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When Dazai’s phone had rang, he was already lost in the hazy euphoria that comes from getting high. It was one of the few times his brain slowed enough to just be still. He didn’t have to do anything; he didn’t have to plan anything. He could just exist. Exist in the windowsill of the apartment he hates being at so much. The ringing didn’t quite pull him from his stupor as he watched the raindrops slowly go down the glass. There’s a brief time in his life, he thinks he used to mentally race the raindrops against each other, very briefly and very long ago. Though, what’s to say if that memory is even real or not? What’s to say if any of his memories are real or not? It’s a constant que-
Rrrrinnng… rrrrrriiiinnnnngggg… rrrrriiin-
“Hm?” He asked as he flipped the phone open. It was pressed to his ear.
“I’m coming over. I’m bringing food and weed,” came the pissed off sounding reply. He doubted the person was mad at him, probably pissed off at whatever had been going on before this phone call.
“Apartment,” he replied. It was quiet, half mumbled.
“Where the fuck else would you be mackerl?”
“Oda’s… the bar… who knows.”
“You’re already high as shit.”
“And?”
“I’ll be there in fifteen.” Dazai just snapped the phone shut once the line began to beep. His gaze returned to the window, head lowering onto his knees. His arms wrapped around his legs, eyes hazily following the raindrops once again. Oh, to be a raindrop… no idea of anything, not even the path that you will follow. You just go wherever gravity goes, wherever other raindrops go. Unbothered… uncaring… just falling and falling and falling… He supposed that wouldn’t be the worst existence. One of an unsentient object where its only purpose is whatever mother nature demands of it. In the case of rain, to fall, soak into the ground, rise into the clouds then fall once again someplace different. A raindrop could originate from the ocean, a river, a lake, a blade of grass… What an intriguing idea.
“Couldn’t even unlock the door for me bastard?”
“You got in.”
“No thanks to you.” He didn’t even turn his attention to the ginger now in his room. He could faintly hear the scrape of a chair on the hardwood. It stopped near him, so Chuuya must’ve pulled it to the window to sit beside him. “Heroin?” Dazai nodded, glancing at the needle that was on the windowsill. “Maybe I shouldn’t let you smoke.”
“Shut up, you never care about that.” Finally, his gaze turned to Chuuya. His eyes slowly roamed the smaller man’s body, taking in his appearance. They’ve known each other almost three years at this point. Chuuya turned 18 soon if he remembers correctly. The ginger has changed so much in the past couple of years. He’s cleaned up, no longer looking like a rat off the street. He had a much more refined sense of style, right now he looked like a punk, but it was… Dazai didn’t know. Neater? Less like a stray dog and more like someone who just enjoyed the aesthetic. He’s gained some weight, put on some muscle which is lean in his frame. Probably for the better, Dazai doubts Chuuya would look good if he was bulky with muscle. His hair is longer, his freckles slightly less predominant since he isn’t spending all day in the sun anymore. No, Chuuya’s cleaned up well.
“I dunno, maybe I should stop indulging you as much. You promised to stop opioids,” came the reply from Chuuya as he worked on making a joint.
“Shit week,” Dazai mumbled. “At least I’m not drinking too.”
“Count my blessings I guess.” It was sarcastic. Somewhere in Dazai’s brain he came to that conclusion. Chuuya would probably rather he be drinking right now then high on an opioid. “How long did you last this time?”
“You’re asking too many questions.”
“You just don’t want to answer because you know you’ll be brutally honest right now and that vulnerability scares you.”
“It’s my job to dissect people.”
“I’ve known you long enough,” Chuuya merely answered as he lit the joint and took a long deep hit of it. The ginger’s foot rested on the windowsill near Dazai. He was using his ability to balance on the two back legs of the chair, an arm leaned over the back. Chuuya leaned his head back, blowing the smoke to the ceiling slowly. “How long?”
“A week,” Dazai mumbled, turning his gaze back to the window. He heard a faint hum, or he thought he did. Even at the best of times, it’s hard for him to tell what’s in his head and what’s reality sometimes. Sometimes the hallucinations are too real. The room was silent aside from the rain pattering against the window. The silence was comforting, it meant he didn’t have to think or try to focus. He could just float, let his vision blur more than it already does.
At some point, he felt the joint get passed into his hand. When he looked at it, it took him a moment to process what it was. He watched as Chuuya moved around the room, probably looking for the record player that Mori had gifted Dazai awhile back. Whenever they get high together, at least here, Chuuya insists on turning the damn thing on. Sighing, Dazai pressed the joint to his lips, breathing in the smoke. He let it settle in his lungs, holding it in a moment. His eyes fell shut slightly, his arms relaxing. As he breathed it out, he watched it swirl up to the ceiling. It took a moment, and the vinyl was jumping some at first before the music began to play out around the small room. Dazai took another hit as Chuuya sat down to get comfortable again. He passed it back to the ginger, once again slowly blowing smoke.
The silence wasn’t horrible. It rarely was between them. They’ve been through so much together, seen too much of each other. They’ve seen the breakdowns. They’ve had arguments. They’ve had the angry sex and the gentle enough to cause someone to cry from feeling too overwhelmed in a much-needed way. They’ve had sleepy mornings and sleepless nights. They’ve stayed up with each other in hospitals while hoping the beeping of a heart monitor won’t stop. They’ve been through it all. And all in so little time. Only a few years. Years… that should have been spent differently. For Dazai, years that should have been spent dead. For Chuuya, years that should have been spent with friend groups, with people who care for him. Yet every group Chuuya has lost. Dazai… just nothing will let him die. His eyes shut as his thoughts roamed, wondering what should have been, what might have been. His thoughts were slow, moving like a leisurely walk which made it hard to follow a little, but he was. He swallowed, his throat feeling dry.
