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Chuuya isn’t mad about the car.
Or the game data. Well, he’s a little bit mad about the game data—that was six months of hard work lost, Dazai should know first hand how fucking difficult that game is—but he’s not mad about the car.
The truth is that Chuuya stood in front of the burning wreck of the car, his beautiful, sleek car that cost thousands and thousands of yen and was now reduced to a crumpled pile of scrap metal, and felt like he probably should have seen this coming. The scent of burnt rubber and gasoline lingered in the cold night air, the small fires nestled between the burning chunks of steel crackled and popped like miniature fireworks, and Chuuya realized that he did kind of see it coming.
The boss is-was-is always worried about Dazai killing him and taking his place, because he’s the kind of slimy rotten bastard that thinks everybody else is just as slimy and rotten as he is, but that never would have happened. Not that Dazai isn’t rotten. He just can’t be tied down. Dazai is as formless and elusive as the smoke that slowly trails out of the remains of Chuuya’s car. He would never have taken the boss’s throne, because that would have pinned him to one spot for the rest of his hopefully-short life.
The only thing he was ever really attached to during his stay in the Port Mafia was his little underling friend, and that sure did him a fat load of good. Chuuya had seen the way that Dazai had attached to that man like a little barnacle, if barnacles were tall and gangly and useless annoying bandage wasting freaks. It makes sense that without his friend, Dazai wouldn’t have a reason to stay.
Chuuya was—
Chuuya shouldn’t have expected—
Well.
He should have known better.
Chuuya slinks back to his apartment after staring at the wreck for a little while longer, hands in his pockets because it’s a fucking sieve out here at night, and he wallows in his own self pity for a grand total of thirty minutes before his hindbrain kicks in and tells him that he should be mad about this, actually? Osamu Dazai blackmails him into this organization, nearly gets him killed in about a thousand different ways over the course of three years, and then decides to leave as if his actions have no consequences, and Chuuya is supposed to be alright with this? No way, buddy. If he ever sees that mackerel again he’s going to wring his neck, and that’s just for starters.
In fact, Chuuya is almost glad he’s gone. No more teasing Chuuya until he snaps, no more exchanging backhanded insults, no more team missions where they spend far too much time living in each other’s spaces, and, best of all, no more of his shrill, horrifying laughter. Nothing gets—got on Chuuya’s nerves like that laughter. Halfway between a shriek and a choke, and he would always try to make Dazai laugh during serious meetings so that everyone there would be subjected to that awful noise.
He would always look forward to it. In fact, hearing that sound was the only thing that kept him going when he had to work through a backlog of the real boring stuff, like trade disputes and filing taxes and other tedious executive-related business.
Because he hated it so much. Obviously.
It suddenly starts to sink in that Dazai’s gone forever. Like, Forever forever. If they ever meet again on some unlucky occasion, they’ll surely be on opposing sides, and then Chuuya can take out all those years of suffering on a victim that actually deserves it for once, Hallelujah. Praise the Lord. If there was ever a time to celebrate, this would be it, right?
Hey, he’s got a special rack of nice vintage wine for this exact occasion. Maybe he’ll start with the Pétrus.