Chapter Text
It was spring in yokohama. The bleak, cold days faded out slowly, leaving green grass and rain clouds in its place. Flowers began to bloom, filling the grey city with colour again. Many people in Yokohama were happy to see that a long winter had finally come to an end. One of these such people was currently admiring some flowers that’d sprouted up in his lawn. He knelt down, fiery red hair spilling over his shoulders and gleaming in the sunlight. This person was Chuuya Nakahara, a former mafia member who somehow became an accomplished painter. However, in recent years, he’d produced only a few works, with numbers dwindling more each year.
On the other side of the world, resides another member of the (now disbanded) mafia . The waning sunlight reflects off tall glass buildings into the eyes of a tall man. He shades his eyes with one hand, as the other reaches for his glasses. The building reminds him of something, a thing he’d rather forget. Yet he stands still, brown hair blowing in the wind, as he fights the part of him that’d do anything to keep those memories alive. He sighs, moving on. This man is Dazai Osamu, a former gang member, now a writer.
Chuuya -
It was blank. Empty. It gnawed away at him, until he wanted to do anything but look at it anymore. His paints had been untouched for over a month, but his canvas was still mounted on the easel. The room was full to the brim with things, so the bright white of the canvas was an eyesore. Chuuya hated it, it made him feel sick, useless and empty. If there was one thing he hated more than anything else, it was feeling empty. And he was anything but subtle about it. Every wall in his apartment was covered in posters, photos, momentos from places he’d visited. He had shelves, all covered with knicknacks, vintage things, heirlooms, cards, trinkets, anything and everything he liked. It made him feel like he had a personality, you could see all his interests, hobbies, ect. He liked it. It reminded him of who he was, in case he ever lost that. Barren walls, minimalistic decor, and all-white rooms reminded chuuya too much of ‘him’. A boy who had very few mortal possessions, and no interest in collecting more. He always said chuuya “did enough collecting for the both of them” and of course that was true, but it didn’t stop chuuya from hating that thought. Everyone should have something to care about, to check on every once and a while, whether a person, an object, a place. After all, every artist needs a muse.
Chuuya took his box of paints and pallet from the cabinet where they resided, almost hesitantly. He wasn’t afraid to paint, per say, he was afraid of what he’d end up painting. After all, he’d been…slower, at producing pieces. Nothing was ever good enough, never pretty enough, never what he really wanted to depict. He sighed. Maybe this time the art would be worth all the memories it brought back.
-
They lay on a hill, red locks tangling with chocolate brown from how close they were. Looking up at the quiet sky, he could feel dazai’s gaze shift, and looked over at him. Their eyes met, reflecting a sharp jolt before their gazes both softened. Dazai’s light brown eyes stared into Chuuya's blue ones, and for a moment, the world was quiet. He knew he loved the boy laying next to him, loved him deeply, madly, like it could tear him apart. He turned back to the sky, as if afraid of what he might find in the other boy's eyes if he looked long enough. Dazai reached for his hand, tangling their fingers together. The moment felt delicate, as if it would shatter like glass if either of them said a word.
So in silence they stayed, until the sun fell behind the hills and the moon bathed them in a glowing pale light.
And they stayed, because they can’t ever really leave.
He looked at his canvas, as if analysing the lines he’d put there only moments before. He didn’t always sketch before starting with paint, tending to become a little too attached to the drawings and not willing to risk ruining them. The messy lines reflected a shake in his hand that came about some times, giving this sketch a rougher style than much of his other work, and he knew it. From his canvas, a boy looked back at him. He couldn’t have been much older than chuuya himself, but his eyes held the kind of emotion that one rarely sees in a young person. Absolute defeat–as if life simply had no meaning and held no value anymore.
Tracing his finger along the sharp lines, he knew who he’d drawn. There wasn’t a direct resemblance; he rarely depicted people (namely, dazai) as who they were. They tended to take on other forms, whether it be human or otherwise. He was used to this depiction of things, solely based on how he viewed them and not how they actually looked; it felt more authentic than drawing (or rather, painting) things as they were already seen. Plus, it let him deal with themes and people from when he was still part of the port mafia without making anyone recognisable.
—
[up-and-coming spotlight: Yokohama’s Chuuya Nakahara creates irreverent pieces reflecting the brutality of human nature]
“Today’s guest is yokohama’s chuuya nakahara,” the woman interviewing him smiled brightly at the camera, then turned back to him “thank you for joining us today, mr. nakahara”
“It’s my pleasure.” chuuya replied, smiling curtly.
“So, we’ve got a few questions for you” she said, her tone light but strained. Chuuya assumed she didn’t like her job very much, “Okay starting off, much of your work depicts somewhat estranged scenes and people, so we were wondering, what inspires your work?”
