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The mission was supposed to be simple enough.
Kunikida was meant to get in and out, apprehend a potential accomplice of the target and gain information on what they were planning in Yokohama. It should’ve been easy, should have been a fast and quick afternoon task. Now, unfortunately, he was stumbling back to the Agency dorms with a deep gash in his arm and a stab wound on his thigh.
The accomplice had seen through his act, quickly attacking in close combat. The gifted he was working with had appeared, taunting Kunikida before whipping out a small knife. She had sliced him on the arm before burying it in his thigh, the pain shooting through his and blinding him for a brief moment.
He had sat there for a moment after she retracted her knife, his vision edging into black from the pain. Her and her accomplice had retreated, not finishing off the job for whatever reason. He had picked himself up after a few moments of contemplation, deciding he was going to walk himself to the dorms rather than calling for a pick up.
Kunikida settled on going to Dazai’s dorm, knowing he had an extensive medical kit somewhere in there. Between his suicidal antics and his amazing ability to get obliterated on the field for the most asinine reasons, he needed a large sum of medical supplies.
He stood outside of Dazai’s door, bringing his uninjured arm up to knock. The first knock gave no reaction, causing Kunikida to curse from both annoyance and pain.
“Open up asshole!” Kunikida roared, bringing his fist down on the metal again.
An answer never came and Kunikida’s wounds were beginning to ache- a telltale sign he needed to stop the bleeding quickly. He fumbled for his keys, pulling out the masterkey and shoving it in the door. He didn’t care about Dazai’s privacy right now, didn’t care what mess he walked into- he needed to stop the bleeding.
It took him a few times to get the key in correctly, finally getting it right after a few tries. The door was pushed open to reveal an empty space, tatami mat untouched on the floor and collecting dust. Kunikida staggered for a moment, hand on the door keeping him upright. He couldn’t bring himself to question the emptiness of the dorm at the moment, he could actually care less.
Kunikida was barely able to close the door behind himself, stumbling as he made his way towards the small bathroom. He gripped the countertop for stability and slowly lowered himself to the ground. Seated in front of the sink, he was able to reach inside and pull out the large medical kit he was suddenly grateful his partner kept in his place.
He opened it to find various stitch kits, endless rolls of gauze and different vials of medications. He tossed much of it aside to pull out wads of gauze, things that were only kept in the medical kit inside the office. Kunikida reached up with a wince to pull his shirt away from the slice on his shoulder.
Kunikida applied pressure before wrapping the wound to the best of his ability, sucking in deep breaths as the blood started to clot. He felt off, like there was something pulling him somewhere, into nothingness, into a well with no ending in sight.
Giving attention to the puncture on his thigh proved to be more difficult and he began regretting choosing to treat his own wounds. He pressed gauze to the open flesh and tossed his head back, waiting for both the bleeding and pain to subside.
The bleeding began to slow enough for him to tightly wrap a bandage around it, over his pant leg. He’d be able to clean it thoroughly and properly in the comfort of his own dorm after stealing some of the extensive medical supplies Dazai had, for whatever reason, sitting neatly and untouched beneath his sink.
Kunikida opened his eyes, vision hazy around the corners as they focused on the contents of the cabinet. Inside was a bottle of sake, a thick layer of dust housed on the top of it, figures Dazai kept a bottle of alcohol underneath his bathroom sink. There were various other things shoved inside the cabinet- cheap towels, random linens, a pack of cigarettes, multiple lighters, stacked rolls of bandages and a brown cardboard box.
He did not want to invade his partner’s privacy but the brown box was so obviously out of place his hands itched to hold it.
Kunikida spent a few moments contemplating what he was about to do, fighting his ideals. He eventually shrugged to nobody in particular and grabbed the box, letting out a sharp hiss from the pain radiating down his shoulder.
He wasn’t sure he even wanted to know what was inside, a war going on in his mind. He rationalized that maybe it was a board game, or embarrassing photographs, or a hidden gun, something or anything to keep him busy while the bleeding stopped. It was the only thing under the sink that didn’t have a pile of dust lying atop of it, he figured it must be something grand.
Kunikida flicked off the top of the box to reveal a pile of notes, some crumbled, some neatly folded, some out in the open with no manipulation.
He never took Dazai as the sentimental type, someone to keep something as fickle as notes and letters. With curiosity getting the better of him, he picked up one of the crumbled notes, smoothing out the paper to read it, hoping to find something to berate Dazai about.
Instead, he was met with astonishment.
—-
‘Asshole,
Stop getting yourself into shit I have to bail you out of, i’m fucking tired of it. Don’t forget we have a meeting at 3.
