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Chuuya can’t remember what it feels like to spend Christmas with another person. Growing up, he had been surrounded by people during the holiday seasons. The Sheep never had a lot of money, but Chuuya always managed to scrounge up gifts for all the children. Nobody had ever quite extended him the same sentiment, but that was okay. He never asked for anything, so he was never given anything.
It changed, however, after he had joined the Mafia. Suddenly he had enough money to buy any Christmas gift he could ever want. All this wealth, yet he didn’t have anybody to spend it on.
This is a stupid thing to be thinking about, he knows, but the snow is starting to fall and his least favourite holiday is just around the corner. It’s cold and the layers he had adorned are not doing their job as intended while he shivers beneath the broken streetlight.
Just across the street, is an echo of his childhood, or at least, something that resembles one. Chuuya remembered it very well, better than he’d like to. He spent a few years frequenting this arcade, and now it was shut down, out of business. He can faintly see the interior through the windows. All the machines are gone, it is empty and both everything yet nothing like he remembered. He blinks, and his reflection from seven years ago stares back,
He can’t find it in himself to be upset. All the good memories he had of this place have been tainted, twisted into something that made the constant, unsettling anger in his stomach begin to bubble up. Most of the things he used to enjoy gave him the very same feeling, all due to their association with Dazai.
Chuuya is not an angry person.
Yet the festering rage beneath his bones, beneath his skin, is always there. He hates that he feels this strongly about somebody who he wishes he didn’t even bother sparing a second thought to. Every day that creeps closer makes it worse. He knows this feeling well, having sat with it and felt it grow over four years. It never gets easier, only worse and more intense every December, like clockwork.
As much as he’d like to deny it, every time he goes Christmas shopping, he ends up looking at gifts he knows Dazai would like. He blinks and is brought back to reality, because once again he is staring at a kid’s colouring book. It was silly, and childish, but Dazai adored those things. At least, he used to. Chuuya isn’t sure anymore. Regardless, he remembers how he’d get off work, stumble tiredly into his apartment just to find a stinky fish colouring on Chuuya’s couch. It’s one of the very few memories he has regarding Dazai that he is able to look back on fondly, because he finds it hard to deny that his heart had fluttered when he was allowed to lean against Dazai and watch the boy colour like a child in comforting silence.
He manages to tear his eyes away from the book, deciding to look for the items he originally intended on buying. Christmas was right around the corner, and everything he bought for those close to him were being delivered on the day. It was as good a time as any to spoil himself and indulge in a few pointless items that would give him momentary joy before settling on his shelves and collecting dust.
His next trip was to the winery, and he had bought the oldest bottles available and displayed them with the rest of his collection. He was rather proud of it, nowadays. It had grown in size tremendously since he was a teenager and when Dazai used to call it stupid. It was really Chuuya’s only hobby, though, so he would not allow himself to be swayed by the old opinions of somebody who he hasn’t willingly spent a day with in years. But If he drinks himself to sleep that night with the very same bottles he bought, cursing Dazai’s name through drunken tears, it is nobody’s business but his own.
He feels the time beginning to blend together the more the days go on, now that he is no longer working for the holidays. It’s a repeat, with nothing productive to do. He sits and watches TV, cleans the apartment occasionally, and eats microwave meals. All the while, he can’t stop thinking. A particular mackerel constantly on his mind, making him feel perpetually nauseous.
It was hard not to think about him when, even after four years, Chuuya’s apartment is still filled with traces of Dazai. If he closes his eyes, he can hear it all again.
“Is Chuuya getting me anything for Christmas?” he asks, draping himself over Chuuya’s back, like an oversized and rather heavy blanket.
He’s met with an elbow to the stomach, followed by a scoff. “Absolutely not. I’d never waste my money on you.”
He always did, though.
He’d been needing to go grocery shopping for a while, having run out of all his microwavable meals and anything he could’ve used to scrape together a quick dinner. He was glad he chose today to go, considering it’s Christmas Eve and he can buy ingredients for a nice Christmas dinner.
Kouyou had chosen to come along, which Chuuya was endlessly thankful for. He believes he might’ve gotten distracted and bought foods that he doesn’t even like, planning to feed another person out of instinct despite not having needed to for years, if she was not here.
“What are your plans for tomorrow, Chuuya?” she asks, and he knows it’s only out of courtesy and that she will be too busy with others to spend the day with him.
Chuuya gives a shrug in return, looking over the prepackaged cake that the store supplied in bulk during Christmas. He wanted to get it, but there was no chance of eating it by himself, and he wasn’t fond of wasting money. It wasn’t really a concern he should have, but growing up homeless and suddenly coming into wealth makes him cautious to lose it all. “I’m not really sure. I think I’ll see where the day ends up taking me,” he answers, putting the cake back down and replacing it with a loaf of bread.
Kouyou looked disheartened at his response, but she didn’t say anything about it. Her eyes seemed to carry a sort of pity, and he knew all too well why. “I know the holidays are…” she sighed, trailing off as she seemed unsure how to phrase it. “Just don’t hesitate to call me, lad. I’ll leave my phone on vibrate.” There’s an underlying message, more of a request than a suggestion. She acts this way every year, and Chuuya doesn’t really understand why. The first year it was understandable, but he had been fine then and he is fine now. It’s touching to know that she cares, but it also makes him feel like she doesn’t believe he is a grown man who can navigate his own feelings in a healthy way.
