Chapter Text
It wasn’t just the heat radiating from the explosion, nor the irritation of the flames licking at his car that made his eyes sting. It wasn’t even the realization that one of his favorite suits — fresh from the dry cleaner that very morning — had been left inside and was now burning to ashes. He could easily have another one tailored just like it. Money wasn’t an issue.
It was the rage.
Sometimes, he was surprised by how much of it he could hold inside. There were moments when he knew his reaction wasn’t proportional to the situation, when he could feel anger surging from his fingertips, pulsing through his bloodstream until it hit his brain — and all that was left was the violent urge to walk away before he did something he’d regret. He could try counting down from a thousand, but he’d barely make it to nine-fifty before a cigarette was already between his lips, lit with shaking fingers.
The day before, Kouyou had caught him punching a hole into the hallway wall. She grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him into her office. Her grip was firm on the muscle — not painful, not enough to bruise — but strong enough to make him stiffen and lower his gaze.
He’d expected a scolding once she had him seated. Kouyou never raised her voice at him — she wasn’t like Mori — but that didn’t make her any less intimidating. He was eighteen now; he knew he had to get his act together. He knew he had to stop acting like the street punk they’d picked up with a poisoned knife in his gut. But he didn’t know how to deal with the flood of emotions that never seemed to leave him alone. Maybe the Port Mafia should’ve offered therapy alongside combat training. He wouldn’t have said no — unlike Dazai.
Without a word, Kouyou had turned her computer monitor to face him. The title of the YouTube video made him blink. Breathing Technique for Releasing Anger.
“I don’t want to hear a single word. Got it?”
Chuuya nodded. If he could keep a straight face while Dazai tried to get under his skin during meetings, he could survive two minutes of a video. But it turned out harder than expected — he had to press his lips tightly together to keep from laughing.
When the video ended, Kouyou turned the screen back and looked at him.
“I know you don’t take this seriously—no, don’t interrupt me,” she said, lifting a hand as she saw him shift in the chair, ready to object. “But sometimes I worry about you. You need to find a way to manage your anger that doesn’t involve hurting yourself or destroying everything around you. And drinking yourself into oblivion doesn’t count either.”
“Okay, ane-san. I’ll try.”
“I want you to actually try. I’m not your mother. Don’t give me the first thing that comes to mind just to get me off your back. I care about your well-being.”
“I know, ane-san. I know you care.” Chuuya had wanted to say more — to tell her he cared about her too — but he was still just an eighteen-year-old boy. Expressing feelings didn’t come easy. Just the thought of saying something that honest out loud embarrassed him. Especially with Dazai bouncing that damned rubber ball against the corridor wall outside — waiting for him.
As he stepped out and closed the door behind him, there he was. As expected.
“Nice hole. Adds a touch of style. Didn’t know you were into interior design.”
“Chuuya-kun will, of course, pay for repairs!” Kouyou’s voice rang from behind the door.
“Shut up. I’m not in the mood.”
“We noticed.”
“Listen, Mackerel. Not everyone’s as good as you at feeling nothing.” He stared him down, right into the one visible eye. He knew it would hurt — he’d known Dazai long enough to hit where it stung, even if the guy never showed it. “Normal people have feelings. We’re not all empty shells drifting around pointlessly.”
He didn’t even know why he was lashing out at him. Dazai had waited for him. That was... kind. But Chuuya just needed someone to yell at.
“So do me a favor and keep your mouth shut for the rest of the day.”
Dazai smiled, but Chuuya caught the twitch in the corner of his mouth — a telltale sign he’d struck a nerve. He dragged a finger and thumb across his lips, a mock gesture of sealing them shut.
He didn’t see him again until later that evening.
Chuuya was just about to leave the building and head home when he passed by one of the training rooms, the kind lined with dummies, each with a red bullseye over where the heart should be. Dazai was lying on the ground, flat on his back, a pistol in one hand, his other arm draped over his eyes. It was rare to find him there.
Curious, Chuuya walked over and nudged his side with the toe of his boot.
“Oi.”
