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For the most part, the privacy embedded into the Port Mafia base was excellent. In the small section of where Chuuya lives, per se, if he doesn't have the time to carry himself to his apartment, the door is framed with enough metal and a lock that would keep out most. It's a courtesy of the boss, letting his underdogs and executives have a place to themselves.
And yet, as his hands — he wears no gloves tonight, only another part of his current rawness — tremble towards the glass he's used time and time again, he feels himself glancing at the door with the feeling someone, anyone will walk in and catch him in the act of his admittance of selfishness.
It would be worse if it was Kouyou, having promised yes, I'm okay, he doesn't affect me anymore. He had no fear of a scolding from her, rather the sickening pity, the grip of her hand on his shoulder when she tells him she's not mad, just upset he can't rely on her—
Relying on someone other than Dazai didn't seem possible normally, and much less now when he's yet again turning to that stupid bottle of wine, the specific brand he had the night the man left. There's that guilt settling in his gut, knowing Kouyou would hate the state he's putting himself in, but as he pours himself a glass, it churns and turns into plain bitterness towards the ex-mafia executive.
Chuuya saw him again today, and the bastard was the same as always.
Somehow, it hurts more that Dazai doesn't pretend he doesn't know him the way Chuuya sometimes does, lightening up and dragging his name on that tongue, the same way he did when they were fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…
The wine goes down his throat easily. He purses his lips, swirling the drink around his glass. Light reflects on the edge of it makes it appear a little lighter, less like wine, more like blood. The same color of Dazai's eyes when he was standing below a certain light, at a certain angle, a certain shade that makes Chuuya put aside the glass.
The worst part of it all is that Chuuya isn't wallowing in sorrow for himself tonight, nor the mourning of his relationship with an old friend, but instead his ridiculous amount of selfishness. To set the scene, he had seen that weretiger Akutagawa was fixated on with Dazai. He was balancing some boxes, conversing with the older man, nodding along to something Dazai said.
Chuuya's stomach churns as he remembers the easy smile Dazai wore around the boy, and knowing it's the same face he wears with everyone at the agency. The agency did him well.
And the jealousy burns farther, brighter inside of his veins, consuming him ridiculously whole. He wasn't informed of Dazai's disappearance until the day after, and wasn't even in the know of what made him go up and leave. Had never imagined him to be miserable in an organization that gave him all that stupid praise he knows the man loves, for his bloodlust and effective kills.
That was until he started comparing.
It's not as if Dazai never smiled. He did, but he has two specific smiles that are so severely different that Chuuya kicks himself for not seeing it sooner. The man would often have a sly grin on his face after completing a mission, or coming to close arms with death, but it was tainted in frigid edges.
Then there was the smiles he gave Chuuya, in the privacy of this same room, the sincerity behind an offhand, rare remark about his efficiency in a mission he completed, and the bite that Chuuya would give back because he's unable to take compliments properly. He grits his teeth remembering Dazai's laughter whenever he'd turn down a compliment because it was too soft on a mouth from an executive.
Still, it echoes in these walls.
Hiccups bring him out of his thoughts, loud and bubbly, breaking through the haze of his mind, and he realizes it came from him, how much louder they get with the lump forcing itself out of Chuuya's throat. His hand rests in full on the table, and he shuts his eyes as the tremors come and go throughout his body.
Sometimes, in these moments where his coherency in lost in midst random burst of crying, he thinks Dazai may have made a point at his countless attempts of suicide. Ridding himself of existence, just to get these feelings away from him, didn't sound horrible in the moment.
But then there's the biting knowledge that they'd know it was because of Dazai. Because Chuuya strongest-ability-user-in-the-mafia, at fault for mass destruction Nakahara couldn't handle someone leaving him again. That was the funny part, this isn't even the first time it's happened, he should be used to it, but he isn't, and he was a fool for expecting it to never happen again.
He's constantly losing the things he wants, and has held close.
