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Nakahara Chuuya watches Dazai Osamu leave.
Perhaps that might have been a bit of an exaggeration. The last he heard from Dazai was not directly from him; in fact it was only when he found out that fucker blew up his car and Mori confirmed his defection that Chuuya knew Dazai was leaving the Port Mafia.
Though if you wanted to know, the last Chuuya really saw of him was just after their last mission, and Dazai had invited himself over to lounge on Chuuya's couch and hog his video games. He had looked all sorts of cheerful, and nothing close to someone that was about to leave the Port Mafia.
Then again, Chuuya had known for a long time that Dazai was good at pretending. Is good at pretending. But he thought that he could have been able to read something, that he could have been able to tell that something was wrong. That he would have helped, even if Dazai had only given a vague hint and then insisted on going back to being his annoyingly secretive self.
If Chuuya had known…
It wasn't only nostalgia that had softened him. Back then, Chuuya had trusted Dazai one too many times, just in case. Chuuya is pretty sure that that part of that past him was still tucked in a corner of his mind.
He still thinks about it, now. He wonders if it's about the words that he should have told Dazai, or to settle the memories inside himself. They are stuck in his throat like fish bones, but no matter how much Chuuya tries, they don't come out.
Sometimes Chuuya thinks—that they manage to dig into the flesh of his heart, too.
These days, Chuuya spends an awful lot of time screaming to ghosts that don't exist.
He thinks about the earliest memories that he had, the things that he had started this life with. Chuuya doesn't remember a lot, and he doesn't mind it.
Despite it being the leading factor for the events that tended to involve Chuuya, he doesn't… Chuuya doesn't want Arahabaki to define him. Never mind that the Sheep had most likely let him join because of it, or that Dazai had his eye on Arahabaki and not Chuuya.
As for the Port Mafia…
Chuuya knows well that it values people over Abilities. Not everyone could be a mafioso—from Mori's scheming, to Higuchi's nervous but determined attitude, to Gin's assassination skills, and Hirotsu's steady and calculating calm.
Perhaps, perhaps, now that he thought about it—the Port Mafia would be the closest thing that Chuuya could call home. That as long as he took care of things, no one would force him to use Corruption. That he could just be Nakahara Chuuya, gifted in martial art skills and diplomacy, who happened to manipulate gravity.
That was all.
… But he was recruited, because of Arahabaki, and because someone like Dazai existed. A leash for Arahabaki. A leash for—
Chuuya clenches his fingers together, feeling the fabric of his gloves bunch up. What a wonderful morning, waking up from a nightmare. His blankets are slightly damp with sweat.
At least it hadn't been one about his time in the lab.
One of the hazy snippets Chuuya could recall from back then was one of his vision turning black, a cacophony of distorted, unidentifiable noises, then finally ending with Chuuya falling into a woozy unconsciousness. Later, he recalled the feeling as one he felt after using Corruption, a familiar sensation of dizziness and aching all over his body.
The fatigue lessened when Dazai was there to stop Corruption, but upon waking up from passing out Chuuya's head had always felt uncomfortably groggy.
The lab had been pristine and white, too clean and sleek and cold to be a home. Looking back, it looked rather like a dimly-lit hospital. Chuuya supposed that it explained his dislike of hospitals, which was something he shared with Dazai.
Dazai…
Anyways, the Sheep. They were something of a family—the closest thing to one, until the Port Mafia came along. They ate together, slept together, told each other urban legends, and Chuuya beat up thugs and the others sold their weapons for money.
That Chuuya knew, he knows—that they had meant something to each other. Had. On the anniversary of the day that Dazai left, he would sit inside his apartment, and pour himself a glass, and imagine that Dazai was there. And then, Chuuya would ask the imaginary Dazai why he left, and then scream insults at him.
He thinks he wants to know. Chuuya deserves to, at least, doesn't he? Chuuya doesn't know if knowing the true reason Dazai left, or if it was even meant to concern him, would be good for him, or render him back to the mess that he had been.
Sitting in a dark room with a dusty bottle of Petrus, his hands trembling but clenched tight. The unbroken glass, he remembers, glinting in the evening light, had seemed to mock him. Back then, he had not turned on the lights.
The windows had been open, and the curtains too, as if it could make up for the unlit lights in his apartment. The sky outside had been the color of deep blue tinted with yellow, with clouds that had glowing copper edges. The wine in his glass had been dark crimson, and none of them were the color of blood.
Nothing quite ever was. He supposed that it was a representation of human life, wasn't it? Nothing could ever be truly replaceable. No one was.
Before he left, Dazai liked to mess with the lights in Chuuya's apartment, like how he messed with other of Chuuya's things. Chuuya wonders if leaving him like this was intentional of Dazai, if he had intended to mess with Chuuya in… this way.
He doesn't know which one of them would hurt more—and wasn't it strange? Chuuya doesn't know whether to be relieved that he could still feel, or angry at himself, or Dazai, that it still meant something to him.
Chuuya would only use Corruption if Dazai was there. And the reason he would be able to stop was also Dazai. He had gotten less afraid of it after he had met Dazai, and their fight with Rimbaud—perhaps it was because Dazai was proof that Arahabaki was something that could be stopped—but.