No response.
He kicked a little harder. “Oi. Don’t tell me you’re trying to off yourself again.”
Dazai lowered his arm, revealing his visible eye and that infuriating, smug smile. “Our little Chibi’s worried about me?”
Even now, Chuuya could see it, the flicker behind the grin. The mask. Dazai wanted to be left alone.
“Dazai…” He’d never admit it out loud, not even under torture, but these were the moments that tightened something in his chest.
He was afraid. Terrified that one day he’d wake up to a call saying Dazai was gone. That he’d taken his own life. Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night after dreaming he’d found the body himself, sometimes in a pool of blood—there was always so much blood. And often, after those nightmares, Dazai really was there beside him, asleep after some mission they’d barely survived, the scent of blood clinging to their clothes because they’d been too exhausted to clean up, too worn out to even make it to Chuuya’s bedroom. They’d collapse on the carpet or couch, wherever their legs gave out. And if the next morning Dazai noticed Chuuya curling a little closer to him than usual, drawn in by the sound of a steady heartbeat, Chuuya would deny everything.
There were moments he wanted to just say it all: his fear, his worry, his desire, his gratitude, and yes, even love. Just to see if he could finally catch Dazai off guard for once. He sometimes wondered if Dazai could read his heart. He hoped not.
The signals were always confusing, especially when, after using Corruption, in that half-conscious state, Chuuya would feel Dazai’s hand in his hair, hear him whispering that everything was going to be okay, that help was on the way. Or when he’d wake up in a hospital bed and Dazai would kiss his forehead, telling him he wasn’t going anywhere, that he could rest now.
And when he woke up — when the painkillers wore off and the haze lifted — he never knew what had been real and what he’d imagined. But Dazai would be there, just like he promised, slouched in a chair by his bedside, head resting on the edge of the mattress. Yet when morning came, he’d act as though none of it had ever happened. And Chuuya, playing along, would pretend the same.
Sometimes, Dazai would stare at him while he slept, face just inches from his own. Chuuya would keep his eyes closed, letting him think he was still asleep. It felt good to have him so close, to feel safe around him. And he wondered — was it the same fear that kept Dazai awake? That maybe, after Corruption had drained him, he’d never open his eyes again?
The urge to lean in and kiss him was something he had to fight more often than he cared to admit.
Chuuya wanted to tell him how he felt, but it always felt selfish. He didn’t want to hand Dazai another burden—managing someone else’s feelings. Because even if Dazai wasn’t emotionless, most of the time those emotions were buried so deep that Chuuya wasn’t sure he’d ever reach them.
“Osamu.” He tried again, letting the concern leak into his voice.
“I’m fine, Chuuya. Go home.”
He wanted to apologize for the things he’d said earlier. It wasn’t fair to lash out like that when he knew Dazai hadn’t done anything wrong. The truth was, Chuuya had blown up because Mori had assigned a different unit to the Suribachi mission instead of sending him. Nothing serious, but then again, his anger never really matched the trigger.
“Take the gun if you’re worried I’ll shoot myself the second you walk out.”
“Want me to stay?”
“Chibi, that wrinkle between your eyebrows is getting deeper by the second. Don’t come crying to me when you start looking old and wrinkled.”
With a groan, Chuuya kicked the pistol across the room. “Alright, I’m done. See you tomorrow.” He headed for the door, then glanced over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Dazai.”
“Try not to get run over by a car, shorty. People might not see you from that height.”
He was already halfway through an exasperated eye-roll when he heard the whisper.
“Goodnight, Chuuya.”
That morning, Chuuya had shown up to work with a tight, anxious feeling in his chest. It hadn’t gone away, not even after picking up his favorite freshly cleaned suit from the dry cleaner. He could’ve easily sent someone to take care of such a trivial errand, but he often asked himself whether he could still do anything on his own, whether he’d become completely dependent on the perks that came with being part of the Port Mafia.
