Archive of Our Own

25th December, 2006

Somewhere in the Nishi-ku ward, Yokohama.

If Dazai had to pick a word to describe himself, in case anyone ever asked him to play one of those ice breaker games teachers forced kids to join back in elementary, materialistic would’ve probably been the last word he would think of. To him, the popular fascination towards sentimentalism stashed in cheap objects has always been odd, and seldom has he ever cared for something outside of practical purpose. Objects are objects, people are people; it’s an axiom he doesn’t consider confutable.

That being said, his unmaterialistic nature would lead one to believe that he harbors scarce to no feelings towards objects, not bestowing them with any kind of conscience or free will. He doesn’t feel anger towards the automatic laundry for not cleaning his clothes properly, no hostility towards the container he calls his home for never keeping him warm.

Objects are objects and unlike humans, they don’t plot nor intend any harm.

Or that’s what he thought up until three hours ago. Until he found out flour- or baking soda, or eggs, he could only wish he knew which one was the issue here- must have some sort of unresolved, one-way row with him.

It doesn’t make sense, really. As he throws what is now the third failed attempt at making a decent sponge cake into the trash bin, his beliefs all begin to creak dangerously. 

The plan was simple. Sneak into Chuuya’s kitchen on Christmas while he was running some late errands, bake him an irresistible, incredibly appealing kurisumasu keki , and accidentally forget to tell him about the laxatives he slipped in the sponge. A little bit of rum in the whipped cream too, if he had the chance, just to make the whole thing funnier.

It was a simple plan, with a clear goal and definite steps. And yet, Dazai is now staring at a huge mess of flour scattered all over the black marble countertop of Chuuya’s kitchen, his suit covered in whipped cream and the ingredients almost run out. Worst of all, the digital clock hanging on the wall displays four boxy numbers in bright red: 20:00. Chuuya is going to come home soon, and his plan is going to miserably fail. He would inevitably kick him out of his apartment and he would spend Christmas night dying of boredom in his container, without a heating system and without anyone to bother, if not the small family of spiders that recently established their residence in the space between his mini fridge- not actually a fridge, shipping containers don’t have electricity- and bed.

He doesn’t understand what he’s doing wrong. He can cook, he’s sure of that. Curry, tofu, western specialties. He’s made chocolate souffles countless times, sneaking into restaurants’ kitchens. He’s made ramen, he’s made raclette, he’s made everything one would need to consider themself a decent cook. So a lack of cooking skill is not why the cake won’t turn out properly. He throws yet another baking tray filled with cake mixture in the oven. 

A door unlocks. The sound of soles being kicked off reaches his ear. Steady, heavy steps on the wooden floor-

“Fuck are you doing here?” Chuuya appears in the kitchen’s doorway with a frown, his top lip turned up like he always does when he’s upset. Dazai finds himself in an embarrassing, inexcusable position, scrunched down next to the oven, with the agonizing, humiliating task of having to look up to speak to Chuuya.

“Oh, look who it is! Does Chuuya come here often?” He asks, quickly springing back up. He flashes a thirty-two-teethed, braces-filled smile.

Avoiding the impending doom is useless; all one can do is postpone it. He dreads the freezing walk home he’s about to take.

Crossed arms, thick eyebrows, a few persistent freckles that have survived through the cold season. Upturned but bold nose, the faintest hint of peach fuzz on his chin. How the scrawny, dirty dog he picked up from the streets just one year earlier had turned into this, he has no clue. His features lack the uncertainty that Dazai’s are soaked in, as if they had been carved in Carrara’s marble. Not quite glossy magazines kind of handsome- weak chin, sputters of acne there and then, a little hint of childishness in his cheeks- he oozes a sense of familiarity Dazai is not quite sure he totally likes.

“What the fuck are you doing in my kitchen?” 

“Has Chuuya become blind all of a sudden? Can’t he see I'm baking?” 

Chuuya leans against the countertop and instantly takes a step back when he realizes his sleeve is now dirty with what looks like flour. “Oh no, I can see you fucking suck at that.”

“Chuuya wouldn’t understand what the art of patisserie entails. For this reason I, aware of his lack of judgment and good taste, decided to grace him with my five star cuisine. Too bad even the ingredients in his house seem to carry his same awful temper and won’t- hey, what are you doing?”

Chuuya runs one finger on the white powder and licks it off his finger pad. A scrunch of his nose, a sparkle of hilarity in his eyes. “No shit the cake wouldn’t come out. This is cornstarch, not flour. And this is salt. The fuck were you trying to do, poison me?”

“What?”

Less speaking, more acting, he grabs Dazai’s finger, rubs it on the white-ish powder and shoves it back in Dazai’s mouth.

He doesn’t know about the flour or cornstarch part, but…

“Even your sugar tastes salty.” He says. Humiliating, really. He wonders if Chuuya put salt in the sugar container as a defense against his pranks. Good job, slug . He seriously underestimated him. Not that he’s willing to admit it. Instead, he continues, “It’s incredible how one’s personality can have such an effect on the objects they’re surrounded by. I’m convinced that if you happened to own a pet goldfish, it would turn into a marine beast after spending one day as the victim of your unpleasant aura.”

