Work Text:
The sun begins to hide behind the mountainside again, gracing with its last and golden embrace the graveyard at the foot of it. A young man, its most faithful visitor despite always looking so out of place—city-made attire and executive title heavy on the shoulders, clashing with the green and peaceful landscape—stands at the entrance. Quietly and with the ease of someone who could live here, he opens the gate without disturbing the sleeping souls' silent harmony.
He holds a bouquet of chrysanthemums, lilies, and marigolds, and his name is Chuuya Nakahara. One of Yokohama’s most feared ability users and criminals, one of the Port Mafia’s most respected names.
As he heads towards the furthest graves, near the cliff, he remembers the first time he came here and chuckles. The bunch of flowers he had brought, considerably larger than the one he holds today, was so huge he could barely see where he was stepping. Stubborn as he was, he obviously refused not to carry it himself—and that meant not using his ability as well. He didn’t fall but tripped one too many times, probably offering an entertaining sight to his friends. It’s just as if he could hear their laughter and taunting, whenever the wind blew a little harsher. He’s grateful it’s still the case to this day—that their presence hasn’t vanished completely. He ignores what he would do if that were to happen.
A gust of wind hits him from behind, chilling and merciless, as he halts before the five graves.
“Yeah, I know, no more glooming thoughts when I visit you guys,” he snorts and rolls his eyes. “My bad, I haven't had the best of days,” he then half-heartedly apologizes, eyeing the tombs aligned side-by-side. “It’s been quite a long time. Longer than usual, I mean. Sorry for that too. I didn’t forget you, though, so don’t hold a useless grudge, okay? I was just sent overseas, you know how it is.”
As Chuuya explains and details everything his friends have missed since he last saw them, he separates the bouquet in smaller nosegays, and distributes an equal number of them to each of the Flags. While doing so, he stops in his soliloquy and greets every one of them once he’s kneeling before their respective tombs, in-between arranging flowers but also others gifts he brought such as alcohol and their favorite snacks, and cleaning their graves off dust.
Pianoman. Iceman. Doc. Lippmann. Albatross.
Once he’s done with that and recounting most of the last weeks’ events, he sits behind Pianoman’s grave, in the middle of them all, and stays silent. The usage would be five minutes, but he knows well he doesn’t have to count to make them, by now. He simply stays here, eyes closed and breathing serene, for God knows how long.
Until an apple falls on his head from the tree above him, that is. His sign that he has mourned enough for the day, certainly. He sighs and opens his eyes, smiling as he sees the night draping itself over the world. There’s still faint light but the sun seems to be set behind the mountain slope, and so he checks the time on his phone. It’s the exact one he and the Flags used to meet at the Old World, he had the right feeling. With a chortle, he opens the expensive red wine bottle that has been waiting in his bag.
“You know,” he starts after a sip, “I didn’t tell y’all everything.” Another sip. “I said I had a bad day, right? Well. You’ll never guess who I met again today.” He pauses for dramatic effect, eyeing the wine suspiciously before closing it and putting it aside. “Dazai fucking Osamu. Yeah, crazy right? And stupid me thought he had died in a ditch,” he laughs again, although it isn’t nearly as honest as the other times—for it holds more sarcasm and draws the outlines of forsaken sorrows, now empty and destitute. “You can imagine my disappointment,” he adds in a subdued voice.
"I mean, I actually learned that he wasn't dead and buried two years ago, when we started hearing about how he joined this detective agency," he feels the need to clarify, as if his friends weren't aware of this already. As if someone could be listening secretely and call out his stupidity. "Still, it's different to witness it in person. To see him in flesh and bones. I… I always had this impression I'd actually sense it if he was gone for good, add to this the info we then gained about his new whereabouts of a traitor, and there should've been no doubt left. I thought there wasn't. But then I saw his moronic, goddamn mackerel face and understood how wrong I was. Unless I saw him, I couldn't believe it fully.
"I should've known better. The world can't get rid of a plague like him so easily, after all," he concedes—and if he's smiling with tenderness, not even so well hidden behind his jeering words and tone, that's a knowledge for him and the Flags only. "He changed, you know? You'd be surprised, really. I wish we could mock him together, mister youngest executive playing the goody two-shoes detective."