He got out of the car and made his way to Mori’s office, waiting for his next assignment. Today, he’d be working with the Black Lizard. He was glad to be away from Dazai. Because of how conflicted his feelings had become, Chuuya often found himself worrying more about Dazai’s safety during missions than his own. It wasn’t like Dazai couldn’t handle himself, but Chuuya couldn’t help watching his back. He liked Tachihara, too — they shared the same sense of humor, the same no-nonsense approach. In him, Chuuya had found a friend he could go to rock concerts with and grab a drink after work.
Once, even Dazai had come along. He spent the whole night in silence, his eyes drifting between Chuuya and Tachihara, studying them with that calculating gaze of his, giving away nothing.
At the end of the evening, Chuuya and Dazai rode back to Chuuya’s place on his motorcycle. They had an early out-of-town meeting the next morning, and it was easier to just spend the night in the same place.
On the way back, Dazai sat behind him, arms wrapped securely around his torso.
“You’d better hold on tighter. I don’t feel like scraping your brains off the road, got it?”
Dazai mumbled something in response, but his grip tightened, so Chuuya knew he got the message.
It felt strange to have Dazai so quiet, so close. He couldn’t tell if it was the speed — Dazai hated riding motorcycles with him — or if he was nodding off from that beer he’d downed at a ridiculous pace, especially considering the idiot probably hadn’t eaten all day.
“Swear to god, Dazai, if you fall asleep on me I’m gonna—”
“You’re good at talking to people, Slug.”
“Uh, thanks?”
The rest of the ride was quiet. Once home, Chuuya got ready for bed first, locking himself in the bathroom. After washing up and changing into pajamas, he headed to the living room and found Dazai lying on the couch, his legs dangling off the end. He was pointing at the ceiling with his index finger, absentmindedly tracing invisible words in the air — something Chuuya had caught him doing more than once. He wasn’t sure if others had noticed. He’d asked Dazai about it once, and the reply had been typically evasive: no reason, really — some words just stuck in his head and he felt the need to retrace their letters.
“Oi. Need a change of clothes?”
Dazai dropped his hand and smirked, already ready to tease him. “Your tiny pajamas wouldn’t fit me. My legs aren’t stubs like yours.”
“Try these.” Chuuya tossed him a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. If Dazai noticed they were exactly his size, he didn’t say anything. Chuuya quickly turned and walked away before he could make a comment.
“’Night. Don’t snore, and let me sleep. I already set the alarm.”
“Ironic, coming from you, Slug. I can hear your grunting through your bedroom door.”
“I don’t snore!”
“I could record you and play it back while you sleep. Might scare you straight.”
“Should’ve let you fall off the bike.”
“I’d have thanked you!!” Dazai got to his feet and started unbuttoning his shirt, exposing the muscles in his back as they flexed under the bandages. “Goodnight, Chuuya,” he added, still with his back to him. Sometimes Dazai couldn’t stand being looked at — not his bandaged chest, nor the scars along his forearms where the wraps loosened. Realizing he wasn’t welcome, Chuuya turned away and went to his room.
The next morning, he discovered that Dazai really had recorded him snoring.
The mission with the Black Lizard, as usual, was over quickly and without injury. They’d finished ahead of schedule and decided to grab a late lunch together, even though it was already well into the afternoon — they were all starving. Still, Chuuya couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to snap, like there was tension waiting to explode. Every now and then, a shiver would crawl up his spine, from the nape of his neck all the way down. He only started feeling better after his second beer, courtesy of Hirotsu, and the three cigarettes he chain-smoked in the car on the way back to headquarters.
By the time they returned, it was evening. The group headed to Mori to report in, but were dismissed rather quickly. Something felt off — he could sense it in every fiber of his body. Just like he could hear the unmistakable sound of someone retching in the bathroom at the end of the hallway. He knew he should’ve minded his business. Normally, he would’ve ignored it. But that damned sense of dread just wouldn’t let up. He pushed the bathroom door open gently and spotted Dazai, hunched over the toilet. His black coat lay crumpled on the floor, and his shirt was stained with blood.
