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The first thing he does upon regaining consciousness is to wrinkle his nose in distaste, before blearily trying to sit up on a lumpy mattress covered by sticky, scratchy sheets. There are obvious damp patches over the bed, and a strange smell that’s faintly like diluted bleach. His hair sticks to his bare neck, and it feels as if he’s been violently embraced by a ten-wheeler, with how heavy his bones are.
Something doesn’t compute, and his senses are on high alert.
Unless his brain has somehow been rummaged through, he shouldn’t have any gaps in his memory—at least, nothing that’s worse than the one he already has.
“Should have known that things couldn’t be that nice all the time,” he grumbles to himself, as he tries to rub the back of his aching neck. There’s a strange stickiness all over his skin, like someone has used cheap glue to bathe him. Glue is a more logical guess than suspecting he’s had a violent nocturnal emission that has somehow resulted in his entire body being drenched in it. He’s pretty sure that those claims about the negative side-effects of not being sexually active are all bullshit.
…So, glue.
In any case, he has more important things to worry about.
Once he successfully opens his eyes, he finds himself completely naked, inside a small, cramped room that has more similarities with a dumpster and a prison than his current apartment. It looks like a shabby staff dormitory, made even more abysmal by the owner’s lack of housekeeping. His current spot atop the bed gives him a complete vantage view to every corner of this place, except for the insides of what must be the bathroom tucked on the corner nearest to the kitchen that boasts a fortress made of instant noodles and a mountain of takeout containers.
A sliding-door closet occupies an entire wall, which is the second strangest point in this. Someone who couldn’t even be bothered to clean or cook or otherwise put knickknacks to grant the place some personality, but could still manage to have things renovated so that they’d have an expansive closet.
Chuuya walks towards the closet. There’s still the lingering smell of a newly-laundered outfit. The closet is spacious, but there’s nothing inside aside from empty shelves and three coats. All coats are in varying shades of beige. All coats are long enough that they reach his calves, with shoulders wide enough that they droop on him.
Beside the closet, there’s a paper calendar.
“Five years,” he murmurs, and looks down at the scant distance between the hem of the coat and his bare foot. “Does this mean I’m going to grow this tall?”
No, that doesn’t make sense.
The fridge is mostly empty, save for some cans of cheap beer and some wilted cabbages and tomatoes on the verge of becoming soup. There’s a small television on the wall opposite the bed, and there are various game discs scattered around. Motorcycle Racing VIII catches his attention first. He’s only managed to complete IV; V is something he plans to undertake once he gets more free time.
Being promoted to Executive, taking on a whole new squad, getting more responsibilities, moving to a new apartment, importing a new Lamborghini to replace the one that’s been inexplicably blown up. No thanks to a certain someone’s defection, the mafia’s workload has nearly doubled. Not only do they have to divvy up the tasks that used to fall on top of that messy bird’s nest of a head, but they also have to deal with the surge of enemies who mistakenly assume that Port Mafia has lost its fangs alongside its demon prodigy.
This should have been his free time.
Chuuya looks at the calendar, then sniffs the air. There’s a faint hint of fishiness, but that’s something that he has come to expect with living in Yokohama. Despite Dazai having fucked off from the mafia, his stench remains in the city—probably one of the consequences of living somewhere near the sea and its wealth of fishes.
He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, then blanches at the fishy smell emanating from him. He squints at the dried liquid on his arms and thighs.
“This has to be glue,” he tells himself and the air around him, almost as a threat. “This has to be glue and not something annoying.”
His waist is a bit sore and so is his lower back. His nape stings a bit, like someone has bitten him hard enough to promise imminent cannibalism. His hair is a mess, clumped together by sweat and something else.
He’d rather believe that he’s gotten so drunk, had a fistfight with the owner of this apartment, and gotten so trashed that he bathed himself in glue. Any other alternatives need to perish.
This couldn’t be his apartment. This couldn’t be the apartment of any of his colleagues, because he’d never be so inebriated that he’d drag his sorry ass to their place and disturb their peace. This couldn’t be the apartment of any of his more trustworthy coworkers, because they’re not filthy slobs who wouldn’t even dispose of their garbage regularly.
