Chapter Text
Chuuya was twenty-seven.
He would get home from work to a warm bed, his Osamu was already laying on his side. Chuuya had learned not to ask questions. He never asked about the pillows layered between them, about the dent in the mattress that seemed to press deeper that was the shape of Osamu's body, about the trashcan placed beside Osamu's side of the bed.
Sometimes Chuuya noticed the lack of dishes. How he’d come home and there'd be an empty sink and dishwasher and how the pantry was still full. He would ask his Osamu about eating, but he was afraid to press the question. What if Osamu spiraled? What if his husband shut down? What if-
Since when did I have to tiptoe around him? Since when did I start treating him like glass?
And when did the trash begin to fill up with blood?
Don’t ask. You don’t want to know. Don’t ask, you don’t want to see his face, the one where his eyes are blank and he smiles and squeezes his own throat. That look when it's so hysterically horrifying that he can’t help but laugh. That grin he gives when he’s contemplating suicide.
Chuuya stopped asking, because he was a coward.
It wasn’t that they didn’t love each other. Chuuya loved Osamu.
Or maybe a version of him that didn’t exist.
But Chuuya wasn’t miserable in his marriage. His favorite time was when he’d wake up for work when it was dark and Osamu would already be up, his shadow leaning over the kitchen counter and staring into a pit of coffee. Between those morning breaths, Chuuya would approach him from behind and hold him close, rocking him back and forth. Baby please don’t leave.
Chuuya would kiss his cheek gently, feathering his lips across a pale mask. He’d promise to make time to come home for dinner he never did and he’d let his fingertips linger over his husband's.
And while Chuuya wasn’t miserable in his marriage,
The thought of coming home dreaded him. Not that he hated seeing his husband, but the suffocation.
If Chuuya went home he’d have to speak to him. He’d have to ask him what was wrong. He’d have to look into the eyes of someone who wanted a messiah but chose the lamb.
Chuuya didn’t want to fail. He didn’t want to say something wrong and become a noose. He didn’t want Osamu to shatter when he touched him. He didn’t want to fight anymore.
Chuuya didn’t want to go home to that dark bedroom with the outline of the shape of someone he used to love.
No he didn’t mean that. He still loved Dazai. He loved Dazai. He loved Dazai.
But Osamu…
Chuuya never came home before nine anymore. Chuuya never came home before ten anymore.
Some nights Chuuya didn’t come home.
Sometimes it was drinking. Not real drinking, but the kind you do when you know your grief isn’t enough on its own. Chuuya had no one left alive to drink with, but he’d still hold that glass of wine to his lips like he would actually be able to swallow the blood. The spiraling red liquid, the acid burning his throat.
It would be easier to forget that way, he should really just drink.
But the sooner he began drinking the sooner he’d have to go home.
He didn’t want to see Osamu. He loved Osamu, it was terrible, but he didn’t want to see him.
He missed Dazai. The way he had smiled when he was teasing Chuuya. The way he had smirked when they were in public, poking Chuuya’s leg under the table. Fuck, he even missed Dazai’s jokes about suicide, how easy it was to brush off, how simple it was to tease him.
He wished they were still jokes.
Or maybe they were never just jokes, but fuck it was easier to pretend that they were.
Sometimes Chuuya wished he had never proposed.
Chuuya was twenty seven. He’d been married for not even a year, and it was all wrong.
When Osamu was awake, which was rare, he never looked at Chuuya. His back was always to his husband. Osamu never teased him, called him chibi, or joked about suicide.
Chuuya was scared to check the trashcans.
He had noticed Osamu didn’t really go out to the store anymore, but the stack of gauze hadn’t really decreased which was good it also meant that Osamu wasn’t changing his bandages.
Chuuya sometimes saw Osamu stare at him in the reflection of things. Mirrors, a wine glass, the edge of a spoon, a bowl of old food uneaten.
His gaze was never kind.
Chuuya hated thinking, hated asking why. It's one of the reasons he first fell in love with Dazai. It was intoxicating, laying there and letting someone carry you. Letting go of the world, the monster inside consumes you, knowing that a demon will pull you back to reality. It was glorifying, when he could close his eyes and breathe, knowing his Dazai would match his heart beat by beat.
It was so easy to let Dazai make the plans, to let Dazai win the game, to let Dazai take him by his hands and spin him around.
Now he had to watch the reflection of Osamu's eyes, the shape and color always changing.
Chuuya was twenty-seven.
His marriage had always been a beautiful thing.
Beautiful things are only beautiful because they die. Like a rose. Like a smile. Like a life that was lived well.
Chuuya was twenty-seven.
He placed his ring on the bedside table. He knew Dazai was watching. Even though all he saw was his back and a stack of pillows between them, he knew Osamu was watching.
“I want a divorce.”
Chuuya’s swallow felt like a chasm, like his lungs wouldn’t connect. He had said it, he had pushed the words, he was holding papers too, a pen in one hand, gaze forced down in indifference.
Osamu turned over lazily, like the world wasn’t ending, like it was just blankets to push out of the way, like he hadn’t had his back facing Chuuya for an entire year.
He propped himself up, smiling for the first time in as long as Chuuya can remember.
“Already?”
Osamu didn’t have the decency to be upset. He was smiling. Chuuya loved his smile.
Chuuya was twenty-seven.
It was when he was packing his bags, he first saw the trash full of rose petals.