Chuuya dropped to his knees beside him, a hand resting on his back as Dazai’s body lurched again. His eyes were bloodshot from the strain, but also — Chuuya noticed — from recent crying. He was terrified to ask what had happened, but he needed to know. He had to see where Dazai was hurt and how badly.
“Dazai, let me see where you're bleeding.”
But Dazai wasn’t listening. He looked a thousand miles away, like he hadn’t even realized he wasn’t alone in the room anymore, too focused on emptying his stomach for the last time. With trembling, blood-streaked hands, he brushed his hair from his forehead and tried to stand.
“I need to clean up.” He sounded more like he was talking to himself than to Chuuya, still kneeling beside him. When he turned the tap on, he caught sight of the dried blood on his skin and let out a broken sob. Then he scrubbed his hands like he could erase what had happened, like he would’ve torn the skin off if he could.
But the worst part came when Dazai looked into the mirror and caught sight of the bloodstains on his shirt. His eyes widened, horrified. And that’s when Chuuya noticed that Dazai wasn’t wearing his usual eye patch. He wasn’t used to seeing both of Dazai’s eyes, and certainly not like this: both of them raw, open, and full of pain.
Dazai started unbuttoning his shirt, but his hands were shaking too much. He pulled at the fabric instead, ripping the buttons off one by one, tearing through the cotton with increasing desperation.
Chuuya stayed frozen, still on the floor. Barely breathing. He wanted to help, but his brain couldn’t form a single coherent thought.
Then Dazai started shouting. “Get off! Get off! Get off!” tugging and yanking, unable to get the shirt off fast enough. His whole body was shaking, his breathing shallow and fast, on the verge of hyperventilating. Chuuya couldn’t take it anymore, he got up and reached out, trying to help with the last stubborn button.
“Don’t touch me!” Dazai slapped his hand away, voice sharp and panicked.
“I’m trying to help!” Chuuya shouted back.
“I didn’t ask for your help!” With one last pull, the final button gave out, the shirt falling open and revealing his torso, wrapped in tight, spotless bandages, rising and falling in rapid, uneven waves.
Chuuya had seen Dazai have panic attacks before, but never like this.
Dazai stumbled toward the wall, using it to steady himself as the dizziness from his hyperventilation hit. He slid down to the floor and grabbed his head with both hands.
By now, Chuuya was certain the blood wasn’t his — the clean chest confirmed it. He knelt beside him again.
“Osamu, talk to me. Please.”
But Dazai only shook his head violently.
Chuuya didn’t push. That would’ve only made things worse. The fact that Dazai hadn’t shoved him away again was already a miracle.
They stayed like that for what felt like forever. Just breathing. Or trying to. The only sound was the occasional hitched sob. Eventually, the tremors began to ease. Dazai lowered his hands into his lap and finally turned to look at Chuuya — really looked at him — for the first time since he’d walked in.
And Chuuya froze.
He could tell immediately: something had broken. Something deep inside his partner had cracked open. It was just like when they fought side by side — he only needed a glance to know which way the plan would go. And without a single word, he understood: something inside Dazai had shattered, and he wasn’t sure if this new version of him had space for Chuuya anymore.
Then Dazai smiled. It was the saddest smile Chuuya had ever seen. One that would haunt him for years — the smile that surfaced every time he closed his eyes at night.
Dazai turned away, reaching into his coat on the floor. By the time Chuuya realized what he was pulling out, the barrel of the gun was already pressed against his temple. It didn’t take much to disarm him. Dazai didn’t resist. And for the second day in a row, Chuuya found himself kicking a gun out of Dazai’s reach.
“You always ruin my fun, Chuuya.”
“There’s nothing fun about this,” Chuuya snapped, waving a hand at the mess they were in.
“I’ve always wondered,” Dazai said, voice flat, “if your need to save me is just your way of making up for failing your old friends.”
“I know what you’re doing. It’s not gonna work.”
“Oh? And what exactly am I doing?”
“You’re trying to make me hate you.”
