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Three months after leaving the port mafia, Dazai found a quote graffitied on an alley wall.
“The historian and the poet aren’t distinguished from each other by the fact that the former writes in prose and the latter in verse. They differ because one wrote what happened and the other what could have happened.”
He wasn't supposed to be there, cold and depressed as usual. Dazai was tired from being saved from his suicide attempts – and honestly, nobody hangs out near the lake that time of the night – what bad luck…
Well, if Dazai were a lucky person, he wouldn't even be looking for bridges to jump off in the first place.
“‘What could have happened’ huh…” He rolled his eyes. “Bullshit”
When Dazai arrived at the ADA’s headquarters he grabbed a little leather-covered notebook, opened it on the very first page and wrote:
I could have died.
And somehow, it felt right – as if failing had been a good thing.
As if it was the chance to stain these pages…
No
It was too good for Dazai, he didn't deserve good.
By the time the brunette was lying in bed trying or pretending to sleep, the second page already had four words.
I could deserve good.
***
He wrote more.
Of course he did.
The little notebook had become the most precious thing in Dazai’s life.
He wasn’t good with words – of course not, he didn't even let himself feel for years, how is he supposed to make poetry now? – But it turned Dazai’s mess into something he was more likely to look at.
For a long time it was just him, his demons and the leather-covered type of journal. He was used to hiding it below his futon, it’s not like someone would look for it. If you tell ADA that Dazai is a sentimental writer they would clearly laugh at you, but he liked to have it as a coping, so the brunette just kept it with his blades, razors and scissors.
Sometimes he chose the book over the pain.
And it doesn't mean that writing doesn't hurt Dazai, oh, it does. But it's different, it is a good pain, not such a self-harm thing, just as… Just like ripping a bad part of you and making something good out of it.
Just as Odasaku asked.
He started to bring the notebook with him everywhere, always in his coat’s pocket. Dazai never really took it to write in front of someone – no, was too personal – but felt the weight of it in his clothes was kind of comforting.
Then things fell apart
It was raining, because, honestly, when shit happens it's always raining. Four years later, Chuuya still hasn't changed his door lock.
It was practically an invitation to Dazai.
After the strategic alliance the brunette got the chance to break into his (ex?)partner’s apartment again.
He would definitely take it.
With a soft clink at his front door the older knew he had company.
“It's raining so much out there and Chuuya didn't even open the door for me? I'm devastated”
“You’re already in, aren't you? Besides, I don't think it’s flooding at the entrance hall.” A voice from the kitchen. There was a smell of curry in the air. Chuuya was cooking, he's a really good chef – for Dazai and himself, at least – maybe he would make a little portion for his best partner and force him to eat saying that he “needs to eat or he’ll die” like usual.
It made Dazai nauseous.
“Chuuya's so evil! I just wanted to come and give my partner a hug.”
“Uh?”
The youngest boy came across the room soaked the whole way through the kitchen’s door. Opening his arms invitingly for a hug.
“Dazai!” Chuuya scolded “I swear, if you drip one more inch of my floor I-”
The ex-mafioso wasn't paying attention, anymore, while a brilliant smile grew in his face. “Okay, okay, Chibiko, you don't need to scream” Dazai took off his coat and wrung out one of the sleeves. The sound of all the water splashing on was the only noise in the apartment until…
“Oops…”
Ah, Chuuya was furious.
It all happened pretty fast, Chuuya pushed Dazai to the bathroom so he could dry himself, then grabbed his coat to hang it on the clothesline.
It would have been very gentle of Chuuya – If he hadn’t seen it
“Whats this?”
Too late. The Mafioso closed the bathroom door in Dazai's face, the last thing the brunette had the chance to see was part of his soul in Chuuya's hands.
Dazai was choked, for a moment, he didn't even hear the ‘click’ of his partner locking the bathroom, didn't even hear him saying that once the younger finally dried off, he'll be free.
It was a joke, obviously, Chuuya knew that, if Dazai wanted to, he could break the lock just as he did earlier.
