Chapter Text
Dazai doesn't usually get drunk. Chuuya is a lightweight who falls very quickly, but Dazai has a horribly high tolerance for alcohol (And drugs. And poisons. And substances in general), so he doesn't usually get to that point.
However, today is a special day. He started drinking in the morning and continued the rest of the day, stopping only to go to the cemetery. By then, despite all he had drunk, he still wasn't really drunk.
Another year since Odasaku's death.
The president had given him the day off after Kunikida, as gossipy as he pretended not to be, had let it slip that Dazai lost a friend on a day like today. Definitely saying that to his partner a year ago had been a fundamental moment of weakness that Dazai should be careful not to repeat.
He has many moments of weakness on this particular day, no matter how many years continue to pass.
Kunikida has no idea that he didn't do Dazai any favors. It gave him time off on his most volatile day of the year (which is saying a lot), when all Dazai is looking for is to occupy himself and not think about what happened. Although, well, he feels Odasaku's body in his arms every day of his life, today shouldn't be special, just another day when he has to find another distraction.
And that is drinking. And predict what time of day Ango will attend the cemetery, for him to attend at the most opposite time possible to that.
Dazai is wearing white flowers today. Not whiskey, he saves that for Lupine. Just flowers. Odasaku liked flowers. What feels like a lifetime ago, he had taught Dazai how to make flower crowns. "To entertain the children," he had said, as Dazai happily told him about the best flowers for committing suicide.
Dazai sits in front of the grave and uses some of the flowers to braid a wreath, imagining Odasaku's fingers guiding his hands. While doing so, he talks to the stone and marble tombstone about some nonsense. He talks mainly about Atsushi, because he knows that Odasaku would appreciate the stories of the orphaned boy that Dazai strived to protect in his own very stunted way. He also tries not to mention the knife he held next to his neck this morning, because it would be rude to imply that he almost didn't come to see Odasaku today.
When the sun finally begins to go down, Dazai places the wreath on the tombstone and stands up. He hates the way a date has the power to double the pain in his chest. It's illogical and uncontrollable, the two things Dazai hates the most.
"Maybe we'll see each other soon, Odasaku," Dazai hums, and he's not talking about visiting a grave this time.
Honestly, Dazai thinks it might be time to...leave. Five years have passed since his promise and he has done things. Dazai is on the side of the light now, he has saved many people and taken metaphorical and literal shots for causes greater than himself (or rather, his lack of self). He has made friends (or at least, the closest thing to a friend someone like him can have) and cared for orphans. Atsushi has a family now and Dazai has been able to guide him towards that. Atsushi doesn't need him anymore. Even Akutagawa is much more on the light side than the dark at this point, he's made a promise not to kill and he has Atsushi. They have each other and do not need any mentor when they are already able to balance each other not only in battles.
Besides, Fyodor is dead. Dazai's role was to fight him, defeat him, take him off the board so the Agency and Yokohama can rest, and he did that.
The Agency doesn't need him, not anymore. There are no major enemies on the near horizon, there is a tentative truce with the Port Mafia, and anyway, they are much stronger now to fight whatever comes.
What is Dazai doing, if not consuming air that should belong to Odasaku?
Dazai knows that all the good he's done will never make up for all the bad he's already done or wash away any of the blood he covered himself in growing up. But he never intended it to be that way, he simply promised to go to the light side and do something good, and he did.
And Dazai is so tired. He was never supposed to live this long. He has wandered this world for years and years, and the purpose of his life never came, because he never had it and never will have it. He is not human enough to obtain a purpose, much less to do something as natural as living.
Everything is fine in Yokohama now. All the pieces are in place. The puzzle is now complete and there is no room for Dazai, neither in the Agency, nor in the Port Mafia, nor anywhere else. There's no room for half a human whose smile breaks if they don't look at him. He is unworthy. Empty. Overflowing. Distant. And he wants to leave.
(Does he want to? Or should he? Is there even a difference?)
Some people just shouldn't be alive (and others, like Odasaku, should never leave).
Dazai thinks Odasaku would understand. He would pat him on the shoulder and say, "Good job. Take a break."
