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“The Greek word for "return" is nostos. Algos means "suffering." So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return.”
―
There’s a boy there, a boy in front of Chuuya with dark, messy brown hair and a crimson stare. He’s there too, only it’s not him, it’s—
“You’re too short.”
Anger rises in his chest and threatens to force its way out of his throat, and before he can register what’s happening, he’s yelling back.
“Huh?! That’s none of your business— I’m only fifteen, and I’ll definitely grow more!”
“Then I'll curse you— I’m fifteen too, and I’ll grow, but from now on, you won’t.”
“Fucking bastard, I’ll kill you—!”
What’s going on?
Is he fading? Is the boy fading too?
Was that interaction even real?
No, this isn’t—
Who is he—
…
…
…
He’s standing in an office now, the same boy leaning back in a chair, a pile of files in front of him, only the boy looks slightly older now. Has he grown after all? Where are they?
“What did you want to tell me, Chuuya? Wait, wait, hold on, let me get my microscope.”
“Dumbass! Do you even understand what’s going on right now? There’s never been a conflict this bad in the entire history of the Port Mafia— no, the history of Yokohama!”
What was the Port Mafia? Why does the boy have a gun on his desk? Why is Chuuya panicking?
Wait, what is he doing here—
…
…
…
“Chuuya-san, I’m afraid that XXXXX has left the Port Mafia.” Whatever word the voice tries to say is blurred out by the static that fills Chuuya's head.
He can’t breathe. Why can’t he breathe? He feels like his heart has just been ripped out of his chest, lungs squeezing shut as if the sheer force of the words have flattened them.
...Has someone left him?
Why...?
…
…
…
“I haven’t seen you in a while, after all, so I thought I’d surprise you.”
Confusion. Confusion mixed with anger and an emotion he doesn’t dare name in fear of making everything more complicated.
…
…
…
…
“Ah, this really sucks, to be stuck here with the chibikko again.”
Chuuya can only stare in bewilderment at the boy— no, the man who lies in his arms. With slight surprise, he realizes that his left hand is supporting the stranger’s head. The man is bleeding from several different places, but the red that blossoms through the fabric covering his abdomen is the most prominent, almost beautifully so, a flower painted red, red, red, a terrifying scarlet.
How did this happen?
The roaring in his ears— or is that the wind?— picks up, unraveling the bandages around the man’s limbs and neck, his body itself disappearing with each strand, swirling into nothingness, whisked away like leaves.
“Who are you?!” Chuuya screams above the noise. The wind grows stronger, yet he remains rooted to the spot, unable to grab onto the bandages, to delay the man’s leaving. “Damn it, tell me your name!”
A brief smile crosses his face and he gazes at Chuuya with something akin to trust, eyes bright and full of hope.
“Dazai. My name is Dazai Osamu.”
Chuuya wakes up with a start.
At some point when Chuuya was fifteen, all pent-up energy and teenage hormones, he started to have a reoccurring dream. It seemed to go in a cycle of events; he’d see the same boy taunt him and pester him, calling him obscene names such as ‘hatrack’ and ‘shorty’, eventually leaving him with a broken feeling in his chest so foreign and overwhelming that Chuuya had cried for a whole hour after the first time he had the dream.
It would be more fitting to call it a nightmare— a nightmare that ended the same way every time— the stranger lying in his arms, clothes soaked in blood, lips moving soundlessly and speaking words that Chuuya could never hear no matter how hard he strained his ears.
When he woke, there would be fresh tear tracks staining his face, and his hands would feel filthy as if the blood that tainted them in his dream was still there.
Throughout the years, the nightmare repeated on occasion. Each time Chuuya remembered more fragments of it, enough to piece out a general timeline of events, and it came to a point where he kept a notepad next to his dresser specifically for the use of writing things down before he could forget them.
It was unsettlingly, how real those dreams felt, the memories as clear as if they were his own, nostalgia gripping his heart whenever he tried to put a name to that man’s face.
“People only dream of faces they already know” , Kouyou had once said after he had gone to her for advice about this strange phenomenon. Which meant that whoever this man was, Chuuya had seen him somewhere, at some point.
It only made things more confusing to figure out, as even Kouyou, with her degree in psychology, could not help him with why he felt like his heart was being shattered into tiny little pieces every time he woke from the dream.