There, Chuuya breaks off, reminiscing about his earlier encounter with the man. His blood boils and freezes at the same time, a torture he hasn't felt in ages. Dichotomy of feelings misguiding his well-kept thoughts, compass broken at the recognition of every little detail, even when said details undeniably changed and are now stranger to him. He eyes the bottle again, looks away again.
"Deep down, I think he's still somewhat the same. People don't just change like that," he argues with no one, what he intended as an irrefutable truth sounding more akin to a hopeful and flaming demand. "Not Dazai, at least. His eyes still detain the same void, he still exudes the same gloominess, he still rambles and annoys everybody and their mothers about how he wants to off himself. The only change is that he now hides and disguises it. And somehow, they all buy his clown show," he spits out before going dead silent.
Then, he laughs again, all ironic and self-deprecating.
"Maybe I'm just an asshole, though. Maybe I wish he never changed. It would mean I haven't lost everything." Fuck that, he bought this wine so he's gonna savor it. "Pretty fucking ridiculous, I'm aware. I don't know what I'm saying." Another swallow is taken, to drown the stupid thoughts for good and all. "I gotta admit though, he actually tries and is successful in his new work and… life. Actions speak louder than words or whatever." Carefully, he spills a few drops of the precious alcohol on the grass next to him.
"What else? Well, the bastard is even more of a beanpole than before, he took a few centimeters, the asshole. He seems to eat better, though. He now wears a beige coat, just like his friend, Oda Sakunosuke. Eh, now that I think about it, you never got to meet him. That's a shame. I never really knew him either but he seemed like a good man, really. Oh, and. Dazai's left eye was bare of bandages. Both of the mackerel's eyes for everyone to see! Do you realize?" Chuuya bursts out laughing, bottle relentlessly shaking in his grip. "Got me feeling like a victorian guy seeing ankles. Anyway. Also, he still drinks his cheap sake, and pretty often if I had to guess. I could smell it on him, so… either he's an alcoholic, or I'm a freak with a developed smell. He changed shampoo, though—but it's still a cheap one, I could bet on it."
For a few more seconds, he catches his breath and falls silent, letting the peaceful atmosphere of the sacred place regain its rights. Not for long, though.
"I liked his old shampoo."
This final statement sounds like a surrender.
"I wonder what he tastes like, now. That's the one thing I have no idea about. I used to know, back then." Realizing his words, Chuuya suddenly guffaws, passing a hand through his hair as he can practically hear his friends jibing at him. "Wow, that came out so wrong. Enough alcohol for tonight," he finally decides, emptying it on the earthy ground entirely. "Sorry for bothering you with this jackass, but hey, it's not like I do it often. I'm sure you appreciate the gossip anyway," he huffs, shaking his head in exasperation. "Especially you, Albatross."
He changes topics and leaves not long after. The question, still, stays in the back of his mind—makes its home there, in-between tainted memories and cherished hatred. As he rides his motorbike, as he enters his penthouse, as he stares at his bedroom's ceiling. As he'll go to work tomorrow, too—he can already sense it. Calling for a name and feelings he'd rather forget.
What does Dazai taste like, now?
Chuuya doesn't even need to try to reminisce. It comes naturally to him and he's not sure if it's pathetic or impressive. Dazai tasted a strange cocktail of the most basic shower gel—flavor so dull it probably didn't have any—of canned crab on the days he deigned to eat, of whisky every other night and cheap sake the rest of the time. Sometimes, he also smelled of antiseptic, and often of blood—whether it was his or not, Chuuya could only have an idea when they went on missions together and came back both covered in the enemy's one. But even on other days, Dazai always dragged this faint odor of death. A walking corpse bringing decay yet carrying success everywhere he went—and depending on your luck, he would offer you one or another. A child that had nothing of one but his appearance, creating a paradoxical, troubling persona.
But still a child, and still alive—despite what Dazai himself believed.
Chuuya can attest to it. The child part, he's unsure of how—he himself never really felt like one—he simply knows it. The alive part, well. On rare occasions, he has drunk it up directly from his partner. Life liquor, warm and metallic and slightly sugary, dripping from wounds he had carved onto Dazai's lips with reverence. Allowed to steal some of his humanity and call it reciprocity.
