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If Chuuya ever had to describe Dazai simply, he'd say that doing such was impossible. However, it's human nature to want to understand the things around us, especially if we are so bold to say we love someone or something. To such an end, the redhead had long ago settled on the phrase 'lukewarm'.
It was rare for the brunette to ever emote in ways that weren't blaringly transparent, his over the top childishness around his superiors, unnecessary cruelty to those unfortunately below him, all of it. Chuuya knew better than anyone just how little Dazai cared about the games in his hands or the manner in which his steak is cooked and what wine is served. The blue eyed man could never find anything to critique about the other's fabrications of humanity, though.
As much as he pretended it made no difference, Chuuya took great pride in what most would call his relationship with Dazai Osamu. On the particularly cold nights where the stars seemed a little dim, Chuuya can't deny his own creeping suspicions of the authenticity of it all. Was he really in love or was this his own proof of humanity? A trophy he could show to the world, a way to say that his manufactured heart still feels and the atoms so cruelly manipulated into a being could be cherished by another?
He never could find an answer, if there ever were one.
It had to be worth something that Dazai loved him, right? Dazai was a man who never did things for pleasure, at least, not pleasure that involved or needed the presence of others. The title demonic prodigy had no better fit than such a keen, analytical mind that lacked all unnecessary ties and emotions. At least, that's what most people thought but Chuuya knew better.
Chuuya knew the touch of trembling hands seeking him in the depths of the night, his name being called in the throes of desperation, laughter left unconcealed by the roar of a motorcycle, the bites and glimmers of youth they had been denied but were shielding together, gnashing their teeth and never letting the world see their tears.
As much as Mori wished they weren't, as much as the world wanted to paint them as heartless villains, double black was comprised of two humans.
Two humans in love , might Chuuya add.
By the time they'd first met, Dazai's russet eyes were already narrowed and robbed of any innocence, he already preferred jazz and classical music, he had no preference in foods and scoffed when asked about a 'favorite' color. If there's something inside every human person, emotions that tick endlessly like a clock, Dazai's hands had long ago stopped moving.
No amount of drugs, money or sex could push those hands forward again. It didn't matter how much Dazai indulged himself in his addictions, no light ever came to his eyes, his soul was always such a daunting, immovable wall of ice. Perhaps, that's where Chuuya had been wrong all along. Maybe Dazai wasn't in love with him, just addicted.
It didn't matter what happened, how close Chuuya held him at night, how many scars he cleaned, how many vacant tears he dried; he couldn't help Dazai. The ice that had situated itself upon the brunette's heart would not melt, it didn't react to the fervent fire of Chuuya's life or love, at all. His lover would be forever damned to exist in a world of ice, trapped in melodramatic shades of cool and nothing else.
Whatever was broken inside of Dazai was irreparable, it's why he seemed so invincible. As much as it hurt, Chuuya understood there would always be an inherent distance between them of which he could not blame on his own lack of humanity. If there were ever a flicker of warmth within Dazai, Chuuya could proudly say it was for him and only him.
After all, Dazai's pleasures were personal and consisted of no liabilities.
It didn't matter how confusing things got, that was one thing Chuuya could always rely on. In Yokohama, if the sun were to stop rising, that would be less baffling than Dazai Osamu suddenly taking an interest in the people around him.
That's right, it didn't matter if others revered or feared him, it didn't matter if Mori was satisfied or disappointed, the only thing that mattered was Dazai's love for him.
Even though Chuuya couldn't fix Dazai's broken heart, perhaps his vigor was the only thing that kept the brunette from shivering alone in the cold. Selfishly, Chuuya was grateful so little in this world could rouse Dazai's interest, it only strengthened his unwavering trust and further made Dazai unbreakable.
What makes Chuuya Nakahara irreplaceable is his shine, the fire in his heart, his innate drive to show everyone around him just how capable he is. That drive had taken many shapes and forms throughout the years; the desire to protect the sheep, his need to prove his usefulness in the mafia, living up to Mori's boasting, being worthy of bearing the title of double black. Now what? The entirety of Yokohama knew and trembled in fear of Chuuya's power.
