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"When you turn twenty, I'll treat you."
"Promise me to stay alive 'till then."
"Sure, I promise."
"…"
"…Hey."
"Didn't you promise?"
"Didn't you promise to stay alive until you reach twenty?"
"Why did you…?"
"Why did you fuckin'…?"
The man sat slumped on the floor, a mess of a room circling around his sad figure. He questioned nothing but the air, his words reaching no ears but his own.
"'Sure' my ass…" he hissed, fiercely throwing the almost empty bottle of wine against the wall, watching as what remained of the liquid dripped down the surface. He wiped his mouth, giving no care about how sticky it was, before his head and body sunk back down low. "Damn you, fuckin' liar... you damn… perjurer... fuck…"
Of course, Chuuya didn't mean any of the words he said in such a drunken state. Or maybe he did, who knows. He was drunk. People aren't right in the head when they're drunk. Most sober people would never insult and swear at a deceased child, chiefly one they are close to.
He felt horrible in every way.
Chuuya sat on the ground for a while, becoming a victim to his own thoughts like he had been for the entire night since returning home. After that, he hauled himself up, stumbling to the bathroom and noticing how the strength seeped out of him from every orifice on his body. He hacked and vomited into the toilet, rather violently at that. His throat grew dry and sore and his stomach burned as if it were being soaked in acid and set on fire simultaneously. He spent another few minutes sitting there, vomiting out what had to be his internal organs too.
When he felt like every organ system had exited his body, Chuuya made it to his bed using his ability. He threw himself upon it, his groan having to had echoed throughout the entirety of Yokohama. He rolled around in agony, before passing out suddenly, just like that, seemingly in the blink of an eye.
He awoke with a behemoth of all headaches.
Today was going to be a long day.
When he awoke, coming to terms with the fact this headache was now his personal friendly parasite, he had actually seemed to have forgotten about what happened last night. His room was a mess, and he really didn't remember throwing items around in an absolute saddened rage. He slid out of his bed carefully, stumbling to the kitchen as steadily as possible so as to avoid worsening his pounding headache.
"Hey, Chuuya-san! Good morning! I made some tea, would you like some?"
A voice sang, except it didn't. There was no voice, and there was no blonde boy sitting at his small kitchen table, a beaming smile plastered on his face as he held a cup of the aforementioned tea.
Chuuya blinked and rubbed his eyes, and the vision disappeared just like that. His heart dropped as memories swiftly pounced on him all at once.
That's right. Kenji died.
Chuuya sort of just slumped into his kitchen table's chair, nothing to eat before him, and certainly no cup of tea to enjoy either. Yesterday was surreal, so against his better judgement, he took the time to think about it.
The day had been proceeding normally, he thought. There was news of an explosion at a small office building, speculations going around that it was a domestic terrorist attack. There were casualties.
Chuuya, at first, didn't care. It wasn't the Port Mafia's problem, so there was no reason to be worried about it, right?
Then came confirmation of the ADA's involvement, followed by a casualty of an ADA member. Chuuya looked up upon hearing that. Maybe it was just an accomplice?
Then came those headlines Chuuya wanted to wipe clean from his memory. Talk of the headlines were engraved in his mind, and he wanted to vanquish every single one of them painfully.
"Armed Detective Agency's Miyazawa Kenji Killed In Domestic Terrorist Attack."
"Miyazawa Kenji Among Deceased At Office Building Attack."
"Domestic Terrorist Attack On Office Complex: Miyazawa Kenji Confirmed Dead Alongside 13 Others."
He stormed home stoic, and that's what led up to the events of last night. He emptied his wine cabinet, trashed his room, and had a party.
That little shit never turned twenty. Chuuya was supposed to treat him. They were supposed to go drinking together. Kenji promised him they would.
Days later, he decided to show up at the private funeral via an invitation from Kunikida, rather unexpectedly at that. When he walked through those doors, everyone in the room turned to look at him. He couldn't read their thoughts, but the looks on their faces said quite enough. Fuck you, he thought, I already know I don't belong here. He questioned why Kunikida even bothered to invite him.
He shouldered it, glaring at those staring him down coldly as a means to scare them off while he made his way to the room with the dreaded casket. Kyouka and Atsushi were in there, doing the only thing one would do in a room with a casket: look inside. They noticed another presence and turned around, startled that it was *that* mafioso. He bit his lip. "Would you… fuckin' quit it with that?" he spat. "I already know full well I shouldn't be here. Leave me the hell alone, he's my friend too. Am I not allowed to say goodbye?"
As much as he wanted to continue to justify his presence, it seemed that what he had already said won them over. The two silently stepped away reluctantly, looking down as some awkward form of apology. Chuuya's eyes fixated on the body inside.
His heart dropped.
He was dressed in a nice, handsome suit, laying in a bed of flowers that greatly distinguished from his pale face. He held a bouquet of beautiful carnations, a flower crown embedded in his hair. His face looked as though he was just merely sleeping, lost in a pleasant dream.
Of course, he died in an explosion. Chuuya pretended not to notice the ugly burn wound covering the further half of his face. Why the fuck did they not prepare his body properly? Surely this wasn't the funeral home's decision, right? It pissed him off to no end, and he squeezed his fists and dug his gloved nails into the skin of his palms. Three tear droplets soaked into the carpeting, darkening the original hue. He couldn't bear to look at him any longer. Kenji was peaceful, so damn peaceful. Chuuya marched out of the funeral home entirely.
