to Chuuya, not to say that he didn't care. While he himself held respect for Mori, it wasn't something intrinsic to his position as the head of the Port Mafia. That respect was well-earned through the sacrifices he made to keep his subordinates safe.
What really caught Chuuya's attention at the time about that skinny guy covered in bandages was the black cloud that seemed to follow him everywhere.
Beyond his fixation with suicide and the small book he carried everywhere, his personality didn't fit that of a teenager his age. Despite his stupid pranks and recurrent childish behavior, there was something about him unlike anything Chuuya had ever seen before. Something eerie, so to speak.
As the vessel of the Arahabaki and being surrounded by the lowest of the human race for as long as he could remember, he witnessed far more than anyone else his age. Violence, cruelty, torture, and death; none of these concepts were unfamiliar to him. He had even taken on the role of executioner on more than one occasion. But still, nothing came close to the experience of knowing Dazai.
Where normal people have a heart, Dazai Osamu had a bottomless black hole.
“Hey, Chuuya~”
“What the hell do you want now?”
It was close to midnight, and after a particularly grueling mission, Dazai had suggested they go ‘relax’ at one of his many hideouts around the city. At first, Chuuya flatly refused, suspicious of Dazai's true intentions, but he eventually gave in to his persistence.
He didn't know it at the time, but he would regret that decision longer than he could ever imagine.
“Can you pass me the whiskey? I'm very thirsty~” Daza hummed, with that tone that made Chuuya's blood boil.
The supposed secret location was the fifth floor of an abandoned building, which surprisingly didn't smell of homeless shit andurine. They were both sitting barely a meter away from each other, looking out toward what could once have been a large window. The nocturnal face of the city peeked through the hole, bathing both of their bodies in a pale light that was as magical as it was cold.
“More?” Chuuya mumbled, frowning. The way the other looked at him with his head tilted reminded him of a puppy, but it didn’t evoke any affection. Turthfully, he would have liked to stick a switchblade in between that idiot’s ribs. “I don’t want to have to drag your stupid drunk ass back to Port Mafia.”
Dazai smiled, his lips curling in the same way they did every time he was about to say something hurtful.
“Oh?” he replied, chuckling. “You talk too much for someone who can barely stand upright.”
"Uh?!" Chuuya turned his head abruptly, instantly regretting it. The world spun around him and the floor beneath him seemed to swing like a pendulum, turning his stomach. He had to close his eyes and hold his breath to keep from throwing up. "Stupid Dazai..."
“It’s not my fault you drank a quarter of the bottle raw, is it?” Dazai said, still smiling, as he reached for the whiskey bottle and took a long sip. “Only children don’t know their limits.”
Chuuya gritted his teeth. If he had known that Dazai's definition of ‘chilling’ was getting drunk on whiskey stolen from Mori's personal collection in an abandoned building, he might have been a little more hesitant to accept his invitation. Only ‘might have’ because, knowing himself, he probably would have accepted anyway just to shut Dazai up.
At least he would have tried to break the bottle to avoid problems like this.
“You’re too proud for your own good, you know,” Dazai continued. He licked his lips, which were swollen and reddened from the alcohol, just like his cheeks. “Only school kids would fall for something as silly as a drinking competition— Oh, wait!”
Dazai turned to look at him, his smile growing sharper. He was really testing his patience.
“I'm gonna fucking kill you.”
"How boring. Can't you think of anything more interesting to do with me?" Dazai sighed, swinging the bottle and observing the little liquid left inside. "If I'd known it would be like this, I would have also stolen a deck of cards."
Chuuya turned his gaze back to the city, hoping that his silence would be enough for Dazai to look for something else to focus his attention on. A stupid and innocent hope, which took less than a couple of minutes to shatter.
“Oi, Chuuya,” Dazai asked, a disgusting innocence lacing his voice. “Have you ever had your dick sucked?”
“Huh?!”
“Don’t be shy, you can tell me,” he murmured, almost purring. He leaned closer to Chuuya, until their faces were just a few inches apart. “I know how to keep a secret.”
Chuuya felt the blood rush to his face, so fast he couldn't blame it on the alcohol. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry as his heart drummed loudly in his eardrums.
Why the hell was he so nervous?
“Oh? Is little Chuuya-chan a virgin?” Dazai smiled. He spoke almost in a sigh, as if trying to make their breaths blend. He reeked of alcohol. “With the way that sheep was clinging to your arm at the arcade, I thought otherwise...”
“S-Shut your damn mouth!”
“Did I touch a nerve? Sorry, my bad,” he said, bringing one of his hands to the hem of Chuuya's hoodie. Chuuya had to bite his tongue to keep from gasping when he felt those long, cold fingers brush against his stomach’s skin. “I can fix that, if you want me to.”
Chuuya looked away, feeling his skin prickle as he heard Dazai unzip his pants. He was too dizzy to even try to resist, and he couldn't even use his power if that bastard was touching him. All he could do was not to respond and wait for him to get bored and leave him alone.
Indifference was his only way out, but his body seemed to have other plans.
“Huh? Did you really get your underwear wet with what I said?” Dazai said after pulling his pants down to mid-thigh. Under the white moonlight, a wet spot on the fabric glistened. “I didn’t think you were that easy, Chuu-chan.”
