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Saving a stranger from drowning would normally be a celebrated act, hailing it as the proof of human altruism and that even in an increasingly-unfeeling society, there is such a thing as being a good Samaritan.
Chuuya regrets it, every single day.
Not at the beginning. He’s been annoyed by the bastard’s irksome reaction upon being saved from becoming a cheap imitation of Ophelia, with mottled algae instead of flowers dotting his floating body washed away by a rapid river current during a flash flooding. That fishy mummy looked at him, then let out a disgusted sneer upon realizing that his suicide became a failure because of a busybody.
Thing is, it’s not as if Chuuya wants a parade or anything to praise his ‘good act’. A simple ‘thanks’ would have sufficed. If not that, at least not the fishy man making an attempt to jump to the river again, when his clothes are still dripping to the riverbank.
Back then, Chuuya’s position is very simple. He has saved the man’s life, so he doesn’t want to see his efforts wasted.
And so, after dragging him away from the river for the second time in one afternoon, it has led to a series of events that would cause the destruction of 99.99% of all parallel worlds and timelines.
Back then, it probably would have counted as a development akin to a budding youth romance, the type that teachers would attempt to dissuade teenagers from, in order to get them to focus on their studies.
Chuuya has tried it too, even going so far as to transfer to Dazai’s school just so he could supervise the other’s studying. A smart man should use his brains for the betterment of society, instead of drafting out plans on how to commit a cheerful suicide, or how to transform Chuuya’s shampoo into a failed chemistry experiment.
Perhaps he’s been buoyed by a life full of success. Of the lessons perpetuated by the manga he likes to read, that hard work and persistence would lead one to victory. Chuuya has persisted on making sure that Dazai leads what he’s envisioned as a ‘normal life’. One that includes having good grades, getting to a good university, graduating and then making oneself useful to society.
Chuuya has succeeded, in the most destructive way possible.
He regrets it, every single day. He’s not a man who does things that would lead him to regret, but it’s that one glaring mistake that he wishes he could redo, over and over again.
That maybe he shouldn’t have reached out to Dazai that day. That maybe he shouldn’t have gotten so close with him, despite his hollow eyes hidden by the sparkle of his fake smiles. That maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to take the same course as Dazai, just so he could fulfill their joking agreement about working on a joint thesis where they’d show each other who’s better.
He doesn’t like being haunted by regrets.
And so, Chuuya strives to rectify that mistake, every single day.
“—Did you miss me?”
The words strike him like lightning, causing his spine to stiffen. Jolted out of his thoughts, he whirls around and is unable to wipe off the frown from his face in time. “Shitty Dazai! What the hell are you doing here?!”
This man should have been at the other side of the world, damn it!
“I wanted to give you a surprise.” Wearing bandages all over his body for non-medical reasons should be a giant point of unattractiveness. It doesn’t seem to matter, because there’s an easy smile on Dazai’s face, his hair framing his expression like a painting. One look at him, and it’d almost be difficult to reconcile that he’s the man singlehandedly responsible for destroying all but one timeline in the entire universe. “I was worried that having such a busy workload would shrink you even further, so I’m here to help out!”
“You’re only here to make a nuisance of yourself,” he replies, testy while also falling back to their usual banter. It’s a habit formed by years of dealing with each other. Years stemming from that first meeting, to becoming roommates in university, to—
“You’re always so cold,” is a forlorn sigh that is accompanied by a shake of his head. “You’re lucky I like you, so I’m not going to demote you, even if you always insult me.”
Their university thesis: proving the existence of parallel universes. It’s a resounding success, especially at the beginning. They’ve received countless awards and accolades, gold medals that weighed down on his neck like a shining noose.
And then, somehow, Dazai has awakened a strange ability to communicate with his ‘other selves’ in each parallel universe, in each timeline born from each possibility of this world’s iterations. Communicating with them is one thing. Dangerous, but not exactly world-ending, even if it pushes the boundaries of what limits a human being.
But Dazai is smart, too smart, and apparently too special.
Gone is the brat who has pouted and complained about being rescued from a river drowning. It has been replaced by a man suddenly zealous about studying this strange ability, about contacting his other selves, and then taking control of each world, and ensuring that they’re all held in the palm of his bandaged hands.
This world, this timeline, is the last one that hasn’t been destroyed by Dazai’s capricious desires.
“…There’s no need to joke about that.” His fists clench by his sides. He can’t be certain how well he fakes his words, as he tastes acid in his tongue. “Sorry, Boss.”
Dazai’s smile is never stilted, even when it’s obviously fake. He could say things like ‘love’ and ‘hate’ as easily as he breathes. His eyes are crinkled crescents, like a happy fox. “I’ll forgive you if you cook for me.” He whirls around, his white coat flapping with the motion. He stretches his hands, like he’s a child who wants to mimic a helicopter’s spinning blades, to match his flights of fancy. “And admit that you missed me.”
Things would have been so much easier if Chuuya could convince himself that he doesn’t love him anymore. He could simply approach this bastard and stab him seventeen times in the heart, to match the seventeen years that they’ve known each other.