And that's what he will do.
His steps lead him to the bridge. Not towards the usual one on the canal, but towards the Yokohama Bay Bridge. 860 meters towards the water. Infallible. And lonely at this time of the afternoon.
Dazai balances on the edge for a while, taking in the view.
He kind of hates that there's a part of him that doubts, the same part of him that at the Agency's celebrations longs to be a part of it instead of running away when he gets the chance, the part of him that desperately wants a purpose for staying. The part of him that reminds him of the voices of Agency members:
"Remember to eat, waste of bandages. I'll call you to make sure"
"You have my number. If I want candy, I'll call you. Call me and see what I can offer in exchange"
"Dazai-san, take care of yourself"
Phrases that make a whirlwind in his head. Dazai is unworthy of each of them.
And of course, there's the part of him that thinks about Chuuya. It is impossible not to do it.
Chuuya is his partner and his enemy. It's the only constant in his life that hasn't faded with time, that's still there, holding on tooth and nail as if it can't let itself let go. Chuuya is the voice that insults him with fury and the one that calls him by name when everything falls apart. He's the fist that crashes into his face with a glow of hate and the hands that sometimes hold him without asking.
Chuuya is the one who hates him more than anyone, and yet, he is the one who knows him best than everyone.
Chuuya's voice in his head almost made him smile.
"I will be the one to finish you, bastard. You are forbidden to die before that."
But in the end, they will all be better off without him. What happened to Odasaku can't happen to anyone else if Dazai takes himself out of the equation, it's that simple.
As simple as taking a step forward into the void and-
Someone grabs Dazai by the collar of his jacket before he can start to fall.
"Oi, you idiot! The fucking Bay Bridge?! Did you want to fuck with me personally?!"
Chuuya. The only variable that is capable of escaping from his equations, a fact as wonderful as it is irritating.
Dazai sighs, feeling terribly disappointed. He really thought it would be today, now, on this bridge.
"Last time I checked, the bridge didn't belong to the Port mafia, much less a midget slug," the brunette complains, but the scoff sounds weak at best. He was ready to-
"Oh, fuck you, you stupid bandage bastard," Chuuya whines, pulling Dazai by the collar of his coat to get him away from the edge.
"That's where I was going until slug interrupted me!" The brunette dramatizes, pointing towards the void that extends beyond the edge of the bridge with theatricality.
Chuuya growls and launches a kick that misses on purpose. Dazai makes a gesture of dodging it, so that Chuuya retains the illusion that the brunette really thought he was going to receive a kick.
It's very unfair that Chuuya, the only person who makes him feel a little more alive (incredibly more alive) in the world, is here right now when Dazai intended to die.
"You're not going to kill yourself on this fucking bridge! It's too close to mafia territory and you know it. You're not going to screw us with any more problems."
You're not going to kill yourself. There's a certain kind of particular desperation in Chuuya's eyes, beneath the obvious hatred, when those words come out of his mouth.
"Oh, Chuuya is so smart! He figured out my plan right away." Dazai smiles widely, all fake and hand-stitched.
"Shut up, asshole," the redhead snorts, and then looks at him warily from the corner of his eye.
Oh no, here it comes.
"I know that today-"
No. Not that. Not compassion. Not from Chuuya. Not about Odasaku.
"Oh? Does Chuuya know something? I thought his brain was too small to store knowledge!"
The hit he takes in retaliation is nice, making Dazai feel slightly less removed from reality.
"I'm being fucking serious," Chuuya frowns, pulling Dazai like he's a rag doll, "I'm taking you to my apartment, you stupid moron. And we're going to drink because I can't stand you sober today."
Ah, so they're going to do that. It's not the worst possible outcome for the end of this day, even if Dazai didn't get what he wanted.
"This is a kidnapping! A dog is kidnapping me!"
"Shut your damn mouth or I'll close it with my fist!"
They did it twice before. The first time after the fight with Lovecraft. Chuuya arrived at Dazai's house, very drunk, to yell at him for abandoning him in the forest. The redhead punched him in the face and then kissed him against the wall. And Dazai allowed it, because deep down he had been wanting that since the moment Chuuya grabbed him by the hair in the Port Mafia dungeon and they looked into each other's eyes. Dazai wanted Chuuya to love him to hurt him.