“But you already do, Chuuya.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
“Well, I hate you. I hate how loyal you are to the Port Mafia. You’d wag your tail for Mori if he told you to jump off a bridge. You’re completely replaceable. No one would give a damn if you died in a mission tomorrow. Do you know how many people die in this organization every day? And how fast they’re replaced?”
“Why the hell are we talking about me when you were the one vomiting covered in blood ten minutes ago?” Chuuya snapped, fury rising again. It had only taken a mention of the Flags to set him off — and now, the entire conversation was spiraling somewhere he couldn’t tolerate.
Dazai looked up slowly, eyes dull, mouth curled into that infuriating half-smile that always pushed Chuuya over the edge.
“At least I know I’m just another useless cog in the machine. You cling to the illusion that you matter.”
“You don’t know shit!” Chuuya shouted, fists clenched. “You wallow in your own misery and apathy and use that as an excuse to treat everyone like garbage! You think you're so damn enlightened, like you see the world for what it is, but you’re just a coward with a martyr complex! You like being alone. That way you can keep telling yourself no one ever wanted you around in the first place. If you want to die, fine! But stop dragging me into this fucking show every goddamn time!”
Silence. Then, slowly, Dazai picked up his coat and slipped it on, as if just now realizing he was still shirtless.
“Perfect.” His voice was empty. Void of anything. He walked to the door, then stopped in the frame, turning back one last time. “I hope you enjoy your happy little life as Mori’s lapdog. You’re really good at taking orders.”
“Go to hell, Dazai.”
“That’s where I’m headed.”
And then he was gone.
Chuuya stayed in the bathroom for a while longer, fists clenched tight at his sides, aware of three things in this order.
First: he’d gone too far. He’d acted exactly the way Dazai wanted people to act when he got like this, when all he wanted was to validate his own self-destructive spiral.
Second: as furious as he still was, he’d completely ignored the most important part: figuring out what the hell had happened that day while he was out with the Black Lizard. When they returned to debrief, Mori had dismissed them quickly, jotting down their success without much interest. But it was obvious his mind was elsewhere. Being the boss of the Port Mafia required Mori to always think ten steps ahead of the enemy, which naturally gave him a perpetually calculating and watchful expression. But Mori, much like Dazai — though the latter would never admit the resemblance — had a habit of tensing his shoulders when something troubled him, when things weren’t going as planned.
Third: there was an explosion.
His fight-or-flight response kicked in immediately. His muscles tensed, ready for action, and he sprinted toward the blast site, arriving at the same time as Akutagawa and several other Port Mafia operatives, already in position to neutralize any threat. Only a fool would try to launch an attack directly on the Port Mafia’s headquarters.
And yet the fool, this time, was him. Because there was no enemy, no immediate danger. Just his car engulfed in flames. And the sight of it — paired with the scene he’d just left behind with Dazai — only added fuel to the fire already burning in his chest. Screw those stupid breathing exercises Kouyou had been trying to get him to do. There were things he’d just have to learn to live with. And he had. Rage was one of them, the one that never left his side. He found comfort in it. That scorching heat, that familiar burn, rage was his friend, his companion.
“Ryuu, get the fire put out,” he said coldly. The last thing he wanted was to stand in the street one minute longer. “If there’s anything inside that hasn’t burned to ashes, I want it saved. I’m leaving.”
“It’s not safe to walk home after someone blew up your car.”
“Trust me, anyone who tries to talk to me right now wouldn’t live long enough to regret it. See you tomorrow.”
“Understood,” Akutagawa replied, already backing off. He’d learned exactly when to back down, a skill that had only grown sharper under Dazai’s leadership.
That night was one of the most pathetic in his life, just like the ones that followed in the weeks after.
The moment he got home, the urge to tear everything apart hit him hard. He wanted to rip the place down, smash everything in sight. But this was his home, and he wouldn’t let a temper tantrum destroy years of careful furniture collecting and interior decorating.
Instead, he made his way to the kitchen, opened the glass cabinet where he kept his most prized wines, and pulled out a bottle of 1889 Petrus. He didn’t let himself think about the cost.