Silence on Chuuya’s side, Dazai keeps talking. “You know, that’s why I would never trust you with a dog. I’m sure you could mold a chihuahua in some sort of Cerberian beast, extra heads and all too. You know, that one dog that lives next to the 7-Eleven down at the start of Naka Ward? That ratty Papillon that shakes like a malfunctioning kitchen blender and always barks at every dog he sees even if they’re twenty times as big as him?” Chuuya opens the trashcans and looks at the three discarded sponge cakes. Impassible expression, he lets the lid close with a clattering sound.

“Well, that one little bastard. If I were to go and fetch him up, and bring him here, he’d turn into a whole hound because of your negative presence. Just like your sugar turned salty.” Chuuya opens the cupboard and checks out what’s left- only one pack of flour out of the five he’s sure he had just this morning.

“Actually, that dog resembles you so much I'm afraid you two might fuse together in some sort of angry, pocket-sized Chimera. And proceed to infest everything and everyone with a rancid, corroding aura. Your sugar will turn into pepper, instead of salt. And you’ll end up with terrible tasting coffee, which will make you even angrier and the pepper even pepperier. The vicious cycle will go on and-”

“If you help me, there’s enough to make one more cake.” Chuuya says. “Smaller portion probably, but that’s on you wastin’ all my eggs. Clean up this shit first. I’ll go take a shower.”

Just like that, he grabs a sponge from the sink and throws it full force in Dazai’s face. As he grabs it mere milliseconds before the splashing impact with his nose, Chuuya walks out of the kitchen.

Dazai waits a full minute before moving an inch. The clock in the living room ticks quietly. He hears drawers being open and shut with the bumpy thud that lets him know Chuuya closed them with his hips or knees. When he hears the water running, he suddenly finds a cold casting of motivation flowing down his spine; he starts wiping the counter.

“There should be a national restraining order for you to stay away from kitchens.”

“Chuuya is so mean! I’m actually a perfectly fine chef. It’s the cake’s fault, not mine!”

In the vast range of scenarios Dazai had expected to live through after his failed escamotage , sitting on the counter of Chuuya’s kitchen did not make its appearance. Odd, really, for him to miscalculate something this badly. Chuuya should be something he can predict easily and perfectly, down to the rolled ‘r’s and the accent he uses in his answers.

And yet, here he is. A fresh pair of sweatpants and a hoodie Chuuya lent him- they’re a little short, but they fit. He teased Chuuya about it, but that seems to not have been enough for him to change his mind and kick him out.

He also took a shower for the first time in probably a week. Chuuya’s bathroom is fancy, too fancy, and he made sure to use as much expensive shampoo as humanly possible and to clog the sink by throwing bunched up tissues in it. 

There’s this tainting sense of vulnerability in feeling so comfortable that bothers him. He tries to shake it off, feet dangling off the counter so quickly they’re almost kicks. 

The clothing is soft, one hundred percent pure cotton stated on the tag, and on the unbandaged skin of his sore legs and torso it brushes so softly he has to hold himself from shivering every time he moves. He only left his neck, eye and forearms bandaged, and even those pieces of skin feel unnecessarily comfortable, wrapped in the soft, clean bandages Chuuya lent him. Expensive brand, the self-adhesive ones that don’t unwrap and don’t graze your skin if rubbed. 

“Christmas cake, isn’t it?” Chuuya asks. The strawberries must’ve given him away. They’re the only ingredient he hadn’t found in Chuuya’s apartment and had to have delivered by a low-tier mafia employee, who scurried away shaking after he threatened to kill him if he told anyone of the errand.

“No, dog food.”

“Haha. Get off the countertop and help me, you lazy fish. Grab two eggs, crack them open and whisk them. Add twenty-five grams of sugar in the meantime.” He passes the whisk to Dazai. “Oh, and don’t separate the eggs. I’ll get warm water.”

There’s music playing in the background, some typical dad rock song Chuuya’s muttering under his breath as he whips the cream, leaning against the marble counter. Now that the work attire- ugly red jacket, low v-cut white shirt, horrid skinny jeans and those god forsakenly tacky accessories have been dismissed, Dazai wonders if he, too, looks that young.

There aren’t many teenagers he can daily interact with, not in the mafia’s high ranks. He knows there’s quite the number of youngsters in the slums, but on the rare occasions he’s met them he has never felt any kind of similarity or affinity. Kids, that’s what they always looked to him. Human shields, sacrificable meat in Mori’s eyes and schemes. Speedrunning through life and flaunting their weapons like the newest video game. 

He looked at himself in the mirror earlier, after taking the longest shower known to man in Chuuya’s bathroom. Shirt off, hair wet. He stared at the boy in the mirror for a few minutes, eyes hungrily skimming over every inch of his skin. 

The boy is skinny. Not weak- there was a slight hint of muscles on his biceps and he’s got wide shoulders for a teenager- but his ribs peeked out dangerously, protruding from the skin of his chest and casting grim shadows in the cold mirror light. There were scars. Almost every inch of his body was covered in them. Still-pinkish oblique slashes from a knife that cut too close in his last fight on his chest, almost methodically made horizontal cuts from his shoulders to wrists. A few were still scabbing, soft after coming in contact with the water. Some were newly opened, wine red beads sprouting from them every time he cleaned them. 

Surrounded by the minimal but expensive furniture of Chuuya’s bathroom, he examined himself for longer than he ever had before. He noticed how long his hair was starting to grow, how emaciated his hollow cheeks looked in contrast to Chuuya’s. And then, still soaking with the feeling of unfamiliarity from not seeing his own reflection in so long, he had realized he was sixteen.