Chuuya told him that he hated him the whole time things between them happened and that was fine, because Dazai hates Chuuya too. He hates him so much that he has trouble breathing whenever the redhead is around. He hates him for making him feel like he's human when Dazai clearly isn't, at least not fully.
(And he, of course, likes Chuuya for the same reasons he hates him. He is fascinated by the redhead in ways that few have managed to fascinate the brunette in his entire miserable existence.)
The second time they did it was after Mersault. Dazai had never felt as alive as the moment they took the plane back to Yokohama. They had beaten Fyodor. Together. Chuuya and him. And the effect that this had had on them was still burning within them when they arrived at the hotel. They were like two halves of the same thing at that moment. Trust had burned in their chests like the most wonderful of bonfires to burst into sparks, and their bond of partners was fully ignited to accomplish the mission: connected, synchronized even more than normal. It wasn't like the first time, which had been barely contained fury and violence mixed with desire. This time, Chuuya didn't smash him against the wall or bite his mouth until it bled. Instead, he looked at him with those overly intense eyes, as if trying to make sure that Dazai was there, that he was still breathing, alive. And then he touched him. With the firm, sure hands of someone who knows every fiber of his being, but with a patience that Dazai found disconcerting. With a gentleness that Dazai found objectively terrifying.
It was that last time that made the brunette make the conscious decision that that would not happen again. Because that, the way Chuuya looked at him, the way he hugged him afterwards… That was dangerous. But the way Dazai felt, the warmth... That was lethal, and the detective's calculations predicted nothing good about it, not a single good outcome.
But today even those calculations are crushed by the possibility of feeling something else, anything that allows him to eclipse an absence and the perpetual failure that accompanies it.
"Why does Chuuya kidnap me?" Dazai asks quietly as Chuuya pulls him towards the car (it's a much more discreet black one than the bright red one Dazai blew up in the past), "I thought he wanted me to die as much as I want?"
Chuuya doesn't look at him when he answers, but he tightens his grip on his wrist enough that it hurts.
"I thought you understood that I'm the one who's going to kill you." he growls, "I protect my right to finish you."
"You could exercise that right now~" Dazai points out, making sure his tone sounds honeyed and tempting to irritate him further.
Push. Press. Take.
Dazai can feel the way Chuuya tenses.
"Today I want to drink." The redhead insists, being careful in the indifference of his tone, but Dazai can read Chuuya no matter how hard the redhead tries to appear indifferent, "And you're going to come with me because otherwise I'm going to hit you and drag you unconscious with me anyway, you fucking bastard."
Ah, Chuuya is worried. Dazai shouldn't be surprised by that. Chuuya is like that, layers and layers of nobility beneath all that turbulent rage or that calm, cold distance. He is a loyal dog who clings and holds on to what he feels is his, no matter how many breaks there are in between (The Sheep. Verlaine. Dazai).
Chuuya holds his gaze intensely for a moment before speaking again.
"Only today, Dazai. You know why." Chuuya snaps, surprisingly serious, "Tomorrow you're back to being the fucking traitorous bastard that I'll kill on sight." He growls, and then softens his grip on Dazai's wrist and repeats quietly, "Just today."
Dazai could refute that. He could mock Chuuya to make the redhead regret his words. He might kick to be let go. He could provoke a real fight. If Dazai really wanted to, he could get rid of Chuuya.
But the brunette is too tired today to fight, because doing so would mean an effort and he doesn't want to. Dazai want Chuuya, at least this time. At least today.
"Well, if Chuuya insists, who am I to deny him my wonderful company," he hums with apparent petulance, because appearances are important.
Dazai looks at the increasingly distant bridge and sighs in resignation as he allows himself to be dragged along by a growling, jabbering Chuuya who squeezes his wrist firmly but with a careful softness that he never knows how to interpret.
Yes, it won't be today.