“Well,” he started, searching for a way to put it into words eloquently, “I take a great deal of inspiration from writing, actually. I particularly enjoy the works of Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud, but part of my inspiration also comes from things I've seen or people i’ve met in the past. It’s a combination of things, really.” good enough, he guessed.
“Oh, how interesting!” she seemed genuinely interested, he could give her that, “well then, onto our second question…” she looked down at her script for half a second, “we’ve heard a few theories regarding your art’s influence on Osamu Dazai’s writing, are your works linked in any way?”
“I- there is not.” he said, a little too quickly. Fuck. “I've…heard the theories, yes. We tend to explore a few of the same themes” keep it together, chuuya. “But there is no direct relation between our works, nor is there any way there could be.”
She looked at him, and he could tell she knew that he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “I see. The main theory I've heard is one regarding the depiction of a character much like you in one of his works, and the recurring image of a figure wearing bandages in the same way mr. dazai does. Is there a reason this figure keeps popping up?”
he steeled himself, “I haven't read much of dazai’s writing, myself” a lie. “In my eyes it seems like a bunch of pretentious whining i couldn’t be bothered to hear.” he shrugged, continuing, “the bandaged figure that appears in some of my works is an homage, almost, to one of my friends i lost touch with long ago. They had quite a bit of significance in my life, and while they don’t wear the bandages the same as they used to, the depiction of them in my work is used as almost a link between the past and present sense of self and what they in turn stood for.”
“Ah, I see. I’m quite intrigued as to who this person is, but alas, time is of the essence. So, our final question for today is: what are you working on right now?” the woman smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. He didn’t expect it to. Interviews were hellish, but he did them anyway.
He paused, thinking. He didn’t have any specific project going right now, and he certainly wasn’t going to promise things he can’t give, so that left one option: tell them the truth. “I, well,” well put, chuuya. “I’m not in the midst of any large projects right now,” the woman raised an eyebrow, “but I've been working on making a piece that’s being particularly stubborn. So I've just been working through an… artistic block, if you will.” good enough.
She nodded a little, in understanding, he’d like to assume. “Alright, thank you for your time.” she smiled again, turning to the cameraman and nodding. He stopped recording.
–
Chuuya picked up his paintbrush, the texture of the worn wood familiar in his hand. He twirled it, once, twice, and sighed.
His eyes were pretty, chuuya thought. Though, there was rarely a thing about the other boy that chuuya found ugly. Flawed, maybe, but even the blood on his hands could be seen as a piece of art. Sometimes that's how he saw dazai, a piece of art, that in all its chaos and glory, had become a person, or maybe the other way around.
At the same time, though, there was something to be said for the burning hatred the chuuya still held for the other boy. An anger that ran as thick as blood, filling each and every one of his veins and bleeding out as he yelled. Without dazai, he’d have still been with the sheep, they’d still be…well, them. Without dazai, he’d never have killed like this, without dazai he wouldn’t be stuck here, without dazai he wouldn’t be bound to the port mafia by mori’s unyielding control.
But, above all, he did care for the other boy. Amongst all his mixed feelings, that was still true. But could the same be said in reverse, he wondered? Would dazai look at him and feel fond? Were they even friends in his eyes? Dazai didn’t really do ‘friends’ he knew, people didn’t often get close to him, though there were a select few. He’d heard of dazai’s misadventures with the guys he drank with, Ango Sakaguchi and Oda Sakunosuke, he’d (chuuya) met them a few times in passing, they seemed nice. Oda was a strange man, chuuya thought. Strange in a good way, of course, dazai didn’t tend to hang around bad people. Well, maybe chuuya could be seen as that exception, killing for a living didn’t exactly make one a good person (but he wasn’t very concerned with morality, at this particular time) not that it mattered much. Ango was cold, didn’t make small talk, a trait chuuya could appreciate.
-
Dazai looked back at him, their eyes meeting. A spark of understanding, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smirk. They didn’t speak.
They never did.
Never really talked about anything. The yelling was one thing, the fighting, teasing, playful jabs at each other’s ego’s, but that was nothing more than banter. There wasn’t really bite behind those words, they rarely fought in the rawest sense of the word. Skirting around topics seemed to be their specialty, keeping up their reputations, keeping up their spirits.
And behind closed doors, it was similar, only there was a heaviness in the darker corners of their apartment. The moments when chuuya found the other boy bleeding out, the emptiness of his eyes boring holes in Chuuya's heart. He’d find dazai’s rolls of bandages, treat the wounds, he’d do everything he could to keep his hands from shaking, because dazai deserved to be cared for without guilt. And he wouldn’t tell Mori, he’d carry the weight of saving someone on his own back. And in turn, when he’d wake up in a cold sweat, sounds he couldn’t place still ringing in his ears, dazai would be there. Sometimes he’d card his fingers through Chuuya's hair, curl up next to him, his presence like an anchor.
they never talked, in the words unspoken they were infinite, like the sky unbroken a skyline.