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Chuuya is left breathless, even if the two bodies he has been carrying weigh nothing to him; he was exhausted to begin with. Thus, it is a relief when he can finally drop them side by side on the ground and stretch his fingers, skin rough and cut here and there, courtesy of too much fighting.
“Tired already? Someone is getting old.”
His eyes close for a split second—not a blink just a tad longer, but still a short, short, short instance of almost-meditation. He inhales, feeling his lungs fill with air, oxygen dissolving into his blood before he opens his eyes, and digs his feet down strong as though he is to fly away any time now. He could, in theory, not unintentionally, however.
“Shut your useless hole up.”
“Wow. Says the man I saved.”
He could punch Dazai away. He could literally do this—just punch him metres and metres, heck even kilometres away easily but he looks at his partner—no, no, that’s not right: 'former' partner, yes his ‘former partner’—and the face he sees is bloodstained and filthy. Dazai's eyes shine though, like a disturbed character from a cheap horror flick. In spite of everything they just went through, of the various bones he has broken, of the way he drags his left leg which still has two bullets stuck inside—which Chuuya could easily extract but not have been asked to do so… In spite of a body ruined quite a bit and a soul that has been ruined quite a lot for a long time, Dazai's eyes shine still and that old aching comes back, eating Chuuya's breastbone like a despicable worm. Chuuya curses it inside and decides not to punch Dazai to middle of nowhere. Not now. Not today, may be.
“Hmm… no come back? What? Did they hit your head too—“
“These two almost died trying to save you, you fucking clown.”
It is a deflection. As good as any. Perhaps a bit more. He does not want to talk about the pain that eats bits of him alive and he is frustrated, not only for his own sucky fate but for the kids too for some reason. Why must everything go so shitty whenever Dazai is involved. It frustrates him—frustrates, frustrates, frustrates him so god damn much.
Partly out of that frustration, partly out of exhaustion, Chuuya sits near Dazai's two unconscious protégés and holds himself from punching the ground, lest it gives under them. He would be lying if he said he did not feel any pity for the two unlucky disciples; after all, he feels pity for anyone and everyone charmed by Dazai. They do not know the curse they've taken on.
Instead of an immediate answer, Dazai first sits too, right next to Chuuya too, as if there is no other space left in this giant field. Where are they?—the question pops in Chuuya's mind out of nowhere. He is too tired to ponder it through though, they'll be found soon enough anyway, or at least Dazai will find a way. He always does, which is irritating in itself.
“They shouldn't have.” Dazai utters out of not-so-blue then.
“You...” his fingers dig down the soil and he can fill the tiny bits crowding between his nails, the living beings moving down below… Dazai deserves the whole ground being ripped and lifted up and hurled over his head. Dazai deserves to be crushed under the rock and drown in bugs. Chuuya does neither—sighs instead, he can control his anger. He can, he promises himself, swallowing the bitter taste of rage stuck on his tongue.
Dazai reclines, lying on his back, eyes on the morning sky which is a bleary mess of grey haze.
“This is why I hate you so much.” Chuuya snaps finally, to conclude, and Dazai chuckles, meaning of which Chuuya stops himself from considering. It is better that he does not because he will likely not be able to keep his temper together.
“You remember that one time when we were kids… how old were we then, hmm? You know, when you first managed to fly? Truly fly?”
It is peculiar how memories work—not that Chuuya ever thinks long over such philosophical matters, they are a hassle, he does not like hassle—but it is very peculiar, annoyingly so; how they will just crawl out of emptiness, and appear once again, and now Chuuya can see them flash before his eyes. Memories of a moment long gone, long filed away for never to be used again... these long lost pieces are alive and well and kicking once more. He can remember it all, so vividly; the way Dazai's eyes had grown so large with awe, the way Dazai had gasped, the way Dazai had giggled, the way everything had felt so light and happy, and the way he had felt free—as if he had never been free till that moment. How did these fragments stay for so long, so deep in his mind without any noise or itch? Where were they kept? How come he never got the nagging feeling of their existence? How come they did not come and bug him now and then but no, they waited, in silence, for many years, without making a move, and to surface at this very minute… to bloom fully in colour and sound now...
Truth is, he isn't one to think. He is one to act; has always been so. This is why he cannot figure out why ideas and emotions are swirling up inside him now, turning and turning into quiet storms, and his lips are too heavy to open and bark at his archnemesis. Must be because he is tired... so very tired of it all, sometimes, like now.