Again, now what?
He was just a lion sharpening its fangs with the bones of its prior enemies, a threat in theory, a dimly lit flame that people left alone out of apprehension rather than knowing better. Something like that couldn't ever survive the harsh everwinter winds of Dazai Osamu, of course not. Even if the redhead never realized, even if the world forever spoke of that fearful flame, Chuuya continued to run to Dazai, believing he kept him warm.
Dazai's eighteenth birthday would be arriving soon though he only graced Chuuya with a singular comment on it, standing on the balcony and voice so low it was barely heard, "If I cared, who would I be?"
Chuuya laughed at that, answering without thinking, "Certainly not our demonic prodigy." Neither said a word after their exchange, Dazai taking it upon himself to enter their darkened room and disappearing beneath the sheets. Chuuya followed soon after him, pressing his ear to hear the steady beat of an invulnerable heart.
When he awoke, there was nothing and nobody.
It was in the days leading to Dazai being crowned as the youngest executive in mafia history that he made a special absence in Chuuya's life. Dazai returned when Chuuya was long asleep and left while he was still in the depths of his slumber, any tasks were passed through meaningless men in suits with holsters on their hips, any possible chance of seeing his lover were denied by Mori, the two seemed to be conducting intense and important meetings.
It's in those lonely hours that the redhead truly marveled at how unique his lover was. None of the men and women who carried their heads high and wore their suits custom tailored could even come within a hair of Dazai's unsettling attractiveness. Brown eyes were the antithesis of uniqueness, though, no matter how deep Chuuya bore, no one else's ever seemed to have such a forbidden tone of blood.
Even Dazai's voice, Chuuya could listen to the man go on for hours and hours, whether he was feigning interest at a party or telling Chuuya how tireless their existence seems to be. Nobody could speak of useless things and make Chuuya want to listen, nobody could drawl on with nothing but depressing ideas and still be met with interest, nobody else. It was alright if that intoxicating voice never took honey tones, never said the nice sounding things like ideas of being together forever, of never leaving.
It was in those russet eyes and monotonous tones that Chuuya could find love, those words and gazes that were so graciously given to him and only him. It didn't matter how many women tripped over their words, how many men talked up their earnings, nobody else was Dazai's choice.
It was only Chuuya that Dazai decided to call out to.
The brunette's birthday was in less than twenty four hours and yet, Chuuya still hadn't seen him. He knows Dazai doesn't care for expensive wines but the redhead still went out of his way to get his hands on vintage 1889 Pétrus. Everyone knew Dazai was going to be made into an executive, waiting for him to be of age was simply a formality and it was cause to celebrate. Chuuya can't say going down in the history books as the demonic prodigy's equally young right hand man didn't sound too bad.
There's no party thrown which Chuuya is sure Dazai made certain of, at least to public eyes. The redhead waited patiently, the Petrus ready to be served with dinner soon to join it, Chuuya flitting restlessly through the random books Dazai always seems to find. They're all pretty depressing, unsurprisingly, stories about suicide, serial killers and… unrequited love.
Suddenly, Chuuya is much more interested in whatever could be on television. When he hears Dazai's footsteps approaching the door, his heart nearly leaps into his throat. The redhead finds himself fussing over stray hairs like a middle schooler about to see her crush, he almost laughs at himself as the door opens. Dazai's russet eyes catch on cerulean, those eyes that have seen Chuuya at the height of his pride and when he's a staggering mess back to base, those eyes that are so jarringly wise and never seem quite alive, eyes Chuuya is sure he's spent hours lost in.
He smiles, standing as he heads to the table, "How did it go?" His voice sound so giddy it's almost unrecognizable, Chuuya supposes it's only natural after not having seen the other for nearly a week.
"As expected." Dazai says, though he makes no moves to remove his shoes or jacket. The brunette strolls over to the dresser, opening it with ease as he grabs one of the many guns hidden throughout their room. Chuuya stands to attention, swallowing the lump in his throat. Surely, Dazai isn't going to kill Mori so soon, right..? His eyes follow Dazai's meticulous hands as if his own life depended on it.