Still.
Would it be so ridiculous to hope that Dazai wasn't the cause of everything in Chuuya's life? Perhaps, then, Chuuya could let go. However much it would hurt.
Ah, the lights. Chuuya would be napping, and Dazai would flick on the lights, proclaiming that it was, "way too stuffy and shadowy in here, Chuuya! Though I suppose with your tiny body, you don't bump into anything here, do you?"—and when Chuuya was reading, or doing something or other with the lights on, Dazai would turn them off.
And then Chuuya would tackle him, and Dazai would try to steal his hat. And—
Chuuya remembers so many things. He had wondered if he would be able to turn on the lights by himself, now that Dazai wasn't here. If he stood on the threshold, and brushed his gloved fingers against the light switch, Chuuya could almost feel the sense of familiarity that always evaded him when he tried to hold onto it.
Because—because gravity didn't let Chuuya fly, nor did it ground him. He was suspended in the air, in the hardest thing one could reach across—because it wasn't a physical distance. And he remained there as they left him.
Naively, he used to think—Chuuya used to wonder why Dazai hadn't taken him along. Dazai had brought him to the Port Mafia, this unleavable place. And then he left.
Chuuya breathes out a sigh. It sounds like a humourless laugh, or the tickling feeling of a whispered secret. An almost-soundless puff of air, as if he could exhale his thoughts and watch them float into the sky.
It would be nice. For all the time he spent with gravity, the lack of it had only increased the unsettled swirling in his stomach, the wrong sensation of having too little in it. If only it could lighten his heart, and convince Chuuya that it did not have any holes. A balloon, stretched to bursting, filled with not regrets and wishes that one had to let go of, but hopes and dreams.
Shortly after Dazai defected, Mori had told Chuuya to continue his work in the Mafia, without using Corruption. Mori told Chuuya that there was no need to worry; that Dazai would come back and that this was all a fit. Chuuya almost believed him, until he didn't.
Chuuya waited. There were no more annoying messages, no more bombs under his car, no more bandages in his sink. No more cold hands sticking into his collar, no more sharp elbows digging into his stomach, no more legs kicking his own under the table.
It was unsettling, at first. That Chuuya was alone in this place, now. Despite all his years in the Port Mafia, Dazai leaving was something that shifted Chuuya's world, like the time he entered his life. The impact that Dazai had on Chuuya's life was made clear when his departure split Chuuya's life into a before-and-after.
But he's grown. Chuuya thinks—he knows. He's built a position in the Port Mafia, and Chuuya knows that it's from the work that he's done, and his loyalty, and his skills.
It still hurts when Mori refers to him as, 'one half of Soukoku'. Chuuya knows that it's not only resentment at being bound to Dazai's achievements, or being viewed as a partner to someone else. He tries not to think about it too much. It's true that Chuuya doesn't want to be tied down to Dazai, yet sometimes he would rather go back in time.
Only sometimes, though. And other times—Chuuya has changed. Part of it is for the better, no matter how painful it was. Not even Dazai could take that away from him—yet the parts of Chuuya that remained, still… missed him.
Chuuya doesn't really know how to take care of himself. He just beats up the problem until it's gone, or, after he met Dazai, the other boy would beat it up because he liked doing things like that, or that he would convince Chuuya not to think about it by stealing his hat or replacing his shampoo with hair dye.
And, somehow, after Dazai left, Chuuya couldn't find the strength to hit anything.
Chuuya's tired. Of a lot of things—of leaving half of his heart in a person that almost convinced Chuuya that he would give his own half in return. Of waiting for a partner that wasn't his any more, but still had a part of Chuuya with him.
You see, the most painful part is that Chuuya can't bring himself to think that Dazai didn't care about him at all.
If Chuuya could hate Dazai without reservations, his anger would eventually cool into indifference. He could break free from the chains that bound him to Dazai.
But it wasn't like that. Even now, Chuuya was sure that Dazai didn't think of him. But the past—the past. Chuuya knows that there was something between them, even if Dazai hadn't even bothered to cut it in half.
He had just untangled himself from the mess that was Dazai-and-Chuuya , and left Chuuya staring at the strings.
And Chuuya—he knows, alright?
Dazai Osamu used to care about Nakahara Chuuya.
Nakahara Chuuya still cares for Dazai Osamu, in an indescribable way.
Dazai Osamu does not know that Nakahara Chuuya cares for him.
Nakahara Chuuya thinks that Dazai Osamu, probably, will not care whether Nakahara Chuuya cares about him or not.
Chuuya kicks his blankets to the side and swings his legs down. He does not need to put on his gloves—Chuuya keeps them on even when he's asleep, still, just in case. Chuuya has nightmares, and really, Dazai is the only person who can stop it.
Still, the gloves reassure him. Even if they're nothing close to No Longer Human.
Chuuya makes his way to the bathroom. Vaguely, a memory surfaces—being close partners, and children—Mori had once given them to a singular apartment. It was only after they had gotten a bit older that Mori decided to assign separate ones.
After missions, they had always squabbled over bathroom rights, so the two had just decided to change their clothes and bandage their wounds on opposite sides of the room.