-N.C’
—--
Kunikida’s mind became a continuous onset of questions, taken back unexpectedly. A meeting? Someone had to save Dazai, bail him out of something? Was he in danger?. It was signed, N.C, and in the moment, due to the bombardment of thoughts in his mind, Kunikida couldn’t place the initials.
Even weirder was that this was apparently something Dazai kept hidden in a box under his sink.
Without warning, Kunikida’s vision swam, a sea of white overtaking the sink, flowing from the dim light bulb above it. The toilet next to him began to pixelate, the cheap tile floor sinking beneath his weight and he was falling- through time and space, falling through a void of absolute nothingness and everything all at once. It wasn’t loud, it was an eerie silence, as if the hole that had opened in the floor and swallowed Kunikida had taken the noise of the world with it.
His breathing quickened as he attempted to grab onto the tile beneath him, the note in his hand being crushed under the weight of fear and uncertainty.
Suddenly, Kunikida was no longer sitting on Dazai’s bathroom floor, he was standing in an office with a view of the port, looking directly at a young boy, no older than seventeen with a bandaged eye and black coat heavy on his shoulders. The office had high ceilings and two beautifully ornate wooden desks, bookshelves lined the walls and there was a stunning rug beneath his shoes.
“Hello? Kid?” Kunikida asked, his voice straining.
Kunikida noticed his pain was gone, quickly checking over his shoulder and leg he realized his wounds had been healed, but his body was nothing but a swarm of pixels. He reached into his pocket, finding his notebook was missing in action.
“Are you going to answer me?” Kunikida roared, “What is this? What have you done to me?”
The boy in front of him didn’t answer, instead staring straight through him. He looked familiar, the brown waves, the scarlet yet brown visible eye, bandages wound up to his chin- this was Dazai.
“I told you to stop being a dick,” A voice came from behind Kunikida.
He whipped around in a fury to be met with the sight of Chuuya Nakahara, dressed in formal Mafia clothes, looking younger than he’d remembered. He was shorter, his hair laying slightly above his shoulders as if it was freshly cut, his eyes held a familiar fire and anger.
“Well,” Dazai said before Kunikida could respond, his voice higher but sharp and cunning, “I’ve never been one to listen to a mutt.”
Fear bubbled deeper in Kunikida’s chest as he tried to rationalize just what the hell he had gotten himself into. This version of Dazai was not as docile as the one he knew today, this version would attack him- and this version of Nakahara would kill him on sight.
“Oh piss off,” Nakahara bit, his tongue harsh but his eyes betraying him, “This blood is on your hands.”
Kunikida couldn’t understand what they meant, his mind a hazy fog of ideas he couldn’t grasp. Who’s blood? His? Did he get transported back in time?
“As usual Chuuya, I’ll take it.” Dazai replied nonchalantly, waving his hand in the air to display just how much he didn’t care about what Nakahara was saying.
Nakahara approached with swiftness, tunneling straight towards Kunikida. He was no match, especially without his ability. He mentally prepared himself for an impact that never came.
Instead, Nakahara stalked straight through him and gripped Dazai by the collar, pushing him into a bookshelf.
Kunikida looked down to see his middle swarming with pixels returning to their original state. He wasn’t there, he wasn’t real- he was an outsider looking in on something he was never present for. Before he could run his hands over his chest and attempt to figure out what was happening, his vision began swimming in a pool of black waves, lapping at his consciousness.
“You fucking bastard!” He heard Nakahara yell, his body still holding Dazai against the bookshelf.
“I did what I had to do.” Dazai responded, his voice monotone and losing its playful edge.
Kunikida tried to hold onto consciousness the best he could as the darkness continued to encroach on his field of sight, catching a glimpse of Dazai’s head falling forward before the void engulfed him.
He came to, still seated on Dazai’s bathroom floor, note in hand, staring blankly at the mess under the sink, hyperventilating.
The note was tossed with haste, Kunikida backing himself up against the tub the best he could with the injuries that now stung in his actual body. He ran his hands over them, feeling the pain and reminding himself this was real life, this was the real him.
When Kunikida finally got his breathing under control, it dawned on him that he had been hit by the gift, and it was an amplification ability. Somehow, it had leached onto Matchless Poet, instead of being able to conjure objects from his notebook, he could not conjure memories from handwriting on any paper he touched.
Kunikida went to toss the box to the side when his hand accidentally brushed another note.
—--
‘Dazai,
Not your damn dog and get the hell out of my space
-N.C’
—--
Kunikida’s vision blinked to white, faster than the time before and hurled him towards a black hole, a ripping of the universe, an anomaly placing itself on the earth with a vengeance.