“Don’t call me that,” he replied, his voice hoarse. He kept his eyes as far away from Dazai as possible. He couldn’t look at his face like that, not when he felt his crotch throbbing urgently. “If you put something in that whiskey, I swear—”
“How could you even think I’d do something like that to you?!” Dazai interrupted, acting offended. Out of the corner of his eye, Chuuya saw him smirk. “It’s not like aphrodisiacs are a real thing anyway, you know?”
Chuuya gasped as Dazai pulled down the last piece of clothing that separated him from the outside world, leaving him completely exposed. The cold bit into his naked flesh, but it was his partner's warm breath against his skin that made him shiver. If he could, he would have slit his throat right there.
“For a shorty like you, your size’s not that bad,” Dazai mumbled, taking his erection and gently jerking it off, as if trying to test something. Chuuya let out a weak moan, feeling his face and neck heat up. “Maybe with a little more stimulation, maybe, maybe…”
“Damn piece of—”
Dazai strangled the base of the dick, drawing a choked cry from his partner.
“Weren’t you ever taught not to annoy someone who’s got you by the balls?” he murmured. He brought his mouth closer and gently blew on the head of Chuuya’s dick, making him whimper through his teeth. Precum spurted out. “Really, your survival instincts are…”
Dazai shook his head and clicked his tongue in disappointment, slowly stimulating him again. Chuuya huffed, keeping his gaze fixed on the concrete wall beside him.
He scanned every pore, every crevice, every tiny detail that kept his mind occupied with something other than how good Dazai's cold hand felt on his cock. If he dared to turn around for even an instant, that bastard would win. After all, it was just another one of their stupid games: whoever gave in first, lost.
If he didn't win, Dazai would pester him for weeks. He couldn't allow that, he had to be stronger, for his own good he had to be stronger than that jerk.
"Oh, Chu~ya~"
His name was a whisper from Dazai's lips, as soft and warm as a summer breeze. He felt a flutter in his stomach as he turned toward him, his judgment momentarily clouded at the prospect of finding honey instead of just lime. Dazai smiled at him, his lips parting and his tongue darting out, before leaning in and covering the whole length with his mouth.
Chuuya gasped and clenched his thighs, instinctively bringing his hand to Dazai's messy hair. He tangled his fingers in the greasy strands, gripping tightly and tugging for the bastard to let go. Unfortunately for him, the result was the opposite.
Dazai moaned and lowered himself even further, burying his nose in the thick bush of pubic hair. Chuuya felt his limbs turn to jelly as the tip of his member hit his partner's throat, unable to contain his own whimpers anymore.
“D-Dazai…”
Dazai groaned once more, his throat vibrating so much that Chuuya thought he would die right there.
It was when he started sucking and licking that Chuuya reached his limit. His eyes rolled back into his skull and an almost animalistic sound emerged from the depths of his throat as he came inside his Dazai's hot mouth.
He floated above the city, the clouds and all the stupid worries that filled his head every time he woke up. He felt his spirit leave his body, moving away from the pain and suffering that fate had sentenced him to live through.
For a moment, it was just him and the oblivion, until Dazai reminded him of his presence and crushed him into the ground.
“You seriously came as soon as I went down on you?” Dazai cried out, barely holding back his laughter. His eyes were glassy, and his lips were swollen, curling into a cruel smile. “You seriously came as soon as I went down on you?! You’re so pathetic!”
Dazai's laughter stabbed at his eardrums, but Chuuya was too out of his mind to pay attention. The haze of his orgasm was dissipating, leaving him on a downward spiral with no restraint. The effect of all the whiskey he drank coming back to him was a punch to the gut. His mouth started to drool like crazy, a warning of what was to come next.
If he hadn't been so dizzy, he would have warned Dazai.
“What? Are you tired already?” Dazai mocked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He stood up, holding Chuuya by the neck with one hand and by the waist with the other. “Do you really not want to return the favor? So mean…”
Chuuya watched Dazai's lips move as he mumbled something else and pouted, but he couldn't make out anything. The world began to spin again, the walls closing in around him as the unmistakable burn of bile rose in his throat. Dazai pulled him back, their mouths meeting in a collision of teeth and lips.
For both of them, it was their first kiss. For Chuuya in particular, it was the final straw.
All the alcohol he had drunk and the remains of his lunch rose up his throat, filling his mouth and, of course, his partner's.
Dazai pushed him away as he broke the kiss, but it was too late: sick was streaming down his face and staining the front of his shirt and pants, turning everything a repulsive orange color.
Chuuya collapsed on the ground, watching colorful dots dance in front of him as his head hit the concrete. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was Dazai trying to hold back his gagging while wiping himself with his sleeve.
The next day, Chuuya woke up in his small room in Port Mafia, bundled up and in his underwear. If it weren't for the taste of puke clinging to his tongue, he would have thought last night was nothing but a nightmare.
Anyone who knew Dazai even a little would know for a fact that he would bring up that disgusting situation whenever he wanted to make Chuuya look ridiculous, turning him into a laughing stock. He wouldn't leave him alone for weeks, if not years. If he wanted to drag him down further, he was even able to tell other members of the Port Mafia, not caring how this might affect his standing with his subordinates and superiors.
When they met again for a mission, Chuuya was prepared for the worst. The cruelty, the mockery, and the embarrassment of having ruined their first kiss—he expected at least one of those sharp smiles tugging at his lips, but there was nothing even remotely close.