“Chuuya,” he mumbled, a hand reaching for the ginger blindly. He heard the smoke get breathed from the ginger’s lips as a gloved hand intertwined with his.
“This is why you were supposed to stop opioids, ya know,” Chuuya replied, squeezing his hand.
“Shut up…” It was a weak insult, his voice trembling some. Ah, the not fun part with opioids. There’s euphoria until the crash hits. He heard a sigh followed by the chair moving closer.
“We’re supposed to be getting high, not having a crisis right now,” Chuuya mumbled to him. His voice was closer now, clearer too. When he looked in his peripheral, Chuuya was right next to him, their sides touching. He felt an arm go around his waist, his weight shifted to lean towards Chuuya. “So quit thinking and smoke weed with me. It’ll ease the crash some.” Trading one high for another probably wasn’t smart, but Dazai figured it was better than whatever crash was trying to hit him. He finished off the joint while Chuuya rolled a second. Dazai didn’t move his head off the ginger’s shoulder. Even with the gloves on, Chuuya’s fingers were nimble while he worked. They moved the thin paper easily, rolling it and attaching it to itself as if it was nothing.
For a while, the second joint was passed between them. For the most part, the music was the only noise aside from soft sighs. Occasionally, one of them would start a small conversation, never lasting more than maybe ten sentences all together. Slowly, negative thoughts once again pushed from Dazai’s brain as the new high began to encompass him. This one wasn’t a steep euphoria. It was a gentle relaxation, soothing waves that slowly crashed over him. It slowed his brain, made his body relax. It didn’t force emotions onto him, though it made it easier for him to express the ones he normally represses.
“You become so honest and docile while high,” Chuuya said as he blew smoke from his lips.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, you don’t shout out nonsense.”
“I can’t be high all the time.”
That earned him a snort, “A year ago, if you weren’t high, you were intoxicated. Don’t give me that shit. You’ve been running off drugs, alcohol, a lack of a will to live, and like three bites of a meal for years now.”
“I eat half a meal a day now,” Dazai retorted.
“Because I trained you into that dumbass.”
“You didn’t train me into shit.”
“Mhm, sure. Anyways, I like seeing you relax,” Chuuya hummed.
Dazai rolled his eyes, “Yeah, well it’s nice seeing you not stress about work, Mr. Gotta-Get-A-Promotion.” That earned him a gentle smack upside the head. They fell into silence once again. At some point, Dazai just watched Chuuya while he slowly took hits from the joint. He was beautiful. Granted, Chuuya always was. It was hard for Dazai not to watch him, not to observe him. Each movement caused Chuuya’s muscles to move, making some slightly more apparent and others seem to soften. Chuuya’s eyes seemed much brighter. Well, the blue one did. The other seemed to absorb all light that entered it, darkening and enchanting. The blue one reflected the light, shining like the ocean. Each freckle was a slightly different hue up close. Up close, it became apparent that there were hundreds more freckles than one would think from a distance. The ones across his nose and cheeks were what everyone noticed. No one saw the freckles that went down his face towards his neck before disappearing under his collar. No one saw the light freckles under his bangs, or along his arms. Only Dazai would get to see those ones. He wondered if he could try counting them one day. Furthermore, each scar on Chuuya’s body told a story, a faint imprint of his corruption was starting to appear on his skin. It was easy for him to hide, at least for now. That scar Dazai thought was the prettiest one. Maybe that was a fucked up thought. But, Chuuya was more than used to Dazai being a little fucked up, so it wouldn’t be a shocker. Still, Dazai just watched Chuuya’s beauty.
“Whatcha looking at?” Chuuya questioned, raising an eyebrow.
“You.”
“Me?”
“You.” Chuuya rolled his eyes, probably knowing he wouldn’t get an more elaborate answer from Dazai. He wouldn’t. Maybe once Dazai was higher. But for now, just Chuuya was all that Chuuya would know. As Chuuya lowered the joint, Dazai reached a hand up to cup his cheek. He connected their lips, feeling the smoke pass between their mouths as their tongues lazily danced together. That was a different high. It was almost incomparable. When they parted, they each breathed out a bit of the smoke, their foreheads pressed together. A few more slow and deep kisses were shared as the joint passed between them. They shared the smoke from each hit. Hands wandered slowly and lazily but never intrusively. Their hands never wandered below each other’s waist. There wasn’t any heat building, not that kind that would usually push them towards sex. It was just intimate, trusting, a need to be touching and close. That was enough. They finished that joint like that, lips connected, bodies close. Just needing to be close.
“You’re probably tired,” Chuuya mumbled. “How long have you been high?”
“What time is it?” Dazai mumbled.
“Almost 11 at night.”
“Mm… 11-12 hours.”
“Osamu.”
“Chuuya?”
“Food?”
“No.”
“Osammmuu.”
“Chuuya?”
“We’re getting breakfast in the morning.”
“Ok.” Nothing else was really said, Dazai doesn’t even think they cleaned up. He thinks they just rolled into bed. A few more lazy kisses were shared but sleep quickly won out on Dazai at least. The apartment wasn’t the worst place, when he had company. When he had Chuuya’s company. Chuuya’s apartment was always better, but maybe his apartment had a few perks.