Work Text:
The bar was drenched in golden light, only a few people lingering due to it being the early hours of the morning. Dust-collecting paintings hung across the walls, accompanied by fake plants and pottery. The chatter was low and sparse.
The port mafia member sat solemnly, perched on the leather barstool at the bar he often frequented. The bartender had long given up on attempting to get the man to slow down on drinking – more money for them anyway.
Chuuya was frankly losing his mind. He’d spent hours of the day searching for his partner, half Mori’s orders and half his own volition, and more hours mentally cursing him out and getting wasted to drown out his feelings.
If the idiot had died… Then Chuuya would be happy for him. He didn’t want Dazai to die, not really, but he was aware of the other’s suicidal tendencies. Truthfully, he would rather let Dazai accept peace in death if it meant he didn’t have to live in a life he didn’t want.
Absentmindedly, Chuuya swirled his drink around. Whiskey. He enjoyed collecting wines, but he wasn’t much of a heavy drinker. Dazai enjoyed whiskey.
He wasn’t drinking purely to get drunk, more-so to fill the silence in his mind that would usually be occupied by annoyance towards his partner. His ex-partner. It was a shame, he really enjoyed this bar. He probably wouldn’t be able to visit anymore without correlating it to Dazai.
Chuuya’s eyes drifted to the window and he caught his own reflection; sunken eyes, hat discarded on the stool next to him, fingers drumming on his whiskey glass. He looked like an absolute wreck.
He remembered the way Dazai once stole his hat and wore it wrong, tugging it down over his eyes and laughing like it was the funniest thing — Chuuya had nearly killed him, and then he’d laughed too.
Soft jazz music droned low in the background as Chuuya drank glass after glass, the sharp edges of the space and his mind softening until it was almost bearable. Three. That was how many glasses it took before Chuuya wondered if he should call Dazai.
Setting his glass down, he propped an elbow on the bar and buried his hand in his fiery strands of hair. As frustrated as he was, he couldn’t cry, his eyes didn’t even well. He hadn’t been able to ever since the Flags died.
He pulled his phone out and set it in front of him, staring at it so intensely it could’ve caught fire. The walls around Chuuya were driving him mad, enclosing him with minds of their own.
Chuuya’s shoulders slumped, the ache of emptiness gnawing at his core. The winter night felt endless, with exhaustion clawing at his skin. The bartender circled back around to him.
“Bad day?” The man asked Chuuya, cleaning rag resting over his forearm. In response, Chuuya sluggishly lifted his head and sighed tiredly.
He slowly nodded. “You could say that…” The bartender took that as his cue to leave, walking over to a new customer. He gripped the edge of the stool, calming himself down before he lashed out and caused a scene.
Chuuya pondered on if there were any signs… Any gestures, anything that could help him figure Dazai out. It was pointless, the man was a mess. A deep, unpredictable mess that got on Chuuya’s nerves. However, the other seemed to understand him perfectly. He attuned to Chuuya’s needs before they even came.
He wondered if maybe he could’ve gotten to understand Dazai’s feelings and motivations more if the idiot had stuck around. Could’ve known what made him so insufferable, so magnetic.
Did Dazai ever even care?
What if Dazai was alive and out there somewhere? Maybe he would come back the day after, and tease Chuuya for being so childish. He could feel the headache forming already. Maybe he had run away…
If Dazai had run away, Chuuya would beat his ass so hard he’d never even wish to return to the Mafia. That bastard. Pulling me in and then abandoning me without a care.
Chuuya groaned to himself and lifted his phone, the bright light causing him to screw his eyes shut before swiping onto Dazai’s contact. ‘Mackerel.’ He debated on if it was more trouble than it was worth. His alcohol-muddled mind caused him to press the call button.
It rang. And rang. And then… stopped. Voicemail. Chuuya almost hurled his phone across the bar. Taking a deep breath, he began to talk after the dial tone.
“You idiot.” Great start. “You bring me into the Mafia, and – what, leave me here alone?” Chuuya sighed, the sound probably picked up by the microphone.
“If you’re floating down a river somewhere, I hope you have a nice fucking time in hell. And… if not, then, I hope for your sake you don’t come back because I’ll kill you, you asshole.” His voice was mumbled and slurred, aided by the alcohol.
“Seriously, I’m glad for you if… If you got what you wanted. But, why couldn’t you be ready when I was?” Grimacing at his own tone, he continued, “I guess this is how it ends.”
Chuuya set his phone down, staring into his glass of whiskey. He had come here trying to get his mind off of Dazai. Now all he could think of was the look Dazai would give him if he ever did get that voice message.
Maybe teasing, that glint in his visible eye that he got whenever he would joke around with Chuuya – insulting him lightly and bumping their shoulders together.
Usually, Chuuya wouldn’t be so sure. However, Dazai had been missing since dawn and they had agents all over Yokohama thoroughly searching for him and… nothing. Not a peep, not a flash of a long, black coat or white bandages.
Had Dazai given him any signs? Anything that maybe could’ve hinted at a goodbye? Honestly, Chuuya couldn’t think straight in the moment, their interactions the days prior became a jumbled mess in his brain. He should’ve figured it out. Should’ve stopped him.
He rested his cheek on the cold wood, hair sprawled out over his face, the paintings doubling in his light-headed vision. The chill was a welcome sensation against his fiery skin. Weak-willed, Chuuya picked his phone up one last time, deciding to text Dazai – in case he didn’t get his voice mail.
Chuuya: fuck u
Chuuya: die
Chuuya: jk
Chuuya: not really though
Chuuya: goodbye, dazai.