It was a clashing image with what he had made himself up to be in his mind. The version of himself stratified in his imagination looks older, eyebags heavy and dull. The boy in the mirror had eyes way bigger than he had realized, dark brown soulless spots circled by pinkish and violet bright hues. His jaw was still roundish, his chin not that defined. 

As Chuuya checks on the cake, he tries to picture the boy instead of himself in his daily life- but he just can’t. Picturing that guy in one of the Port Mafia’s meetings looks wrong. The sharpness of blades and high end marble furniture is ironically contrasting with the soft bump of the boy’s nose, his messed up teeth, shiny braces.

“Cake’s ready,” Chuuya states, dragging Dazai’s mind back from wandering with a rough tug. He looks at the knife he just stabbed the cake with and nods to himself. After laying the hot baking tray on the peninsula, he turns off the oven. “Wanna help me decorate it, or would you rather stare at the wall a little bit longer?”

The kitchen is soaked in warm light. Dazai smiles, then sticks a finger in the whipped cream and cleans it off against Chuuya’s nose. 

“You useless son of a-”

“Ah! No swearing is allowed on Christmas!”

The cake comes out good, even if smaller than the picture perfect cakes he saw exhibited in shops’ windows as he walked to Chuuya’s apartment hours earlier.

It’s a bit wonky too, Dazai can’t lie, and there’s only two strawberries on top of it. The cream is too thick and he probably added too much sugar. But the sweet taste lingers on his tongue alongside the instant ramen they cooked as they waited for the cake to settle in the fridge and the sour taste of cheap convenience store beer.

When’s the last Christmas he spent with someone? Dazai can’t help but wonder, as Chuuya gets up to fetch a new video game from his room, if there ever was one. If, in the sweet and forgotten years of his childhood, his parents had reunited next to the fireplace and sang him sweet lullabies, placed him into a high chair and cooked sugary Christmas cakes as he watched in awe. 

“Gran Turismo 2 or Final Fantasy?” Chuuya asks, suddenly appearing behind him.

“Didn’t Chuuya say he had some ‘brand new’ video games?” Dazai’s sitting cross legged on the floor, fidgeting emptily with the controller. The digital clock under the TV says 01:49 a.m. and he’s intending to turn it off as soon as Chuuya turns around once again.

Chuuya shrugs, then he kneels down and takes the game’s disk out of its custody. “Well, I just bought them, so they are new.” 

“They came out six years ago. Year two-thousand. ” Dazai springs to his feet. The carpet is soft to the touch. As Chuuya slides the disk in, he fakes a cough and pulls the plug.

“Then leave, if they are too old for your poor, raffinate taste.” Chuuya suggests.

“And lose the opportunity to beat the shit out of you at a Gran Turismo? Never. Just say you’re scared.”

They’re both sitting on the floor, joystick in hand as the opening cutscene plays. Dazai scoots a little closer. Just to make sure he’s close enough to accidentally nudge the controller out of Chuuya’s hands, if he gets too cocky and thinks he’ll win. 

“Of you, mackerel? In your dreams.”

24th December 2007

Somewhere in the 6th arrondissement of Paris.

“You could’ve called me like any normal person would do, you know.” 

“Why would I do that? Boooring.”

The sound of a duffle bag being thrown on the soft moquette is a vague thud. “So I wouldn’t have had to run back here, thinking some gang member had infiltrated our location, just to find a stinky mackerel on my fucking clean bedsheets? I had them washed just this fucking morning, you know? How long has it been since you last showered, filthy bastard?”

“I took a shower, and changed into clean clothes too… Does Chuuya think so lowly of me?”

“Last year I found you ravaging my kitchen while smelling like a dumpster with blood on your clothes, so I might not be currently hosting the highest expectations for you.”

Dazai sighs, tossing sideways on the foam mattress to look at Chuuya. He’s standing next to the hotel room’s door, crossed arms. White shirt, black sunglasses hanging from the unbuttoned neck, leather shoes that Dazai suspects have height soles in them. The ugly choker he gifted him for his birthday is there too, clashing vulgarly with his formal clothes.

“What are you doing here, Dazai?” He asks.

Dazai yawns, then jumps up with a swift move. A grin plastered on his face, a parallel reaction to the deepening frown lines on Chuuya’s forehead. “I have a surprise.”

Getting the place hadn’t been as difficult as he imagined. A gun, a dozen stashes of money. A threat or two was translated on the spot by one of the mafia’s business translators, and the restaurant was empty and perfectly clean by 22:00. Chuuya walks through the door with furrowed eyebrows.

“Chuuya will get wrinkles, if he always goes around looking constipated.” Dazai says, twirling the keys around his index finger.

The place is nothing less than luxurious. One big open space, the wall facing east made of glass, an arch opening to a covered terrace that overlooks the whole snowy city. The shimmering city lights glisten and reflect, shadows and scattered paillettes embroidered on every surface. It has more or less the space to contain twenty, thirty people at best. It’s one of those five-star restaurants only rich people and rockstars go to, with a terrible menù that wouldn’t even make a cat feel full after eating it.