As they ride in the car, Dazai allows Chuuya to pretend that Dazai wasn't seriously thinking about jumping off that bridge to a faultless death and that the only reason he's not dead now is a circumstantial fluke at best (he knows that fact is what's eating away at Chuuya's head now).
He can be that generous.
When they get to Chuuya's apartment, all they do is drink. Slug has sake for him, another overly thoughtful gesture that makes Dazai's stomach churn and which he has to compensate for by pressing hard enough to get hit multiple times.
Chuuya drinks wine, of course. And although he drinks much less than the brunette, the redhead obviously gets drunk sooner.
However, Dazai gets drunk this time too. He drinks and drinks and drinks because Dazai should be dead and since he's not (again) he should at least be numb.
It's a bit embarrassing to admit that he wouldn't get drunk with anyone but Chuuya (and Odasaku and Ango back in the day, but it's obvious why that doesn't happen anymore, in both cases). The culprit is that thick, slimy thing called trust, of course.
Being drunk is pleasant, the drowsiness makes his whole body tingle and his thoughts scatter like a whirlwind of cherry blossoms. It's as close to being dead as he can get now.
Chuuya, next to him, is like a whirlwind of cherry blossoms too, an exotic beauty within the chaos and- Dazai is very drunk.
"I'm going to call that stupid Dazai," Chuuya says suddenly, clumsily taking his phone out of his pocket where he's sitting on the floor.
Beside him, Dazai nods seriously, and then realizes-
"I'm Dazai."
Chuuya looks at him surprised, and then as if Dazai's own presence offended him greatly.
"You-" the redhead throws the phone in his face. Right between the eyes. Dazai barely even feels it, "You were going to die without telling me! You fucking moron!" The redhead stammers, slurring his words due to the alcohol.
Dazai laughs, drunk and hollow and somehow also very drunk of Chuuya.
"I hate you," Chuuya huffs, leaning down to yank Dazai off the ground.
"You say the sweetest things, slug," Dazai responds, clicking his tongue, stumbling forward. Chuuya, who is also staggering, falls backwards and they both end up lying on the carpet in a mess of disorganized limbs.
"Ay!"
"You bastard! Get off!"
"Stop hitting me! Bad dog!"
"Fuck you!"
"If you want"
"Maybe I want!"
"Fine"
Dazai leans in to kiss Chuuya, but Chuuya was already halfway towards him and they meet in the middle in a drunken, hard kiss, forceful like a punch in a bare-knuckle fight.
The kiss quickly becomes intense and deep, and Chuuya begins to run his hands up and down Dazai's body, pushing him roughly against the wall and ripping off the buttons on his cheap shirt. Dazai moans lightly as Chuuya grazes his teeth over his bottom lip and down to his neck. His hands move blindly, searching for an anchor, and he squeezes Chuuya's small waist that fits into his hands as perfectly as ever.
"You're an idiot," Chuuya whispers against his skin, voice stuttering slightly from the alcohol, and he grabs Dazai roughly by the hair to go for another kiss, "A complete idiot. You were going to-"
Dazai interrupts him with the kiss he was looking for, because he doesn't want to hear that, he doesn't want to think about it. In nothing. This is perfect. The brunette squeezes Chuuya's waist in his hands and lowers them from there to press his firm belly with his fingers. The redhead gasps into Dazai's mouth, raw and desperate, and begins to slide (more like tear) Dazai's bandages off his body. The brunette doesn't care about his exposed scars, not when Chuuya has already seen and touched the depths of his rotten soul, several times.
Dazai isn't thinking about anything, he just feels a mess of things, and it's perfect, because the weight of Odasaku's corpse in his arms is gone, and in its place only Chuuya remains. His hands. His lips. His strength. His hatred. His damn wonderful loyalty. His gentleness in the strength with which he picked him up, dragged him back down the hallway, and pushed him against the bed.
Dazai doesn't think about anything when Chuuya brings his gloved fingers to his mouth, just rips off his gloves with his teeth, not missing a single second of the hazy eye contact they hold. He doesn't think about anything when Chuuya tears off his clothes piece by piece until he strips him naked in front of him.
