Work Text:
Chuuya Nakahara stood in the center of the funeral parlor, the room entirely quiet aside from the executive’s (could he even call himself that anymore?) pounding heart and thunderstorm boiling up inside his head. A large painting of the former boss was hung up right above the ebony casket, staring directly into Chuuya’s eyes with what appeared to be a taunting look in its own.
It had been a sorry excuse for a funeral, at least that’s what Chuuya thought. It must’ve cost a fortune to put it all together, and that was what exactly made it so sorry. An elaborate ceremony for someone who left the Port Mafia behind out of his own volition. A traitor, even.
Every guest had long past gone, and now only Chuuya and Dazai remained. This was the closest thing the two had to a last goodbye.
“Just you and me now, huh, Dazai?” Chuuya said in a voice that was monotone yet clearly concealing something much deeper, hands in his pockets as he drew closer to the casket. “I bet you could hardly contain your laughter while I was up there giving that phoney ass speech. I guess I knew that if I actually said what I wanted to say, I’d…” His fist clenched, unclenched, then clenched again. He felt like he was burning from the inside, equivalent to the candle flame his eyes now landed on.
“Well, I’m here to give my real speech. Actually, fuck that, you couldn’t even call this a speech. You don’t deserve something as sophisticated as that. So I’m telling all of this to you directly, got it?” His lip quivered, but he was still holding himself together. “First of all, I fucking hate your guts. And I don’t just mean that in a jokey, lighthearted way. I despise you. Truly and deeply, with all my heart. Even words alone can’t cut it—if I could, I would take that stupid ass book and bring you back from the dead right now just so that I could stab you over and over again until the light fades from your eyes.”
He laughed for only a second, grim and sardonic. Dazai stared.
“But, heh, I’m sure you already know that. If you were alive, you’d just reply with some dumb shit and get me even more riled up. So I won’t give you the satisfaction of seeing me all pissed off. I’m just gonna say everything you never gave me the chance to say, everything you would’ve just laughed off or tuned out.”
Taking a few steps back from the casket, Chuuya fumbled through his pocket and pulled out a photograph. A man sitting at a table with his head resting on his hand and a blank expression on his face.
“This guy… the picture that was on you when you died… they identified him as Oda Sakunosuke from the detective agency.” He stared bitterly at the photograph, gripping it tightly with shaking hands. “You never mentioned him. Not even once. I know there was so much shit you never told me, but I wanna know right now. Is he the reason why you did what you did?”
The more the silence went on, the more Chuuya’s throat burned.
“You can’t even fucking answer me? After everything I’ve done for you, you can’t even give me a simple answer? Tell me, boss.” The title, once said in respect, was now laced with pure venom. “What did he ever do for you? I gave you my loyalty, my respect, hell, my own soul. And what did he do? What did he do that was enough for you to leave me!?”
It was in that moment that the dam burst. All the memories played back in Chuuya’s head, clear as day. Memories of the Sheep, of the Flags, of everybody who he had loved and then lost. A flower couldn’t bloom without falling off. You couldn’t hold water in your hands without it slipping through the cracks. In the same way, Chuuya Nakahara could not love without losing.
The only person he had left to lose slipped through the cracks of his hands in the blink of an eye, and now he had nothing.
With his teeth gritted and eyesight turning blurry…a laugh escaped him. It sounded more like a scoff or a huff at first, but then it grew into a chuckle. In any other context it would’ve sounded like he was just laughing at a mildly amusing joke.
“If you think you’re getting away from me that easily…” He walked over to the painting and pulled the knife out, harshly and mercilessly. “…then you’re dead wrong, Osamu.”
Without prying his eyes away from the painting, he dug a wallet out of his pocket, then began to flip through it. Business cards upon business cards, until finally his eyes landed on one name. It stood out, for it was the only one not computer-printed but scribbled in cursive with an ink pen.
“The Resurrectionist.”