“In childish stupidity, for a second there, when I first saw it...” Dazai mumbles, more to himself than Chuuya, “I thought it was magic.”
“Hah...” Chuuya clears his throat, gaining his spirit a little back, even if the aching burrows deeper and deeper, down his sternum, splitting his chest, attacking his ribs, stabbing the soft flesh of his lungs, and he can swear he was not hit there at all. He surely did not let anyone close enough to hit his chest in the battle. “So stupid.”
“Mm...” Dazai agrees, pauses, and then when he talks, there's a cruel glint to his voice: “I've never seen you fly like that since… you should try it again some time.”
For a man who spouts nonsense most of the time, Dazai knows how to wield words as weapons too well. He has always known how to slice and dissect with them, how to pull and push, how to kill and revive... and this is a part of him that deserves hate a lot more than other parts of him, Chuuya has always thought so...
As the words colour other sides of the memories—the sides that were not recalled for a purpose—Chuuya's toes go numb. Rust fades away and in newly polished view, Chuuya remembers them in a terrifyingly loud heartbeat that once again rings throughout his body and soul. And this is perhaps why—no, this is indeed exactly why—that instead of making a snide comment, or making a horrified face of how dare you—because indeed, how dare he, how dare he bring that—and instead of the ire that is present at all times under his skin, Chuuya just grabs.
Someone who saw them in battle together once, many many years ago, had said, they are almost one body in two parts, hands reaching to each other at the same time, limbs stretching in tandem, and every grasp is always full, never empty, never missed, never out of synch; as if their bodies move tightly together per a shared internal GPS.
He grabs and his fingers grasp Dazai's arm securely, fully, and without even a breath's time, without even enough time for Dazai to blink, they are floating.
“Huh,” Dazai says, surprised for once, even if a little, and it makes Chuuya happy, somehow, so very silly, but gay, somehow, despite the pain still churning across his torso. He feels proud of the fact that Dazai is surprised by his action, by him, by his hands, and the pride lifts them higher, a good five metres above the ground in fraction of a second and then slower, again, floating higher and higher and higher.
Dazai giggles then. He giggles, as if they are twelve again—because Chuuya remembers, they were twelve and it was six days after Dazai's birthday that very day when he took Dazai’s hand, clumsily but intently, and rose up into the air—and there's no bitterness. For a moment, just for a moment and not two, he cannot even feel the everpresent ire under his skin.
“You're crazy.”
“You're the crazy one.”
“Mm… at least I'm also smart.”
“I should just drop you down.” Chuuya says, his teeth taste bitter in his mouth, his tongue tastes bitter for saying so.
“But you won't,” answers Dazai, calm and knowing, and Chuuya wonders if he could drop and then catch Dazai with how tired he is… “You didn't back then either.” Dazai adds, arching his neck back, enjoying the thin air he is lying over.
“Would you been happier if I did?”
“I would be dead so I wouldn't be able to feel anything Chuuya. You know this is why people call you a dumbass.”
“Nobody calls me that.”
“I do?”
“And you don't matter.”
Dazai grins moving onto his side, as if the nothingness underneath him is a comfortable bed, looking at Chuuya who is just watching the empty horizon, a blur of shades of grey, only because late winter sucks.
“I knew it.”
“That you don't matter?”
“That even if I tried I would fail because you would catch me. I knew it. Back then too.”
“Whatever,” is the only response Chuuya can muster, about two full seconds after Dazai's words, and they start to fall smoothly, not as an accident or by rules of gravity, but floating and with control and by Chuuya's choice. Dazai chuckles and starts whistling quietly this tune... it is a French song, a classic that Chuuya used to like a lot as a child, that Chuuya even knew the lyrics of, that Chuuya would sometimes sing when he was drawing pictures or helping older sister in the garden or tending to his own wounds.... Everything around them is grey, grey, and more grey, has always been so; yet the pink of the song makes Chuuya breathe a bit easier, balm his hurt muscles a little, and kiss the very ache in the very middle of his breast, a chaste press of imaginary lips.
He hates it.
He hates what memories can do, how potent they are. He hates how Dazai not only fills them up but plays them, moves and directs them. He hates how Dazai knows so much, about him, about everything. He hates how Dazai knows so little, about him, about everything. He hates how Dazai feels so much and so little, at once. God, he really, really hates Dazai. He truly does, he decides again, with certainty.
“I hate you.” he says thus, and Dazai doesn't answer back, until he is done whistling the chorus of the song, and then quickly replies; “I hate you too.”