This time, however, things were different.
“Dazai Osamu,” the man had said. The same position, body splayed against the rubble, hand clasping Chuuya’s before disappearing in the wind. Nothing in the dream had changed, except now Chuuya knew his name: Dazai Osamu.
Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Chuuya exhales harshly. “Dazai,” he repeats to himself. “Dazai, Dazai, Dazai. Dazai Osamu.” Quickly, he grabs his notepad and flips to the next blank page, scribbling down the kanji in large, bold strokes.
太宰治。
“Dazai Osamu,” he says aloud in the quietness of his bedroom. “I’ll find you, Dazai.”
Turns out the search is a lot easier said than done. After spending three hours scrolling through every social media account available, Chuuya comes up empty-handed and more than just a little frustrated. How hard can it be to find someone if he knows their full name and what they look like?
Perhaps this Dazai Osamu doesn’t exist after all— perhaps he just created this person out of his subconsciousness. Maybe he’s finally gone mad from stress and started hearing things. The explanation isn’t far-fetched at all; midterms have just ended and while his students are enjoying the relief of having survived the chaos, Chuuya has been stuck in his apartment grading essays and tests.
But, a small part of his mind pipes up, what if he’s real?
It’s only a sliver of hope, but this man has been harassing Chuuya in his dreams for over eleven years. If Chuuya actually manages to find him and if Dazai’s been having similar dreams to his own, he can finally get answers to his questions.
He dials Kouyou and explains the situation as quickly as he can, bumbling a little in between details and rushing more than usual. Kouyou, to her credit, listens quietly and doesn’t ask many questions. She redirects him to Yosano, who then redirects him to her colleague and close friend, Edogawa Ranpo, the city’s (and arguably the country’s) best private investigator with a spotless record and genius intellect, known to never fail any case he was handed no matter how dire the circumstances or how tiny the lead.
If anyone has the ability to track down this ‘Dazai Osamu’, it’s him.
307-1083, Mamedocho, Kohoku-ku.
Edogawa Ranpo’s office is as expected, ordinary-looking, nothing that attracted unwarranted attention, a simple two-story building with the plaque on the front reading “Yokohama Private Investigation Services”.
The detective himself, however, is anything but ordinary.
Within the first two minutes upon arriving, Chuuya finds himself situated in a small, cozy room that could pass off as a living room if not for the enormous stack of files and other miscellaneous things that are more or less dumped onto a table in the corner. A large bowl of sweets sits on the desk where the said detective lounges, the stick of a lollipop hanging out of his mouth.
“So, Nakahara Chuuya— Yosano-san sent you, right?”
Chuuya sets aside his mild surprise at the contrast between what he imagined and what he was faced with right now. “Yes, Edogawa-san.”
The man hums and corrects him immediately. “Ranpo-san is fine.”
He has a childish lilt to his voice and his eyes are closed at the moment, though they have been since Chuuya arrived. His attire is rather noticeable, and Chuuya recognizes the brown cap that was shown in most of the photos he had seen of the detective.
“Well, since she’s involved, I guess I’ll have to take on this case. So,” he jumps on ahead before Chuuya can say something about the slight complaint, “here to ask about a guy, huh?”
“How did you…” Chuuya changes his mind at the last moment, deciding he’d rather not bother asking. “...Okay. So do you know who I’m looking for?”
Striking green eyes peer up at him as Ranpo slides on a pair of glasses, and Chuuya realizes why the man hasn’t opened his eyes until now. They’re, speaking quite frankly, intimidating, a bright shade of emerald so piercing they could stare into anyone’s mind and tug out their deepest secrets.
“That’s for you to tell me.” His childlike demeanor has vanished and he stares at Chuuya expectantly, who mirrors the stare for a moment and answers.
“His name is Dazai Osamu.”
Ranpo’s expression remains indifferent. “Any knowledge on physical traits or career?”
“He’s fairly tall and thin, messy brown hair…” Chuuya’s brow creases as he recalls the appearance of the man. “Bandages. He wears a lot of bandages on his arms and neck, probably under his clothes too, though for whatever reasons, I don’t know. I have no clue what his job is either.”
Nodding, Ranpo pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose but remains silent otherwise, seeming to be in deep thought.