Blurred. Marvelous. Without any control because his brain is too immersed in alcohol to be able to calculate the possible consequences and pros and cons of doing this again and Chuuya had just spread Dazai's thighs with the palms of his hands and- Uff.
"Damn you," Chuuya growls, but his thumb just found Dazai's clit, so Dazai doesn't care. Nothing matter when his partner punish him with the privilege of have him in his hands.
Nothing matter except Chuuya's expert fingers spreading the soaked folds of his pussy. Running his thumbs slowly along the edges with his bare hands. Rubbing too soft, too slow to- Torturing him.
"Please Chuuya..." Dazai's words come out muffled and breathless, his body tense as he feels his pussy throb at the attention, "Please..." He says it knowing full well the effect that begging has on Chuuya, and he enjoys watching the way the redhead's cock tightens even more in his pants at the begging. That had to hurt. In his clouded mind, Dazai hoped so.
"Fuck," Chuuya huffs, mad with arousal, and he plunges two fingers into Dazai's heat forcefully, "Beg me more," he orders.
Dazai gasps, throwing his head back, his judgment clouded by the alcohol, subdued by the pleasure of not thinking, and it's not difficult for him to obey, "Please...Please...Please..."
If they had been sober, Chuuya would have made him beg a lot more, would have tortured him by giving him crumbs until he screamed, but being drunk the redhead was much more impatient, so he just growled, kissing his neck until he bit, and curled his fingers towards himself, deep inside Dazai. In response, the brunette arched beneath him with glassy eyes wide.
Dazai has never been loud in sex, but the way his body moved and his fingers curled tightly against the sheets between small muffled gasps never left any doubt of the effects his partner had on him.
The movement of Chuuya's fingers inside Dazai soon turned into strong, rhythmic thrusts that helped take him to an even higher level and Oh god- there was no thought. None at all. No mental noise. Just Chuuya and the remains of the sake and wine colliding in their mouths as the redhead moved up his neck to kiss the gasps leaving his lips.
"I hate you so much," Chuuya gasps into his ear, raw and open before him even though it's Dazai who's completely naked, "I hate that you make me feel like this."
Dazai is too stunned in the disarray of his own body to respond coherently, his legs moving and shaking against his will. He barely registers the way Chuuya kisses the long horizontal scar on his chest as he moves his fingers inside. It's so close, so-
"Ch-Chuuya," he gasped, because it was all Chuuya now. No thought, no strategy. Chuuya was all-encompassing. His hands, his fingers, the weight of his body.
Chuuya Chuuya Chuuya.
The way Chuuya maneuvers to pull down his own pants with one hand while continuing to push his fingers inside Dazai with the other. The way he inserts his hard cock inside him, first the tip, torturously slow, and then the rest, fast and deep to the bottom.
No thoughts. Just Chuuya. Dazai is warm and wonderfully full of Chuuya.
Chuuya, who wraps him up.
Chuuya, and his onslaught.
Chuuya, who bites Dazai's neck and moans in his ear.
Chuuya, who knows exactly what places to press, where to hold, where to push, to finish the work of the alcohol and turn Dazai's brain into a gray mass without any sense.
Chuuya, who tugs at Dazai's hair and growls as the brunette's legs wrap around him, "Fuck, damn, you're an asshole," words spoken in drunken babbling that get lost in the heat burning into Dazai's skin.
"Don't stop," Dazai begs in return with a choked gasp that should be embarrassing but isn't, because it's all his brain can think about. He needs more, more, more. Right now, if he could, he would selfishly take every piece of Chuuya until he vanished whole within him.
Nothing else matters now.
"I'm not...doing it" the redhead stammers, pushing harder into him at the same time that his fingers touch Dazai with absolute delicacy, rubbing, opening, pressing.
Right now, Chuuya could kill Dazai if he wanted to, he could slide a knife between his ribs, rip him open, and Dazai wouldn't even notice until he'd lost so much blood that he wouldn't feel anything at all.
But he doesn't.