Chuuya's surprise at Dazai leaving, and leaving him, in turn, was a bitter thing. He should have known. It was silly to think things could be different with a man like Dazai, so fleeting and never held down. A moth drawn to whatever flame is near him. However, Chuuya was the opposite. He is chained down forever by others, their expectations of him, his own performance— it was all just a show and he's the star that isn't practicing his lines.
He's angry about it. He wants to tell Dazai that he was the selfish one. Chuuya was the victim here, because Dazai knew everything, his every crevice, the edges that aren't seen, haven't been seen, by anybody but Dazai, because he was the only person he had.
The thing is, he knows the truth. He knows he's selfish. Because Dazai is doing so much better now. Chuuya can see it in the way he walks and easy steps, light on his feet, his hand gestures, the way they're not sharp nor as cunning as they used to be. He wants to be happy for him, for escaping whatever misery held him down here in the Port Mafia.
He isn't.
Chuuya feels his phone vibrate next to his hand. It's blurry, the screen is blurry, and he doesn't care who just messaged him. Now that it's in his hand, his fingers move on autopilot.
The phone rings, and his grip on the glass gets tighter.
"I'm currently not available, or my phone is off, or it's floating down in a river after my latest suicidal attempt. Either way, leave a message or voicemail. I'll answer eventually. Maybe."
There's a long sound that implies it's his cue to talk, but he can only focus on the fact he heard Dazai. He hears him, even if it was in a voicemail audio. He hangs up rapidly, and then calls again.
"I'm currently not available, or my phone is off, or it's floating down in a river after my latest suicidal attempt. Either way, leave a message or voicemail. I'll answer eventually. Maybe."
He hangs up, and calls again.
"I'm currently not available, or my phone is off, or it's floating down in a river after my latest suicidal attempt. Either way, leave a message or voicemail. I'll answer eventually. Maybe."
Again.
And again.
It doesn't matter that he's setting himself back further, that he's aware that he shouldn't be doing this. The fact he's hearing his voice is enough for now, and it keeps him stable as he tries to finish his drink.
"Hello?"
Chuuya swallows incorrectly, and forces himself not to gag.
"Woah, sounds like you're drinking again, Chuuya! Is it still that shitty brand? If you're just going to tease me about my drinking choices, you could do that when I'm not in a meeting."
A lie. It's half past eleven, and he knows Dazai isn't the type to work past the hour.
"You're a fucking liar," he hiccups out.
There's a pause, and then a laugh, "Ah, Chuuya's caught me. I was ignoring you, like I know you would have liked, but you kept calling. Did you get yourself in trouble again? Can't help! I'm tired!"
"What if I used corruption?"
"Heh, you can't use that anymore because I'm not there."
Chuuya looks at his wine glass. What number was that? Six? Seven? He looks at the wine bottle. It may be more than that.
He doesn't want to ask, but he does it anyway. "You wouldn't help?"
"Why would I? You're the one that told me we're not partners."
The wine is rising.
Dazai did always quote him at the worst possible moments.
"Really?"
"... Something tells me this is not just a funny little butt dial call. I answered because we haven't talked in years, and yesterday you looked like you wanted to snap at me. I thought that's why you called. To release some anger."
He's not exactly wrong. His grip on the phone tightens.
His voice is smaller now, "You wouldn't help?"
"Chuuya?"
"Could you promise you wouldn't?"
He hears the sound of sheets rustling and Dazai's voice suddenly sounds a lot closer to the phone than it did seconds ago. "Chuuya."
The wine falls out of his mouth, the vomit coming up like it was blood, a consequence of drinking on an empty stomach. He hears the sound of a curse.
"Chuuya." Dazai says, and it's sharper, an urge for the redhead to answer him, and Chuuya can't think about anything but the fact he's going to have to clean this stupid rug later. "Answer me."
"Why did you leave?" He asks through the bile, spitting out the horrible aftertaste. "When you— the organization. You left me behind. And… my car."
"Chuuya, you're drunk. You're not going to remember this."
"Yes, I fucking am."
"You'll wish you didn't."