This time, Kunikida was not in his own body, he was simple viewing a vision, or scene, or memory he wasn’t sure, from a vantage point.
He watched as Dazai’s chest rose and fell at an even pace, his eyes closed and heavy on a couch in the same office he was just in, everything looking almost exactly the same. Dazai wasn’t wearing a coat, his white dress shirt splattered with blood was on full display. His arms were protectively crossed over his chest but they were loose, as if he felt safe enough to truly fall asleep wherever he was.
Nakahara had stood from the desk he was seated at, the chair dragging softly against the carpet in consequence.
Nakahara waltzed over to Dazai, hands pulled tight around his coat. Kunikida wanted to scream out as he approached his partner, wanted to reach into the fantasy world and stop Nakahara from the obvious pain he was about to inflict upon Dazai.
The pain never came and Kunikida’s screams were never heard.
Nakahara shrugged off his coat and placed it over Dazai’s sleeping body, the room becoming darker as he did so.
Kunikida gasped as his vision blinked to black and back to the bathroom, Dazai’s bathroom, in the Agency dorms, cheap tiles, messy cabinet, brown box discarded on the floor.
He wanted to push himself up and walk out, find and apprehend the gifted that had placed her ability on him- but he was unable to. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the overflowing box, filled with handwritten notes.
His ideals fought against him, knowing with everything in himself this was wrong.
One more, just to test a theory, then he’d stagger off and fix this.
—--
‘Dazai,
I hate your shitty face, I’m so glad we don’t work together anymore. I’m back from overseas, please for the love of god let me know if your idiotic plans have changed. I can’t fucking stand you. Piss off from all of this, seriously.
-N.C’
—--
Kunikida’s vision went white before settling in as the third person in a scene, again, never meant to be viewed.
He watched as Nakahara walked into the Port Mafia basement, heels clicking on the tile. He had stopped before descending the last flight of stairs, taking a moment to compose himself. From this angle, the Executive looked to be contemplating something, rolling whatever it was in his mind before continuing his descent.
He was older this time, looking more like the man he knew in the present day. There was a lack of fire in his steps, not exactly fitting to the Port Mafia’s attack dog and strongest ability user. As he rounded the corner, now in full view, the fire came back- that undying light of life in his eyes set ablaze.
Nakahara exchanged words with an obviously annoyed Dazai. He reached forward and drug him to meet his face by the taller’s collar. Face to face, there seemed to be a glimmer of understanding in Dazai’s eyes, a glint of relief.
Kunikida came back with a gasp, living the memory within the note. He quickly reached for another, completely aware what he was doing was a complete invasion of privacy and downright wrong.
Despite his previous thought of getting out of there as soon as he had confirmation on what was happening, his eyes drifted down to the note in his hand.
—--
‘Dazai,
Breakfast, eat. Text me when you’re up. Don’t know when I’ll be back.
Yours,
N.C’
—--
Kunikida’s head flew back again, eyes glazing over as the vision overtook him.
Third person, again, like a security camera that never existed.
Dazai was sitting in front of a couch in an expensive apartment, knees up to his chest with his head hanging downwards. He looked completely lifeless, a puppet with its strings cut, a marionette no longer used. His arms were limply hanging at his sides, hands flexed over the plush carpet beneath him.
The door opened with a smack, Nakahara walking in the space with a rush of panic he’d never seen the Executive exude. He closed the door behind himself, engaging a large security system before making it to Dazai’s side. He sat in front of the man on his knees, hands folded in his lap.
“Osamu,” Nakahara started, voice steady and confident, “What did you do?”
Dazai stayed unmoving and lifeless on the floor, not even moving in the commotion of Nakahara’s entrance. Nakahara let out a deep sigh, something obviously buried deep within himself, something he kept hidden for years.
“Did you take something?” Nakahara questioned, his voice narrowing slightly but still remaining steady.
Dazai shook his head slightly, barely moving yet Nakahara caught it as he nodded to himself with a sense of understanding. A strong set of arms placed themselves underneath Dazai’s, hauling him up and onto the couch with a practiced ease. Even after accepting his new position on the couch, Dazai didn’t move, didn’t speak.
It was a clear view into what Dazai was really like, underneath the facade he put on in the office every day. Kunikida was familiar, he had seen the small cracks in Dazai’s nature, how he sometimes lingered too long over a report he could write in his sleep, how the bandages were tighter some days, as if to mimic compression and touch.