Habitually, Chuuya fiddles with the brim of his hat, feeling slightly out of place. Kouyou often teases him because of how protective he is over it, and Dazai has called him ‘hatrack’ more than once in his dreams, which he does not take kindly to. The nickname tugs at some part of him that he can’t name, frustratingly, and Chuuya hopes that this can all be settled soon so that the questions don’t bother him anymore.
When the silence has stretched just long enough to be awkward, Ranpo breaks it. “Ah. I see.”
He picks up the pen that lies on his desk and scribbles something on a sticky note. Upon a closer look, Chuuya notices that he’s writing down an information card of sorts, adding “writer”, “22 years old”, and other similar details. Peeling it off, he stands up and hands it to Chuuya.
Dazai Osamu, 22 years old, writer
Address: 175-1108, Sakaechodori, Tsurumi-ku Yokohama-shi, Kanagawa
Author of two bestselling novels, “No Longer Human” and “The Setting Sun”.
Visits the Kamimakaracho Orphanage every Sunday at 2:00 PM, returns to his apartment at 8:00 PM.
“You’re in luck, Mr. Fancy Hat.” Ranpo taps an area on the map pinned to the wall. “He lives only three blocks away from here. Just take the bus and get to his apartment, easy-peasy. You’ve never met him, have you?”
It’s a rather nosy question, but—
“...No,” Chuuya finds himself admitting, “I haven’t.”
Most people would look at him strangely. Most of them would ask something along the lines of “Why did you want to find him so badly that you came to an investigator’s office?”
But, Chuuya has learned by now, Edogawa Ranpo does not fall into the category of “most people”.
“Nakahara Chuuya. Yosano-san’s brother-in-law, right?”
Ranpo’s voice is significantly lighter when he asks, the sharp grin on his face toning down to a relaxed smile.
“Yes,” Chuuya manages to keep his voice neutral. He’s not used to having someone state facts about his personal life so calmly. “I must leave soon, Ranpo-san. How much is the fee—”
Waving a hand, Ranpo cuts him off. “Nope, no payment needed.”
“But—”
“You’re close with Yosano-san,” Ranpo explains as if it's the most obvious explanation in the world for why he would just choose not to charge a random client. "And you seem like a nice person.”
Something tells Chuuya that this is the best compliment Ranpo can give, especially if it’s to someone he just met, so he bows deeply. “I appreciate it. Thank you, Ranpo-san.”
“Anytime,” the detective chirps around his lollipop. When Chuuya’s out of the office and turning the knob of the entrance door, Ranpo calls after him. “If you need to find anyone else, just contact me!”
People pass Chuuya with the usual glances and occasional stares at his foreign appearance that he’s learned to ignore for years; he’s no stranger to being gawked at like an animal in the zoo, a red blaze among a monochrome sea.
Today though, his gaze wanders for the familiar sight of white gauze, wrapped around thin, bony limbs. He has never truly met Dazai Osamu, yet he feels a strange, near-intimate connection to the man— if he tries, he can remember the softness of dark curly locks, the warmth in long fingers that held his own, a smile that stirs up distant emotions, muted and almost-there-but-not-quite, as if Chuuya is feeling through a fog, a barrier that keeps him from the full capacity of those feelings.
He has never truly met Dazai Osamu, yet his hand trembles when he raises it to knock on the door; the ground seems to sway no matter how firmly he plants his feet.
He has never truly met Dazai Osamu, yet this feels more significant than any other meeting in his life, like there’s a string between them being tightened, pulling them closer together as if by fate— as if they are reuniting instead.
And when his eyes first land on the messy brown hair and eyes, despite the lack of bandages, Chuuya knows he has found who he’s looking for.
Dazai Osamu’s mouth curves up in a smile not meant for strangers; it’s fond and familiar and even the littlest bit tired, like he’s been searching for Chuuya just as long as Chuuya’s been searching for him.
Emotions ring sharp and raw through Chuuya’s head, replaying memories now clear as day, and he remembers.
“If by chance, Fate gives this pitiful monster a second chance, will you meet me again in our next lives?”
Chuuya doesn’t realize he’s started to cry until Dazai reaches out with a hand and brushes away a stray tear rolling down his cheek, touch just as warm as he remembers. His eyes are brimming with joy, so much brighter now than in the past.
“It’s been a while, Chuuya.”
“Yeah,” Chuuya beams. “It has.”