“Why are we here again?” Chuuya insists. Dazai flips on the lights. Dim, elegant lamps all over the room light up, the warm hue reflecting on the glasses, windows, and polished white marble and crystal surfaces. There’s a cocktail bar on the wall east, deep brown mahogany counter and cabinets filled with the richest, most expensive bottles he’s ever seen. Next to it, a door with a glass oblò, peering into the darkness.

Dazai hops towards it, his voice a sing-song. “Chuuya’s too curious!” 

The door opens without resistance. He walks in, flips on the lights and takes a few steps inside.

The kitchen is small but nevertheless, it’s furnished with stuff so fancy Dazai didn’t even know it existed. Rice cookers, air fryers, coffee makers of all sizes and materials. Dazai’s sure they are just for show, for elite chefs to brag about how the fine materials of the machinery contribute to the making of the food, but the apparent lack of utility they showcase fascinates him.

He jumps on the worktop, cold black marble like the one in Chuuya’s kitchen. The cold oozing from the surface passes through the cloth of his pants, his legs shivering. To his left, a bunch of ingredients and simpler utensils. A whisk, a bowl, a ladle. Chuuya is still stuck in the entrance, his grimace so painfully obvious as an attempt to hide a smirk. It’s almost pathetic.

“Well, is Chuuya just gonna stand there and watch? What an ungrateful young man… hasn’t Kouyou taught him to thank people for their kind gestures?”

Hand on his hips, his words are the sharp demonstration of the responsible facade he’s still trying to put up. “How the fuck did you get this place to be empty? It’s Christmas?”

“I told them to leave or I’d blow the place up?”

“You threatened them into leaving you their fucking kitchen to bake a motherfucking christmas cake?!” voice cracks on the curse word, corner of his lips pointing upwards.

“Yeah?” Dazai tilts his head, then flutters his eyelashes to piss him off. “What, is Chuuya backing away?”

“Of fucking course not!” 

Sitting on a table in the glass covered terrace, Dazai stares in the distance. His suit jacket has been lost somewhere in the kitchen and his starched and ironed white shirt is a canvas for a gruesome painting of whipped cream and red wine. Chuuya is laying down on the table in front of him, one arm dangling off the table, the other busy bringing a cigarette back and forth from his chapped lips to a plate he’s using as an ashtray. The “défense de fumer” sign hanging on the wall behind them stares in ignored disgust. 

“Say what you want, but Tokyo's tower is better than this one.”

“Be fucking for real man, the Tokyo tower sucks.”

Dazai jumps off the table, wandering around the room in wide, slow, steps. His leather shoes squeak on the zebra wood parquet. “Didn’t know Chuuya was a French sympathizer. Are the weekly meetings with that crackhead in the basement getting to Chuuya’s head?” 

Chuuya shakes his head. His hair, no longer in a ponytail, is disheveled against cremisi stained tablecloths and looks like the branches of a dried red coral. Kouyou’s office has always been filled with that kind of chic, pretentious ornaments and Dazai has no doubt that’s why Chuuya likes it so much.  “Don’t call him that.” Chuuya says, his voice dragged and tired, a reprimanding tone that’s not serious enough to be realistic. 

“What is he then? A prophet? A clairvoyant? The Cumaean Sibyl? Last time I walked down there, he started mumbling about an incoming storm like a man possessed.”

Outside, it’s still snowing. Snowflakes dance violently and bump into each other; they fall so thickly they weave together in a curtain. For a few hours, the outside world is an audience quietly waiting for the play to start. He and Chuuya are the actors, practicing their lines backstage with the lightness that comes alongside not being seen, their true selves peeking through in the space between sentences.

Chuuya’s shirt is open, his scarred chest on full display. Dazai walks up to him and pokes him in the sternum, pressing as hard as he can.

“He’s…” Chuuya flaps his hand away. Dazai steals the cigarette from his fingers. 

“A crazy man you’re giving too much credit?”

A man who sacrificed his whole life to try to help me, Dazai knows the real answer to the question. If they were not backstage but taking a smoke outside of the theater, that’s what Chuuya might’ve said. Of course he knows that’s the real answer, and he also understands that there’s a kernel of truth behind all that vague muttering that clutters the underground hallways. Verlaine might be going insane with grief, but he’s still one of the most powerful and smartest ability users in the world. One that sacrificed everything in a failed and sorrowful attempt at saving someone from his own fate.

Dazai knows why Chuuya walks down there every Thursday, and he also knows why he takes a shot of whiskey right before doing so. That this is his way of acknowledging it it’s critiqueable, but it’s still something. Not like Chuuya doesn’t know. He’s memorized the script too.

“Shut the fuck up. Hey, give it back.”

There’s no time for sorrows on Christmas. Outside the window, blurry behind the curtain that’s beginning to unveil, the Tour Eiffel glimmers. It’s midnight. Dazai takes another long, rough and dry drag, then blows smoke in his face. “No. Merry Christmas, though. It's the twenty-fifth.”

“Dazai.” 

“Shame on me for wanting to protect Chuuya from lung cancer on this holy day I guess.”

“I’m counting to three.”

A shot of adrenaline, Dazai takes a few steps backwards with a spring to his feet. “Well, Chuuya will have to come and take it if he really wants it!”