Nakahara sighed to himself again, ripping the gloves off his hands and shrugging out of his coat. WIth no immediate danger, he allowed himself to undress slightly from the usual Mafia attire, losing the vest and harness, slipping his shoes underneath the coat rack.
“Today I got to spend a lot of time with Hirotsu,” Nakahara said as he walked back over to Dazai, “It was nice, I think.”
Nakahara pulled a few of the throw pillows to bunch them up on one side of the couch, patting them as if to make sure they didn’t run away. He grabbed a blanket from the large chair next to the couch and climbed onto the furniture, an arm coming to wrap itself over Dazai’s shoulders.
“He did spend time arguing with Gin today,” Nakahara confessed, “Tachihara took Gin’s side, as usual, but I’m sure you could’ve guessed that.”
Nakahara laid down, pulling a piliant Dazai with him. Dazai laid motionless, tucked between the back of the couch and the man with a strong arm over him. Nakahara began rubbing deep circles into the other’s back, as if trying to ground him to any sense of reality he could while continuing to ramble about the mundane parts of his day.
Dazai began to slowly unravel in Nakahara’s arms, his body relaxing minute by minute until he was completely sagged into the Executive’s chest. He brought a hand up to his chest, placing it directly over the other’s heart, no doubt trying to feel the beat, take any offering he could get of someone alive lying next to him.
Kunikida snapped from the vision with a harsh landing, unbelieving to what he had seen. His hands scrambled through the box to pull another letter, fingers barely grazing over the long-dried ink.
—--
‘Dazai,
486, Goldfinch, room key #17.
Yours,
N.C’
—--
Kunikida’s vision blanked.
This time he was in a bar, a speakeasy kind of establishment with men dressed in high-dollar suits and women beautiful as ever. The music was soft jazz, the lights were dim, the tables smelled like old money and undercover dealings.
Dazai came into view, his hair tucked back behind his ears, pinned in place with a few bobby pins. He was dressed more elegant than Kunikida had ever seen, his suit a deep brown, polished and expensive, shoes barely hitting the ground as he walked.
He approached the bar with a sort of ease that was comparable to a sultry entrance. His hand was dragging across the deep wood before he chose the spot to stop and speak to the bartender, his eyes lingering on her for a moment, watching his cocktail being crafted with expert eyes. He smiled as she pushed it towards him, his eyes deep and inviting.
Dazai babysat his drink for a while, eyes filtering across the crowd as he took his seat. A man came to sit next to him, pulling out a book while he awaited his drink. Kunikida could see the page number he was on, 486.
He turned his head slightly to the right, squinting slightly. Kunikida followed his eyes to another man, who had a key tag hanging from his pocket, reading #17. Dazai turned back to the bar and quickly downed his drink while pulling his phone.
Kunikida came back from the memory with more questions than answers; did Nakahara really give Dazai sensitive information? It wasn’t a question he could confidently answer yet, he chose to rifle through the box again to pull out another note, now completely uncaring to how wrong this was.
—--
‘Osamu,
Take care of yourself, you piece of shit. Eat the food and honestly drinking a glass of water wouldn’t kill you either. I’m getting off early today, your ass better be exactly where I left it last night. Don’t do anything I can’t fix.
Yours,
Chuuya’
—--
Kunikida barely had time to process the use of Nakahara’s given name rather than initials and the beautiful penmanship of Dazai’s given name before he was thrown into another scene, a blinding white stealing him from reality.
“Fuck.” Nakahara grumbled, the blackening edges of the memory coming into full view.
Dazai was bending over the toilet in his Agency dorm, the same one sitting next to Kunikida, as he dry heaved in an aggressive manner. It was gross, honestly disgusting as unwanted noises came from his throat. He looked awful, hair thrown in all different directions, skin pale and tinged blue, his normal attire stripped from his body leaving him a heaping mess of skin, bones, and khaki trousers.
Kunikida had never seen Dazai without his usual armor of clothing, yet there he was, bandages falling off his arms and neck, back completely exposed as he attempted to rid his system of whatever was inside of it.
Nakahara was on the ground next to him, rummaging through his work bag to pull out a water bottle. He twisted off the lid and shoved it in Dazai’s direction with no grace.
“That’s going to make me more sick,” Dazai said, his voice raspy against the back of his throat, final words before turning to throw his head back into the porcelain and choke up whatever else was left in his system.
Nakahara capped the bottle quickly and turned to face Dazai now, a gloved hand coming up to run itself along the other’s spine. The touch seemed to be unwelcome as Dazai tensed under it, causing Nakahara to discard his gloves. He went to touch Dazai again, this time placing his bare hand.