The rage dulled after his fourth glass. Only then was he able to begin sorting through the chaos in his mind — images of soft brown eyes and messy chestnut hair refusing to leave his thoughts.
Dazai was about to do something reckless. And blowing up his car had been a message. A way of telling Mori that whatever came next wasn’t Chuuya’s fault. That he’d had no part in it. But he didn’t know how far the plan went. He hated not having Dazai’s brain, hated not being able to guess the next move, to play on equal footing.
He downed another glass. Then a darker thought crept in — what if there was no plan at all? What if he’d read the situation completely wrong? What if Dazai had just... left? What if it wasn’t a strategy, but a goodbye?
Chuuya poured another two glasses in quick succession before realizing he could just drink straight from the bottle. He didn’t even realize what his hands had done until he saw the sent message on his phone screen.
where are you?
11:37 PM
Shame hit him instantly.
He was angry, yes. Hurt, definitely. They were partners — friends, even, though they never said it out loud. And yet here he was, completely in the dark, while Dazai bled, plotted, vanished. And that made him furious.
But beneath the fury, there was still fear. The same fear that wrapped its hands around his throat and yanked him awake in the middle of the night, soaked in sweat, gasping from some nightmare where Dazai had died again — in a dozen awful ways.
He felt guilty. Guilty for the harsh things he’d said that night, and the one before. He’d promised himself he’d be more careful with his words. He knew how fragile Dazai’s mental state could be. And even if Chuuya wasn’t doing much better himself, words didn’t hit him the way they hit Dazai. Not when Dazai had made an art of turning everything into a joke so no one could tell how much he actually bled inside.
That smile — the one from the bathroom — came back to him in perfect clarity. Panic surged in his chest. Dazai had already made his decision. That much was clear. And whatever he was planning... it didn’t include Chuuya.
Tears stung behind his eyes, but he refused to cry. He wouldn’t give Dazai that satisfaction. He tried calling. No signal. Dazai had turned off his phone. Hands trembling, vision blurred by alcohol and dread, he typed out a series of messages, desperate and sloppy.
mackerel answer the goddamn phone
what r u doing
11:45 PM
im not mad pls sry
answerrr
11:47 PM
He realized he’d fallen asleep face-down on the table only when the phone rang and jolted him awake. He answered without even checking the caller ID.
CHUUYA:
DAZAI!
MORI:
No, Chuuya. I was calling to ask if you knew anything. But judging by your reaction, I take it you don’t.
CHUUYA:
Boss… did something happen?
It was hard to form coherent words, harder still to sound composed, which Mori always expected.
MORI:
Yes.
Silence. Chuuya could tell Mori was choosing his words carefully, saying only what was strictly necessary.
MORI:
Dazai-kun has disappeared. Every attempt to locate him has failed. I want to trust in your loyalty. If he contacts you, I expect to be informed. Understood?
CHUUYA:
Yes, Boss.
MORI:
I knew I could count on you, Chuuya. We’ll discuss more at work.
The call ended as abruptly as it began. His head was pounding. He didn’t know what to do.
Should he go out searching? Should he climb rooftops looking for a body? Or should he remain loyal, wait for instructions, pretend this was just another day? No, he told himself. There’s no proof Dazai won’t show up tomorrow like nothing happened. But he didn’t know the truth. No one had told him anything. No one thought he was important enough to be updated.
And once again, he found himself having to admit that Dazai was right. He was just another puppet in this place, moving under the illusion of free will. Still, he chose loyalty. At least the Port Mafia always gave him a purpose. And right now, purpose was the only thing keeping him from drowning.
He dragged himself to bed, still fully dressed, swaying slightly before collapsing into the sheets. A shower could wait. He passed out almost immediately. And then came the dreams.
He dreamed of Dazai, of course. The same setting, the same night. But in this version, Dazai broke into his apartment — something he’d done more than once just to piss him off — and found him in bed.
“They said you ran away,” Chuuya murmured, half-asleep as Dazai sat on the edge of the mattress.
“I could never abandon my dog. My sweet, loyal little dog.”
