Chapter Text
One less person to provide for in a household means easy and better living for the remaining members, doesn’t it?
Dazai entertains the thought. His family will never like or love him enough to be honest with him—queries of forced familiarity always met with surface level “customer service” responses that one would wonder if Mori—his father—always had a script to practice before interacting with his eldest son.
And he only wanted the truth. A purpose—a reason to stick around. He grasps at what little remaining hope he had left that somehow, they could all set aside the neuroticism and be a normal family. The one shown on television, in films, where families don’t cringe at the thought of having to overtly show their affection.
Age three, “Dada, what happened to Mama?” was met with silence and a dead-pan stare.
Age seven, “Dad, can you help me with—” introduced Dazai to his father’s deliberate ignorance.
Age eleven, “Dad, do you love me?” pained Mori with annoyance. “Of course, son. You are always loved,” delivered flatly, without even a glance or obligatory father-son gesture at the hopeful, half-eager boy who questioned him.
Age fifteen, “Father…I’m bleeding,” was exchanged with wordless apathy leaving the boy to mend his own broken pieces.
Age nineteen, “Father...” was when he realized no one had ever loved him the way he’s supposed to be. He did not know what exactly he expected his father to say or do to ever rebuild the bond that had not even existed between them.
It was at that moment that he sought to never involve himself in anything with anyone, for he is unlovable, unworthy, and unable.
And all the words he yearned to hear, to make himself sure, to make him comfortable with being himself, all left unsaid. A disobedient, conscious mindset emerged the first time he thought he didn’t understand how his father “loved.” He thought he did not understand.
At age three he did not understand, he grew with the confusion until it subsided and assimilated with his psyche. At age seven he thought he did not understand, accommodating the cognitive comprehension that “dad” might just have different ways of feeling. At age eleven he was sure. At age fifteen he realized, confirmed within himself that the love that was supposed to be there never was and never will be. All the immeasurable times he tried, failed, and tried again, he finally concluded; he has always understood. He has always known his father never wanted him. The hopeful glimmers he embodied as a young boy protected him from detaching himself too early, albeit, pondered within him long enough to prolong the aches of the confusion.
At age nineteen he’s grown accustomed to the word “father” not meaning anything else but a name to call the house patriarch. He started to delude himself that happy kids in places outside with their “fathers” don’t call them that back at home. He started to grow delirious being devoid of love for so long.
He started to think it’s something that is unfathomable in the natural world.
-
He knows there is nothing to return to.
If a house of disregard and indifference is a house Dazai wants to go back to, then he’d have to gladly turn heel and run the direction purgatory is in.
Otherwise, he’d have to endure five other men constantly taunting him about whatever flaws he decides himself too unbothered to focus on.
In his mind, being with the only source of comfort is better than being in a location of which atmosphere could choke him enough to breathe himself into a bodybag. Even if that means five other men arguably closer to Chuuya than he is start acting excessively obnoxious about their “love for their bandmate.”
Chuuya had been walking a considerable distance in front of Dazai, when the latter heard the former shout “Hey!”
Dazai adjusts his neck to look from the ground to what’s in front of him. He sees Chuuya’s red hair flutter first, focusing on the most distinct part of the redhead’s physical personality, almost admiring how it danced on air. Then he comprehends the scene.
“Heyya!” Chuuya’s bandmate—the lead guitarist, Albatross, exclaimed in reply. The young man rushes toward where Chuuya had started running toward him from, tackling the redhead to the empty parking lot floor a mere distance from where the rest of his band, The Flags, were waiting.
Five other young boys await in an old, rusted blue van. The engine turned off and doors were opened, prompting Dazai to think they must have been waiting long enough.
“Why are we late, Chuu?” inquired Piano Man, the de-facto leader and lead vocalist of the band.
“Sorry, had too much to drink last night.” Chuuya replied, slightly struggling to speak while bearing the heavy weight of another one of his friends who decided tackling him was a good idea for a welcome introduction.
Iceman, The Flags’ bass guitarist starts approaching the boys with echoing, statement footsteps. His fingers held a slim cigarette, which he then nestled snug between his lips. Without any care to properly enunciate his words, he muffles out, “Alba, get up,” while grabbing both the boy's arms and lifting him up from where Chuuya was laid.
Dazai stood stationary where not once was his presence acknowledged. His eyes remain at Chuuya, carefully observing the other boy’s motions as he tries to direct his eyes to the companions surrounding him. He tries to make himself remember the names of these people.
Alba is Albatross… Piano Man’s the one with the bob… Iceman’s…cool.
He tries seeing the rest of the people in his peripheral, keeping his sights focused on other more important things. Like how Chuuya’s hat was left on the pavement right at his feet.