The night ends at 7 a.m., as they watch the sunrise peeking out from behind far away skyscrapers. It’s gray, dull, and cold as snow falls without mercy. The taste of expensive alcohol lingers in their mouths, on their clothes, and Dazai sports a bad bruise on his hip — a favor from the table he crashed into as he tried to steal Chuuya’s cigarette (which he failed) — and a tired grin on his lips. He fetches their coats from the hanging rack and throws Chuuya his. 

“When are you coming back? The others are not as fun to annoy as you are.” Dazai asks, then yawns. A stretch of his arms, he turns off the lights and fetches the keys from the counter they left them on.

The place is a mess, really. Three broken bottles, five half-empty glasses on the kitchen countertop. Multiple tables tipped over, a broken lamp. A good amount of whipped cream has been thrown against the glass windows and it’s still sticking there. He walks out through the entrance door, heading for the emergency stairs. 

Chuuya follows him, stretching his arms too. “A week or two, the whole thing has —” a yawn, Dazai giggles at how dramatic it sounds — “has almost been solved. We just need to sort out some legal stuff and shit like that, you know?”

When they crash into Chuuya’s hotel room, the clean sheets are no longer an issue. Chuuya's the first one to collapse on them after throwing most of his clothes into a messy pile on the white-tiled bathroom floor. 

Dazai is right after him. Back against back, as they’ve grown used to. Light peaks from the misplaced black-out curtains, the sound of cars and chattering from the streets reaches their ears padded.

“If Mori finds this out, we’re utterly screwed. You aware of that?” Chuuya mumbles.

“He already knows. He blew up my phone while you were making the whipping cream.”

Chuuya nudges him with his elbow, then groans. “He- You jackass. You absolute cretin.” 

“Chuuya still had fun though, didn’t he?”

“You being a moron and me having fun are not mutually exclusive.”

“But it’s an extenuating circumstance. And anyways, what is he gonna do? Fire you?”

Dazai can feel Chuuya shake his head, rough hair damp because of the snow against his uncovered neck. “Worse. He’ll call us into his office and stare at us- no, me . He’ll stare at me. You’re a lost cause, he knows you live to disappoint him. He’ll stare at me and tell me to remember where I am from and who I owe my life to.”  

“And?”

“And then I’ll fucking hate you — more than I already do,” (Dazai sniggers at that and receives another hit) “for having forced me to join that hell of a place.” 

“Come on, I didn't force you.”

“Oh sorry, skillfully orchestrated it so that I would have no choice but to join?” Chuuya replies. His words are sharp, but there is a tired playfulness in his tone akin to the one of a tired child throwing a tantrum, an old man talking just to defy loneliness. Dazai’s used to it, having faced this version of Chuuya many times after late nights out drinking and exhausting missions.  Still, being compliant was not a card in his hand.

“Would you have preferred me leave you to defend that flock of bastards until the Port Mafia could do nothing but kill you all? You know that’s how it would’ve gone.”

“I know. And I still have the right to hate you,” he says, contradicting himself right after by pressing his body more against Dazai’s. 

“Fair. It’s mutual.”

The white hotel duvet is soft and warm against his bare skin, Chuuya’s back boiling hot against his. The clock signals 08:23 a.m. and he’s got a flight in ten hours or so. After that, he’ll have to face Mori. Regardless of what Chuuya deems the boss considers acceptable, he knows he’ll have to bear a few days of hell because of this expedient of his. Not that he regrets any of it.

Voice heavy with sleep, rough after the forty minute walk they did in the cold, Chuuya mutters. “Big talk for someone who said he loved me three minutes after meeting me.”

“It wasn’t three minutes! And it was clearly a joke!” He counters, but Chuuya never replies. Deep, regular breaths, a comfortable movement behind him; he’s fallen asleep.

The city awakens outside the four-starred hotel’s window, bustling crowds singing a lullaby with their chatters. Dazai, cradled by Chuuya’s rhythmic breathing and the occasional faraway honks, slips and sinks into a comfortable darkness.

25th december 2008

Unknown.

The winter is colder than Dazai remembers and, like in every good story, there’s a storm outside.

From the windows of his motel all he can see is the crowded and snowy interstate, police cars and ambulances running by every few hours just to remind him he’s still alive; somehow time’s still flowing by.

The smells of tobacco and stale alcohol sting his nose, oozing from every carpet and cloth in the room. A moth or two have been living in the moldy ceiling corner next to the window. There’s a few books in a language he can’t read on the nightstand, a familiar phone number he knows he won’t call written on a tissue, just in case.

Out of boredom, he’s been clinging to that piece of paper as of lately. He acts as if he hasn’t memorized that number, tossing and turning in bed as if the tissue is staring at him from its place on the nightstand.

As the clock quietly strikes midnight and the 26th rolls around, lonely and silent, he wonders if it’s really worth it.

25th December, 2009

Somewhere in the Nishi-ku ward, Yokohama.

It’s the second Christmas Chuuya spends alone, but out of all the things he has to say about Dazai’s defection, that he misses him is not one of them.

The day goes by smoothly, a few rebellions here and there in the slums, a missing cargo in the late afternoon. Christmas is not a big deal in Japan. It was just Dazai, making it one out of nothing but his own loneliness. Not that Chuuya minded. Sometimes, when he gets a notification on his Nintendo DS that someone from his friend list – composed by only one person –  has beaten his record in Mario Kart, he wonders how he’s doing; but it’s a fleeting thought. 