So, to summarize; Chuuya used to know what Dazai tasted like. He doesn't anymore, and that's a bother to him. This knowledge was his and his only, a shameless privilege from a monster to another, and it's been ripped out from his bare hands—without him even being there. He always has been one of the few closest to unravel Dazai's being, to decipher the maps of his mind and catch the heartbeat in his chest, until the day there was nothing left. It all disappeared before he could grasp the entirety of Dazai, although this, Chuuya never truly minded—he was close enough to his liking. Even too close, at the time. (And if this isn't comical?)
A precious, oh so precious secret to many, surely. Even more so than the gems Chuuya used to manage the traffic of. How to decode this man who talks in riddles, loves in codes, and whose whole existence is a puzzle which he certainly destroyed every jigsaw.
The thought of having lost the key to it all is unbearable to Chuuya. Especially now that he can take revenge on the fucker. He will take back everything he's been stolen first, and make Dazai pay, and force him to witness his own humanity, even if it means breaking some ribs—his own, Dazai's, it doesn't matter—to reach it all.
Dazai’s death tasted of Petrus 1989 and capitulation.
Meeting Dazai again tastes of Petrus 1993 and unsatiated curiosity.
The second time—after all these years—that Chuuya is graced with Dazai's insufferable and very not dead presence, they're being teamed up against Lovecraft, in the context of the Port Mafia and the Annoying Detective Agency's alliance against The Guild.
Chuuya, for the first time in four years, uses Corruption.
Dazai, as always when it's the case, concludes the encounter and stops him in time.
Stupid nullifying ability. Stupid, stupid grin as he tells Chuuya that he can now rest. Long-forgotten tenderness in his palms, supporting him, and in his voice. New-found perks of gold in deep brown eyes, Chuuya recalled them to be pitch black, though. It's pretty. Almost warmhearted.
Dazai changed, Chuuya saw it now but also earlier; in his interactions with his coworkers, in how he stands, how he acts, how he tries.
Chuuya wants to tell him. He surrenders to slumber before he can.
A few months pass by. The Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency collaborate more and more, Double Black is sometimes asked to work together, too.
During a particularly long and arduous fight, Chuuya almost thinks Dazai won't be there in time.
He wakes up to the sight of his living room's ceiling, his entire body sore and painful. He feels all fuzzy, too, and his head throbs. Hence why he doesn't notice instantly the humming coming from his kitchen. When he does, he springs on his feet and takes out a knife that was hung on his belt. However, vertigo submerges him as soon as he stands up, and he misses. He would've missed anyway since the intruder is no one else than fucking Dazai, but well. Reflexes.
"Careful there, Slug. You're still recuperating from Corruption," Dazai chirps, smiling from ear to ear. It's a bit stiff and there's something resembling honesty in his voice, but Chuuya really doesn't have the energy to ponder on it this time.
There are more important matters at hand right now, this entire situation for example. Chuuya didn't even register that his state was the doing of Corruption's aftereffects, with how unusual everything is. Waking up at his place and not the Mafia's infirmary or on a destroyed battlefield, waking up to Dazai in his apartment. What a mess.
"Dazai. What are you doing here?" he asks as he sits back on his couch, back turned away from the bastard and scowling. He's still hurting like hell.
"What? The other times, you complained that I 'left you asleep in the middle of nowhere,'" Dazai retorts, quoting with his fingers the last part and rolling his eyes. "You should be glad and grateful I carried you to your place for once. You're pretty heavy you know, for such a tiny person—"
"Yeah, yeah, just shut up if you won't answer me." Practically sensing Dazai's pout and upcoming taunt, Chuuya keeps going. "Seriously, I'm not in the mood so either you get the fuck out, or you tell me why you're here."
No answer comes. With a sigh, he stands up again and walks straight to Dazai, who's now opening cupboards as if he owned the damn place.
"Out." Chuuya requires once he's next to him. But then he notices exactly where Dazai is rummaging through, what he acquired, and the obnoxious smile glued to his face. Too exhausted and exasperated to be furious, Chuuya simply snatches the bottle out of his hands with a displeased expression, before putting it back in place. "The fuck you think you're doing?!"
"Oh, did I make Chuuya mad? Well, I was curious what atrocities you kept in here—"
"I really don't have enough energy for this," Chuuya grumbles, fingers massaging his aching temples. "For the last time, I'll politely ask you to leave and if you don't," he begins to threaten, now glaring at the intruder, "I'll simply kick your ass out myself. It's not a bit of pain that will—"
"I wanted to," Dazai interrupts him, a barely there murmur.