It was a joke
A joke
A fucking joke
But Chuuya had his world in his hands
It wasn’t funny
Dazai couldn't breathe.
And if his mind wasn’t already hell, he was sure Chuuya had left him in one now.
Dazai didn't realize he was rolling around on the floor until his cheek touched the cold tiles.
What if he opens it? What if he reads it?
Osamu had lived a life pushing people away — lying, smiling when it hurt the most, hiding all the weakness. All of it. He thought that maybe writing was a way to show the broken parts of him to something, not someone.
Never someone.
Because no one would stay after seeing the real Dazai. It was okay — Osamu didn’t like him either.
A sob.
Another.
No.
No.
No!
“Chuuya…” he tried.
“Agh, save it, Dazai. You won't make me feel guilty for locking you up. You can handle this just fine.”
A sob.
“Chuuya, please.”
Silence.
“My notebook. I want it back. I— I— I need it.”
“Well, you should've thought about that before turning my house into a mess.”
“That one? Huh.” Dazai heard the sound of pages turning. “Come and get it.”
Osamu wanted to die.
More than usual. More than ever.
He felt naked — felt two inches tall, felt his skin itching, his eyes burning. It could’ve become a good page. Well… what bad luck.
He was reading. Chuuya was reading. And Dazai was nothing.
Chuuya was reading.
The soaked bandages wrapped around his body made his recent injuries sting.
Chuuya was reading.
Suddenly it was very cold, even with the heater the mafioso always left on.
Chuuya was reading.
His eyes were watering.
Chuuya was reading.
Dazai was crying.
Damn it.
It can't be happening… it…
Oh, that was a bad moment to hyperventilate
How do normal people do?
Breathe in
Breathe out
Breathe in
Breathe outoutoutoutoutoutoutoutoutout
Can’t-
Can’t-
His had hurt, his heart raced, he wanted to die.
“Dazai”
Actually, he certainly was dying, no other reasons to feel like this.
“Dazai”
No, please, no.
he doesn't know if it's the cry or the rain but his face was shamefully wet.
“Osamu”
Chuuya?
“Osamu, you're safe, you’re safe” He felt gentle arms wrap around his skinny body "breathe, Osamu, breathe.”
He was sitting with his back against the bathroom wall, and his partner was there, kneeling beside him, gently embracing him and breathing very slowly...
Ah, right, that's how people do it.
That's how Dazai should do it.
“I- I can’t, I-”
“You can, mackerel, I know you can, here, in” Chuuya waited to Dazai to follow him
“And out” the voice was so gentle, it doesnt sounds like chuuya, well, it sounds, but not like dazai’s Chuuya. Sounds like the way the red-haired call little dogs at the street, the way he talk to his subordinates when they’re having a Panic atack the way he… The way he never talked to Dazai.
because he didnt deserve it.
But it was so comfortable and warm… the hands gently pulling his soaked hair from his face, the way he’s slightly rocking the youngest, the hug, oh, the hug. Dazai will pretend that he didn't notice that it's not for him, now, he'll just enjoy it.
“There, there, Mackerel, you did it, it's okay, you're okay.”
Chuuya slowly released himself from the embrace, slipping one arm under Dazai's knees and the other, holding his back, he lifted him like a bride.
He was startled at first, and if he'd been in a good mood, he would have joked about how surprising it was that someone as short as Chuuya could hold him up.
It wasn't a good moment.
So he said nothing.
When Chuuya laid him down on the sofa, muttering something like, "Just this once, don't wet my house again, okay?"
He covered him up, left the notebook closed and face down on the table in front of Dazai, right where the dark-haired boy could see it, and positioned himself beneath the taller man, stroking his hair.
"Sleep, Dazai..."
"Did you read any pages?"
He knew the answer, but asked anyway.
"No, I just skimmed it, I didn't find anything interesting."
Ah, so all this was for nothing...
Well, it could have been, but just as Dazai was about to drift off to sleep and have his hair stroked, he could hear a soft:
"You deserve good, Mackerel, you really do."