“Shit,” Nakahara cursed, “You’re a mess.”
It ripped a small, sad laugh from Dazai before his body convulsed again.
As Kunikida came back from the scene, he couldn’t help but feel strangely about the fact a Port Mafia Executive had been sitting almost exactly where he was, under the radar from all cameras outside the building. Kunikida must have held onto the note for a beat too long as it sent him spiraling through the memory again with a flash of white.
-
Nakahara had his head in his hands, elbows resting on an expensive countertop.
They were no longer in Dazai’s Agency dorm, but he could tell it was an extension of the memory behind the note.
Dazai was lying down on the same couch from an earlier vision, this time there were bed sheets fitted around it. He was on his stomach, still shirtless, now missing all his bandages and wearing a pair of grey shorts and socks. His back rose and fell with a deepness that meant he was asleep, probably from his extensive sickness.
There was a small trash can by his head on the ground, a plastic bag lining it as it sat untouched. A large medical kit, bigger than the one Kunikida had found, was open on the coffee table, its contents thrown around the living area as if it had exploded. The TV was playing faintly in the background, the volume so low it wasn’t coming through the vision. It was the only light on in the apartment, cascading different values of light across the space as the images on the screen moved through scenes.
It was a heavy scene, a moment in time that held weight, something so crushing it felt like there were rocks settling inside of Kunikida’s chest. He had never seen Dazai so sick, he had never seen Nakahara act so somber.
Nakahara eventually picked his head up to peer over to the couch, his eyes full of anguish. Kunikida was no stranger to the brash emotions of the Executive, overflowing with fire every chance he got. Kunikida was a stranger to the devastation the other held so deeply in his bones.
He walked over quietly to the living room and began tidying the medical supplies, tucking everything into its spot neatly and with care. He was hesitating, stalling, keeping himself busy to avoid the obvious thing wrong with the picture. After clicking the box shut, his body hesitated before he turned to lay eyes on Dazai.
Nakahara stood for a while staring at his former partner, eyes down and full of an emotion Kunikida couldn’t place. Tragedy felt too small, distress was lacking, agony couldn’t chalk it up. He knelt down in front of Dazai’s face, eyes watchful on his lungs pulling in air. A hand came up to rest in the brown hair, tangling bare fingers in it.
Grief.
Nakahara was grieving someone who was still alive.
“I need you to stop doing this to me,” Nakahara whispered to himself, his voice pleading, “Please.”
Kunikida was ripped from the memory harshly, as if something desperately wanted him to stay out and forget what he had just seen- but he couldn’t. He needed more, he needed to understand what this all was, these interactions he had no idea were happening.
He pulled another note.
—--
‘Osamu,
Hope you didn’t sleep in too late, I would have woken you up for work, but you needed that shit. See you later.
Yours always,
Chuuya’
—--
Kunikida fell face-first into a field of tall yellow grass, standing in front of a Port Mafia safehouse, worn and aged, forgotten by time. He regained his body in this vision, staring at his pixelated hands, no longer watching from a vantage point.
Dazai and Chuuya, Chuuya- Dazai’s Chuuya, he was beginning to understand, were sitting next to each other on a bench, the sun setting behind them. This wasn’t Nakahara, he wasn’t quite sure who Nakahara Chuuya was anymore, the person he was looking at, with auburn hair moving in the wind, different colored eyes laughing softly at Dazai, mug in his free hand while the other stretched across the bench to lightly touch Dazai’s shoulder- this was Chuuya.
Someone reserved for Dazai alone, out of everyone.
“You didn’t even do it right,” The laugh tumbled from Dazai’s lips, passing through like an old friend. His head tilted slightly, the sun exposing the mismatched colors under his right eye.
“Of course I didn’t,” Chuuya replied, holding in a laugh of his own, “You should have seen your face.”
“I was trying to hold it together,” Dazai replied, his voice light and airy, “Honestly you need acting classes.”
Chuuya hit Dazai’s shoulder softly, a smile gracing his face as he lifted his mug to take a sip.
Kunikida couldn’t look away, even now with full control of where he stood inside the memory, his feet stayed planted. He decided to sit in front of the duo, his legs hitting the ground unceremoniously.
“You know,” Dazai said, reminiscing, “We got away with a lot back then.”
“Too much,” Chuuya agreed, his voice softening around the words, “Remember the hollowed bookshelf?”
“How could I forget? I had to disable the security system to do that for your information.” Dazai responded, his voice far away, caught up in some memory from the past.