There was just silence.
Chuuya watched Dazai out of the corner of his eye all day, waiting for him to do something, but nothing happened. He talked to him as if their disastrous encounter had never happened. He even turned his head and looked at him directly, his gaze stabbing him, waiting for something, any reaction that bastard had been planning since he left him in his room, but he still got nothing.
That indifference continued for days. The days turned into weeks, then months, and finally years. On every mission, at every small chance encounter in the halls of Port Mafia, Chuuya would hold his gaze for a few moments longer than necessary, hoping that this time it would be the final one, but things remained the same.
He waited and waited for some kind of answer to the prayer hidden in the depths of his eyes, but Dazai wasn't able to give him even that.
Sometimes Chuuya wondered if things would have been different if he had some closure. Would his feelings towards Dazai have changed if he had gotten the recognition he so craved? In his more optimistic moments, he thought so, but the rest of the time he was aware of his own doom. He was like Icarus, only instead of reaching for the sun, he had thrown himself headfirst into the turbulent waters beneath the tower. A violent ocean that wasn’t even able to give him a single shred of warmth, tearing off his limbs one by one and splintering his bones.
An infinite abyss that would rather embrace others than him.
The knife slid over Chuuya's finger, causing a burst of heat and red. He looked down and watched his blood spill onto the cutting board and the pieces of zucchini. He pressed the wound with his thumb, drenching his hand in crimson.
What did Dazai see in Odasaku? He was just another gangster, with a gaunt appearance and convictions that contradicted what his job was supposed to be. His power wasn't even useful in real fights, having to rely on a weapon or simply be protected by others.
Why did Dazai choose to stay with some random guy instead of looking for him?
Chuuya released the cut and turned his hand up, watching the blood form small pools in the furrows of his palm. Even though he didn't want to admit it, if it weren't for fate, he might have killed Odasaku with his own hands. Maybe, just maybe, in front of that idiotic Dazai, to give him a compelling reason to call him a monster.
He closed his eyes for a moment and frowned, picking up his wine glass and draining it in one gulp before placing it on the counter with a sharp clatter. He walked to the dishwasher and turned on the faucet, letting the cold stream of water fall onto his hand, washing the mess away with it.
When that familiar long shadow stretched over him, he could see that stupid grin before he even turned around.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“That’s no way to talk to your friends, Chuuya,” Dazai replied, theatrically placing a hand over his chest. His cheeks were red and his eyes glassy, like they always were when he drank too much. “Don’t orphans get taught manners?”
“What do you want?”
“Oh, well, I was walking around the neighborhood and I remembered your apartment was nearby so I–”
"Stop fucking around and tell me what the fuck you want, Dazai," Chuuya cut him off, his gaze hardening. "I don't have time for your bullshit."
“Ah.” Dazai narrowed his eyes and smiled, rocking back on his heels. Despite being barely two feet away, Chuuya could still smell the scent of cheap whiskey coming off him. “I came for something you owe me, actually.”
“I could hardly believe I owe anything to a poor wretch like you.”
"Ah, as mean as always," he hummed, bringing a hand to his cheek. "You break my heart, Chuuya. How could you forget? I thought we had something special."
"You and me? Something special?" Chuuya snorted, bitterness staining his every word. "If you want to steal money from me to buy more whiskey and keep destroying your liver, go ahead. I couldn't care less what happens to you."
He shoved Dazai with his shoulder, forcing him to step aside. He walked back to the counter, ready to finish preparing his lunch, but a tight grip around his wrist stopped him. He stood still, staring down at his own feet, using what little willpower he had left not to look back.
“Chuuya.”
His name was a blade on his partner's lips, cutting through his flesh like butter. Chuuya swallowed harshly and turned away, feeling all the alarm bells in his head go off when their gazes met.
Dazai held Chuuya's injured hand with a blank expression. Gently tugging on his arm, he brought the injured finger closer and wrapped his lips around it, licking and sucking away the remaining blood. The whole time, he stared at Chuuya without blinking, like a predator who had just spotted his next meal wandering aimlessly through the tall grass.
And he was the prey.
Chuuya tried to punch him in the stomach with his free hand, only to end up trapped by both wrists.
“Dazai, what the f—!”
Before he could even try to break free, Dazai shoved him against one of the countertops, trapping him with his body. A burst of heat surged up his torso where his back hit the counter, making him hiss.
He shoved Dazai again, trying to kick him off of him. Dazai pinned him against the counter, using his height to his advantage. Like a cornered animal, Chuuya twisted and turned his hands to scratch him. Slowly, anger turned to panic inside his chest.
Dazai tightened his fingers around Chuuya's wrists, leaving a long-lasting bruise with the print of his hands that could last for a few days. He pressed his hips against Chuuya's stomach, his bony pelvis embedded in Chuuya's.
Then, Chuuya felt it. Dazai’s hard cock.
His blood ran cold and his body freezed. The moment he stopped resisting, Dazai released his wrists and his arms fell limp at his sides. Chuuya raised his head.
Dazai's head was tilted slightly to the side, causing his dark bangs to cover part of his face. He looked down with hooded eyelids. The length of his eyelashes formed long shadows on his cheekbones. He was breathing softly, his chest barely moving, giving him the appearance of a marble statue.