Chuuya slams a fist down on the table, an incoherent sound leaving his throat, "I need to know, I need to know if it was me, if I could have tried harder to keep you—"
"I'm not someone to own," Dazai slams a door shut, he thinks, and he hears the exhausted tone in his voice. "I think we should talk in person about this kind of thing. And while you're sober."
"I can't look at you sober," Chuuya whispers, frantically, "I can't. I'll just go back to this, to this stupid wine that you're right about, it's shitty, and expensive for no reason, and it's staining my rug because I vomited it. You're right, Dazai. I drink everything down, and looking at you without alcohol will kill me. Please say something. Why are you quiet, Dazai? Say so—"
Dazai's voice is quiet. "You drink because of me?"
"I have to."
"Why?"
"Because then I don't have to remember crying over you."
There's a sigh, and Chuuya hates that he can picture Dazai in this current moment, a hand rubbing over his face in an exasperated manner, sober wariness hanging over shoulders like a heavy cloak.
"I was going to come see you."
Chuuya pauses. "What?"
"I'm heading back home. You don't want to see me, right?"
"I'm not sober," Chuuya retaliates. "All I can think about is seeing you. I want to see you."
Dazai laughs a little, "Your codependency only got worse, huh?" It's said lightly, but it's followed by something similar to an apologetic tone, "Chuuya… how's Kouyou doing?"
"I don't know. Are you still coming to see me?"
"So it's just a depending on me thing, alright. Well, that explains some things. Yes, I am. You stay put."
"My door is locked."
"It hurts that you can't remember I'll find a way to get in anyway. Don't move a muscle. Don't do anything stupid."
"Are you going to tell me why you left?" He's hopeful, and all too curious, waiting on bated breath for an answer.
Dazai is especially careful with his words, "Chuuya, I'm not going to come back."
"I know." A bitter thing, that is. The way he talks to him like he's handling fragility at its finest, teetering on a thin line with no end in sight. "You're doing better now."
"I'll tell you something. And I hope you're right about remembering, Chuuya," he emphasizes that same part of his name in a teasing way, though it seems to be for lightening the mood. "There was a reason I blew up your car, and it wasn't a malicious farewell."
He blinks. "It wasn't?"
"The mafia knows me. It knows you. They all know despite our quarrels, we were a pair. We cannot have one without the other," and those words send something like crawling critters in the pit of Chuuya's stomach. "They would think you helped me escape."
"... What?" Of all the reasons available, this surprised Chuuya the most. He hears a faint chuckle over the line.
"Ango was actually the one I went to. He had experience," he can almost hear the smile Dazai wears for certain, "Mori had his eyes on you. I couldn't leave without bombing the car. It'd take you off his suspicions list."
It was out of care, he means. I would have hated to see you in trouble, goes unsaid. Chuuya's mouth feels a little dry.
"I didn't take you with me, because I knew you wouldn't understand."
"I would have gone to the end of the world with you, Mackerel. I didn't need right, or reason. If you had told me—"
"That was four years ago. You wouldn't come with me. Your heart and soul are with the mafia."
Chuuya slumps further into his figure. "Not even a warning…"
"They questioned you, didn't they?"
"What's your point?"
Dazai hums. "You could have told them, so I didn't in case you gave it away."
"That was all? Why did you leave at all, then?"
"I came to.. a realization," Dazai hesitates, "After Oda's death. When… when he died, he died telling me I should be good. Chuuya, I couldn't— he wanted me to find a reason worth living."
"Did you find it?"
"I don't know," Dazai replies. "But I have a reason to keep living. I'm with the agency. I'm ridding myself of all the demonic titles I earned in the Port Mafia."
Chuuya is silent, and then he says, "You took a piece of me, you know. I'd like it back."
"Huh?" Dazai sounds genuinely startled.
"The night you left, you stole some horrible, well-functioning piece of me with you. And I need you— I need you to return it. Give it over when you see me."
He hears a small laugh, and it reminds of the kind he'd let out when they were closed behind Chuuya's door. "Sure, Chibi. I'll keep it safe until then."