He cried a little more freely as he stopped outside, composing himself as best he could. It seemed as though the moment he felt a little more calmed was a cue for everything to come crashing down again. Chuuya picked up footsteps quickly getting closer to him, and when he turned, it was too late. He was grabbed by the collar of his suit, and his eyes locked with that of the chocolate brown pair that towered above him.
Dazai.
"What the hell do you think you're doing here?" the man inquired, scarily serious in his tone. "You have to be quite bold to show up here. Your presence isn't welcome, you know."
"Kunikida-kun invited me himself, shithead."
"So I see…"
Dazai released the grip on his collar, causing Chuuya to stumble back a bit with a scoff. He was intimidated by how serious Dazai seemed to sound. That daily sarcastic tone seemed like a myth now, even his glare was raw and uncensored.
The two stood, an uneasy silence between them. Finally, Chuuya broke it with the question on his mind.
"Hey, why don't you riddle me this. What the hell is the deal with that ugly ass burn scar on his face? Don't funeral homes usually clean that up before a funeral?"
Dazai smiled. It wasn't his normal, relaxed, lazy smile. No. This looked evil, even if that wasn't his intent. Opening his mouth, he spoke words that made Chuuya's blood boil.
"Kenji-kun always talked about how cool it would be to have a scar."
Chuuya lashed out for his throat, holding him up in the air and choking him. Dazai seemed unfazed, even with his bandaged neck slowly and, if he was being honest, painfully being constricted. "Fuckin' piece of shit!!" Chuuya shouted. "So you decide it's a-okay to bury him with some ugly thing he probably didn't even mean?? You're a piece of shit, Dazai! Curl up and die in a pit!!! Fucking... damn you… you're awful. You're utterly revolting… I…"
He dropped a now coughing Dazai, every muscle in his body still pulsing with rage. He rubbed at his throat, looking up at Chuuya who burned back into him with convicting eyes. The redhead's face was angry, despaired, saddened, and so much more. "Clean that shit up before the public funeral. I won't stand for such disrespect."
His glare hardened. "I thought you two were a part of the same Agency. This your way of tellin' me you never cared about him and his desires…?"
Chuuya reacted late, and though his throat was not under constriction, he was still lifted high by his collar. Dazai's nullification prevented use of his ability, so he simply let it happen.
A look of pained anger was engraved upon that man's face.
"Don't you EVER assume something like that."
After a few more tense seconds, Dazai set him down. He was gritting his teeth.
He actually looked… sad.
…
Chuuya had another "party" that night.
Kunikida invited him again to the public funeral, but he firmly declined. The encounter with Dazai only added to his reasons why he wanted to stay far away from it. The crowds, Kenji's body... he couldn't bear to take in such a beautifully sad sight again.
He stayed home drinking, watching a news coverage of the event. That ADA president gave a long speech Chuuya couldn't bother to distinguish details from. He slumped further in his chair as he passed out by the time the news coverage concluded.
The city of Yokohama loved Kenji. Kenji was Yokohama's sunshine child. The weeping masses there proved it. Even with such a humble country origin, all the way to now in death, the boy still belonged to this city. Even with such a short time living, he made this powerful mark in this city that nobody would ever soon forget.
* * *
The next few days doing Mafia work proved to be the most mentally taxing days Chuuya had ever gone through. He wasn't himself- everyone noticed this. He snapped at everyone, including his own boss. Murders he was assigned were some of his most miserable, since even after the target was dead, Chuuya sat on his knees beside the corpse, stabbing it endlessly and void of all emotion. He was tired, depressed, drained.
After work, he would buy wine, then go home to consume it. This dreadful cycle went on for days.
One day, he was hit with the realization that he hadn't visited Kenji's grave. Not once. Fuck, he felt like an absolute miserable failure, and this didn't help. He forced himself out of his chair and hauled himself over there.
He seemed to had collected himself slightly more when he arrived, so he went searching for it. It wasn't very hard to find: it was the grave covered in memoriam, decorated with lovely flower bouquets and another flower crown strewn across the top of the stone. A small, framed photo consisting of him wearing Kunikida's glasses, Junichiro, Atsushi all laughing with the panicked man behind them sat barely visible in the sea of petals. One of the living three must have stopped by.
Chuuya collapsed to his knees in front of the grave, gazing at that beautifully embroidered name of his. He was already getting choked up.
He fell on his face, and began apologizing. He had grown sober by now, rather quickly at that.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for saying all that nasty shit about you. I'm sorry for taking days to visit you. I'm sorry, Kenji-kun. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please… I fucking need you, man. Shit… I'm so pathetic."
He sat up, feeling the uneven, weird texture of his soaked cheeks.
Chuuya noticed he had unconsciously carried a half empty wine bottle, and he laughed at the fact. He wondered how he was perceived in the eyes of passersby.
He sat in the drowned grave's presence, thinking. He looked at the wine bottle again.
Chuuya found a place that seemed as though it was specifically made for such an item right next to the stone, and he gently set it there, leaning the bottle against it carefully. Something about this was fulfilling.
He smiled, though it was small. With that he stood and began to make his way back, leaving the bottle behind.
That bottle was a symbol of their oath that day. The tragic oath that would never come to be. That oath that still resonated with the man deeply for months following. Nudging the empty air beside him as if the boy were in its place, he took another oath.
Someday, somehow, he swore to see it through.