Chuuya looked down slowly, following the path of Dazai's gaze. It was fixed on a piece of his waistband peeking out from the edge of his shirt, which had likely been lifted up during the struggle. He felt his breath stop in the middle of his throat.
Dazai brought one of his hands to Chuuya's exposed waist, barely caressing it with the tips of his long fingers before slipping under his shirt. Maintaining the ominous aura, he brought his other hand to his partner's neck and closed his fingers around it, gently squeezing his throat.
Chuuya swallowed, feeling his Adam's apple move against Dazai's cold palm as his skin burned where their bodies touched. He didn't want to look up, he knew he shouldn't, but the cold hand on his neck forced him to do so to keep from suffocating. Regret hit him immediately.
Like marbles, Dazai's eyes rolled in their sockets as he turned to look at him. They weredark, dead, like those of a shark, which had swallowed all the light of the depths. They were the eyes that could only belong to a monster.
Chuuya parted his lips, but no sound came out. His insides screamed that he was in danger, that he had to get away from Dazai as quickly as possible, but his body remained rooted to the spot. He could only gasp and pray that the vertebrae in his neck wouldn't snap so easily.
Without breaking eye contact, Dazai slowly leaned over him until their faces were just millimeters apart. Chuuya felt the other's heavy breath against his skin, so close he could almost taste the cheap whiskey he'd been drinking.
Dazai looked down at Chuuya's mouth, making him flush instantly. He smacked his lips and leaned in closer until the tips of their noses touched. Chuuya closed his eyes as the rest of the world disappeared around him and the answer to his prayers manifested before him, ready for the moment he had long awaited. Icarus rose above, finally managing to touch the sun with his bare fingers.
But again, he got nothing.
Dazai hunched over and dropped his head onto Chuuya's shoulder, releasing him from his grasp. He placed his hands on the counter behind his partner, not quite touching him.
They remained in that position for a moment that felt like an eternity to Chuuya, where only their breaths broke the deafening silence of the apartment.
Chuuya felt an almost uncontrollable desire to embrace Dazai and take that promised kiss into his own hands, but his arms wouldn't respond. He could only stare at the other's hair, imprisoned within his own body and, perhaps, his pride.
Out of nowhere, Dazai let out a soft laugh, a whisper that was almost lost in the silence.
“Oh, never mind,” Dazai mumbled. His hot breath pierced the thin fabric of Chuuya’s shirt, sending shivers down his skin. “I guess it can wait.”
Without another word, Dazai stood up and turned around, leaving the kitchen. The sound of the front door closing echoed off the walls of the small apartment, before giving way to silence once again.
Chuuya stood there until Dazai's distant footsteps in the building's hallway disappeared, at which point he lifted his back from the counter and picked up his glass again. He walked over to his liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of '89 Pétrus. He uncorked it with a mechanical motion and filled his glass to the brim, setting the bottle aside to take a long sip.
The smoothness of the wine mingled with the bitterness of the tears running down the back of his throat.
If Chuuya had known that this would be the last time he would see Dazai for years, he would have stabbed him with the kitchen knife right on the chest.
Dazai leaving Port Mafia without saying goodbye wasn't really a surprise. In fact, it would have been odd if he had the decency to say something about it. Perhaps Chuuya would have thought it was a stupid joke or the opening of a conversation about how he'd finally found a quick and painless way to kill himself.
Who the hell could imagine someone like Dazai outside of the mafia? Chuuya was sure that not even the bastard himself had ever thought about it. He refused to even think that it had been deliberate. Despite his stray nature, Dazai had remained in Port Mafia for years, apparently with no real intention of leaving or doing something else than following orders. The only explanation he could think of for that hasty decision had a first and last name. He could have confirmed his suspicions by asking Mori, but he preferred to leave things as mere conjecture.
If his heart was already bleeding just at the thought, he didn't want to think what it would be like to confirm it.
Chuuya tried to forget him. He burned photos, old notes and a couple of letters, threw away the clothes he left behind on his visits and even changed the sofa Dazai liked so much. In front of his coworkers, he kept a mask of indifference, careful not to let it slip at any time. He did everything in his power to erase any trace of that bastard from his life, but he wasn't perfect.
No matter how hard he tried to hide it, they were still connected by a thick chain.
Chuuya thought he could hear his laughter as he walked through the crowds. The sight of someone in a long coat with brown hair was enough to make his heart skip a beat, no matter how rational he tried to be. But by far the nights were the worst, when that stray haunted his dreams. Many of these were simple memories, old recollections buried deep in his mind; they were irritating, but they caused him more than just a mild sense of nostalgia when he woke up.
The real problem were the fantasies.
If he was lucky, these were just an altered version of reality where he and Dazai were still partners in Port Mafia. But on nights when he went to bed feeling especially restless, they took on a more twisted tone.
He'd lost count of the number of times he'd woken up drenched in sweat and a wet spot on his underwear, unable to fall asleep. At first, he solved it with a cold shower, but a moment of weakness was enough to make him succumb to his own repressed desires.
He spit into his hand to replicate the wetness of Dazai’s mouth, moving his hand slowly as he replicated the way he’d moved his tongue that time back in the abandoned building. He imagined him both on top of him and underneath, a sweaty mess, moaning and shaking as he begged for him to come inside him. Sometimes he could even taste the saltiness of his skin and the metal of his lips, leaving a sour taste in his mouth that could ruin him for days.