(He can’t. But he won’t admit that.)
Chuuya wakes up with his body heavy, his bones aching and his mind screaming at him to keep resting. When he looks at the clock, reading 11:21, he decides he does not want to lose Christmas day to sleep. The sun is filtering through his blinds, and the rays warm his skin as he traverses through the empty and chilled apartment. He goes through his morning routine, bathroom, coffee, brushing teeth, getting changed, the whole works.
Before he knew it, he’s bundled up and out the door, taking a walk through the city. His brain feels cloudy, and empty. All the negative thoughts that have been following him all month were gone, he feels calm. The scarf around his neck does little to help against the cold breeze, and he pulls it above his nose, pushing his hat down further to keep warm.
The stores he walks past are decorated in Christmas lights, sale signs plastered to the windows. Despite being alone, the company of all the strangers on the street, on their way to work, to friends houses, to the town square, makes him feel okay. Lost in thought, he made his way towards his favourite diner, one that was open, even on Christmas. He went there every year, and it was something of a tradition to him.
“Nakahara-san!” a voice greets as the bells jingle from opening the door, seemingly pleased to see him. “Welcome back. Here for breakfast?” the cashier asks, a kind smile on her face.
“As always. How are you today?” he pulled his card out as he spoke, ready to pay already. He doesn’t need to order anymore, he always gets the same thing. The lonely feeling seeps away the more he talks to her, and it feels nice.
“I’m alright,” She answers, putting in his order and scanning his card. “Breakfast rush just ended, so you’re in time. The day’s going to be slow now, I think.” she continues, looking away from the screen to focus her attention on Chuuya.
The conversation drags out until Chuuya’s food is ready, and he leaves to sit down and eat. He zones out while cutting the pancakes, staring at the plate.
Of course, he thinks about Dazai. The name tastes bitter even in his thoughts and he hates himself for how pathetic he is. It’s always like this, every Christmas at this exact time, he ends up here, thinking about his ex-partner–not even ex-boyfriend. They never dated, yet Chuuya stays thinking about him as if they did. How sad is that?
At least he has this one good part of the ritual, a nice breakfast from his favourite diner. It’s nice and quiet and the food is the best in the area, at least he thinks so. He chews mindlessly, allowing his thoughts to drift for the first time this month.
He thinks about Dazai and his dumb smile he had every christmas when Chuuya got him presents. Of course, he could’ve bought them for himself, the mafia salary and all, but there was something intimate about the act of gift giving. Whenever Dazai looked at him with that pure, unadulterated joy.
The memories make Chuuya nauseous, his stomach churning as he finds himself unable to finish his food, pushing it around on his plate instead. He inhales deeply, chasing the last bite of the pancake with a cup of water, trying to ground himself by looking out the window.
He watches the people pass by, enjoying their Christmas with their friends, family and lovers. It intensifies the sick feeling coursing through his veins by about a hundred. He drags his gaze over to the tree set up in the middle of the plaza, gazing at the people taking pictures with it.
His stomach lurches when his eyes lay upon a familiar face, one he doesn’t think he could ever forget. He wonders if he’s hallucinating–it wouldn’t be the first time–and does a double take, blinking a few times to check. When he confirms that the sight is real, that Dazai is well and truly there.
He’s with other people, too. A taller, blonde man with glasses who looks about his age, a brunette who he can’t quite figure out if he’s eighteen or thirty, and finally, a woman with short black hair who looks ready to leave the group at any moment.
His chest feels like it’s constricting, because Dazai looks happy. Much happier than he’d ever been during his Christmases with Chuuya. He’s out and about, he looks healthy, well groomed, and like he’s truly enjoying himself. Chuuya’s brain feels like it’s fizzing out, trying to make sense of it all. Who are these people? Why does Dazai look so happy with them? When did he start a new life? A new life without Chuuya.
He’s aware that he’s staring, and he feels almost creepy. But looking away might mean never seeing Dazai again, might mean that this is his last chance. Dazai seems to say something that angers the blonde man, who promptly hits him over the head. A white, hot jealousy runs through him, as all he can think about is how similar the scene is. That’s supposed to be him chastising Dazai for saying stupid things, not this stranger.
Dazai laughs despite the violence, smiling in bright amusement as he fixes his hair. Chuuya watches the man’s gaze flit around the plaza, before ending up on himself. It feels like his heart stops, and he meets Dazai’s eye, only for a moment, before he desperately tries to get out of sight.
He’s not ready to meet Dazai again after his defection years ago. Not now, and probably not ever. Packing his things, shoving the tip for the waiter under his plate, Chuuya rushes out of the diner, disappearing into an alleyway and using his ability to get the rest of the way home.
Everything seems a blur, his chest is tight and his head feels heavy. He doesn’t realise he’s home until he’s crashing into his bed, unable to catch his breath. Dazai’s alive. Dazai has a new life. Dazai left him, and started anew with all these people. Dazai left him to be with them.
He fumbles for his phone, scrolling through all the voicemails he’s left Dazai’s number over the past years. Pathetic. How disgustingly, horribly pathetic of him. Chasing after a guy who, evidently, hasn’t thought of him since he left. He blocks the number, even though Dazai likely hasn’t used it in years. He doesn’t want to call nor does he want to be called. Not this Christmas, not any other Christmas, either.