Instead, Chuuya fills him, invades him with an intensity that disarms him more than any wound, than any stab. Dazai arches, air caught in his throat as his body burns in ecstasy from the sensation. He hates it. He hates how easy it is to give himself over to Chuuya, how natural it feels to let him take control, push him over the edge and hold him there, like he knows exactly how to break him, exactly how to make him writhe beneath him with no escape. He hates it and at the same time craves it like the most lethal of drugs.
It's too much.
The rhythm, the friction, Chuuya's weight on him, the way his mouth continues to mark his skin with kisses that burn, with teeth that tear. Dazai forgets to breathe, he forgets absolutely everything except the pleasure that consumes him, drowns him, forces him to fall into a spiral of sensations that take him to the point of no return. He clings to Chuuya, fingers digging into his back as he gasps and begins to feel the familiar pull and heat pool in his belly.
Chuuya must be feeling the same because he lets out a low, hoarse moan that stirs the depths of Dazai's insides. His breathing is hot and erratic against the brunette's skin, each thrust clumsier, more desperate, until he finally stops with a deep tremor. And then he fills him, warm and overwhelming in a whole new intensity.
In response, Dazai's body tenses uncontrollably, the sensation coursing through him like a direct blow to the nerves, driving him to the edge of a twenty-story building and just pushing him from there. He arches beneath Chuuya, a ragged gasp escaping his lips as pleasure grips him in a sudden, brutal surge. His back curves, his fingers clinging to Chuuya desperately as his mind clouds and his body breaks in climax, trembling, falling into the abyss of sensation with his breath short and his chest tight and moans uttered by a voice he doesn't recognize but which must be his own.
By the time Dazai manages to catch his breath, Chuuya is still on top of him, chest rising and falling with each heavy gasp, already half asleep because there is no better recipe than alcohol and orgasms to induce sleep in his Slug. Dazai half-opens his eyes, feeling the warmth that still seeps between their bodies, the humidity clinging to his skin, the crushing and sure force of his partner's body on his, and he doesn't think about anything else.
Dazai just wraps an arm around Chuuya's waist and closes his eyes, letting himself be drawn into the darkness.
In the end, returning to their teenage habits has proven to be, once again, much easier than even Dazai had anticipated (Are they still just teenage habits if they've already done it three times as an adults?).
Of course, what happened tonight is all they will ever do. Chuuya is tough and Dazai forces him to be even tougher and he almost almost feels alive. But there is nothing more, they will still avoid each other and maintain the artificial hatred that represents the perfect excuse for the intensity that surrounds them every time they gravitate towards each other. Dazai provokes and Chuuya hits. This is how it will always be.
It can't be any other way. Although Dazai still remembers with amusement the clumsy seventeen-year-old Chuuya who asked him, even pressing his body on top of Dazai's in bed, if he had done it right (It had been sweet fun), as if Dazai was human and deserved care (that teenage Chuuya had a lot to learn, adult Chuuya knows better).
But that, that softness, like all other human things, is not something Dazai should have, much less something he is worthy of.
In the end, death is the only thing Osamu Dazai will ever be worthy of.
So the next morning, very sober and in his senses again (unfortunately), Dazai slipped out of the covers, got dressed and fastened his suit meticulously, taking care to be quiet so as not to wake the redhead. The brunette was at Chuuya's house longer than he had planned (he hadn't planned it at all, which is even worse), and now he felt pressure to return to the real world, to get out of there quickly, away from Chuuya's breathing and the way his arms had stretched over the empty space that Dazai had left on the bed as if to try to find him.
As with any bubble of calm perilously placed on the edge of the real world, it is dangerous to stay too long: One can forget that one does not really belong in that space. That's why Dazai has to go now. Before stroking Chuuya's hair or wrapping his arms around his waist becomes an irresistible urge.
If he thinks about it, he's doing Chuuya a favor by saving him the effort of kicking him out, which is what the redhead would have done when he woke up.
(Chuuya did it, in fact, when they went to bed after Lovecraft, and they were at Dazai's house at the time. The brunette had a bruise on his ribs all week from that kick that got him out of bed.)
(Chuuya didn't, after Mersault. He was kind and awkward and made breakfast, which still baffles Dazai. Probably the only reason he had the chance to do that was because Dazai still had a broken leg and sneaking around was considerably more work. And because they had to catch another flight together, of course.)
