Chapter Text
[Four Years Ago.]
The creak of the door pierced his skull, elevating the pounding in his temple from a cricket to a hive of hornets. He heard himself groan, his own voice, ironically, causing an almost immediate hiss of pain.
The darkness of the apartment was welcome.
He entered, throwing his shoes aside, his coat and hat flung onto the cluttered dining table. A white object rolled, teetering on the edge.
Had the tacky bastard left bandages in the filth of the air? Chuuya wrinkled his nose, squinting, ignoring the little crush of something shooting into his heart. He stared over at the table.
One, two, three rolls.
Fresh. Unused. Chuuya huffed.
“Oi! You waste of bandages! You took the fucking metaphor for reality? You’re supposed to keep them inside the medicine kit!” he yelled, slapping the side of his head (as if that would heal the migraine).
Silence.
That something returned, snaking, curling, and the executive would rather cut his own hat than admit it to be worry .
And yet, he moved swiftly. Fuck his aching muscles, fuck his headache. To the heavens and whichever God above, if the idiot actually-
He slammed open Dazai’s door, images swirling in his mind — a pool of blood, a motionless figure amongst the shine; a crying madman, panicked eyes staring into blank moonlight.
Empty.
He huffed again, crossing over to the bathroom. No one.
Running to his own room, he scoured the apartment for traces of sprinkled scarlet, for an inference to Dazai’s location.
Nothing.
He returned to Dazai’s quarters, that twisting, writhing concern thing settling in an uneven waltz in his stomach. He wasn’t an executive for no reason. Something was wrong.
Something felt off.
It was only then did Chuuya realise how dark it was. No, not just darkness. How stale the air was, as if his roommate, his partner, hadn’t been home in weeks.
But that was impossible. It had been yesterday when Dazai broke his favourite dish, when Chuuya let out one of his rare laughs upon seeing that puppy-dog-eyed expression. It had been yesterday when they’d exchanged those even rarer hugs, where the shitty mackerel’s shaking hands went unnoticed by his chibi.
It had been yesterday, when Chuuya let himself have a second to reflect on their relationship, denial caking every thought, perhaps being the reason why he was so distracted at work today.
Yesterday .
A crash as Chuuya stumbled, hitting the edge of the coffee table. Stinging pain ran down his leg. He paid no mind.
He flung open Dazai’s room again, slapping on the bright, fluorescent light that threatened to surge his migraine to the peaks of Mount Ohira.
His room was empty.
No, not empty. The blankets were still tangled on the bed. The nightstand still held crumpled candy wrappers.
Normal. Too normal. Unease didn’t have time to writhe twice as Chuuya ripped open the closet door.
A waft of antiseptic filtered out like a memory lost to time. But the ethanol’s owners, the few articles of clothing that Chuuya distinctly remembered helping the shithead launder two weeks ago, were gone.
Chuuya’s knees weakened.
Those trembling, bandaged fingers, where the executive had assumed were a result of a bad day- but there was no way. There was no reason-
A flash of memory, almost as blinding as the lights above. The mission report from the conflict with Mimic, the flimsy abstract Chuuya’s eyes had barely grazed.
That slithering feeling turned into stone.
He pushed himself up, scrambling, tripping, racing to the kitchen were those neat little rolls gleamed against the edges of his discarded coat. They thudded to the ground like the dropping of his heart.
A piece of rotting paper. No doubt torn from a hasty worker’s notebook at the end of the day.
Hello, slug!
If you found this, I think you’ve figured it out. What a smart little hattack you are!
I left a few bandages for you.
I can’t apologise for leaving.
Goodbye, partner.
Chuuya fell.
Hot, searing pain tore across his skull; hollow cries made their way out of his throat — sounds he’d never think himself capable of uttering.
He clutched the paper, wrinkling the last essence of his partner.
Gone. Goodbye .
No.
His heart roared in denial, nails raking across his chest, clawing, attempting to rip out the gasps for lungfuls of stale oxygen.
He couldn’t breathe.
He choked, coughed, scrambled.
It hurt more than his ability. A thousand, million times more. He’d suffer a lifetime of Corruption-use, a lifetime of abuse from Mori, he’d-
Reach acceptance, with no path to grieve.
“Dazai…” his voice was a rasp, a needle trying to pierce his wall of despair. How long has it been since he’d said Dazai’s name to his face? Not a stupid nickname, not a shitty nomenclature, but his name . Weeks? Months? Days?
Will he ever have a chance again?
Half of Chuuya wanted to run out the doors, to scour every street of Yokohama until he found his partner again, to force him to come back.
But he knows.
It’s hopeless.
His sobs quietened. The fridge whirred.
His leg touched one of the rolls. It sat there, innocently, glistening against the darkness, waiting for its owner to come home, to be used by Chuuya’s hands to clean the bastard’s injuries. He reached out, the gauze’s roughened texture trembling under his gloves.
Dazai .
How stupid it was, how silly it was, an enigma of shattered sorrow.
Denial roared again, fire curdling as a last speck of hope that Dazai would come back, would walk through that front door, perhaps crying over Oda’s death. And Chuuya would be there, he wanted to be there, to hold him, to give him hugs that didn’t have to be rare.
Instead, the executive with the ability of a God cradled a roll of pitiful bandages against the wall, disintegrating amidst silent wails.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, thoughts moving at a snail’s pace, a slug’s pace.
Slug, a term Dazai coined for him.
You could have told me.
Chuuya coughed.
We could have left together.
That wasn’t true. Chuuya knew it wasn’t. That’s why Dazai had left like this. He was smart, even if Chuuya would never admit it to his face.
He coughed again. The burning in his lungs grew. Was this what it felt like? Shock? A lightning strike from denial to acceptance within minutes?
The bandage roll spilled out of his hands, thudding to the floor as Chuuya bent, gagging. Saliva trickled onto the floor, and the executive faintly watched his hand shove Dazai’s note out of harm’s range.
He retched, blood rushing to his ears. His throat, aflame, lava dripping in turbulent waves. He’s ash left behind by Dazai’s eruption; he’s soot suffocating their garden of Eden.
“Fuck-”
A flutter. Something fell to the floor.
He choked.
Another flutter. More softness spilled out of his mouth, drenched with stomach acid and nauseating bile.
Gasping for air, Chuuya propped himself up. Had he cried so hard that his insides actually gave out? His fingers outstretched, grabbing the-
Petals.
White rose petals.
The burning in his body lessened to a pitiful ache as Chuuya stared at the little nightmares, realisation dawning like sickening daylight on tephra and broken promises.
“Dazai…you fucking piece of-” he groaned as he collapsed, vision blurring.
“...Garbage.”