"Are you happy?" He asks, though Chuuya doesn't remember telling his mouth to ask such a thing.
"And if I said I was?," Dazai says, pocketing the weapon and once again, locking eyes with Chuuya. His eyes briefly flicker to the wine on the table though he barely acknowledges its existence, saying not a word and simply buttoning his jacket.
"Then, who would you be?" Chuuya asks, smile still crookedly hanging onto his freckled features and only betrayed by the slight tremor of his hands. He isn't graced with a reply and so, he simply watches as Dazai runs his hands through his hair.
Completely unlike himself, the brunette smirked and Chuuya felt his face burn, a warmth travelling from his chest to the tips of his ears. It was such a warm feeling, like an arrow of fire had pierced his heart, it was reminiscent of how Chuuya had felt when he first learned his name held weight. Dazai was already turning on his heels, smirk still adorning his features and Chuuya scrambled to say something, anything,
"Happy birthday, Osamu."
The door clicked closed.
Chuuya waits and waits, never laying a single finger on the Petrus, dinner growing cold on the table, shivering in the cold emptiness of their shared bed despite how many layers protected him. If his head wasn't swimming with worry and his chest tight with anxiety, he would maybe have enough wit to feel foolish.
In all of their years of knowing one another, in all the blurred and hushed moments they've shared, Chuuya has never seen such a smirk on Dazai's face. He's never seen any heat or vigor in russet eyes, let alone felt like he could melt from the power of the flame. Being an executive didn't matter to Dazai, it couldn't have so why? Why, for the first time in his life, did he have light burning in him?
What was it that Chuuya couldn't do, who had something he didn't, who was capable of fixing something irreparable? He wanted to laugh and say it was impossible but no matter what he did, his lips wouldn't move and his mind wouldn't rest. The redhead feels short of breath, on the edge of insanity and delirium, he's holding onto himself with everything he's got.
The sound of his ragged breathing is the only thing proving his existence, it's all crumbling into nothing, his eyes sting with oceans of unshed tears. Chuuya thought he'd never see something so beautiful on his lover's face, such an expression full of the desire to live, to truly want something; it was indescribably bittersweet. Chuuya had convinced himself that he was something to Dazai, even if Dazai himself never said it.
There was love in his russet eyes, right? There was something, there had to be and before Chuuya realized it, he was sobbing like a lost child. He'd built an empire out of his desire to be needed, his proof of humanity and Dazai's lack of it and now? It was crumbling into ashes of ashes. He was an idiot to ever entertain the thought that Dazai would want to keep him around.
If Dazai didn't want him, if he wasn't good enough then who could be? Chuuya doubts just anybody else can crush the world in one palm, he doubts anybody else will ever burn like he does, no one can understand the barely passing excuse of a person that is Dazai Osamu, not even him.
Nobody.
He doubts Dazai could ever replace him but even more than that, he knows .
Hours pass, Chuuya's tears subsiding into the occasional hiccup to accompany the blank stare he'd adopted. The redhead is sure he would've remained that way the entire night had it not been for the commotion outside of his door, the sheer amount of people speaking in such urgent yet hushed tones. Even in the depths of his despair, Chuuya still commands attention and order with a simple swing of the door.
Several 'sirs' are directed his way and he sneers, "What's got everyone so fuckin' excited?"
Several shifty glances are exchanged before the man closest to Chuuya bows his head, "Dazai-san has returned with two--"
Chuuya swears he can see red and streaks of gold, more tears threaten to overwhelm him but his head is held high and his back is painfully straight. His nails are digging into his palms painfully, hands balled into trembling fists, cerulean eyes narrowing as he becomes the textbook definition of tunnel vision. His body is moving before he even realized. It’s not like he can’t hear the new topic of conversation behind him, the haughty shock and interest as people speak of double black not having made this decision together.
