Chapter Text
The night was as cold and miserable as Nakahara Chuuya’s heart. His glazed, drunken eyes reflected the dim light of the desolate bar, mirroring the shadows dancing within his troubled mind. His usual cocky demeanor was replaced with an unsteady walk, each step a sign of the chaos unravelling within him.
Tonight was the night that Dazai Osamu—his dearest partner and closest friend—made the decision to leave the Port Mafia. A decision that shattered Chuuya's world, his spirit, his everything, leaving him feeling like a ship lost at sea. The weight of it all crushed his heart, drowning it in a sea of wine and sorrow.
“Fucking bitch. Stupid Dazai!” he yelled, angrily hurling an empty bottle at the wall. The sound of glass crashing echoed his inner turmoil. The bartender jolted in surprise. He wanted to scold the drunk patron, but there was nothing he could do.
Empty bottles littered the counter before him, remnants of a desperate effort to numb the pain. But alas, no amount of alcohol could dull the ache in his heart. He clutched the half-filled glass in his hand, his grip tight and unyielding, as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.
Chuuya’s thoughts drifted back to the days when they were unstoppable, an invincible and fearsome duo, the Double Black (Soukoku). He remembered the laughter, the companionship, the unspoken bond they shared. But now, that bond was severed, and Chuuya couldn't help but feel abandoned, betrayed even.
The bartender gave sympathetic glances in Chuuya’s direction, recognizing the broken man the poor drunk had become.
“Are you alright, sir?” the bartender asked. Chuuya could only glare at him. He throws another bottle, this time towards the bartender who quickly dodges the bottle. It crashes along with the other bottles of alcohol on display, but the bartender pays no mind. “Let’s refrain from doing that, shall we?”
“Shut up, bastard. Get me another bottle.”
The bartender sighs, but still places another bottle on the counter. “This isn’t good for you.”
“I could care less.”
The bartender’s sympathy only fueled Chuuya’s frustration. He didn’t want anybody’s sympathy; he wanted answers. Why did Osamu leave without a word? Was their bond truly so disposable? Was what they went through really so worthless?
More so when they were dating? Isn’t this just like breaking up?
As the night went on, Chuuya's drunken mind began to play tricks on him. Memories of their private nights spent together (all alone and hiding in secret as they shared loving kisses) intertwined with the present, blurring the lines between reality and his intoxicated haze, and the weight of his emotions became too much to bear.
In the midst of his sorrow, Chuuya’s heartache grew into anger. His fists clenched tightly, knuckles turning white against the glass. How dare Osamu leave him like this? Didn’t he understand the depth of their connection? Was their relationship worth nothing more than a fleeting moment?
The bar’s atmosphere grew heavy with Chuuya’s brewing rage. A storm was brewing inside him, fueled by betrayal and the sharp edges of a broken bond. His vision blurred as tears welled in his eyes, the agony he had suppressed for far too long finally breaking through. The pain cut deeper than any physical wound he had ever endured.
He grips the wine glass far too tight, and it shatters in his hand. Angry, he bangs his head against the counter. In this position, Chuuya could feel the vertigo catching up to him. He felt dizzy, and he felt like throwing up, but he just wanted to stay like this forever.
The bar remained quiet for a few minutes, until heavy footsteps approached the bar counter.
“...I apologize for the mess he made. Put the tab on Port Mafia. Thank you.” a voice talks to the bartender, before lightly tapping Chuuya on the shoulder. “Hey, chibi. Let’s go home, yeah?”
Chuuya turns his head to the side. He sees Osamu. He lets out a smile. “Dazai…”
Osamu observes his partners’ face. Chuuya’s eyes were puffy, dried tears on his flushed cheeks. He was crying.
“I’ll take you home. Let’s go.”
“Okay.” Chuuya answers, the smile on his face never leaving.
Osamu’s heart aches. He’s never seen Chuuya this…quiet. The redhead was always angry at him, always yelling and very stubborn, but tonight he had a different side to show Osamu. Perhaps being submissive and docile was his way of indirectly begging Osamu to stay.
He hoists Chuuya onto his back, giving the bartender a nod as he walks out. Osamu climbs the steps out of the bar and into the streets, all while rubbing soothing circles on Chuuya’s thighs. Perhaps those soft touches were his attempts to show that he was sorry.
The chilly night air brushed against Chuuya’s face, chilling his flushed cheeks. The streets of Yokohama were deserted, reflecting the emptiness in his heart. He feels the way Osamu holds him firmly but gently, he feels the way Osamu’s thumbs trace circles on his thighs, squeezing now and then, he feels the way Osamu softly kisses his gloved hands that were resting on Osamu’s shoulders.
Each step felt heavier than the last as Osamu made his way towards their house. The night seemed to stretch on endlessly, the silence of the city adding to their sense of loneliness. Osamu wanted to speak, but he knew his words would fall on deaf ears.
“Why, Dazai?” Chuuya’s voice quivered with raw emotion. “Why are you leaving without a word? Am I not worth a simple explanation?”
“I have no choice.”
“Am I nothing more than a tool to you? A means to an end?” Chuuya’s voice cracked with a mix of anger and hurt. “I thought we were different. I thought we were more than that.”
“Chuuya—”
“I thought you loved me, Dazai.”
Osamu says nothing. He continues walking the path to his lovers’ house. He started to feel how heavy the redhead was on his back, and he could feel Chuuya’s arms choking him as the redhead hugged his neck, not wanting to let go, but Osamu didn’t mind. For Chuuya, he will do anything.