His self-loathing reached a point where he seriously considered performing a self-performed lobotomy, until he accidentally discovered another solution: if he got drunk enough, he stopped dreaming.
At first, he would go to the bar after work with his fellow mafia members, but the mere mention of Dazai's name was enough to make him drink too much and end up with his face buried in the toilet. Because of this and his own pride, he started doing it alone.
It wasn’t long until the bars became inconvenient due to his increasingly frequent outbursts of anger. At that point, he began to increase his liquor supply in the apartment. Little by little, he preferred the speed with which they got him drunk over their taste and quality, finally hitting rock bottom when he thought it would be a good idea to mix cheap brandy with orange juice.
It was a miserable existence, but it was still better than the twisted image of what could have been and would never be.
Thus, Chuuya kept himself afloat for the next four years, keeping his mind busy with work and drinking enough to numb Dazai’s ghost. The temptation to go looking for him was always there, hidden in his own shadow, but the mere possibility of finding something else instead of his Dazai held him back.
And oh, how much he wished things had stayed that way, but his heart was a fool.
The notice of Dazai's capture by the Port Mafia was enough to make Chuuya rush to meet him again, throwing years of progress out the window just to see him once more.
And when he saw him chained up in the torture chamber, they were back to being troubled teenagers. They insulted each other and went at it with bare fists, Dazai deducing his moves and using his best martial arts techniques. Dazai didn't even blink when Chuuya put a knife to his neck and threatened to kill him right there. He even had the nerve to smile, sending Chuuya into a surge of anger that strangely felt very similar to euphoria.
Trapped against the wall, Dazai explained his reasons for being there and mentioned that there was an upcoming meeting of the Mafia leaders prompted by a letter he sent, threatening to reveal the secrets of Port Mafia if he was executed.
Chuuya didn't back down, insisting he could slit Dazai's throat right there, but he eventually gave in. He jammed the knife next to Dazai's head and let him go, satisfied with the cut on his cheek. They didn't speak much after that, each going their separate ways.
And, against all odds, Chuuya couldn't care less about his defeat.
Details Chuuya thought he'd completely forgotten returned to him: the scent of Dazai’s skin, the depth of his eyes, his voice, the coldness of his long fingers, his hair, and his smile. That smile, as irritating as the first time he saw it.
His skill hadn't changed either. Much to his dismay—or maybe not so much—that idiot could still read him perfectly. Their fights were still a waltz, a spectacle of the clash between brute force and an intelligence so profound it could be overwhelming. This was the same Dazai he knew a decade ago. The same Dazai who clung to his memories, haunting him at best and torturing him at others.
The same Dazai for whom his heart bled in silence, repressed by vice and alcohol in the face of no consolation.
Chuuya felt like he was walking on clouds as he wandered through the halls of the building and repeated their reunion over and over again, until the adrenaline started to leave his system and things started to twist in the wrong direction.
Since when did Dazai care so much for a mere subordinate? Kindness was never his strong suit. He had treated Akutagawa like a dog, beating him up while nullifying his abilities until he had practically lain half dead on the ground. He had told him how weak and useless he was over and over again. He went so far as to put a gun to his head and fire, not caring if he had managed to protect himself.
Dazai killed and tortured without looking away, ending the lives of anyone who dared to cross his path. He used people for his own purposes, discarding them as soon as they ceased to be useful. He spoke, moved, and smiled like a human, but his gaze was always that of a monster.
When did that pair of dark pits get a semblance of life?
Chuuya slumped against the counter, his forehead hitting the dirty dark wood. He turned his head and squinted, trying to focus on the bottle of cheap sake he was holding next to him. The glass had warmed from the heat of his hand, except for the bottom, where the remaining contents kept it cold. Around him, the conversations in the bar mingled, a lively cacophony that completely ignored the man lying in the darkest corner.
If someone had told him this morning that he'd end up like this because of Dazai, he would have taken it as a personal attack. Years of solitude had given him a certain confidence that things couldn't get any worse, that he'd hit rock bottom—but he'd been wrong. Somehow, seeing that jerk again sank him to a point he hadn't thought possible.
He scratched the surface of the counter, feeling the dirt and grease from years of different customers build-up under his nails. Why? Why did he care that Dazai had changed so much? If he decided to leave Port Mafia and start a new life as someone different, it wasn't his problem. After all, they had never been anything more than coworkers, and now they weren't even that.
He knew that dwelling on the whys and wherefores might not get him anywhere. He couldn't change the past: Dazai's decision to abandon them—to abandon him—had been final. He couldn’t do anything about it. The person who triggered that decision was probably also to blame for his change of heart. There was no mystery to solve.
The healthiest thing to do was to forget about it and get on with his life, but how?
How could he do that, when all Chuuya saw as he closed his eyes was Dazai?
Chuuya gritted his teeth, tasting the salty taste of his tears on the back of his tongue again. He stood up with difficulty and took out his wallet, quickly counting some bucks and placing them on the counter. He turned on the stool and stepped off, staggering out of the bar, carrying the bottle of sake with him.
The streets of Yokohama were deserted and so cold that he was surprised he didn't see ice still accumulating on the side of the road. The chill breeze hit Chuuya's thin body, making him shiver. He took a long pull from the bottle until it was completely empty, then tossed it into a nearby trash can. He inhaled air through his teeth and zipped up his coat, setting off on the long walk to the apartment. His only company was the crunch of his boots on the asphalt.