He knows, and it’s a certainty anchored to the deepest part of his soul, that they’ll meet each other once again, someday. Be it tomorrow in the aisle of a supermarket or in fifty years, both gray and stumbling around as they complain about bones aching. He knows this was for the best.

He buys a pre-made Christmas cake from the 24-hour store on his way home and eats it on the couch. It doesn’t taste as good as he remembers. He cannot quite pinpoint why.

25th December, 2010

Armed Detective Agency, Yokohama

When Kunikida informed him of the Agency’s Christmas party, he told everyone he wouldn’t be going.

What purpose was there in participating anyways? To listen to uncomfortable teenagers fights? To serve Ranpo like one of his little minions? He had said no, intended on staying in his dorm apartment and spending the days drinking himself to sleep.

Guess he had grown used to being feared, guess he had grown used to his word being respected. Back in the Port Mafia, no one but Chuuya would’ve dared to go against his wishes. If he said no to something, then it was set in stone. 

But things change, and so does his reputation. Now, he's sitting in the Agency after Kunikida and Yosano showed up to his door and forcefully dragged him to the party, completely disregarding his threats to kill himself and pitiful whines.

It's not as bad as he had imagined, although the music doesn't suit his taste and the cake he's been offered is not sugary enough. There’s tacky decorations everywhere, everyone is laughing, and the wine is a supermarket version of some prestigious brand Chuuya would know everything about.

It could be better, he thinks. A nicer playlist, a better chef. The Tanizaki siblings shutting up, Kunikida not taking the glass away from him every five minutes. But it also could be worse. If this is the price for a better life, he guesses he can pay it. 

Oda’s lighter is heavy in his pocket; he holds it in his hand until the metal turns warm.

25th December, 2011

Somewhere in the Nishi-ku ward, Yokohama.

That Dazai’s back in town, he’s known for a while. He hasn’t seen him, never accidentally crossing paths with him as he walks to the grocery store, never meeting him in line for the post office. How does he know he’s back? A bunch of postcards from all around the world have been left by someone on his desk, in his home-office. They’re numbered, as to represent some sort of itinerary, and they’ve got no other mark on them but the little numbers in the top right corner.

He knows Dazai’s back, and he knows he doesn’t want to be found. He’s sure Mori knows that too, as he hasn’t ever mentioned his pupil being back; but there’s this feeling of anticipation running through him every once in a while that lets Chuuya know something is about to change.

For some reason, when he walks home to an empty and quiet apartment on Christmas, there’s a certain feeling of disappointment swelling in his chest.

25th December, 2012

The Armed Detective Agency’s dorms, Yokohama.

There’s a store-bought Christmas cake on the kitchen table and Dazai doesn’t dare look at it. If he does, he’s afraid he’ll meet a judgemental pair of eyes. He’s long given up the idea that objects cannot have any ill intent. Where he got the courage to buy it and actually think he’d proceed with his plan, he doesn’t know. 

He saw Chuuya again, this year. They met in one of the Mafia’s dungeons, they fought an eldritch monster together. Chuuya fist-fought a dragon and almost died for him. And he still lacks the courage to go through with his plan.

He’s noticed, between a fight and unintentional (or so he claims) rendezvous in bars, how much Chuuya has changed. He hasn’t grown taller, Dazai’s made sure to point that out at every chance. His hair is longer, though, his jaw squarer, his freckles less definite, imprecise coffee faded splashes all over his face. His shoulders are broader but his eyebrows still frown as often as they used to. There are a few wrinkles on his forehead now. Well, Dazai had warned him.

His tacky hat still sits on the top of his head all the time, and his clothes are still the same as the ones he wore back at eighteen, but they now fit him better. It’s almost as if those pieces of clothing always knew who he was supposed to become.

The dad rock songs he used to listen to are still being whistled when he’s bored, and he’d be damned if he lost the habit of clicking his tongue when he’s upset. The peach fuzz on his chin is no longer there, replaced by occasional small cuts and the scent of shaving cream if he happens to run into him in the early morning – which has been happening way more frequently than mere coincidences might allow. 

He’s changed and he’s still somehow the same. Dazai’s scared of this similarity; he fears it could be nothing but a mere illusion, a trick of his own mind trying to convince him that not everything is completely lost. 

He’s been having a recurrent dream, as of lately. He walks into Chuuya’s apartment, just to find it has new inhabitants. There are different shoes at the entrance, new paintings on the walls. The furniture is the same but inside the kitchen cabinets nothing is where it used to be, and he cannot for the life of him find the flour or sugar. Not even salt or cornstarch. Really, anything would be alright but it’s all nowhere to be found. He always wakes up to an uncomfortable loud beating in his chest.

There’s this fear, roaming all day long alongside his daily thoughts, that he’ll walk into the penthouse apartment – carpeted marble hallways and fake plants on every floor – just to discover that the loneliness they used to share has become only his burden to carry.

He guesses he can allow himself another year of doubt. Another year of willingful ignorance and meaningless banter. Next Christmas, maybe he’ll be ready to let go of that omnipresent entity that is Chuuya's existence.

The cake stays on the table of his dorm’s kitchen until the clock strikes midnight. He’ll give it to Atsushi and Kyouka, a late Christmas gift he knows they’ll enjoy. 

25th December, 2013

The Armed Detective Agency’s dorms, Yokohama.