There is no other alternative explanation, or else Chuuya would punch something really hard—and signs point to him possibly destroying this entire zipcode with one punch, if he’s angered enough.
In fact, he shouldn’t be this relaxed about this situation.
A newly promoted Executive who has a long list of enemies who are salivating at the chance to one-up him. Getting transported to an unfamiliar place while fully naked, and not in top physical condition. It should have been enough to blare alarm bells inside his head. It should have made him blow up, at the hint that he’s been transported somewhere five years into the future.
Instead, he has looked at this unfamiliar place, and has instead gained a sense of expectation, of belonging, of trust that he’s not somewhere where he’d have to fear for his life.
Like there’s peace and trust ingrained inside him, carved deeper into his marrows.
“…Fuck,” he breathes out, and it’s the simplest summary of his situation.
He considers dressing himself in a tunic fashioned out of the bedsheets, but it’s a thought that perishes swiftly. Not only is the thread count abysmally low, it’s also basically dripping with weird wetness. He has the inkling that not even incinerating it could salvage its dignity.
Once again, he looks at the coats hanging inside the closet. Picks out a beige one that has an outer belt, which he uses to secure it closely on his waist. It’s as big as a hearty embrace, like there’s an extra pair of arms wrapped around him. It also feels like it’s supposed to be worn by someone at least a full head taller than him, and the thought makes his molars ache.
He surveys the apartment once more.
He doesn’t see his clothes in the vicinity. It couldn’t have been that he has gone here stark naked, right??? Even at his least sober, he wouldn’t be that thoughtless, right???
So someone has been here to snatch his clothes away after he has shed them off his skin. Someone has been here to bathe him in glue. Someone has lured him here, to a place that he would probably avoid using, even as the cheapest safehouse.
Each step forward is heavy with sticky dread—oh, that’s probably because the weird glue is clumping his leg hairs together.
He’d take a shower later.
A quick look at the bathroom makes him backpedal and want to retch towards the nearest trashcan. Unfortunately, the sole trashcan in the vicinity is still overflowing with garbage. He could only swallow down his horror at the abomination that is a 13-in-1 shampoo-soap-dishwashing liquid-deodorant-bug spray-battery fluid-whatever else concoction inside.
He resolves to find out the identity behind this apartment’s ownership, if only because he’d want to assassinate him as soon as he returns to his own timeline. Nobody should have to live this kind of life, and he’d probably be doing that person a favor.
Wrapping the coat more securely around his naked torso, he walks towards the front door, and slowly swings the door open.
There’s a splashing sound of a drink falling off a tall Jenga tower of takeout containers.
As if someone has bought and delivered a lot of food to someone who’d be hungry upon waking up, but that ‘consideration’ is very evil, in that the person who has delivered that package placed it exactly in front of the door, guaranteeing a disastrous spill.
There’s only one person abominable to do such a thing.
There’s a post-it note that becomes drenched in the spilled coffee, and it’s scrawled in the familiar chicken-scratch strokes belonging to a certain fish.
But that’s not what Chuuya is focusing on.
He’s more focused on the fact that after he opens the door, he sees the metal plate hanging beside the doorbell.
[Nakahara] is the surname there.
It’s apparently his future self who owns this place.
And then, there’s a scrawled [Dazai] underneath, in a handwriting that could only be his own.
The thought of owning such a messy place that’s seemingly occupied by a shitty mackerel makes him froth at the mouth. Not only that, his heart thud so much that his eyes roll to the back of his head, unable to accept this kind of choice in life.
-
When he wakes up again, it’s to an aching head and a burning resolution to stay abroad for a long period of time, as well as the desire to hoard so much money and real estate so he’d have ten penthouse suite apartments in the Greater Kanto region.
(And also the lingering desire to sock Dazai in the jaw, but that’s something that’s been there for years.)
-
end
(so why was Chuuya sent to the future to begin with? it’s because future Chuuya wants to warn himself of the dangers of shacking up with a fish!)