It was hard to be that close without touching him. Chuuya leaned his forehead against Dazai’s shoulder, but even that didn’t feel like enough. He pulled him down, pinned him under his weight, bracing himself on hands and knees, caging him in.
“You look like you want to kiss me, Slug.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.” The air between them thick with want.
“You’re not brave enough,” Dazai taunted with a grin.
There was nothing calm or patient about Chuuya, he always dove headfirst into things, and this wasn’t any different. But despite his explosive nature, the kiss he gave Dazai was surprisingly gentle at first. Hesitant. Testing. And when he realized he wasn’t being pushed away, he deepened it.
His hand found the back of Dazai’s neck, fingers sliding into soft brown hair.
Their mouths moved together with growing urgency — warm, insistent, but not rushed. Just... needy. Chuuya could feel the tension beneath him, the subtle ways Dazai responded, the hitch in his breath whenever Chuuya moved his hips just slightly.
And for once, he was the one in control. No need to ask for permission. No orders to follow. He could do whatever he wanted, and Dazai let him — no, welcomed it. His half-lidded eyes, parted lips, and exposed throat all invitations he didn’t need to voice.
Chuuya kissed just below his ear, then along his neck, slow and deliberate. Dazai shivered, the touch making him tremble.
The way he surrendered, body humming with quiet need and it was tender, almost cruel in how much it moved Chuuya. For once, it was up to him how far they went.
He ground against him just slightly, chasing a reaction, and he got one. A soft, muffled sound, and Dazai’s hands clutching at his waist like he needed something to hold onto. It was so rare to see him like that — vulnerable and wanting — that it almost hurt.
A sharp ring shattered the moment, high-pitched, urgent.
Chuuya jolted awake, breath shallow, skin warm, heart still racing like he was still on top of him. But there was no one there. He laughed quietly at himself, dragging a hand over his face as the ringtone cut off. For a few seconds, he just lay there, letting the weight of it settle. The frustration, the sadness and the truth that none of it had been real. That the version of Dazai who let himself be held — who let himself be loved — only existed in dreams.
Then came the second realization: he’d slept in. Badly. It was already past noon, and he was very late.
The missed call was from Kouyou and he knew better than to ignore her. He called back instantly. She picked up on the first ring.
KOUYOU:
Where the hell have you been?
CHUUYA:
I didn’t hear the alarm. I’m sorry, ane-san. I’m on my way.
KOUYOU:
Don’t bother. I told Mori you were handling something on my orders. Come in when you’re ready.
Then, like Mori had done the night before, she hesitated. But unlike him, she wasn’t trying to keep anything from him, she just wanted to phrase it right, to avoid worrying him more than necessary.
KOUYOU:
Have you heard?
Chuuya’s breath hitched. All at once, the nightmares rushed back, the ones where Dazai’s body was lying in a pool of blood, crushed beneath a train, floating lifeless in a bathtub, wrists slashed, or hanging from some forgotten warehouse ceiling. Drenched. Blue-lipped. Gone.
KOUYOU:
Chuuya-kun? Are you there?
CHUUYA:
Yeah. Sorry, ane-san. Go on.
KOUYOU:
I asked if you’d heard about Dazai.
Her voice had shifted noticeably. No warmth. No fondness. Just the cold, clipped tone she reserved for things or people she didn’t respect.
CHUUYA:
All I know is he’s missing. Has... has his body been found?
KOUYOU:
No. For now, Mori wants to wait and see. He’s given it a week. If Dazai doesn’t return voluntarily, he’ll be declared a deserter.
You and Mori know him well enough to realize that he’s not coming back. He’s made his choice.
CHUUYA:
He could’ve killed himself! And all of you are already calling him a traitor!
KOUYOU:
I know you cared for him more than anyone else did. Once we hang up, I want you to let it out. Scream, cry, throw something — I don’t care. But then I want you to take a shower, calm down, and meet me like you have yourself together. Don’t let your emotions run the show.
Chuuya was used to the intensity of his feelings, it always seemed like he experienced everything louder, stronger. He sometimes smiled remembering the younger version of himself, scared out of his mind, asking Dazai if he even was human. Dazai would usually answer by kicking him in the shin.
