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Sometime in October, maybe when the leaves began to fall. Maybe when the sun struggled to reveal its blinding light through clouds.
The thing is, Chuuya can't really recall it all, can't remember the exact way the leaves fell, or the way the rays of sunlight graced the pavement, he can't even be certain it was October.
He remembers the nip of a cold breeze on his cheeks, he remembers the orange & yellow pigments of the leaves.
It all went by too fast, or maybe it all went by too slow. Maybe it was all so painstakingly slow that Chuuya's memory gave out in those moments.
All he can remember, with utmost certainty & attention to detail, was Dazai.
He can remember the blush over Dazai's nose, the three sniffles he made when he walked towards Chuuya.
It was cold, at least that's the impression Chuuya got, based on Dazai's red & sniffling nose. He can't remember if he was cold, or freezing. He might've been warm, he might've been hot.
He remembers Dazai's words, crisper & clearer than the water from the tap back at Chuuya's apartment.
He remembers the tone, the breath between the words, he can recall the exact amount of times Dazai blinked.
The brunet had inhaled before he spoke, looking right at Chuuya.
Chuuya can remember the look in his eyes, it looked as empty as it always has. It looked like still water, if Chuuya dived in, who knows what he'd get infected with.
“I don't think this is going to work.”
Eight words, each one simplex in dialect, something even a child could understand.
Those eight words, said so carefully, set cautiously into Autumn wind.
“Why?” Chuuya had asked, as if he lacked basic comprehension skills, as if his mind had shut off & all he felt was the weight of his own flesh, blood, & bones.
Dazai opened his mouth exactly two times before shutting it each time, like a fish out of water.
Chuuya presumes this is all out of Dazai's habitat, so the analogy stands solid in its wake.
Chuuya remembers the lead up to the very next words. The silence before them & the silence after.
“I don't love you, Chuuya.”
“Anymore, or?” Chuuya had trailed off, a string of hopefulness leading him astray.
“Chuuya,” Dazai had said, just as gentle as all his words had been at that moment. Like saying this was just as devastating to him, “I never loved you.”
Those words were real, & were solid. Chuuya had seen that line in hundreds of movies & just as many books. It seemed like such an unrealistic thing to say. Why would someone spend their limited time to live, why would they spend it to tell someone four cruel words? Why would anyone need to? In what world was it necessary to look someone in the eye & tell them they never loved them?
These words seemed more realistic than the skin on his bones, but ironically enough, they left him in a daze.
Words are easily said, easily spoken. All it takes is an open mouth. Words, despite the ease they may slip out at, can affect more than they should.
“Oh.” Was all Chuuya could say, it was the only syllable ringing through his head that made him seem coherent.
Chuuya remembers watching Dazai's eyes flit over Chuuya, like it'd be the final time they'd ever look at each other. Hell, it just might be.
He also remembers when Dazai exhaled, a puff of white exiting his mouth. It must've been cold, but Chuuya did not feel it. Perhaps the cold had numbed him all the way down to his fingertips.
Chuuya remembers this part well, better than the rest.
Dazai slowly turned around, the end of his coat tailing after him, he began to walk away. Chuuya remembers the crisp sound of fading footsteps, he remembers Dazai looking back. God, Dazai looked back. But he did not stop, he did not turn around & run to Chuuya. He did not hug Chuuya & apologize, he did not cry until his sniffles were caused by more than just the cold.
Dazai walked away, he looked back, then he continued to walk away.
Somehow that hurt more.
Dazai bothered to look back, one last time, & he decided, with just a final look, this was the end.
When Dazai was out of his line of sight, this is where his memory is muddled.
It might be from the wine he opened, or maybe because all he could do was think about everything else but that.
His memory did not serve him well, he couldn't remember the number of glasses he had, which could very well be in the double digits. All he could do was focus on the thrum of Arahabaki through his veins, the nooks of his mind, his nerves & his soul.
A thrum that now, would never be dispersed. The ace up its sleeve torn to shreds.
Chuuya can't remember the amount of times he blinked, or how many breaths he took before he could sleep.
He doesn't remember how long he slept, he doesn't remember a lot after that.
All he knows is that it was sometime in October, when the leaves began to fall, & the sun strained to make its way through clouds, that was the last time he saw Dazai Osamu.