His mind raced, spilling out from its edges. He cursed every time he felt his heart leap at the sight of Dazai's face through the leaves of a tree or the shadows of a dark alley, wishing with all his might that some unknown criminal would end his misery. He thought of Oda, of the way that idiot looked at him. He felt the flames of hatred consume him again.
He really wished he had gutted Dazai when he had the chance that morning.
Chuuya climbed up to his apartment with difficulty, having to lean against the wall and hold onto the metal railing to avoid falling backward. It took him a couple of tries and several mumbled insults to get the key into the lock, testing what little patience he had left.
The inside of the apartment was as freezing as the street below due to a window he'd carelessly left open, but Chuuya couldn't care less. He went to the kitchen, heading straight for the wine cellar without even bothering to turn on the light. He yanked open the door and pulled out the half-empty bottle he'd left the night before.
“I wonder what the Port Mafia dogs would say if they saw Chuuya Nakahara, one of the five executives and the most powerful leader, so drunk he could barely stand.”
Chuuya dropped the bottle, which exploded at his feet as soon as it hit the floor. The liquor splashed over his shoes and pants, while the glass clinked against the kitchen tiles. He didn't have to turn around to see who was behind him.
“What’s wrong? Are you so off your face you can’t even cuss at me?” Dazai continued, smiling. A soft, sweet scent filled Chuuya’s nose, which he recognized as perfume. Unless that idiot had a preference for women’s perfume, that couldn’t be his. “I didn’t know you were such a drunk, Chuuya.”
"Leave me alone," Chuuya spat, reaching back into the cellar and pulling out another bottle.
“Are you not even going to ask why I'm here? After all these years,” Dazai said, obviously faking a sorrowful tone. Chuuya gritted his teeth. “I was at least expecting a ‘Hello, how are you? How have you been?’”
Chuuya uncorked the bottle with his teeth and took a long swig, feeling the wine run down his neck and soak into his shirt. It was going to be a pain in the ass to clean the stain afterward.
“I mean, you could at least have some manners and invite me out for a drink—”
“Why didn't you answer my calls?”
The silence between them was deathly, broken only by the soft sound of their breathing. Chuuya bit the inside of his cheek and lowered his head, feeling the metal of his blood fill his mouth. Deep down, he hoped it was all an illusion or a stupid dream and that he hadn't just exposed his agonizing heart to that monster, but he wasn't that lucky. He never was.
“Why would I waste my time doing that?” Dazai replied, a sneer in his tone of voice crushing Chuuya’s chest. “It’s not like I don’t have anything better to do, you know?”
“You didn’t tell me anything,” Chuuya muttered, his words trailing off. A small part of him was screaming at him to shut up, but his mouth moved mechanically. “That day you… You just left…”
“What? Were you really expecting a goodbye? Oh, Chuuya~”
“You knew how I felt.” Chuuya clenched his fists, nearly making the glass bottle give way beneath his fingers. “You knew all along, and yet you still abandoned me.”
Dazai's laughter echoed off the thin walls of the kitchen. The final straw for Chuuya.
He dropped the liquor and turned, lunging at Dazai in the dim light before the bottle even hit the floor. He pinned him against the freezer and grabbed him by the neck, slamming his head against the metal door. In the darkness, he could see his eyes and the flash of a smile, which made him tighten his grip on Dazai's throat even more.
“You really fell in love because of a blowjob?” Dazai said, his voice hoarse. His smile disappeared, as did the mockery in his words. “How naive, Chuu-chan.”
Chuuya's vision turned red.
The first blow landed square on Dazai's jaw, followed by one after another. Digging his nails into his neck, Chuuya threw him to the ground and kicked him in the stomach several times before he could react. When he left him writhing in pain, he grabbed him by his greasy hair and dragged him out of the kitchen to his room at the end of the hallway.
He pushed open the door and grabbed his former teammate by his clothes, lifting him with almost superhuman strength and throwing him onto the bed. He took out his gun and held it while he unbuckled his belt, yanking his pants off and kicking them away. He climbed onto the bed and did the same to Dazai, tearing off his underwear as well.
He grabbed Dazai by the arm and twisted it, forcing him onto all fours. He buried his face in the mattress while he unlocked the gun with his free hand, then rested it against the back of Dazai’s neck.
“Stay still or I'll blow your fucking brains out.”
His own voice felt distant, as if it weren't his own. The whole scene felt alien and weird, with him merely a spectator observing it from the outside. His body moved and his mouth emitted words and sounds, but he wasn't the one in control. Anger and alcohol kept him moving, a momentum that was leading him straight to disaster.
Chuuya spat on his hand and brought it to Dazai's entrance, slipping a pair of fingers between his buttocks. He groped for his entrance, sliding his fingers inside. He thrust them in and out a few times before withdrawing.
He pulled down his own underwear and grabbed his cock, masturbating it until it was fully erect. Resting on Dazai's almost nonexistent waist, he got in him in one thrust, letting out a soft moan as his own hips pressed against his former teammate's bony ass. Dazai didn't make a sound, barely shuddering.
His insides were hot and tight, so much so that Chuuya thought for a moment that he was going to crush his dick. He bit his lower lip and moved slowly, testing the waters. After making sure that Dazai's ass wouldn't tear him out, he began to increase his speed until he reached a frantic pace.
