Chapter Text
Nakahara Chuuya sits cross-legged on the balcony chair he had dusted off earlier. His eyes are pinned on the horizon, where the sun rises, slowly, from behind the skyscrapers; it paints the sky a striking gradient of reddish gold to a light blue. It has always been amusing to him, the way time drags on no matter what. The world could go to hell, everyone could die, the earth could explode, and yet… that sun would still rise, unaffected. It wouldn’t give two fucks about the state of humans or the world — many a times, Chuuya has tried to be that way, too.
Without taking his eyes off of the horizon, he lights his cigarette, and watches as the smoke diffuses from his mouth and into the air. The familiar bitter tang of the nicotine hits his tongue. He sighs, leaning back into his chair.
“Don’t get so relaxed,” a voice says from behind him, smooth and slow. “I need you out of here in five minutes.”
Chuuya takes a deep, purposeful puff off the cigarette. Then he turns to the dark-haired man besides him, looks him in the face, and breathes it out onto his face boldly.
But, of course, Dazai Osamu does not even flinch. He just watches him blankly — as ever always.
“I’ll be gone soon,” Chuuya responds monotonously.
“Be gone quicker,” Dazai says, but he sits down beside him habitually. “I have places to be.”
“Other than rotting in your bed?”
“Yes.”
That’s the only explanation Chuuya gets. As he had expected, the cigarette gets slyly plucked out from between his fingers — and, by the time he looks over, it’s in Dazai’s mouth. The brunet takes a deep puff, lets it out. Doesn’t even look at Chuuya. Not once. He never does after they spend a night together. Never closely, just superficially — a fleeting glance, a blank glare.
“I’ll finish my fag and I’ll go, bastard,” Chuuya grumbles moodily, snatching his cigarette back. “You go get ready for whatever it is.”
“I am ready.”
Whilst Chuuya smokes his cigarettes, he stares at Dazai curiously. His brown hair is still a tangled mess from where Chuuya had ran his fingers through it, pulled it, anchored himself. His bandages — previously in a state of disarray — have now been firmly wrapped back around his torso, covering not just his scars, but the scratches Chuuya left there with his blunt nails. His lips are still a little plump from the kisses, eye-bags prominent from where he lost his sleep to fucking Chuuya for hours straight. On top of that, he’s still pretty much naked, except for his boxers.
It doesn’t take long for Chuuya to understand why.
“Seriously?” Chuuya asks, a bitter touch to his voice as he stubs his cigarette out prematurely in the ash tray. “Fucking me wasn’t enough for you, so you gotta find another?”
Dazai shrugs indifferently. “Yes,” he answers simply.
Chuuya scoffs. He’s offended, and he’s annoyed at how obvious it must be. “Fuck you, then,” he snaps, standing abruptly. “Go have fun with your whores. And don’t call me again — ever. You got that?”
Dazai just smiles knowingly.
Resisting the urge to punch him in the jaw or throw him off the balcony, Chuuya storms past him, grabs his things, and leaves the bastard’s soulless, bare penthouse without another word.
Of course, Dazai will call him again.
Chuuya might ignore it once. Or twice. Or even three times.
But, eventually, he’ll pick up.
And he’ll be back. No matter what, he’ll be back, and Dazai knows it.
Lately, Chuuya hates himself for it.