He’d be saving the world, at least one world, from drowning. He doesn’t want to be praised for it, he doesn’t want to be celebrated for it, even when there are various rebel groups who’d definitely dance over Dazai’s grave.
Chuuya would regret it, even more than he regrets how things have reached this point.
His fists clench so tightly that his nails burn crescents into his palms. Faking has never been his forte, but he’s never been the sort to give up. “I thought you’re here to help me, not give me more work.”
As the one appointed to be Dazai’s right-hand man, he should have the highest position below Dazai. He’s the one who’d have access and override controls over everything. He’s the one who can plant rebels in Dazai’s organization. He’s the one who can help things along in the shadows. He’s the one who can iron out opportunities to assassinate Dazai and end this catastrophe, once and for all.
It’s uncomfortable, knowing how others look at him and think that he’s Dazai’s favorite. He isn’t. He knows Dazai. He knows the bastard is just lazy and wants to dump all his work to him, and so propping him up as his right-hand man is just means to shove more responsibilities his way.
Appointing Chuuya as the head of this new base in Yokohama is just one such responsibility.
After awakening that strange ability, Dazai’s first course of action is to whisk Chuuya away on a trip to France. After sneaking into various vineyards and chasing each other under the sun, bickering all the while, they reach Meursault, an impregnable fortress that incarcerates individuals with crimes too heinous to be placed anywhere else in the world.
“I like dangerous things,” Dazai once said. With an exaggerated deep voice, acting as a villain, “I want this to be the base of my empire.”
One base per country is how they’ve expanded this ‘empire’.
For the sake of poetry, Dazai has wanted Yokohama to be the last base he builds in this world. To end where it all began. To keep Chuuya as far away from his homeland as possible. Chuuya couldn’t even visit his old home; to everyone else not working under Dazai’s thumb, Chuuya is Public Enemy Number Two, with a bounty second only to Dazai’s.
But he plans to get out of this base, soon. He has made arrangements to meet some of the leaders of the rebel factions. If everything goes well, in under seventeen months, they’d have a foolproof plan to kill Dazai for good.
In seventeen months, everything will end.
Seventeen seconds later, Dazai pouts. “You consider cooking for me as ‘work’?” He shakes his head, before huffing and crossing his arms over his chest. He even stomps his feet all over the floors of Chuuya’s office in the new base. “Shouldn’t you be happy to cook for me? It shouldn’t be counted as work! I’m your beloved boss!”
Dazai says things like ‘love’ and ‘hate’ so easily.
He could say he likes or hates Chuuya as easily as he snaps his fingers and decides that he’d rather destroy an enemy’s base, only because he thinks that their organization name isn’t too pleasing to the ears. He could say that he hates fate and destiny, because he once lost a friend who’s good enough to volunteer at an orphanage. He could say that he hates boredom and loves learning more things, and so he’s decided that he wants to sacrifice countless worlds.
Things would really be so much better if Chuuya could convince himself that he doesn’t love him anymore. That he couldn’t stomach the misdeeds the other has done, that he could forget all the years they’ve spent together as something not exactly friends, but not exactly enemies either.
He wishes that if he speaks of ‘hate’, there’s no undercurrent of, I hate how everything has come to this, I hate how I can’t hate you completely, even if you’re a hateful existence.
“There’s no such thing as you being my beloved boss,” he retorts. But, he looks around the wide expanse of his office, partitioned away from everyone else with heavy layers of security. He has an entire floor to himself, the biggest sign of ‘favor’ for his position. There’s nothing else but his thoughts, Dazai’s personal line to his office, and the dreary sky as his accompaniment on his daily tasks.
“As I’ve said, you’re really mean to me.” Dazai’s feet moves him around the room, like he’s doing a tour, but his eyes never leave him, like he’s guarding prey. “But I forgive you, because I’m a very nice person to the one I like.”
This is a man who could say ‘I like used bandages’ and ‘I like the way that island exploded’ with no differences in expression or tone. His like is poisonous, suffocating, and likely to be a lie. He should never believe it, he should never let himself be swayed by it.
If everything goes well, in under seventeen months, they’d have a foolproof plan to kill Dazai for good.
In seventeen months, everything will end.
Until that moment comes—
“Fine,” he exhales. “I’ll cook for you, but that would count as requiring overtime pay.”
Dazai claps his hands in glee, before skipping towards him like a happy bunny. He could even be considered adorable, if one ignores the emails he has sent just a few hours ago, detailing step by step plans to destroy several key organizations in Japan so he could completely dominate the country. He could even be considered lighthearted and easygoing, if one ignores the heavy weight of his arms when he drapes them all over him, as if he’s lazy enough to not even want to carry his own weight while standing up.
He’s handsy and he’s affectionate. He acts like they’re closer than lovers, but he doesn’t even answer straight when Chuuya asks him why is he doing all of this.