"You better." He tries not to let elatement seep through his words at the old nickname Dazai had for him, how horribly familiar it is, how comfortable and easy it is for him to relax after. It's almost as if he never left, and he's been here all along. Logically, and emotionally, he knows it makes him mad. However, he's here now. For a brief moment, maybe, and it might set him back, but he can't care.
"Always have to have the last word, don't you? Ah… Chuuya never changes. We could still be friends, you know. You were the one that seemed to not want that."
Chuuya stifles a sound, "Friends?"
"Hm. Well, that word's a little loose, isn't it? Still, I think that's all we can be for now."
"You'd want that?"
"I think you want that, Chuuya. Oh, this is kind of funny, I'll start quoting these nice things you're telling me when you're sober. Just because you're drunk doesn't mean I won't take being friends seriously."
He ignores the second part. "Do you want it?"
"If Chibi wants it."
"Dazai."
"Alright, alright. Yeah, it'd be nice. I'm not sure what being friends is to you, but I know what it means to you. You value people far above your own being. You love with your entire being," there's that sincerity that Chuuya recalls hearing, how the tone has slightly shifted, how his voice is a lot softer than it used to be. He swallows.
Chuuya, with a slightly bitter tone, says, "You knew the sheep. The flags. They left."
"They did."
"And then you left."
"I did."
"I hated that. You knew— you knew everything. You saw me and how it affected me, and you still left. Despite it all, you didn't stay with me. And I don't know why I thought you would."
Dazai is quiet for a long moment, and Chuuya has to check if the man hung up, but suddenly he speaks. "I'm sorry."
"Wha… huh?"
"I'm sorry, Chuuya. I honestly didn't think it would matter that much to you. I mean, we used to only tolerate each other. I don't know what this is now. How we feel is much different than our emotions at fifteen, sixteen—"
"I'm being selfish, Dazai. I'm aware of it, that you're so much better now, and yet I can't be happy for you, no matter how much I try."
"Chuuya, you're starting to scream. And I'm almost there."
"I'm sorry."
"Well, I sure as hell didn't think I'd be getting yelled at around midnight, much less by a drunk, sobbing man— so your apology is accepted. Maybe."
"... Dazai—"
"I was the closest to you. Despite the ugly fights, we did have our times of joy. So I guess, I should have known it would affect you somehow. I underestimated the scale. You should know it's unhealthy, so I won't tell you that."
"You coming back won't fix anything," Chuuya admits.
Dazai sighs, "I would hope so. You need to learn how to actually deal with damage already done, otherwise I'm only doing something worse by talking to you. The difference is I'll actually be around this time."
Chuuya laughs, "Sober me is going to hate this."
"I'm counting on that, actually!"
"Bastard," he grins, setting his glass aside. "Tormenting me could be your reason worth living for."
"Could be! That also reminds me, though. And this is on a serious note."
"Huh?"
Dazai's voice shifts into something a little more insistent, "Don't joke about using corruption without me. That's— Chuuya, I don't think it's something befitting of you. Suicide?"
"It was just a thought—"
He cuts in, "It's always just a thought. And then that leads you down a rabbit hole. We're going to look into therapy or something for you. When you're sober, though."
"I really don't… think that's necessary."
"I don't want you to tumble into the depths of self despair when you're not with me. This needs to be sorted out, because you can't only rely on me. And you've been neglecting Ane-san, haven't you? We'll all help you."
A small lump appears in the back of his throat.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah. That's fine. Thanks."
The line goes dead, and Chuuya looks at his phone briefly before looking up at the wiggling lock on his door. Dazai pops his head in, hair messy like he remembers, a navy blue turtleneck and bandages managing to peak out beneath it anyway. The man smiles nervously at him, and it's almost ridiculous to think this is the man he was miserable over hours ago.
"Miss me?" Dazai asks, a little unsure, a wobbling grin.
Like a moth drawn to a flame, Chuuya drifts towards him.