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If asked, Dazai couldn't really answer why the idea of suicide seemed so tempting to him. He could come up with many possible answers, most just to mislead and even annoy the curious interlocutor on duty. But he'd spent enough endless nights thinking about it to have realized by now that he actually didn't know.
Deep down, it wasn't suicide that was appealing, but the interruption of it. The feeling of being trapped and with no way out, about to put an end to everything, cut short by an indescribable relief: waking up after the blackout caused by an overdose, the expansion of his throat as he was climbed down the rope, the first gasp of air after being pulled out of the water.
He had discovered it from a very early age, to his misfortune, so young that he became addicted to that sensation like the most fantastic narcotic.
There was only one thing more addictive in this world.
He liked the attention of others, the knowledge that he was liked and wanted. He learned that flirting could get him that attention without much effort, that he had what it took to get the spotlight and win over anyone, and to get drunk to sleep on that attention, and to keep receiving it to soothe his hangover.
The problem came when the attention became, simply, too much.
It started with his first "girlfriend" (if you could even call it that) at 16. She was a sweet, beautiful girl with soft hair and cherry-flavored kisses. That was fine, making out in their free time, walks by the harbor watching the sunset and sharing matcha ice cream. Until she invited him to meet her family.
At first, Dazai tried to convince himself that what scared him about it was the fact that she would then ask to meet his family, and that was something that just couldn't happen. Dazai didn't have any family, to start with, so what was he going to do? Take her to Mori and Hirotsu?
So he dumped her the same day she suggested it.
It only took a line he didn't fully understand, but one he'd seen many times on corny TV shows and movies: "It's not you, it's me." And the girl was left devastated on the dock, watching him walk away with all the calmness in the world.
"I made a girl cry today," he blurted out in the hallways of headquarters.
The person walking next to him glanced at him, not very interested in the details.
"I'm not surprised."
"Why? Because girls cry about everything?"
“‘Cause you're despicable and you clearly don't give a damn whether or not you caused any harm.”
That started an argument, Dazai defending himself on the whole issue of whether he was despicable or not, and the other boy arguing that he knew him well enough to know the kind of person he was, and they continued like that until they had to leave it in order to enter the boss's office. That was always how things were with Chuuya; it was impossible to talk to him.
Maybe that would have been a one-time thing, if not for the fact that the next girl he dated had porcelain skin and grape-flavored kisses. Then she told him she loved him just three weeks after they'd met. In that moment, he felt trapped, as if enormous vines were wrapping around his arms and legs, making it impossible to move. Only the daggers in his words could cut through them: “We have to stop seeing each other,” he replied.
That's when he realized that the feeling of freedom that comes from escaping a budding commitment was a lot like being saved from a suicide attempt.
“Don't you have anyone else to bother?” his partner asked angrily when Dazai crashed into his apartment that night.
“Not anymore. Looks like I'll have to settle for you.”
It was a perfect combination: he could have the attention he craved, the company of beautiful women, and flee as soon as things started to get serious, thus obtaining the exquisite relief that coursed through his veins like a shot of adrenaline. And while he repeated the process, he had Chuuya to detoxify with—the stubborn, obnoxious Chuuya, who didn't condone any of his affairs and only complained about how horrible the existence of a womanizer like him was. Despiteful Chuuya who nevertheless allowed him to break into his place at any time.
Dumb Chuuya who was the first person he felt sorry for leaving.
Damned Chuuya he couldn't get rid of even after four years of separation.
During those four years, he continued feeding his addiction, seducing beautiful women, making them fall in love in a heartbeat, and running away as soon as he saw the first results in the sparkle in their eyes.
There were girls so lacking in affection that they fell too easily; the easiest to dump, they just felt like a sleeping pill swallowed with a glass of whiskey.
There were others who played hard for a while, but eventually gave in and they were passionate, devoted. Leaving them was like an acid trip, full of new colors and sounds.
Some were the most complicated. They didn't fall in love easily; most had already known a Dazai in their past and weren't willing to go through that again. But if they finally gave in, it was like a shot of heroin, leaving him wanting to do it again and again, but only for the feeling of release at the end of that short-lived relationship.
But there was a fourth type, who wasn't exactly a girl, but a man with big blue eyes and too much strength hidden in his small frame. He arrived in the tiny moments of withdrawal, like an ever-present hallucination, drilling into parts of his brain forbidden to anyone else.
When he was left with no other company but the moonlight and a half-finished bottle of sake, Dazai wondered what being saved by Chuuya in that way would be like.
He wondered if his skin was as easy to break as porcelain, or if his fingers would feel rough against him; What would his reaction be if he pulled his hair during a make out session, and if the orange fringes were as soft as they seemed all the time, if his kisses were like cherry, or grape, or some other flavor?
Questions that would never have answers, because this fourth kind would never give in to his advances; he despised him enough to fall under his spell. Or maybe it was the fact that Dazai couldn't even try, because every time he thought about it, his brain would short-circuit, and all that came out were insults and jokes.
But oh, how he would like to know.
Just to find out how easy it would be to run away from Chuuya after making him fall in love with him, of course. Or so he told himself all the time so he could sleep.
For now, he could only escape in small pieces, fleeing the forest before he woke up instead of bringing him back to headquarters, hoping the redhead wouldn't dwell too long on the fact that he took the time to fold his clothes next to him, because it would be a shame if, of all people, it was Chuuya himself who noticed how much Dazai cared for him.
That he cared enough to break into his place when he was just alone again.
That he cared enough to forget everything he knew about seduction when he tried to flirt with him like he would with any pretty girl.
But most of all, that he cared enough to push aside the desire to get drunk in the feeling of freedom when escaping any bond, because he simply didn't want to run away from Chuuya.
Dazai would bolt from anyone else, but he would always come back to him.