“If you stay by my side long enough, you’d definitely be able to discover the reason,” is how Dazai has answered his question. “So, become my right-hand man, okay, Chuuya?”
This time, he squeezes him close and says, “You can have everything in return. What’s mine is yours, my darling chibi.”
It’s sweet and dangerous. A suffocating sentiment that’s bound to ensnare him in a trap of honey. Fortunately, he’s quite experienced with dealing with this man’s tricks. He narrows his eyes and attempts to elbow him out of the way. It works, but barely—their distance still has no respect for one’s personal space. “What did you do?” He clicks his tongue. “Rather, what else do you want to add to my workload, oi?”
Dazai’s a guy who’s stingy enough to not even want to cough up an extra cent whenever they used to split bills for their apartment. Him being this generous is either out of inebriation, or because of some headache he’s about to suffer.
A pause, then Dazai lets out a little laugh before stepping away from him. He circles his office desk, free of clutter, even though he’s just recently moved into this new base from the main one in Meursault.
Chuuya feels like he’s been locked in that impregnable prison ever since that day. The feeling re-intensifies now, when Dazai meets his eyes and says, “Sheep. GSS. Port Mafia. Armed Detective Agency.”
He freezes, but he resolves to not give anything away. His frown is genuine. “The four main forces in Yokohama’s grounds.” He tries to make his posture relax. “If they think of stirring up trouble, I’ll beat them all up.”
They’re rebel groups who have made no secret of their plans to oppose Dazai’s regime. They’re rebel groups who have no intersection with each other—at least, until they’ve been contacted by Chuuya, in order to arrange a unified front to assassinate a mummified bastard.
But it shouldn’t have been discovered. They’ve all been very careful.
Dazai blinks at him, before his face softens like melting syrup. “My darling dog,” he says, full of suffocating affection. He moves back close, so he could cradle his face in his palms. “You’d make sure that they’re taken care, wouldn’t you?”
This close and in this angle, they could almost trade breaths directly. This close and in this angle, Dazai’s eyes seemingly turn red, like camellias in full bloom, like spiderlilies that line the path to hell, like the blood that has spilled all over the veins that governed fate and destiny.
“I won’t allow them to hurt you,” he promises, and it doesn’t need faking at all.
Is it because he believes that Dazai is no longer human and therefore not capable of being hurt anymore? Or is it because he wants to be the one to take up the blade and personally insert it between Dazai’s ribs?
He doesn’t want to worry about those things.
“I believe you,” Dazai tells him, more cloying than an overload of sugar that could rupture cells’ walls by drowning them in sweetness. “I also believe that you’d cook a lovely buffet of crab for me, so let’s get going already!”
He rolls his eyes, and lightly smacks the other’s forearms so that he’d release him. “You’re wrong.”
Faint laughter. “Ah, but don’t you know by now that I’m never wrong?”
“I’ll show you,” he says, raising his chin and dragging the bastard with him so they could whisk out of this office and into his top-floor suite that also serves as his new residence in Yokohama. “There are plenty of times when you’d be very wrong, shitty Dazai.”
“Is that so?” More of the laughter makes him look like a boyish rogue intent on stealing people’s hearts. It’s a shame that he does this more literally than necessary. It’s a shame that Chuuya can’t convince himself otherwise, especially when Dazai drapes himself all over his body as he whispers, “I look forward to that, Chuuya.”
If everything goes well, in under seventeen months, they’d have a foolproof plan to kill Dazai for good.
In seventeen months, everything will end.
His sorrows and regrets, this world’s tragedies big and small: they’d all be drowned away by a current strong enough to overcome one’s lamentations, in exchange for the better good.
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Once upon a time, there’s a boy who thought that he wanted to be washed away by the currents, because life was too dreadful and boring. The few times that he had tried to get more out of life, he was only met with disappointment.
There was that friend that he would have followed anywhere, even if he disliked the stinky handprints of the kids that he doted on. He did set out to follow him, even when he died accidentally. He would have been fine with being sent away by the river, but he was met with disappointment too.
Back then, it was like becoming face to face with the sun.
Perhaps it was because they met on a rainy day, and in a sea of dreary gray, someone with red flames for the hair and blue gems for the eyes would have appeared like a star. Perhaps it was because the Sun was just that: a shining star that blinded those who laid eyes upon him.
Perhaps Chuuya was just addicted to being overachieving like the protagonists in those manga that he liked the read. He was not contented with acting as the sun; he was not contented with shining like a star. He wanted to be Dazai’s whole world too, as he also circled him like the moon. He was the entire heaven and earth and universe and Dazai was fine with that arrangement.
At least, until he saw countless futures and possibilities, and all of them involved Chuuya’s betrayal, one way or another.
Was it not incredibly unfair, to strive to root into his very being, only for him to leave?
Dazai hated him, but he loved him so much more.
In every world and every timeline he had glimpsed: Chuuya would betray him in various scenarios, using various methods.
He would forgive each and every one of them, and then punish his naughtiness by keeping him by his side.
He would forgive him, because he loves him so.
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end