As attached as Chuuya was to the thing, he never seemed to just now notice how his head missed a piece. The other boys remain equally preoccupied with their own rabble to notice.
Dazai picks the thing up, abandoning perception of The Flags, keeping instead a careful eye at the details of Chuuya’s headwear.
Hat is the umbrella term, it would be deliberately accurate instead to call the thing a fedora. The brim is frayed at the edges, telling a story of age and of use, of time that it’s been loved and treasured. Dazai could see the original fabric used for the band of the hat seeping through, which has been overlapped with a reddish leather material that obviously had been plastered by Chuuya in an effort to personalize the item. The hat rocked Chuuya’s signature edgy style; duochromatic red and black, striking clacks made by some dangling, sewn-in chains. Some safety pins adorn the crown of the fedora.
In a line-up of several or so similar hats, he would have been able to identify which one belongs to Chuuya without prior hesitation. The silver, the leather—every component tells some kind of tale.
Dazai remembers never even seeing Chuuya without the hat he so beloved that he wonders what stemmed the current indifference.
He looks back, suggests himself to lay off studying the hat anatomy to survey his surroundings once again. And once again he sees that for The Flags, the moment of them isn’t done yet.
He understands the rabble, he respects their time and place. Even if he was present at the time, he isn’t invited in the moment.
“Chuuya, your—” he tried blurting out, only to be interrupted by blaring laughter.
Lippman, the band guy responsible for rough vocals, has made himself space within the circle of Chuuya, Albatross, and Iceman. Suppose during their catch up, he made some offhand comment about whatever topic was at hand, and it made the others guffaw. And Dazai could not relate to what was being told, so he tried engaging himself with menial occupation. Like studying hat anatomy.
He waits for a window to interject. Chuuya has not once glanced back at him.
Opting for more less than important tasks to aid his anxiety in waiting, he surveys the area once more. He sees the remaining band member, Doc—drummer—sitting patiently inside the dilapidated blue van. Seeing as they’re the only ones without anyone to yap to, Dazai approaches.
“Why haven’t you been chatting them up?” he says, introducing his presence.
“They left my wheelchair at Tross’ and I don’t wanna get dragged around like some doll,” replied Doc.
“Sucks how they essentially left you here instead of getting closer.”
“Yea, don’t worry. I don’t mind. I’ll talk to Chuuya later.”
Dazai nods in acknowledgement. He tried to think of what else to talk about. Weather? No, no—too mindless casual… How has the band been..? I don’t think I care enough… Recent gigs..? But I already know that from Chuuya…
Without thinking much about it, he asks, “Any update on your health?”
The question took Doc off-guard, seemingly unexpecting the line of inquiry to come from someone he has never had the utmost of five casual conversations with.
“I’m…good. Yea, last I heard, stable.”
“Glad to hear it,” Dazai said in response, offering Doc an amiable albeit pathetic smile.
“I didn’t expect you’d ask.”
Dazai allowed the silence to linger. Thinking of nothing else to say, he sets his mind at ease by sitting still next to the blue van, just outside enough to keep watch at the group of friends currently conversing, but close enough to not leave Doc in his lonesome.
Just as he’s about to reconsider his posture, he notices the group of guys slowly but finally approaching.
“...we probably need to get to Adam stat,” Dazai heard Chuuya say from afar.
He’s eager to see some developments in the meeting and deliberations on how today’s adventure will plan out. All he had to do would be to stay in position at the furthermost backseat and spectate rather than participate. He reckons he’s used enough to bottom barreling that he’d rather expect the lowest and be satisfied with it than anticipate better when it was not sure to come.
Dazai’s gaze follows them approaching. He focused on the tallest in the circle, Iceman, waving a proverbial greeting by refusing to meet his eyes. The man was looking ahead, though not at Dazai. The latter senses an air of indifference.
“Hey,” Chuuya says, “thanks for holding on to it.” He grabbed the hat off Dazai’s firm grasp. Dazai let go. “Yea, no problem,” he mutters dejectedly, disappointed at the sincere lack of enthusiasm in Chuuya’s voice.
Dazai prevents himself from feeling disappointed longer. He keeps telling himself his aforementioned thoughts of ‘expect the least and never be disappointed at what’s not sure to come,’ repeating as if it were a mantra.
Dazai postures himself—faux confidence—attempting to fit into the complacence of the other boys. “Where’s the bus at?” he queries, follows up with a jest, “Did you guys get a downgrade? My thoughts—this baby could fit more people than that cramped “tour bus” ever did.”
Albatross scoffed, pure to the offense Dazai unintended. “You think?” he quips.
The others are unamused, though they think not harder of the poor attempt at a lighthearted wisecrack.
Chuuya sighs.