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Dazai’s in love with his best friend. Evident by the sunflower blooms that fall from between his lips.
It had scared him the first time he hacked up a yellow petal, followed by the pain of a seed in his lungs.
After that he would avoid his best friend, only going to meet for a few hours. It’s the most he could bear and when his best friend would leave, the fits would turn violent. Fueled by the feeling of being left, unloved. And it only grew with every meeting.
It was starting to get hard to hide his condition. It was hard to hide the way his eating habits got worse, unable to stomach a meal without choking or throwing it up. It was hard to hide the coughs, the way his voice would rasp and crack.
But most of all it was hard to hide the pain, and Dazai hates pain.
Yet, he knows that his best friend would never love him in the way he wants. He knows it when the yellow sunflower petals start to mix with light purple lilacs.
Dazai knows that he needs to stop this, quickly, before it gets any worse. Because from adoration to a glaring first love. He had to escape. He had to get rid of this pain.
And as much as he would love to die, it is too painful–emotionally and physically.
It would hurt his best friend and he does not want to hurt Odasaku. He does not want Odasaku to feel guilty. Guilty that Dazai died from unrequited love. He does not want to be pitied .
So he runs, runs away from his problems like all the other times. Runs away to suffer alone in a place where he can be at peace.
Perhaps then the thorns will go away. Perhaps he will die. Perhaps fate will be satisfied with his sacrifice.
Perhaps—
—a small kick to his stomach has Dazai grunting out a small oof. The sheets he had mummified himself in are peeled back.
Only for him to be met with a scowling, redheaded young man with an ugly fedora on his head.
“Who are you?”
Dazai only coughs, wheezing and whimpering. It hurts . He doesn’t think he says much, but when he starts to feel his body lift off the ground, he believes he’s going to heaven.
Only—he’s not lifted up that high. Oh, he’s not dead, but being carried by this random man.
The next time Dazai comes to, it’s to meet his unneeded savior. Some chibi who goes by the name of Chuuya. It's a pretty name for such a temperamental chibikko.
Either way, Dazai doesn’t have to say much about what’s wrong with him for Chuuya to guess.
“What's your name?”
Dazai coughs up a petal and makes a face.
“Shuuji.”
“Bullshit, your ID card says a different name.”
“Then why ask, idiot?”
The glare he gets in return holds indignant fire and an instant annoyance. Perfect .
Dazai had never wanted this man to come save him. He doesn’t want to be wrapped up in clean sheets, blankets atop his frail body. He doesn’t want to be cared for.
He clearly doesn’t deserve it.
And with a bout of coughs, more petals fall, dotting the white fabric. From buds to petals to full blooms.
“You need food, water, and a serious shower.” As if Dazai didn’t just conjure up a whole garden. As if he’s just a homeless pathetic man.
“No, I need to leave .”
Chuuya snorts. “Not in this condition.”
How stubborn. Since when has Dazai been enough for someone to keep? And why was this redhead trying so hard? It’s not like they know each other. Dazai would remember this man–his eyes are too bright. They seem like the endless blue sky he had just been staring up yesterday.
“If I stay, then you might catch it~” Dazai tries, winking to sell. “Your chibi body would crumple with thorns in your stomach.”
“Don’t worry about me, loverboy,” Chuuya comes over and pulls Dazai up, purple-yellow filled sheets and all. He throws that brunet a smile that comes out more like a grimace.
“I don't believe in love.”
It isn't like Dazai can run away either, not when Chuuya somehow always manages to find him.
So starts the chase of cat and mouse. Of the redhead dragging Dazai to the park, to the coffee shop, to the beach, to—
—to parties and gatherings.
Thrown into the midst of change, the petals ebb away for a while—burned to ash by the acidic alcohol and bitter smoke.
It's a restart. It's suppression. It’s something Dazai forgets, Chuuya forgets.
They forget how they found one another, they forget until once more. History repeats itself.
It’s the curse of this disease, that it will wind it’s vice claws so quickly that no one knows the moment they fall prey. The flowers come back now in full force, but this time blood red camellias bloom within the mix of yellow and purple. It startles Dazai and he hides it from Chuuya.
It’s not that hard.
Not hard since the redhead has started to stay away longer, come home later—either stoned or drunk.
Gone are the days of movie and pizza Friday night, board game Wednesdays, and video champion Saturdays. Fading is the bond of friendship, the pressed up sides and hooked fingers.
But Dazai doesn’t question Chuuya’s absence, he tells himself he doesn’t particularly care . It’s not like he’s in love with Chuuya .
So he lets the thorns eat him up, the vines crawling into his veins.
It’s agonizing , it’s desperation .
“Odasaku.” It's almost a gasp that the older male freezes at. A voice that he hasn’t heard in too long. After months of ghosting him…Odasaku turns around to see Dazai, bone thin.
“Dazai, what happened?” The man has always been a caring figure, fatherly, brotherly. The line became too blurred for someone like Dazai to differentiate. Did he really fall for his best friend, or had he just not known what it’s like to have family?
