Chapter Text
Empty.
That was what Chūya felt after the situation with the Reaper, the Hound and the Wraith.
When he saw his boss fall from the top of the building. Heard his bones crack. Smelt the metallic reek of blood spilling. Joints snapping unnaturally against the cold, hard concrete.
Empty. Like a piece of his heart had been stolen, never to be given back.
Empty, as an entire organisation looked up to him to fill the gaping hole left in their hierarchy by the incident.
Empty. That was all Chūya felt as he stood in the office, packaging all of Dazai's items, keepsakes, trinkets and whatnot to put in a box that would be thrown into a wardrobe and (hopefully. simultaneously very unlikely) forgotten about within a week or so.
Now that he'd been officialised as boss, he probably could have had some grunt do all of this. However, even now, he felt as if this was a job he was exclusively meant to do. He supposes he really is Dazai's dog. The leash persists, even when the owner has left.
He pulled open Dazai's third drawer, tipping everything into a box as he tried to flush down the memories that clawed in through the back of his head, a seperate and unique one coming with each individual memory. It was surprisingly full, and weirdly messy. Like he was trying to bury something at the bottom. He moved towards the next one—
Hold on.
He took a double take. The bottom of the drawer looked...loose? As if there were something underneath it.
He slid his fingers in the slight gap between it and the walls of the cupboard. It lifted up effortlessly. Even from hell, it seems you're still not done fucking with me, Osamu.
He placed it gently on the floor and looked at what had been revealed underneath the fake bottom of the drawer.
A pristine white book. A journal, maybe? No. Dazai would never involve himself in such a healthy way of letting out his feelings.
...Well, he also thought that Dazai would never leave him, and he was clearly wrong about that.
To be completely honest to himself, for even one moment.. Chūya knew, to some extent, Dazai might do it. He saw the faintly bleeding slits on the brunette's arm, occasionally peeking out before quickly being hidden by a sleeve. He saw the way his eyes dimmed when anyone brought up the agency—like he was seeing something invisible to everyone else. He knew, and he pretended not to, forcing himself to stay blissfully ignorant until his clematis—his Dazai—had rotted and withered away.
His fingers gently rubbed against the cover of the sleek white book, hesitating for only a moment before flicking open to it's smooth, gentle pages.