Chuuya never asked for much, truly. He went along with every dangerous plan Dazai could concoct, he put his life on the line and trusted in those cold hands to save him, he choose that heap of bandages endlessly and above the world itself and yet? Not even when it matters, not when he’s spinning into the scalding pits of delirium or when he’s wringing blood out of rags, will Dazai ever communicate.
The redhead never expected the man to fall to his knees, to ever crumble in front of Chuuya in any act of kindness or love or gratefulness; just decency , to be treated as an equal . With every step he can feel himself snapping, feeling the rage and bitterness threatening to choke him as the floor trembles under his wrath, his power, his inhumanity .
Whose?
The gnashing of sharpened teeth can’t drown out the memories, the nausea sending cold sweat down his neck, so many wasted years, just this night was full of wasted tears. Every single time he’d so foolishly asked, “What am I to you?” Up in the diluted fantasy Chuuya had mindlessly built over the years, he assigned the way Dazai silently bore into his eyes as some sort of silent declaration, something too profound and genuine to be dirtied with words, a childish inability and embarrassment at proudly proclaiming such things.
The silence from the past is echoing and deafening him.
Finally, after what seemed to drag on endlessly like a purgatory built purely for him, Chuuya makes his way to Dazai. Low and behold, there stands the man who skillfully wields no longer human and the humans around him with ease. While his god awful posture the redhead was sure would be burned into his mind for the duration of this life and many after it, his demeanor was not familiar at all.
Physically, something hard and concert that could be proven, was Dazai’s jacket or lack there of. A crisp white collar hugged the man’s neck like a noose, black tie pulled taught and nearly unmarred save for a single spatter of blood across its middle. Beyond that, in what Chuuya is still desperately marking as unproven and lacking in evidence within his mind, is the stark arrival of a grin on his… partner’s features. Russet eyes were creased like bloodied crescent moons, rose colored lips curving softly, his entire being curved around this… this..!
Every crude string of vulgar words conjuring themselves up in Chuuya’s mind die quickly and abruptly, his entire being coming to a halt. There’s a boy, bright and bushy eyed, Chuuya could’ve mistaken him for a girl with such long curling eyelashes and cheeks flushed a seemingly permanent pink. Messy locks of ebony and snow white tips sat atop a round face, lips like little sakura blossoms and eyebrows, though hardly visible through matted bangs, were knitted in confusion. Dazai’s jacket had been draped over the boy, only further adding to his inherent androgyny, his pale knuckles turned ruby red as he clutched it.
This little boy, stature even shorter than Chuuya’s own and everything about him so strikingly frail—he was not unlike an antique doll that should certainly be handled with care simply blinked up at him. Chuuya swallowed thickly, nearly entranced by such… strange beauty? No, perhaps, exotic was the better word as Chuuya was no stranger to having that compliment lavished upon him endlessly. Moonlight dusts over this mysterious being’s long lashes, his shaking arm lifted slowly as he points to Chuuya, not even speaking as he cocks his head to the side.
Finally, the redhead rips his gaze away and drills it into Dazai, who still has yet to verbally acknowledge him. Chuuya sees now that Dazai still hasn’t even looked at him, stomach twisting into knots like an overgrown rose bush sweltering with thorns. It’s painful, that stabbing in his heart is painful. Dazai smiled all the same, absolute delight twinkling within his eyes that seemed to be roaming over his latest find multitudes of times.
“Ah, who is that?” Dazai asks, nearly laughing as he filled in the obvious blank for the boy standing between them. Chuuya can feel his very spirit begin to tremble at the seemingly innocent question, the question that chased and choked him in his nightmares, the question that made him feel as if the world was ending in this moment.
The smile never leaves the executive’s features, cold sweats overcoming Chuuya as he struggles to fight back the bile in his throat. The mafioso opened his mouth, not even the sound of his choked breaths being audible, his suffering being nothing but silence . He wants to introduce himself, to flare out his chest and proclaim proudly that he was the braun of double black, that he was Chuuya Nakahara, that he was the one who’d been by Dazai’s side since they were fifteen, that he was—!
Dazai chuckles,
“Nobody.”