Last time he did this, he was seventeen. He’s twenty three now with a healing leg and a crutch discarded somewhere behind him, and he’s a fool for thinking he could do it. 

The sponge is edible at least, but it’s way flatter than it should be; since he couldn't find the round baking trays anywhere, he’s stuck with a huge rectangle of flat sponge cake. He has his sleeves rolled up and incredibly, his bandages have been discarded somewhere on the floor, unable to stand the feeling of wet cloth against his skin. He has no fresh wounds to cover anyway, just some scabbed slashes here and there.

What to do? Cutting circles out of the sponge would just turn out awfully. Too small, too flat. It would look like a pile of pancakes rather than a cake. He comes to a simple and easy conclusion, one he’s seen Kyoka and Atsushi do in the Agency’s kitchenette. He throws the whipping cream on the sponge, flattens it out and rolls it. He throws the remaining whipping cream on top, then adds a few strawberries on it.

It looks more like a slug than a cake, but he guesses it will do. He takes a step back to admire his creation. That’s when he sees him.

“One would think you’d at least learn how to bake a cake after eight years.”

Chuuya’s leaning against the kitchen’s door frame in the same way he was seven years ago. Coat and hat off, bolero and shoes gone. He’s got his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, arms crossed. Dazai feels seventeen once again, splayed on a king size bed in a hotel in Paris.

“I even took the long way home because I knew you’d be here making a mess, and you still managed to not be finished.” 

There’s something off though. Something radically different. It’s not in the way Chuuya walks up to him, on the opposite side of the peninsula, leaning on it with his elbows. It’s not in the way he keeps his hair, nor in the lightness of his steps. Not in the new body wash scent he uses, no longer the cold and stingy one of his youth but a warmer, duller fragrance. 

He’s smiling. The lopsided curve of his lips, fondness hanging from the corners of his mouth. Dazai searches for a contradicting factor in his eyes, but all he finds is a confirmation. He’s not sure he’s meant to witness this.

“Cat’s got your tongue, mackerel?”

There’s a bubble of air in his throat. Swallowing it is painful, it burns. “I couldn’t find the flour anywhere. I thought-”

Chuuya smacks his forehead, pinning a fleeting thought in place. “Shit. I think I forgot to refill the cupboard. It was in the pantry, did you find it?”

“The sugar was-”

“In the right cup, yes. I trusted your judgment with that. I hope you didn’t make a salty cake or I might have to officially banish you from my kitchen.”

Dazai is quiet. He’s taller now, taller than he was at eighteen. Chuuya has to outright look up to look him in the eyes. The countertops have been replaced, no longer marble but a less cold wooden surface. The white cabinets don’t clash so abruptly with this warm tone of brown. 

“I didn’t. I used the right recipe.” He manages to say. It comes out stuttery. 

“And you still messed it up? Go take a shower, you have whipped cream in your hair.” Chuuya walks around the peninsula. He takes the cake roll away and puts it in the fridge. Dazai takes a peek and notices it’s no longer filled with beer and leftovers like it used to be. “I’m afraid I can’t lend you my clothes anymore, just throw yours in the washing machine, except for the vest. Pick the express wash and dry program, that way it should be all back and ready in thirty minutes. You’ll take longer to shower anyways.”

Dazai doesn’t move. He tries to, but can’t.

“Oi? Need help with the leg and all?” Chuuya asks and there it comes, the furrowed eyebrows. More lines on his skin, a nuance he’s not used to in his eyes. 

“It’s just for long distances.”

“Then? What is it?”

“Nothing! Chuuya’s paranoid like always!” He replies, cheery in his voice once again. He walks out of the room trying to hide the limping as much as possible.

Midnight has long flowed by in Chuuya’s living room.

How they ended like this is a mystery lost to thousands of banterings and two bottles of red wine, take-out from one of the best Chinese restaurants in town for dinner, and a few shots of vintage liquor. This being said, it’s not as if he dislikes it. Splayed out on the couch, a pile of blankets on him, his legs dangling off the armrest, his head on Chuuya’s legs. Chuuya, dressed in a black shirt and gray sweatpants, feet on the footrest and his right hand busy pulling and teasing Dazai’s hair every now and then.

It’s a feeling he had forgotten, the warmth of a human being. How long since he’s been so close to another person, willingly? A few occasions pop up in his mind, but none of them can be considered so pleasant after all. Chuuya’s been the only one to ever not mind his touchiness; not fearing his ability, but finding an intricate form of comfort in temporarily losing his own.

“You changed the ugly paintings.” Dazai points out.

It’s true. A few hours earlier he walked into the apartment and found himself faced with a different living room than the one he remembered. No more fancy and uncomfortable tacky couches, the pretentious chic paintings replaced by vintage cinema posters and pictures. There’s a shot of the two of them in there, taken in a picture booth back when they were eighteen, grimaces and eyebags that made them look older than they actually were. It’s what kept him from giving in to the fear.

“Yeah, why?”

Dazai’s drunk a little bit too much. He knows that out of two bottles of 1993 red wine, exported straight from France, he’s drunk at least one and a half, dry, intense flavor enveloping his mouth. His mind is still there, but his body feels feverishly hot. His tongue runs quicker than his mind.

“I have this dream where I come here and everything has changed, you don’t live here anymore and I don’t know where you moved to? I don’t even think that’s the point but it’s scary as fuck. When I walked in earlier and did not see those ugly paintings of yours I almost quit.”