He dropped the gun to grip Dazai's waist with both hands, holding him tightly as he abused his insides, not caring if he left his fingers marks on his pale skin. His gasps and moans filled the small room, forming a symphony with the creaking of the bed and the constant thumping of the headboard against the wall.
With his cheek pressed against the mattress, Dazai stared at him without any particular expression. His eyes had returned to being two dark, bottomless pits, which only fueled the fury inside Chuuya. He dug his nails into his waist until he felt the tips of his fingers moisten with Dazai's blood, ramming into him with a brutality and force that miraculously didn't tear his insides out.
He wanted to see him suffer, beg for mercy as he writhed in pain. He wanted to see him cry and apologize between moans for everything he had done to him and planned to do to him in the future.
He wanted to use his body, to rip out his insides and organs. He wanted to abuse every one of his holes, make him swallow his cum until he threw up and then had to lick the putrid contents of his stomach off the floor.
He wanted to see him beg for more, whining and crawling like a dog, begging with his mouth open and offering himself, looking for himto abuse him until the emptiness in his gut was filled.
He wanted him to feel the agony of his bleeding love.
The growing tension in Chuuya's stomach snapped like a rubber band, sending waves of heat throughout his body. His eyes rolled back in his skull and he let out one last moan, collapsing beside Dazai. He laid on his back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his muscles still trembling from his orgasm.
All the memories and suffering of the past four years faded away, and for a moment, he dreamed of the future, of promises finally being kept and the bleeding stopping. For a measly moment, he allowed himself to imagine a future where he and Dazai were together, until he heard the mattress springs creak.
Chuuya opened his eyes and quickly turned around to reach out and grab Dazai, closing his fingers around his wrist. Dazai kept his gaze forward, unfazed.
Pale moonlight streamed through the open window, bathing his thin body and outlining with soft brushstrokes the bruises forming slowly on his skin. His face was beginning to swell, closing his right eye and deforming his lower lip. Traces of dried blood stained the corner of his mouth, the memory of the first blow, whose imprint was also on its perpetrator's knuckles. Still, he was painfully beautiful.
They both stood like that for a moment, the cold night breeze and their own breathing being the only things that broke the silence.
Little by little, Chuuya felt a blade stab into his chest, reopening the old wound. An unbearable panic flooded his body, bringing with it memories of the last time his former partner had been in his apartment and his subsequent departure. Something akin to fear settled in the pit of his stomach and crept up his throat to control his mouth like a puppet's.
“Please don't leave me.”
Dazai rolled his eyes in his direction, which were two dark pits just like his last night in Port Mafia. Chuuya felt his stomach tighten, but he didn't let go. The agony of past abandonment and the possibility of reliving it once again were stronger than the terror that the monster disguised as a human could cause him.
“Oh?” Dazai murmured, his tone soft enough to make anyone’s blood run cold. “Did I touch Chuuya’s heartstrings?”
Chuuya curled his fingers around Dazai's wrist, too lightheaded from the alcohol to even respond. As always, Dazai's words cut deep, deeper than he wanted to admit, but that pain paled in comparison to the despair crushing his chest.
As Dazai held his gaze, Chuuya lowered his’. Shame mixed with pain, until he couldn't tell one from the other. Another man would have taken pity on him and put him out of his misery, but not Dazai. He lacked the humanity to show even a hint of consideration, and he lacked the guts to do anything about it.
He felt those dark eyes bore into his skull for a long minute. Finally, without saying anything, Dazai clicked his tongue and started moving again. Chuuya didn't let go, determined in his stupid drunkenness to force him to stay, but what he did he couldn't have imagined even in his most delirious moment.
Dazai crawled under the covers and leaned his back against the headboard. Almost instinctively, Chuuya leaned closer and rested his cheek on his partner's lap, feeling a shiver run through his body as he felt the stranger's hand rest on his head.
He tangled his fingers in the coppery strands, pulling them without it being painful. Chuuya turned his face slightly and looked into Dazai's eyes, then sighed and closed his own, letting himself be carried away by the soft caresses and the tiredness that took over his body.
For a moment, he could have sworn he saw the shadow of a light crossing that abyss.
The next morning, Chuuya woke up alone in his room, finding no trace of Dazai other than the messed-up sheets and a couple of bloodstains. His head was throbbing and his body ached, a reminder that the blurry images from the night before weren't just another stupid dream.
He forced himself to get up and went to the bathroom, using what little willpower he had left to turn on the cold water and step into the shower. He flinched when the spray hit his back and lowered his gaze, staring at the drain in front of his bare feet. He forced himself to mark last night as his closure, letting the icy current wash away his feelings along with the remnants of blood and sweat. His heart had bled enough, and it was time to move on. Or so Chuuya thought.
He had two weeks of peace before Dazai reappeared at his apartment, reeking of sandalwood once again. And, just like their first encounter, things played out the same way: Dazai teased him and Chuuya, too drunk to handle it, saw red and attacked him, ending in violent and unbridled sex at the expense of the detective's battered body that he would then try to forget the next morning with an ice-cold shower.
The only difference this time is that Dazai didn't stay, leaving the apartment before Chuuya lost consciousness from exhaustion and alcohol. And, no matter how much he tried to deny it, that was a thorn that embedded itself in his heart, a poisonous blade that cut so deep that there was no way to stop the bleeding.