Dazai had probably seen Chuuya's scars. Chuuya had seen some of Dazai's—despite having his torso and arms wrapped entirely in bandages, sometimes he accidentally caught glimpses of a jagged line, or a bruise, peeking out from gaps in Dazai's bandages.
They had never talked about it with each other.
Chuuya changes his clothes, takes his hat from a peg and puts it on. He adjusts it in the mirror. He walks out of the bathroom.
He breathes in, again, longer this time. Chuuya walks to the front door, and bends down to slip on his shoes and takes a last look back at his apartment. He switches off the lights with gloved fingers that do not tremble.
And Chuuya opens the door. He steps out, onto the threshold, then beyond.
Another day without Dazai. Another day—another day, for Chuuya to keep finding out who he really is, another day that brings Chuuya further away from his past and another step forward into the future.
Chuuya knows that he was once part of the Sheep. Part of the most feared duo of Yokohama. Now, he's a member of the Port Mafia. Former half of Soukoku. Some things haven't changed—Chuuya is still Arahabaki's vessel.
Nevertheless—
There is a part of him that misses the past, undeniably. But Chuuya doesn't want to let it consume him. He shouldn't drown in it, but Chuuya knows that shunning it will do him no good. It's just another part of him, like Dazai was. Like Dazai still is, now—even if Chuuya wasn't a part of Dazai.
Because of—and despite—their past, Chuuya still cares about Dazai. Chuuya thinks that he could start to stop hating the part of him which misses the other man, for his own sake.
Chuuya breathes in. Then, he exhales.
The sunlight that greets him is blinding, the sky too bright to look at properly. Although Chuuya is dressed in black, the warmth of the sun isn't too hot for him. The rim of his hat shields his eyes from the harsh light.
Condensed shadows huddle at the base of trees and benches, dark silhouettes lining their bases. The pavement seems to glow, with the sunlight reflected off stone.
Rays of sun reflect off mirror-surfaced buildings, and the tiny windows on concrete-walled ones. Bicycles and cars and motorcycles flash past, too fast for the eye to catch.
In the distance is a large sign that points to the entrance of a nearby train station, a rectangular opening lined with stairs. A child blows bubbles. An elderly couple chat to each other under a row of trees.
Far away, on the sea that surrounds this town—Yokohama—this city that he had sworn to protect, which holds, in its streets and corners and alleyways—the Port Mafia and Kouyou and Akutagawa and Mori and Dazai and so many unnamed citizens—if he went to the sea, Chuuya is sure that he would be able to see the morning sun cast flickering glints of light on the waves.
And he, too, is in this city, is he not? He wants to carve his name in the stones by the harbour—Arahabaki destroys, but Chuuya protects, not because it was an instinct, but because he chooses to.
He is Nakahara Chuuya. Even if he looks back, too many times than he should.
And that's alright. It's alright, now.
As the traffic light turns green, Chuuya crosses the road and turns left, into an alleyway. The bustling sounds of the crowd and the steady beeping of traffic lights grow fainter.
The fleeting thought flashes into his mind as a paper airplane might—that he could. It's almost the image of Dazai's mischievous smile that accompanies the thought, but Chuuya blinks and the vision disappears.
Dazai or not, Chuuya had spent so much time in bed contemplating his past already. He could afford to… run a little.
In the quietness of the alleyway, Chuuya can hear, clearly, the sound of his breathing. His heart, throbbing like a drumbeat. His shoes, scuffing dust and sand into the air, the sunlight seemingly striking through every speck of them.
Nakahara Chuuya is alive.
His footsteps grow faster, until he's starting to jog. Chuuya quickens his pace—and then—running—spurring the air around him into wind that whistles in his ears—he glows red. He jumps.
He thinks that the feeling in his stomach might just reach his heart. And it's something close to fear, and uncertainty, but there's a part of it that is thrumming and beating and undeniably alive.
He rushes forward, propelled by gravity. Chuuya's hat is a steady weight on his head, and as he turns a corner a flock of pigeons take off into the air, squawking in surprise. In the alleyways, the tall buildings block out some of the sunlight, but it's alright. He continues to fly forward, zipping around corners and shooting up over walled ends.
Nakahara Chuuya is not running from something. He is not running towards something. He runs, and that is all.
Chuuya twists in the air to dodge a faded sign, pressing his hat close to his head with a hand. He kicks the wall of a nearby building, propelling himself to fly faster. The sunlight pierces his eyes, for a moment, but Chuuya remains in the air, not decreasing in speed. His coat flaps behind him, lifted high by the air.
He soars all the way to the docks of Yokohama, and Chuuya thinks that—one day, perhaps, his heart would be able to, too.
(Later that afternoon, a subordinate will tell him of the bandaged man locked in their basement. And Nakahara Chuuya, like always, will go to meet him. Amidst a hurricane of unpredictability, Dazai Osamu is the eye of the storm.
Nakahara Chuuya wavers, for a moment.
He goes anyway. As he makes his way down into the shadows, his footsteps do not waver. They tap against the ground, steadily, akin to a beating heart that never ceases in rhythm.)