“You little bastard!” he’d yell, wincing and clutching his leg.
“No one would want a dumb clone like you yelling obscenities nonstop!”
“Who the hell are you calling dumb, huh?!”
With that sharp tongue of his, Dazai always knew how to snap him out of it, and weirdly, Chuuya loved him for that. For being there, in that strange, infuriating, comforting way only he knew how.
He hated seeing him trapped inside that mind of his. Dazai didn’t need saving, he needed someone to reach for his hand when he was ready to take it. But he was so good at running. And Chuuya knew he could never tell him how he really felt. If he did, Dazai would just curl up and shut him out. He wouldn’t push him away as a friend — of that, Chuuya was sure. But emotionally... Dazai wasn’t ready.
He wasn’t just hard to love, he was nearly impossible to reach. Always hidden behind a veil of apathy, like nothing ever truly mattered. He’d perfected the art of being present without participating, of smiling without meaning it, of speaking without ever really saying anything. It wasn’t cruelty. It was fear. Fear of being seen too clearly. Of being known, and then left behind. So he sabotaged everything first. Because if he was the one to leave, at least the pain of being abandoned wouldn’t be a surprise.
Chuuya would take his feelings to the grave if it meant sparing Dazai even one ounce of extra pressure. But for that to mean anything, Dazai had to be alive. And over the next four years, that hope slowly died.
Over time, visiting his old friends’ graves had become a comforting routine, a ritual that helped him cope. But it never brought him any peace when it came to Dazai. There was no grave to visit, no body to mourn. Mori insisted Dazai had simply fled, and throughout the halls of the Port Mafia, his name was whispered with disdain, always followed by the word traitor. It was hard to be understood when everyone around you told you to let it go, when people said there was no point grieving someone who was still alive.
But he had been there. Chuuya was right next to him, just before the disappearance. He’d seen the smile. And that smile had looked like surrender.
When the first week without his partner came to a close, Chuuya was summoned to Mori’s office. The message was clear: from now on, Dazai-kun was to be considered an enemy of the organization. And unfortunately, that meant Corruption would no longer be available as an asset.
Chuuya asked for a week off. He was granted five days. He made them work.
Those five days passed in a haze. He barely remembered the start of the first or the end of the last: everything in between blurred together like some unfinished sketch. Hours passed without shape, without sound. It was like life had gone grayscale, and someone had turned the volume down.
He stayed shut in his apartment. The only noise came from the clinking of empty wine glasses against the table, over and over again. He drank until he blacked out — repeatedly. And every time he did, he dreamed of Dazai. Dazai kissing him. Touching him. Whispering that everything would be alright. That things would go back to normal soon. And when Chuuya woke up, he could still feel that phantom touch. He would stumble to the bathroom, double over the sink, retching — swearing he felt a hand on his back, and a voice in his ear, telling him it was okay.
He cried, without shame. Alone, quietly. The tears came slow, like even they were tired of him.
He tried listening to music, but turned it off after a few seconds — it didn’t help. He picked up a book, but couldn’t focus long enough to read a single line. Eventually, he stopped checking the time altogether. When every hour felt the same, what was the point in counting them?
Toward the end of the fifth day, something in him shifted. It wasn’t strength. It wasn’t hope, it was just the knowledge that tomorrow, he had to go back to work.
He dragged himself into the shower, letting the scalding water run over his skin as if it could wash away the wine, the tears, and the weight of the past few days. When he finally stepped out, he stood in front of the mirror for a long time, staring at his reflection — eyes swollen, dark circles etched deep beneath them, his face drawn and tense, damp hair clinging messily to his forehead. He didn’t bother fixing himself up. He just stood there, breathing quietly, trying to convince himself that he could survive this.
He knew he wasn’t ready — not now, and probably not for a long time. But he still had to show up. He had to piece himself back together. He had to act like nothing had changed.
And so, he did. For four long years.
Until the day the man he thought was dead walked back into his life.