"Huh? Wanted to what?"
"To carry you back here. To stay. I wanted to, that's all," he develops, eyes shifty and voice still unusually hushed.
Now, that's strange. Extremely so. Even if Dazai actually did feel this way, he would never admit it outrightly. It's not like him to avoid eye contact either, he who always stares right into peoples' souls, like the absolute freak he is. Unless he is playing false vulnerability, selling an act of honesty, trying to obtain something from someone else, at least—that's not the case here.
"Dazai?" Chuuya calls, suspicious but softer. "Are you serious?" Dazai simply nods, nonetheless rolling his eyes again. "Why?" Chuuya can't help but wonder, purely and simply perplexed.
"Why, he asks!" Dazai scoffs, turning to face his interlocutor. "I thought you had died! For a few seconds, I fully believed I was too late!" he snaps, an accusatory finger pointed at Chuuya's torso. Chuuya who barely recalls what happened and is now even more perplexed, head tilted to the side.
"…What?"
All Dazai offers him in response is a blank face, so Chuuya frowns and meticulously starts searching his memory. Facing him are Dazai's expressionless facade, wordless explications, and intense gaze. As insufferable and shady as ever, or at least Dazai's trying to be. It's important, for him, to stay in control. This, Chuuya can understand.
And he tries to ignore it all, he really does. But it's so intense, his gaze, that it's almost Chuuya's turn to look away. He probably would, and with a half-faked groan, if he hadn't noticed the unusual exhaustion tainting the face of his former partner. Not just the faint dark circles he carries everywhere, no; it's an utter look of drain, imploring for a merciful truce. And, oh, he now remembers somewhat, looking at these eyes. The all-consuming fear in them, swirling and nearly overflowing. The tremble in an ever-steady voice, the shaking of a never-given embrace. And before that, before everything faded into crimson rage, his own reckless behaviour. The trust he once again placed in Dazai.
"Oh," he lets escape.
"Yes, oh," Dazai acidly mumbles.
"No need to be this bitchy," Chuuya remarks, arching an eyebrow. "I thought you were dead, too. And for two fucking years, at that! That's only fair, and not even."
"Well, that's not a contest, is it?" Dazai groans, but falls silent right after. "Wait. You what, now?"
"You heard me, asshole."
"How? I knew you were dumb, but not that dumb—"
"You were nowhere to be found and gave no news for two damn years!" Chuuya retorts, pushing Dazai on the chest to accompany his own accusation.
"I thought the exploding car was clearly my masterwork" the menace gasps, offense coloring his voice as he pushes Chuuya back.
"Yes, well, now I know it was you, dickhead!" This time, Chuuya firmly grabs Dazai's wrists, putting an end to their immature fight. "I still want to gut you for this, by the way," he then adds, and lets go of the other.
"As intended," Dazai grins, then adjusts himself against the kitchen counter before continuing, way too smug for a retired criminal who's probably just a masochist. "See, I thought about it well and exploding your car was actually multipurpose! One, it would annoy you. Two, the Port Mafia would be less likely to think you helped me or were aware of my defection. Three, you'd probably understand it was me, that I was alive, hate my guts even more and wouldn't try looking for me. Which was a huge failure since you didn't even use your brain correctly and followed the first step. Four, blowing up things is fun. Voilà."
Voilà. This is maybe the first time Chuuya is being verbally explained Dazai's full thought process—outside of missions—but… voilà. As simple as that, the answers to some of the biggest question marks that haunted his last four years. A few sentences in his kitchen at night. Perhaps he hasn't lost all the keys yet.
But Dazai still behaves strangely, eyes troubled and posture falsely relaxed. It feels wrong, to learn all this and not simply guess it, like Dazai would usually let him.
A curious thing about him is his inability to ever be completely honest—or his gift to deceive, some would say. A curse, a blessing. He always has seemed like he needs to put layers and layers of artifice to protect himself, to prevent others from ever getting too close. Perhaps to protect them, too. Now, it's certainly the case. Back then, it looked more like a survival mechanism, Chuuya thinks. Ironic, for a guy who always seeked death more than anything else.
Therefore, seeing him so open, it's frightening. It feels like violating the implicit promise they both established and never questioned again. Dazai seems to think so too, judging by the stiffness on his face.