“Mori asked about it,” Chuuya replied, “Even questioned why there was exactly twenty-three minutes missing from that hallway cam.”
“I believe it,” Dazai looked down to his own mug, suddenly positioning himself to be completely facing Chuuya, “I remember telling Oda and he said it was going to be my downfall.”
“I think you mean to say he meant I would be your downfall,” Chuuya laughed, patting Dazai lightly on the shoulder.
“He’d never think that,” Dazai said, shaking his head.
The smile on Chuuya’s face quickly became one of understanding, of remorse. It held a quiet comfort for Dazai, as if it communicated something the two knew acutely.
The sun continued its descent, the conversation flowed and Kunikida stayed put. He watched on, as darkness crept in around the edge of the memory, something entirely drenched in comfort, in fondness. Chuuya’s laugh, his fire and anger lost in the midst of the countryside seated next to his former partner as they recalled memories. Dazai’s face, the calculating and cold exterior completely diminished while facing Chuuya, trust that the sun would set and the devotion between the two would remain the same, regardless of what happened when that same sun rose.
Kunikida could feel his vision darkening, the breeze picked up and the figures in front of him began to appear hazy. He found himself, against all ideals, not wanting to leave this one. A memory that wasn’t swallowed by grief, by hatred, by anger and conflict. He wanted to stay in this one- the one where Dazai looked content. Where Dazai was at peace.
It wasn’t up to him in the end as the cheap bathroom tiles came back into view, blood beginning to dry on his pant leg.
Kunikida hesitated before plucking another note, silently praying this one was as beautiful as the last.
—--
‘Dazai,
If you see this, you’re already on my fucking nerves. Get the fuck out and stay gone. I don’t want you here.
-N.C’
—--
The words swirled and Kunikida expected to see Chuuya screaming at Dazai, throwing a punch, beating him until he was black and blue for some awful thing the other did.
Instead, he was tossed into utter devastation.
Finally having autonomy over his body in the vision again, he stood to see the aftermath of a massacre. There were four bodies lying on hard concrete, a mangled mess barely recognizable. Kunikida didn’t know any of them, utterly confused as to how it pertained to the note.
There was a man, cut completely in half, bleeding out onto his shoes. It was grotesque; organs pooling out as if they’d been pulled by gravity itself, blood splattering across the floor, sopping wet underneath chunks of flesh. Kunikida felt nauseous- it was the worst picture of death he had seen.
The sound of gurgling caused his head to snap. He saw a small Chuuya, knelt over a body that was clinging onto life with nothing inside of it. Something inside of Kunikida wanted to pin this all on Chuuya, blame the deaths of these unknown individuals on the man but he could feel something in the atmosphere telling him to analyze deeper.
Chuuya wasn’t a man, he was a kid- a boy, young and small.
He was kneeling over a bleeding man, his face taunt and pale. Chuuya looked small, smaller than he had ever seen him and it had nothing to do with his age. He was very obviously a teenager, freckles less prominent on his face, his body slender. His bones held defeat, like this was the last straw in a series of events that would create the man he knew today.
Kunikida realized slowly, these were Chuuya’s friends. The way he spoke to the man gave it away, the promise that one of them was still alive, lying through his teeth to allow a dying comrade the peaceful goodbye.
He took his last breath, body going lax on the floor.
Kunikida wasn’t ready for the cry that ripped itself from Chuuya’s young body- too young to be experiencing something of this nature.
It was guttural, clawing itself out from the pits of his soul and echoing off the chamber of his throat. The grief was consuming, no living thing had a purpose here, it was palpable, the absolute misery threatening to swallow the whole of everything. It was an angry clamber of emotions, something never absolved, irate and full of despair.
Fog had infiltrated the scene, swirling around Kunikida’s pant legs and brushing over the small body hunched over. Chuuya was gripping the dead man’s clothes with white knuckles, not ready to let go, not ready to say goodbye.
Kunikida, against everything he was, wanted to reach out and console the child- because that’s what this version of Chuuya was, a child.
The wave of emotions that tore through Chuuya’s body were treacherous. He was screaming, yelling out at the top of his lungs for any and all gods to hear, the skies above and heavens out there somewhere were bound to hear the awful noises coming from his voice. It was exasperated, something exhausting and relentless, as if this was a mantra he knew.
Chuuya’s screams didn’t let up as Kunikida’s vision yielded to black, the cries ingraining themselves into his psyche.
Kunikida came to, still seated on the bathroom floor, breaths coming uneven as he dropped the note to the floor. Devastation still clung to his mind, blood felt like it was still caked at the bottom of his shoes. He felt like he understood Chuuya better, still not absolved, still not entirely good- but he understood Dazai’s Chuuya more now.
