Work Text:
Chuuya has always been the sentimental one in Soukoku. The Port Mafia was not a place suited for such things like emotions, but Chuuya has always been weak in the heart. He cared too much and loved too hard. He helped others at the cost of his own life. Chuuya’s blood has always been bright red, not Port Mafia black.
The first time he goes on a mission with his new partner, Dazai, Chuuya learns that the Port Mafia housed ill-mannered brats. Every time Dazai opens his mouth, Chuuya has to clench his fist and hold back the urge to send a bullet through the other boy’s skull. He gets through it though, and eventually learns to ignore the brunet’s dog jokes and height insults over the years. He even fuels the teasing sometimes, letting out a “Hah? What was that, bastard?” or some other insult, resulting in a “Ah, the dog barks back” from Dazai.
His partnership with Dazai stretches on for another year. Chuuya uses Corruption for the first time at the age of fifteen, despite Dazai insisting there should be a better way. “Shouldn’t use it so early..should wait until eighteen at least…” Dazai had said it might permanently damage his body, but Chuuya trusted him. “It’ll be faster if I used Corruption. I just want to go home and sleep after this.”
They did finish early, but at the cost of Chuuya’s health. Dazai never patches Chuuya up. Nor does Chuuya help when Dazai is injured during a mission. They lick their own wounds when they get home. But for the first time, Dazai carries Chuuya home and patches him up. He even stays the night and well into the morning, long enough for Chuuya to wake up, make breakfast, and force food into Dazai’s frail body. They head to work together. This routine eventually becomes normal, and Dazai’s belongings slowly make their way into Chuuya’s apartment: rolls of bandages and another toothbrush in the bathroom, a drawer filled with his clothes, cans of crab in the pantry; Dazai’s presence in the home becomes known.
Neither of them liked to celebrate their birthdays, seeing the day as a meaningless thing, an unfortunate event. But on the morning of Chuuya’s eighteenth birthday, he finds a maroon colored accessory box on his nightstand. It’s small, fitting easily in the palm of his hand, and Chuuya is immediately suspicious. The damn stinky mackerel had to have put something stupid in here. He supposes it’d be smarter to not open it, but something in him is screaming at him to look, so he does.
Sitting snug in the center of the box are two small charms, a slug and a fish, and a note folded underneath.
Hi Chibi ~
Don’t misunderstand!!! Birthdays suck and I really think yours is meaningless; it really would have been better if you didn’t exist. I just happened to see these the other day during a mission and figured the dog collar I got you two years ago is starting to look a bit boring, so you can hang these on the clasp. It’s a mark of ownership so you don’t forget you’re my dog!
Hope you die today! ~
M
Chuuya can feel the blood rushing to his head. So fucking annoying. He tosses the box to the side and goes to get ready for work, promptly ignoring it. If any Port Mafia member notices the little charms dangling from the clasp of the young executive’s collar, no one says anything. Dazai seems to have gone blind or mute, because although Chuuya knows Dazai has seen it, there are no insults and dog jokes directed at him for the whole day.
He isn’t exactly sure when he starts to regularly call Dazai 'Osamu'. It slipped past once after a mission and neither of them said anything about the use of Dazai's given name. Well, Dazai calls him 'Chuuya', so it really shouldn’t be a problem to call Dazai 'Osamu'. He remembers Dazai flushing, spluttering a bit, before calming down and mumbling something along the lines of “You can’t just say that” before he retreated to the bathroom to shower. Dazai becomes Osamu. Sometimes, he even becomes ‘Samu. If the usage of Dazai’s given name is unwelcome, not a single complaint reaches Chuuya’s ears.
“Osamu, help me grab another plate.”
“Samu, just stay the night. My place is closer to HQ anyway.”
“Samu, have you seen this new game? Should we get it?”
“Osamu, crab for dinner? Oh, crab rolls? Sure.”
Their dynamic shifts, and despite how slight the change may be to outsiders, it feels groundbreaking to both of them. The height and dog insults come less, physical proximity lessens, and the rare touches they share start to feel almost longing. And if they let their fingers and hands touch lightly when they sleep in Chuuya’s bed, neither of them say anything when they wake up. The only thing reminding Chuuya of the prolonged touch is the silence of Arahabaki in his head for the next few hours.