Chuuya’s holding the remote in his left hand, aimlessly zapping through channels. The news – the prime minister making controversial statements, the weather forecast, American Christmas movies. A few Disney ones here and there, he pauses on a replica of Home Alone. 

“Those paintings weren’t mine, you know?” Chuuya says, interrupted halfway through by a yawn that gives his newly exposed secret a veil of casualness.

“What?”

Chuuya admits, “They were from the previous inhabitants, same with the couches. I never changed them because I didn’t think I’d be staying here for long. If you had told me earlier that changing them would deter you from coming here, I would’ve done it sooner.”

“But you defended those atrocities all the time?”

A laugh, he gives a strand of his hair a tug. “Because it pissed you off. I didn’t like them that much either, honestly. I just didn’t want to give in and say you were right. You were one fucking hell of a sixteen year old.”

“And you still let me in. We’re fair.”

"You looked like a beaten stray cat begging to be taken in, of course I let you stay. Hell, I felt bad for you for the first and last time in my life there.”

Dazai looks up at him, his profile painted with the television’s cold hues against the otherwise shadowy warm color of the living-room, lit up only by a tripod lamp in the corner. 

“I didn’t beg you. Chuuya’s making stuff up again!”

“Oh no, you didn’t. The stalling and ‘turning off the clock so he doesn’t see it’s late and doesn’t kick me out’ did it for you.”

A younger Dazai would’ve probably writhed in shame, had his plans been outed so easily. The implications of Chuuya knowing would’ve been enough for him to flee and never look back. This time, he laughs. It seems it’s almost time he comes to terms with himself.

There’s silence for a while. It’s not the uncomfortable kind. He’s not even sure it can be considered silence — he can hear Chuuya’s mind roaming, engines turning. 

“Is that why you didn’t show up last year? The ‘paintings’, I mean.” Chuuya makes quotes with his fingers as he speaks. Calloused hands from fighting, they move more carefully than they used to. 

Ironic how, no matter the circumstances, Chuuya always knows.

“...Maybe?” He tries. Eyes fixed on the TV screen, he feels his gaze on him.

Chuuya scoffs. A tug of his hair, it’s affectionate. Then, three taps on his shoulder with his thumb. In an old sign language they had created back when they were still fifteen, that means something along the lines of ‘I understand. ’. The new furniture is not as bad as he first had thought. The couch, for instance, it’s thousands of times more comfortable than the old leather one. His nightmare starts to crumble; it sounds idiotic, now that he thinks about it.

“I should’ve shot you when I had the chance.” Chuuya states. 

“You couldn’t have done it, even if you wanted to.”

“Wow Sherlock, it’s almost like that’s the problem?”

If Dazai had to think of a word to describe himself right now, he'd say he’s an idiot. A nostalgic one, to be precise. 

There’s a match in his pocket, a tissue with a phone number on it in his nightstand drawer. A scented soap bar he stole from a Parisian hotel in his bathroom, a coaster from the same city in his kitchenware cabinet.

None of those places exist as he remembers them, not anymore. The restaurant closed a few years ago, he found out by accident while aimlessly navigating the internet. An international rock star had something to say about the staff being rude, they received international backlash and had to shut down the place. The hotel went under renovation just last month and the phone number he memorized has long since been changed. The match’s owner isn’t there waiting for him on a wobbly bar stool when he walks into bar Lupin on weekend nights. For someone who claims he’s got no attachment to objects, he’s pretty bad at leaving things behind. 

In fear of what, exactly? Now that he asks himself this question, as Chuuya changes channel once again and he notices that he still does that annoying click with his tongue, he’s surprised by the lack of an answer to his own question. He made a promise to Oda years ago, one about changing. Leaving behind the shell he had been hiding in, moving on from his habits of self destruction.

He hasn’t bought a pack of cigarettes in months, for starters. He can’t say the same for alcohol, but he guesses he’ll get there. 

He’s not who he was at eighteen. Oda isn’t here anymore. The apartment isn’t as he remembers it, Chuuya’s changed too. His leg is not healing as it should and the doctor claims he’ll probably need to carry a crutch with himself as long as he lives. Apparently that’s going to be a while, so he might as well begin to list things for what they are, instead of what they are not.

And what they are – he comes to this conclusion when he hears how Chuuya yawns and clears his voice, a habit that has always pissed him off as it used to shake him back awake when they shared a room – is surprisingly, not that bad. 

He’ll have to discover the meaning behind those tacky posters he sees in the dim light, or where the vintage record player comes from. It carries the heaviness of a story in the scratched and discolored leather briefcase it’s in. He feels like it’s smiling at him as his eyelids become heavier and heavier. Oh, he has to ask Chuuya how he got this new scar on his index finger and who are the people in the pictures hung on the fridge.

It might take a while. He doesn’t doubt that there will be an uncomfortable feeling gnawing at his stomach when he steps into Chuuya’s apartment, from now on. When he’s sober and he’s hit with the sudden reminder of four years spent apart. He doesn’t doubt it will take a while for him to get adjusted to this new knuckles cracking habit Chuuya’s picked up, an action so surprisingly new he had stood there appalled over a plate of ravioli.

The movie’s sounds fade far away from him in a warm quiet distance. He might change the cake’s recipe next year.