He hesitantly picked out another note, praying he fell onto soft and overgrown yellow grass instead of a homage to war.
—-
‘Osamu,
Text me for the love of christ and let me know if I’m still going to acting school and running Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing. Won’t do this if you aren’t fully committed, might have some not so nice consequences.
Yours,
N.C’
—--
Kunikida was back to a third person point of view with an overtake of white light, his autonomy taken from him once again.
He recognized the place as the inside of Meursault prison, a place familiar and distant at the same time. The last place he wanted to be inside of right now, even as an outsider where nothing could get him.
“Stop fucking moving,” Chuuya barked, his voice holding exhaustion higher than any other emotion.
Dazai was sitting on the ground, his shoulder covered in blood, matching his face which was dripping with the red liquid. One of his legs was stretched out in front of him, the other bent sideways as Chuuya kneeled in front of him. He was working on the leg Dazai had broken while falling, attempting to apply a makeshift brace to the uncooperative patient.
Chuuya was hard at work, his body hunching over itself as he pulled on a piece of bandage tightly. He shook his head, dropping it to land in his own palm.
“This isn’t going to work,” Chuuya said, the tiredness creeping into his voice.
“It has to,” Dazai replied quickly, “We need to get out of here.”
“It won’t support your weight, you’re going to collapse or make the break worse.” Chuuya sighed, accepting defeat in the situation.
“No Chuuya, it has to work.” Dazai fought back, attempting to bend his broken leg only to stretch it back out after a sigh of pain left his lips.
“I’m telling you right now there’s no way I can make this function on your time schedule.” Chuuya replied, his voice strung out and tight.
“It has to,” Dazai said, suddenly breathless as if everything came back to him in a singular moment, “Chuuya it has to.”
Dazai put his head in his hands, the blood dripping from his head coating his long fingers. He abruptly looked up, straight into Chuuya’s eyes. Kunikida could see the floodgates open, a look of complete exhaustion taking over- bone deep and married to his soul, something that had always been there, something that decided this was it, now was the time.
Chuuya watched as it happened, the shift in his former partner’s personality- if Kunikida could even convince himself they were former partners. He shuffled back from Dazai and placed his hands on the floor, body glowing a bright red.
The security cameras in the room exploded with fury.
“Okay, Osamu,” Chuuya breathed, softer this time like he was approaching a wounded animal- because he was, “Okay, I’ll make this work, we’re getting out of here, I promise.”
It was laced with something fierce, something protective, and Chuuya Nakahara didn’t seem like a man to make promises.
Dazai put his head back in his hands as Chuuya continued to wrap up his leg, skilled hands working through what seemed like a practiced method. He watched as they stayed silent, opting to allow Chuuya to do what he was meant to and Dazai to silently break down while he did it.
When Dazai pulled his head from his hands, Chuuya had finished patching his leg. Blood was smeared against his forehead, staining his hands and clinging to his sweaty hair. He looked at Chuuya, his expression guarded and carefully crafted, but it caused Chuuya to sigh and shimmy closer to him.
Chuuya opened his arms and a heap of Dazai fell into them. His hands gripped the fabric of his partner’s jacket, pulling it tight with the heavy grip he had on it, as if he didn’t want to let the moment go and accept the long mind-fuck with Fyodor was truly over. Chuuya had a hand buried in Dazai’s hair, keeping his head securely against his shoulder, effectively blocking his face from Kunikida’s vantage point.
“I can’t believe that worked,” Chuuya whispered, something meant to be quietly shared between the two.
Kunikida understood it held a deeper meaning than the surface level analysis of the statement. It wasn’t about the plan, or Chuuya pretending to be a vampire, or even about a gunshot to the head- it was a confession about his own humanity.
“I can,” Dazai whispered in response, holding Chuuya impossibly tighter as the words slipped through his lips.
The entirety of Kunikida’s vision was assaulted by an all-consuming void as he returned to the bathroom floor.
Kunikida knew he was on borrowed time, that soon he would have to leave, worried for Dazai’s potential arrival and the consequences of the discovery he would make. He chose another note thinking it would be his last.
—--
‘Osamu,
Docks, east side, sunset, don’t keep me waiting.
-Chuuya’
—--
Kunikida’s vision fizzled out this time, it wasn’t harsh or assaulting, it was finally a soft transition.
He had autonomy again, flexing his pixelated hands in the memory and taking a seat on the dock, a bench away from where he recognized red hair illuminated by the setting sun. It was a beautiful night in Yokohama, the sun kissing the water and casting oranges, reds, even purples over the sky, backlighting the few clouds that hung in the atmosphere.