"Why are you telling me this?"
The interrogated seems to consider the question, furrowing his brow and opening his mouth multiple times just to close it again right after, rolling the answers on his tongue and relentlessly switching between them. When he finally settles for one, he sighs and looks like he has utterly given up, on everything, as his hands leave the counter and he lets himself slump against it, sliding to the ground.
"I swallowed a truth serum," he explains with a resigned smile, as if surrendering to his ultimate sentence. "Was forced to. Kind of why I was almost too late to reach you." That last part, Chuuya barely hears it.
So, this would indeed be like taking something not his. And even though Chuuya said he would, now he feels doubtful—illegitimate. Not because Dazai doesn't deserve this, he clearly does, but because Chuuya doesn't deserve much more. And even less a stolen trust when Dazai already honored Chuuya's.
He doesn't quite know what to say or do, and so he stays silent.
Dazai, who was resolutely staring at the ground, now looks up to Chuuya. Everything about him screams tiredness, he looks even closer to death than Chuuya—and even though he always has been, it should not be the case right after Corruption—yet he keeps smiling, which could be irritating if it weren't so devastating.
"I give up. I wanted to stay because I was worried my dog would die without supervision, and this time was really, really worse than the others. I also missed your apartment, I think. I mean, you moved out since then, but it's still yours—which means I can still do one of my favorite things; make a mess of your stuff." At Chuuya's confused face, unsure of which attitude to adopt, he titters. "I should've known this was too risky until the serum effects hadn't disappeared but I couldn't resign myself to leave, so… you're free to torture me and ask me anything you want, I guess. In compensation for your near-death experience, let's say?"
"You're an idiot," Chuuya answers after a few seconds. Then, he scoffs and offers a hand to Dazai. "Get up. You're sleeping on the couch. I'll stop asking questions. Tomorrow morning, you're back at your house, or your workplace, whatever. Okay?"
Dazai takes his hand and stands up with his help, puppy eyes gazing at Chuuya with mischief once he's next to him.
"One more thing: Can I kiss you?"
Chuuya's mind gears halt in their momentum. For a second, he believes he's broken. Scratch that, he's too tired for Dazai's shit. Too tired to be broken, too. He groans and side-eyes his ex partner.
"No. You know what, you too, you're forbidden from asking questions—"
"Pretty please? I'm truth serum affected, not drunk."
"Maybe I just don't want to kiss you, have you even thought of this? Or is it too inconceivable for your immense ego?" Chuuya taunts, partly to torment Dazai and poke fun at him, partly because he's truly annoyed and completely caught off guard.
And, oh, here comes the pouting. Sulking, even, as Dazai turns around and goes straight for the couch. Shit, he really looks upset. Chuuya finds it weirdly endearing.
"I was joking anyway."
Oh, what a hypocrite. Anyone could tell as much, right now. This truth serum really must be something.
"You were?" Chuuya can't help but ask, yet again.
"No. Hey! You said you'd stop with the questions!" the nuisance whines, shuffling in the couch sheets.
Chuuya joins him and crouches down before him, a fond smile on his lips.
"Thanks, Dazai."
"For what?" the asshole deadpans, because of course he would.
"For being here this time."
"Oh. You're welcome, I guess."
"And I changed my mind," Chuuya adds, brushing a finger over Dazai's lips before settling his hand at the back of his head, playing with unruly waves.
He still wants a taste, after all. Craves it, even.
And it's a bit of a failure, how he can't hide his honest joy, but who could blame him? The way Dazai's eyes widen, the way he leans in Chuuya's touch, instantly and like he always belonged there, the way his lips start dancing in return—it's all so sinfully satisfying. It's tender, not very long, and unusually soft for them.
Dazai tastes of the same cheap sake, a known element in this partially new cocktail, and of overly sweet coffee. He tastes of salty fear, too—has he cried? It sure seems like it. Another thing is that he grew more used to kissing, a devastating realization. Chuuya forgets to feel bad about it when Dazai pulls him on the couch with him, desperation and longing in his every move and touch.
Four years have passed and Chuuya knows Dazai's savor again. Four years have passed and he just returned home, perhaps with one more key. He hopes Dazai won't be too resentful of it.
The way he falls asleep next to Chuuya, relaxed and peaceful, reassures the latter that he won't.