Anything but stay. Stay in the Port Mafia. Stay with Chuuya. Stay like this. He couldn’t. He had to leave. They’d both get hurt if he stayed.
“Dazai…”
“...Yes, Chuuya?” he hesitates to answer.
“Love you…I love you, Dazai.”
Osamu’s walking slows down. He smiles to himself. He presses another kiss to Chuuya’s gloved hand. Perhaps that was his way of indirectly telling Chuuya that he cared. And that he loved him too. Perhaps.
“You’re drunk. Come on, now. We need to get you home.”
“Why are you leaving? Please be honest with me. Please tell me, Osamu.”
“...Forgive me, Chuuya. I’m doing this for someone.”
“...For Oda, right? It’s always him. It’s always about what he wants. I know. I always knew. I know that you’d choose him over me. You’d choose anyone else over me.”
“This is for your sake too, you know?”
“If you’re leaving me…” he feels Chuuya’s breath on his nape. “Please, never come back.”
Osamu smiles. “Okay.” he breathes out. “Anything for you, Chuuya.”
Finally, he arrived at their—now Chuuya’s—house. He pulls out the keys, opens the front door and carries Chuuya to the bedroom, placing him gently on the bed as he takes off the redhead’s coat and hat. Osamu sits beside him, hands intertwined with Chuuya’s as he watches him slowly nod off to sleep.
When Chuuya’s hold on his hand weakens, Osamu lets go. Pressing a kiss to his lovers’ forehead, and then on his lips, Osamu lets out a smile. After a little while, he leaves the spare key on the entry table beside the front door. He leaves the house, locking the door behind him.
The building stood before Osamu like a memorial to a bygone era, its faded glory mocking their shattered dreams.
“...Goodbye, Chuuya.”
As the sunlight from the open window blinds him, Chuuya opens his eyes. The world kept spinning as his head and chest hammered. He hurriedly ran to the bathroom, instantly vomiting in the toilet bowl.
“Fuck. What the fuck did I do?” he slumps on the floor, trying to compose himself. He was a mess; a disaster, physically and mentally, and he didn’t know why. He groans as his stomach rumbles, demanding for food. He hasn’t consumed anything in 24 hours but wine. No wonder he was so disoriented.
As he checks his phone, he finds three messages sent by Osamu. He reads them, eyes widening.
...
; love you too
; i wish you all the best, chuuya
; goodbye.
sent 3:44AM
what :
Not delivered.
dazai :
Not delivered.
dazai what the hell :
Not delivered.
...
Chuuya lets out a frustrated sigh.
He tries to send more texts. It fails. Stumbling, he tries going outside to look for a better signal. His messages still don’t go through. He tries calling. It doesn’t reach.
Chuuya grips his phone.
Seems like Osamu’s blocked his number.
“Fuck. That bastard…” he sighs, walking back inside.
As Chuuya closes the door, he sees a flash of silver in his peripheral vision. He faces the entryway table to see the duplicate key Osamu left. The mackerel keychain still hanging from it. A frown makes its way to Chuuya’s face.
Ignoring the way his stomach hurt from hunger, he makes his way to Osamu’s bedroom, desperate to find anything his lover may have left behind. He opens the wooden door to find the room empty.
Chuuya enters the room, its walls bearing witness to the echoes of their laughter and whispered secrets. His eyes caught sight of a worn leather notebook left behind by Osamu, its pages filled with tales of their shared experiences and the traces of their bond. Trembling, he grabs the notebook from the desk as he clutches it tightly against his chest, tears daring to fall.
“Dazai? Are you here?” he tries to ask, despite the fact that the bed lacked covers and pillows, that the messy scattered documents on the floor were gone, and that the closet was empty. He tries to ask, despite the fact that any traces of Osamu were gone. “Did you really leave me?”
The empty room provided no answers, and Chuuya's agony intensified. He sank to his knees, the weight of his emotions threatening to crush him completely.
“Dazai?” he calls out, hoping, wishing, begging. Hoping that Osamu would come, just like he always did. Hoping that Osamu would appear and embrace Chuuya, just like he always did. Hoping that his voice would fill the deserted, silent room.
Hoping that the bastard would come and tell him, “I love you.”
Chuuya’s voice echoed in the desolate space, a desperate plea to the void.
Memories of their shared moments flooded his mind; the warmth of Osamu’s smile, the playful banter, the unspoken understanding between them, the kisses they shared after every battle, the hugs they gave each other when nights were too cold for them both. It all felt like a cruel illusion now.
As his tears continued to fall, Chuuya's anger subsided, replaced by an overwhelming feeling of loss. He realized that beneath the anger, there was a lingering ache for the one he had lost, the bond that had been severed. The realization crashed over him like a tsunami, leaving him gasping for breath.
Chuuya slowly flipped through the pages of the notebook in his hands, his attention fixated on the words and doodles they had once written together. The ink seemed to mock him now, a cruel reminder of what they had built and what had been torn apart. The notebook was evidence of their shared past, of the countless battles they had fought side by side. The notebook was the placeholder of their secret, of how much they loved each other.
Nothing remained in Osamu's bedroom but the notebook. The room used to be filled with everything that was Osamu. His scent, his presence, his voice, his things. Now, the room was empty. Empty, and lonely, just like Chuuya’s heart. The room looked like no one had ever lived in it.
Chuuya wonders if Osamu living here was all just a daydream.