Considering the background, there's a small chance that Chuuya wouldn't have kicked him out at all, but Dazai doesn't want to predict what would happen in that alternate outcome, especially without the pressure of getting on a flight soon and the constant calls from their respective sides to report and do damage control. It would involve too many possibilities that he doesn't plan to explore.
Still, Dazai lingers on the way he ties his shoes and straightens his coat, lingers so he can observe Chuuya's calm form under the expensive sheets a little longer. Because he doesn't want to leave.
But he hadn't wanted to lose Odasaku either. He had also not wanted to investigate the irregularities he noticed in Ango. Both things was mistakes. All because he held on too tightly to things he was always destined to lose. That won't happen again.
Chuuya is getting too close to him (again), especially after beating Fyodor. It's not that the redhead is looking for Dazai, but he doesn't seem so angry anymore, his confidence is less of a bite and more like he's opening his chest and putting his heart in Dazai's hands for a limited time (the dead apple incident is a great example of that). Dazai can't allow it. Chuuya needs to continue seeing Dazai as a calculating, inhuman idiot, one who cares about nothing. That is. That's why neither of them can have more of this.
That's also why getting drunk with Chuuya goes on the list of moves that Dazai can't play again under any circumstances. Yesterday was a moment of weakness, for Odasaku, that's all.
As he approaches the door, Dazai's heart clenches annoyingly. But he's also relieved to not have to deal with this at all, to nip it in the bud before it blooms (as if this between them wasn't already a whole, mature tree).
The brunette reaches the door and opens it gently. He leans out and looks outside. It's a clear day and Yokohama shines in the sun. Dazai closes the door behind him without another moment of hesitation and leaves, walking quickly and with his body upright.
As he walks towards the Agency instead of towards any nearby bridge (and he knows the exact location of all the nearby bridges), he finds himself smiling with resignation and softness.
Chuuya won this match, in the end. Because Dazai won't die today either.
Tomorrow, maybe.
Chuuya sat on the bed and sighed when he heard the door close. He'd been awake most of the time, listening to every step Dazai had taken as he dressed and left without looking back, and feeling a sickening mix of regret, satisfaction, and longing for what had happened between them the night before. Again.
Last night had felt different, less like when they slept together after the fight with Lovecraft and more like when they did it as a teenager, hard but real, clumsy but soft. That something real that Chuuya has never gotten from anyone but Dazai, because Dazai is the only one who sees him for who he is, all the layers of anger, hatred, distance, and bestiality, and yet he trusts Chuuya and flutters around him as if the redhead was the simple human he's always wanted to be.
But Dazai is gone again. As usual. And did Chuuya even want anything else? Wouldn't he have kicked him out of his house himself, if he'd had the chance? But that's the point, right? Dazai didn't give him the chance. He never does, not in this.
Dazai is calculating, manipulative, a cunning strategist who is always planning something. Dazai makes no missteps and his stumbles are all fake: A mantra that Chuuya forgets much more than he should. Kouyou once told Chuuya that Dazai was like a black hole: he would take and take until there was nothing left. She even said that it wasn't Dazai's fault, just as much as it's not the scorpion's fault that he stings. Chuuya should know better than to ignore his Ane-san.
Still, sometimes (like last night, like after Mersault) it is very difficult not to believe that there is something more there. Sometimes, just sometimes, Chuuya feels like Dazai is closer to him than ever. And that's damn hard to forget.
Obviously, the redhead knows it's stupid to think like that (which doesn't make him stop doing it). Chuuya shouldn't see things where there aren't any.
So when the brunette left, Chuuya stayed in bed and pretended to stay asleep, feeling strange and confused and angry about everything that had happened, and wishing everything was easier.
Chuuya will never have Dazai the way he wants (does he even want him in any way? -Yes, he does-), and he should be happy to dodge that bullet, not feel it stuck in his chest (he feels that bullet stuck in his flesh as if it were metal and not a metaphor).
"But things will never be easy with you, will they, you stupid mackerel?"