So it shouldn’t surprise Dazai when strong hands grip at his willow shoulders. He sways, almost as if a gust of wind could blow him away.
“I fell in love….” A petal slips from his lips, mistaken for blood as it floats to the ground.
“With who?”
“ You. ”
Light purple buds crawl up Dazai’s throat and he hacks it out all over Odasaku’s front. His best friend who’s blue eyes are wide, grip at his shoulders loosening.
“I—”
“It’s okay..” Dazai wipes away the blood and petals. “I know. It’s okay.”
While those eyes cloud with inevitable guilt, they still speak volumes of love. Just not in the way Dazai needs. It’s okay.
Because the flowers stop.
At least the sunflower and lilac ones.
Perhaps he really didn’t love Odasaku like that, perhaps first love really can be lost.
His lungs are a little cleared after two days, the last of the roots being cut away. But when the third day hits. The color Dazai wakes up to is red. So much red .
Red camellias. Utmost devoted love, love that transcends, love that obsesses. Profound love that digs deep into his organs. That relief is suddenly robbed away with the heavy roots of a new seed.
But how? How did this happen? Surely Dazai doesn’t love Odasaku that much.
“Dazai-san,” Atsushi calls in one day. “Is Chuuya-san home?”
Chuuya… the redhead had been home the day before when Dazai returned from his visit to Odasaku.
But had elusively slipped away before this morning. Still leaving behind the comforting scent of roses and wine.
Even his name brings an ache to his heart. A rather painful one.
—•—
Chuuya should have thought better than to spite the gods. He should have kept up his walls like he had promised himself.
But playing with fire has always been a hobby, and now he’s paying the price.
The box of camellias is hidden away in his closet, the petals withering away to dust. He wonders if Dazai would ever find it. The secret that had bloomed within the midst of strangers' conversations.
“I don’t believe in love.”
What an idiot.
To think someone wouldn’t fall for Dazai. As if someone wouldn’t fall for someone who knows how to be a flirt. For someone who talks about love like it’s humanity’s greatest downfall and savior.
Because Dazai knows how to paint a vision for Chuuya—about how wonderful Odasaku is.
So Chuuya drags Dazai out, distracting the man. Selfishly, he wants to stop hearing about Odasaku this, Odasaku that.
Maybe he wishes that those heart filled eyes would turn to him. Because for as long as he’s been alone, he’s wished for company.
He doesn't believe in love. Not until he saw what it’s like to be in love . A painful mess, but oh so beautiful .
He loves it. He wants it.
So he lets himself try. Thinking that perhaps it wouldn’t be bad. He had not caught whatever Dazai had the first few months
He thinks he’s immune, having helped clean those petals but never coughing up any.
Not till he’s mid meeting at his law firm, going over details with his client, does he feel a punch to his gut.
Normally falling in love is gradual. Like a fall that starts gently before you freefall.
But for Chuuya—it was an instant. The drop and bury of this seed he’d told Dazai he’d never feel.
And Chuuya’s too prideful, too wary, that Dazai would still love Odasaku. Would reject Chuuya with no hesitation. So he keeps a distance.
It’s just as painful—singed by the burn of love, thinking it’s not too late to turn away and backtrack. To take back the affections. To get over it.
He tries to stay away, he really does, but somehow he’s always drawn back to the brunet.
Always slumping onto the couch next to Dazai and letting a lanky arm slide around his waist, pulling them flush together. A soft “good evening” murmured near his ear. The warmth that spreads up his body.
The question is always sitting at the tip of his tongue.
“I like you, do you like me?” So childish. He feels like a middle schooler, struck in puppy love.
And when he eventually gathers up the courage to be brave, to be honest. Take a chance and open his heart.
He comes home to see a note placed neatly on the kitchen counter.
‘Going to Odasaku’s’, will be home late’
Oh.
Odasaku’s. So he went back. Or he’s going for something—probably to confess. And it would end happily wouldn’t it. Because who wouldn’t love Dazai?
Who would pick Chuuya?
(Dazai calling Chuuya ‘home’ is left denied)
So Chuuya packs his bags for a few days, needing time to bring down his fits of flowers. Hide away the pain that comes with deception and affection.
He leaves before he can see Dazai, and maybe that’s the only thing that keeps him from breaking.
Missing each other—missing the last chance.
The next time Chuuya steps back over the threshold of home , it’s too cold. It's too quiet.
The redhead, with trepidation gripping his heart, ventures in only to notice an envelope sitting on the kitchen counter.
The same place that that note had been. It’s addressed to Chuuya, of course, but written in the loopy handwriting belonging to him .
Chuuya would have probably trashed it. But when he looks around…
Dazai is gone.
Not just the man, but his presence.
His blue throw blanket, blue slippers, blue oversized hoodie, blue mug.
His blue .
Is it really over? What happened? Where is Dazai? Why ?
And isn’t it convenient that the answers might just lie within the folds of this envelope.
So he cracks open the seal, peeling back the paper, eyes searching for the words to explain it all.
“Dear chibi,
If you’re reading this then you must have come back home. I waited for you, but I'm sorry I can't anymore.