When Osamu disappears from the world as if he never existed, Chuuya can’t help but feel like something is his fault. He was abroad with Kouyou when it happened, tending to an organization in France. Perhaps he could have helped Osamu with something, anything, but Osamu had not contacted him. How was he supposed to help if he knew nothing of what happened in Yokohama? When he returned to Japan, he was expecting to sleep off his jet lag for a week, with Osamu breaking into his apartment to bother him. Instead, he was called to Mori’s office the next day and told that his partner, his best friend, had defected from the Port Mafia.
Osamu, the one with the blackest blood Chuuya had ever seen, had betrayed the very organization that fit him like a glove. Osamu left the organization that basically raised him. He left the place he grew up in. But Chuuya doesn’t focus on that.
Osamu left. Osamu left the Port Mafia. Chuuya was in the Port Mafia. Osamu left him.
Osamu left him.
Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.
How could you drag me into the mafia and then leave me behind?
Traitor. Traitor.
Why couldn’t you wait for me to come back?
Traitor.
Why couldn’t you take me with you?
Traitor.
Osamu doesn’t contact him a single time over the span of four years. Samu becomes Osamu. Osamu becomes Dazai. Dazai becomes ‘traitor’. He becomes jackass, asshole, bastard. Dazai is no longer Osamu. Dazai is no longer Samu. Dazai is no longer Chuuya’s. He’s no longer Chuuya’s partner in crime, his best friend, his roommate. Dazai Osamu is a stranger.
When Dazai appears again after four years of radio silence, Chuuya sends a fist at his face and a knee into his stomach. He deserves it, Chuuya reasons. His chest doesn’t ache when he sees how Dazai has changed: taller, broader and healthier, his cheekbones sharper, his features matured. No. Chuuya focuses on how this is a stranger. The light in Dazai’s eyes is an unfamiliar sight, and the smile on his face sends Chuuya recoiling. It’s genuine. No one else could tell, but Chuuya has known Dazai, worked with him, and although unspoken, he loved him. Dazai looks genuinely happy to see him. But Chuuya remembers this is not the Dazai he knows. This is not Osamu. This is not Samu. This is a stranger. And Chuuya can’t read strangers the way he could read Samu.
So the smile that his heart knows is genuine is overridden by his brain. Logic tells him that Dazai is provoking him, expecting a reaction. The Chuuya that Osamu knew was sentimental, caring too much and loving too hard. But this Chuuya is no longer Dazai Osamu’s Chuuya. So when Chuuya stares blankly at him, throwing punch after punch, kick after kick, and angles a knife and drives it into the wall next to Dazai’s neck, Dazai feels a chill run down his spine. Was this how it felt to be Chuuya’s enemy?
“Ah, Chibi’s still as violent as ever ~”
Chuuya ignores him as he goes to pick up his discarded coat.
“You haven’t changed at all, Slug.”
The sentence is weak when it leaves his mouth, almost as if he’s trying to convince himself instead. Chuuya turns in time to catch the knife flying in his direction. As he puts it away, his eyes burn as he keeps eye contact with those unfamiliar bright brown eyes.
“You don’t know me, Dazai.”
Dazai laughs, stepping closer.
“Why wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t be a good partner if I didn’t know you.”
The laugh that leaves Chuuya’s own lips is bitter.
“The one that knew me was Osamu.”
The flinch that Chuuya catches from Dazai is almost rewarding.
“You don’t know me, Dazai. You stopped knowing me the moment you left. The moment you left the Port Mafia, you left me, and Osamu died. You’re Dazai. You're not Osamu.”
Dazai tries to explain. He insists that although he left the Port Mafia, he didn’t leave Chuuya. Chuuya only scoffs. No explanation or apology will bring eighteen year old Osamu back to him. Nothing will bring back their severed bond, nor will anything restore it to its original state of never ending, unconditional trust. Nothing will bring back the boy he cooked breakfast for, the boy who brought him home and stitched his wounds after a bad mission. Nothing will bring back the boy who slept beside him at night, a finger hooked around his own. Nothing will bring back the boy that woke up next to him in the morning, the boy he once loved. Nothing will bring Osamu back.
Nothing will bring back Chuuya’s Samu.
“You don’t know me, Dazai. Not anymore.”
When Chuuya leaves, his jaw clenched, he doesn’t look back.