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It wasn’t explosive when it happened. There was no screaming, no violence. There were no bruises after, or marks imprinted on skin. There was nothing physical, nothing substantial, no proof that it even happened in the first place. It was simply there and then it wasn’t. They were, and they weren’t.
Except, Chuuya supposed, they never really were . Whatever it was, whatever they were, it wasn’t something with a name or a label. It simply was. It was decades worth of history that never really existed because neither of them had the fucking guts to ever talk about it, and now it was gone.
“I’m leaving,” Chuuya said. It wasn’t a question when he said it, nor was it an invitation, simply a statement. It was no longer Ask me to stay or Goad me until I kiss you and we’ll leave in the morning. It was just I’m leaving. Nothing else to it. Not anymore.
He didn’t expect resistance. God knew they had both watched the other leave far too many times. Late evenings when Chuuya would watch the smoke from his cigarette curl into the night sky; Hazy mornings when Chuuya would leave Dazai to wake to long cold, empty sheets. Life was easier when he didn’t have to deal with a heart that weighed like rocks and a kind of grief Chuuya had long associated with Dazai Osamu.
Leaving was easy for them. Watching the other go was not a rarity either.
A hand wrapped around Chuuya’s wrist, holding him in place. Chuuya’s breath caught in his throat, his heart resting high by his collarbones, and he could feel every stuttering beat rattle against his skin. Chuuya turned, slowly, his eyes meeting Dazai’s.
“Don’t go,” Dazai said, his grip around Chuuya’s wrist tightening for a split second before loosening once more. There was no ill intent behind the gesture, not yet, but Chuuya knew from experience that this would only be the first of many. This was an old game, an intricate dance done on thin wires with razor blade shoes.
Chuuya didn’t remember when it started the first time, only knew that somewhere between the moments when they met to the day he trusted Dazai to undo Corruption, they had fallen into a semblance of a game. Not as Soukoku—no, being Double Black had nothing at all to do with this game—but simply as Dazai Osamu and Nakahara Chuuya. Their need for balance, for the highs of adrenaline, caging them within the boundaries of need until they had nothing to destroy but each other.
Once, Chuuya would have jumped for the chance to have his heart broken by Dazai. Over and over again, he would bask in the pain of it all. Having his heart bleed out from his chest was a twisted, fucked up reminder that he was human. A reminder that despite the god residing in his bones, he still had emotions, still had some semblance of a heart, even if it was battered and bruised beyond recognition. It was still there and it was real—and somehow, he was careless enough that it belonged to Dazai for a long time.
But Chuuya was tired. Having his heart ruined had been a thrill then, but now it creaked whenever Dazai would pass by, screaming for a love it thought was when it was just an elaborate game for them both. His heart had grown to feel like an old man’s joint; aching at every movement, feeling unbearable during the bad days. He couldn’t afford to have it broken another time, not even by Dazai.
They weren’t fifteen anymore. There were things they couldn’t allow themselves to compromise.
And yet—
“Why?”
—some things would always remain the same, and Chuuya would always be a masochist.
Dazai hesitated before he said, “You know why.”
And, hell, that shouldn’t hurt as much as it did. Chuuya was reminded starkly once again that no matter how hard he pretended, none of this would ever be real to Dazai. Whatever this was, whatever they were, was simply another experiment to satiate Dazai’s need to observe the weird and fucked up. He wanted to see Chuuya weak because it gave him a thrill of satisfaction. Dazai didn’t love Chuuya, never loved Chuuya, and he never would.
Fuck. Chuuya was exhausted.
Chuuya watched as Dazai’s expression smoothened over—ever the goddamn con artist—and he almost, almost, looked sincere but Chuuya knew better, knew that it was nothing but a ploy for Chuuya’s heart. Dazai didn’t mean it, never meant it, because he couldn’t feel the way most people did. Between the both of them, in spite of Dazai’s human flesh and bones and the way Chuuya was the vessel for a literal god, Dazai had always been the one more inhumane.
Not for the first time, Chuuya wondered, Why did I have to fall in love with you?
“Chuuya,” Dazai said. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it was still as sharp as a knife. “Don’t go,” he said again, and Chuuya had to fight the urge not to cry or throw up. It was worse the second time. So, so much fucking worse.
“No.”
“Why?”
“No, Dazai,” Chuuya told him, ignoring the way his heart had begun clawing at his throat. “You don’t get to do this.”
Dazai’s lower lip almost trembled, brown eyes widening as if he was on the brink of tears. If Chuuya didn’t know any better, he would have thought Dazai was close to crying.
But Chuuya did know better, had known better since Dazai left him all those years ago. He wouldn’t allow himself to be played with like that anymore.
“Don’t go,” Dazai said. The third time.
Chuuya inhaled, a trembling little thing. “Why?”
“You know why,” was all Dazai answered with. It wasn’t enough.
Chuuya met Dazai’s eyes. “Say it.”
And, oh, that’s what Dazai Osamu looked like when he was taken entirely off guard. His pupils blew wide, his mouth parting, something bewildered reflected in those irises. He didn’t expect this, didn’t expect Chuuya to push harder. It was a play and Chuuya was breaking character. Chuuya was supposed to accept it, to allow Dazai to pull him in and wrap his arms around his body as if he wouldn't be gone at dawn. He was supposed to pretend like what they had was enough.
A tired smile pulled on the corners of Chuuya’s mouth as he watched Dazai flounder. “You can’t, can you?” he said. There was nothing angry in his words, nothing demanding. Simply resignation, one that was paired with an age-old weariness. Their game was coming to an end, and it seemed like Chuuya was going to have the last word.
“Chuuya,” Dazai tried anyway, because he was Dazai Osamu, and Dazai Osamu always got what he wanted out of Nakahara Chuuya.
“Don’t,” Chuuya interrupted, because he was Nakahara Chuuya, and Nakahara Chuuya always was weak for Dazai Osamu. He couldn’t stay any longer, not without breaking his own heart, so he steeled his will and forced himself to shield his heart from the boy he loved for the first time in his life. “Don’t come after me.”
“Chuuya,” Dazai said again, bordering on desperation, and Chuuya almost believed him.
Almost.
He grabbed his coat from where it was hanging over the back of the couch, made a move for his hat that sat on the countertop, and he walked towards the door where his shoes were located in its rack. All through this, Dazai trailed after him soundlessly, watching his every move but not making a sound. It was almost as if he wasn’t there at all.
It was only when Chuuya placed a hand on the doorknob that Dazai said something.
“Chuuya.”
A confession. An apology. A plea.
Not enough.
Chuuya turned the doorknob and walked out of the room. Leaving, he learned, was much easier after the first time.