I'm sorry that I got to know you. I'm sorry you don’t believe in love.
But most of all, I'm sorry I'm in love with you.
Take care Chuuya.
Shitty Mackerel”
The letter drops to the marble, hands scrambling to pull out his phone.
This couldn’t be–how? The flowers suffocating Chuuya have already started to recede, reverse photosynthesis.
And his fingers tremble as they dial Dazai’s number. Hoping and wishing the man picks up.
Ring, ring, click —
“I'm in love with you too.”
“—the number you have dialed cannot be reached please try again later.
That hope plummets. Like an anchor that drops into the sea, stilling a raging storm. The tide before the crash of the tsunami.
What now? Chuuya looks down at his phone, at the letter, then at the paper tacked to the fridge.
Somehow that reminds him of…
“Hello?
“Hi, is this Odasaku?” A moment of silence. Chuuya’s hand clutches his phone, knuckle white as he prays to god he got the number right. He’s seen Dazai staring at it often enough that he’s memorized it. And thank god he had, even if it had been extremely annoying to realize.
“Yes, it is Oda speaking, who’s asking?”
“I'm sorry for this call, it’s Nakahara Chuuya. Dazai’s…roommate. And—“
“Nakahara-san, Dazai is not with me.”
“Wh-do you know where he could be?” Chuuya sounds harried and stressed. Having rushed back down to the parking lot, he sits, tapping his keys against the side of his motorcycle.
“In the operating room.”
Time stops for a moment and Chuuya almost drops his keys.
“The what ?”
“For—” He already knows what it’s for. He had considered it before too.
“What hospital?”
There's no answer on the other end and Chuuya’s engine starts.
“Please Odasa—Oda. I can't lose him.”
“You don’t believe in love.” It’s a blow to his ego, his own words thrown back at him.
“Not before him I didn't! But—“ “Now you’re throwing up flowers too, correct?
The noise that comes out of Chuuya’s throat is desperate. It surprises them both.
“Yokohama City Hospital, his operation is in ten minutes.”
Chuuya doesn’t have to be told twice.
—•—
Dazai has never liked hospitals. It reminds him of his parents, his past, his worthlessness.
But now he’s willingly walked in, signed papers for a surgery.
Now he just has to wait. Trying his best to keep the petals at bay
When he had admitted to loving Odasaku, it had felt relieving. But admitting he’s head over heels for Chuuya ? It's like a fire consuming his soul.
For once, he doesn’t want to die. He's got friends who care, and it’s really all Chuuya’s fault.
Everything is Chibi's fault.
But Dazai can’t really be mad, not when he’s already mourning the aftermath of this removal. To remove his love for Chuuya. A love too painful to bear, a burden he can’t carry alone.
“I'm sorry Chuuya…” Dazai whispers as he signs fate away. He smiles at the nurses, seemingly nonchalant.
But Odasaku, who’s kindly come with him, knows better.
It feels like forever and an instant before Dazai is being ushered into an operating room, ready for the change of his life.
He tries to tell himself that it’s worth it. That at least he’d still be alive to see Chuuya. Even if it would no longer be the same.
“Dazai-sama, are you ready?” The nurse looks kind. Maybe he’ll ask for her number later. But for now, he winks and smiles.
“As ready as I'll ever be.”
“It will hurt just a li—“
—bang!
Chuuya bursts in, his hair a mess. his blue gaze sweeps over to where it stops at Dazai. Watching with sinking hope that the anesthesia is already being injected.
The brunet’s attention snaps to him.
“Chuuya? What—“
“I love you.”
So simple. Those three words. The words they’ve both wanted to hear.
But is it enough? Does it change anything?
“You don’t mean that.”
“But I do ,” Chuuya storms over to him. His chest is heaving but it’s not hard to cough up the last of the petals.
They’re vibrant red, shiny under the white luminescent light.
“I fucking love you…”
Dazai stares at the petals like he’s in awe. The awe must be getting to his head because his mind feels hazy. When Chuuya catches his eyes, the anesthesia has already set in.
“Chibi..”
“Dazai, don’t go through with it..”
“Of course I won't, silly slug..” His pale fingers, so thin from the loss of weight, tremble as they cup Chuuya’s cheek. He thumbs away the unshed tears, fighting to stay awake.
“I'll be back…” There’s a kiss to Dazai’s palm before sleep settles over him.
It all seems normal, like in a few hours the anesthesia will ebb away and Dazai will wake to Chuuya at his bedside. They’ll hug and kiss and recover—bounce back because they always have.
But Dazai is a liar. Chuuya should know that by now.
—Beeeep—
Everyone looks to the heart monitor, the line going flat.
“What? What happened—“ Chuuya is pushed away as the doctors scramble to find out what went wrong.
They hadn’t overdosed the patient, but no one had realized that without the operation, the thorn would already have pierced Dazai’s heart fully.
The final blow, dealt just a little before the redhead had arrived.
Death, imminent. Because love doesn’t conquer all. It’s fickle and picky. And it has never been kind.
Not to them.