Once again, he turned to his anchor and tried to drown his agony in booze, but all he achieved, was hating the smell. Every time he opened a bottle of wine or brought his lips to a glass of cheap whiskey, he felt his stomach turn against him, making him gag violently with just a sip. He vomited and drank again, over and over, until he managed to keep some alcohol in his system, even though it nearly cost him his own guts to do so.
No matter how hard he tried to deny it, that idiot had ruined him beyond repair. He could tell himself that he'd forget Dazai all he wanted, but he'd never be able to erase the mark he'd left on his life. Maybe killing him and decorating Yokohama with his intestines would give him some peace of mind, but deep down, he couldn't do it. And Dazai knew it too.
He knew that no matter how many threats he made and how many times he put a knife to his throat, his ex-partner would never cross that line.
Chuuya raised his face and glanced toward the kitchen, feeling his stomach sink as he saw that pair of black shoes peeking through the doorway.
Not by their own will, at least.
He snorted and sank back into the couch, letting his head fall back against the back of it. The stench of blood had filled the entire apartment, to the point where it was hard to breathe without choking on it. After years of working for the mob, he knew the metallic smell would soon turn into putrid decay. He had a few hours to do something about it, but he had to decide soon.
Wrapping the body in a rug and throwing it into the river was the easiest option. By the time the police found Dazai downstream, his fingerprints would have been washed away, making it difficult for them to connect the murder to him. That was as far as the police were concerned, because the first door the Armed Detective Agency would knock on would be his. Not that he was particularly worried about them or anything, but the possibility of Mori finding out was enough to unnerve him. If he'd decided to let Dazai live until now, he must have had a reason.
A quick death would be an act of mercy compared to what the Port Mafia boss used to do to those who dared to cross him and his targets.
He had to get rid complety of the body, but how?
Soaking it in acid and dumping the barrel into the sea was too obvious; if he wasn't seen, his neighbors would notice the rot smell sooner rather than later. Dismembering him and scattering the pieces around Japan would slow down the investigation, but the trips would be difficult to justify to Mori. Tying him to an anchor and throwing him into the sea might pass as a settling of scores, but again, it risked the murder being immediately linked to the Port Mafia.
All the solutions available to him were either too risky or difficult to implement without raising suspicion.
Chuuya closed his eyes and sighed, feeling his temples begin to throb. No matter what he did, Dazai, even in death, still managed to make his life miserable.
He bent down to pick up a half-full bottle of whiskey that was lying on the floor in front of the couch and stood up to walk to the bathroom. He paused for a moment in front of the kitchen doorway and looked back at the body, stupidly hoping the idiot would get up and laugh at him for falling for his joke, but nothing happened. The pool of blood was getting darker, and the little skin he could see had taken on the appearance of a sheet of dried paper. There was no turning back now.
He staggered down the hallway, using the wall for support as the floor shifted beneath his feet. He entered the bathroom without turning on the light and stood in front of the sink, pulling from the cabinet behind the mirror a bottle of pills Dazai had left behind during one of his many visits. He was too drunk to read the label, but he knew it was the kind of medication doctors forbid mixing with alcohol.
Chuuya closed the cabinet and looked up, staring back at his reflection. His usually fierce blue eyes were dull, sunken into their sockets and accompanied by dark bags. His skin was a sickly pale color and his hair was dull, sticking to his forehead with sweat and accumulated grease. He wasn't even a shadow of who he once was, and it was all Dazai's fault, but that didn't matter anymore.
His heart had stopped bleeding. The conflicting feelings, the bitter memories, the thousands of hopes he had for the future that never came. Everything had disappeared, leaving behind the silence he had spent so many years trying to recover.
He was finally free. Free from Dazai, free from his poison disguised as cold love and one-night stands. Free to move on with his life and find someone who truly reciprocated his feelings. Free to pursue his own happiness without the risk of being swallowed by the black hole.
He was free, but he would have traded it in a heartbeat to go back a few hours before the murder.
He twisted his fingers around the pill bottle until the plastic creaked. Chuuya wasn't stupid. He knew that if he let the alcohol wear off and sat down to think about the matter, he could come up with a solution where he wouldn't be framed for Dazai's murder. He knew he was capable of fixing things and freeing himself from that burden; the problem was himself.
With Dazai, he was miserable, there was no denying it. He was abused, humiliated, and beaten like a dog by his cruel master. But at least he belonged to something, to someone. He had a reason to get up every morning and not get killed on missions, a promise to keep. He could try to find someone else, but he knew it wouldn't be the same. It never would be. There was only one Dazai in the world, his Dazai, and his freedom meant nothing without him.
Chuuya brought the bottle to his lips and emptied the contents into his mouth, drinking the rest of the whiskey to swallow the pills. He placed the empty container and the bottle in the sink before sitting on the tiled floor. He brought his knees up to his chest and hugged them. He leaned his head against the wall beside him, the heavy pounding of his heart being his only company.
Little by little, his eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and his limbs grew numb. Somewhere in the back of his head, he heard that soft laugh he'd come to hate so much, sending shivers through his body. The desire to get up and go to the kitchen to lie down next to Dazai, the repulsive urge to rest his head against his chest, gnawed at his insides. But he barely had the strength to keep his back straight without collapsing. He smiled bitterly one last time.
Even after death, Dazai still pulled the chain.