Footsteps alerted Kunikida to Dazai’s arrival to the memory, watching as he walked towards where Chuuya was sitting. Chuuya didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge his partner’s arrival, he sat in a comfortable silence. Dazai eventually sat next to him, the two a little closer than rivals- or possibly friends, partners, something in between, should be sitting.
Kunikida could see their shoulders touching, barely a ghost of contact as they stared into the water together. They didn’t speak, the waves lapping at the pilings below making the conversation for them.
It was different from the safehouse, the yellow grass, the reminiscent conversation shared through soft laughter and vulnerability. This version of them hadn’t reached that yet, they were still both clad in their Mafia attire, Dazai still had bandages over his eye, Chuuya’s hair was still short.
He could feel the words that were left unsaid, they hung in the air, hid between the wooden boards of the dock, crept around the reflections of light in the water.
Kunikida would have missed it if he wasn’t so invested in the moment in front of him. Dazai’s uncovered eye was in view of Kunikida, and he watched as a single tear drifted down his face, sitting on his jaw before dropping onto the black coat that swallowed his slender figure.
Chuuya lifted an arm to reach around and place on Dazai’s face, gently pushing his face into his shoulder. Dazai gladly went with the touch, allowing himself to be moved, allowing himself a moment of vulnerability. More tears fell from his uncovered eye yet he stayed silent, his breathing even, his gaze unmoving from the glittering sea.
A head came to rest atop of Dazai’s, Chuuya’s piercing mismatched eyes looking through Kunikida and out into the water behind him. From this angle, really looking into Chuuya’s eyes, Kunikida swore, only for a split second, he could see what Dazai saw in them. They were full of life, full of emotions and overflowing with genuine humanity- they had a lightness to them, not completely covered up in darkness.
Chuuya closed his eyes, a tear falling as his eyelids pushed it out. He sucked in a deep breath, exhaling steadily as he melted against his partner.
Kunikida understood now, watching the tension dissipate from Dazai’s body at the action, no doubt feeling the wetness falling into his hair.
The start of black edges crept into his vision, burning holes into the scene in front of him. Kunikida wanted to fight, he wanted to stay here, wanted to stay in the moments where Dazai was safe, where he allowed himself to be protected.
He couldn’t fight fate as the dim bathroom came back into view. Letting out a long sigh, he decided on one more note. No more, no going back- just the note folded neatly at the bottom of the box, untouched.
—--
‘Chuuya,
Do not come searching, it won’t end how you imagine. Stay put, you can’t follow me here. I am asking you, for the last time, to trust me on this.
Goodbye.
Yours,
Osamu’
—--
Kunikida was ungraciously tossed into a dark alleyway, a stark contrast from the inviting white light that lured him in. It was the only letter addressed to Chuuya, and Kunikida knew with full certainty it was never delivered.
Rain pelted down from every direction, unrelenting and vicious. Lightning struck in the distance, the crack running through his pixelated body.
A head of auburn hair, drenched from the downpour, emerged from the connecting alley. He was frantic, breath coming in uneven, hands shaking at his sides, legs unstable as he made his way towards a pile of abandoned boxes.
Kunikida stood to get a better view.
“You absolute dickhead,” Chuuya spit, directed at the mess of Dazai Osamu, who sat with knees to his chest and eyes blank behind the boxes.
Tainted was activated, tossing the debris out of the way so he could get a better view of his partner. Dazai’s hand reached out from inside his coat and wrapped around Chuuya’s ankle, No Longer Human fizzling out in a faint blue light.
“What is this shit?” Chuuya yelled, “You blow up my goddamn car, disappear from the Mafia, what the hell is going on?”
Even Kunikida knew he wasn’t going to get an answer.
Dazai curled further in on himself, eyes still blank and unmoving, looking through Chuuya instead of at him. He understood, the closer you get to someone the more potential you have to end up on the other side of them.
Chuuya didn’t let up, he continued to yell, scream, anything that could quell what he was feeling on the inside, and Dazai let him.
“I want Chuuya to leave.” Dazai replied, voice monotone, flat, desolate of humanity.
Chuuya wasn’t satisfied with the answer, continuing with his rampage. He yelled, bent down and got in Dazai’s face, even grabbing him by the collar and throwing him back against the brick wall with a shell of anger.
“So just like that, you’re throwing this all away to go what? Into hiding?” Chuuya screamed, his face red with anger, his emotions on his sleeve.
It wasn’t about Dazai leaving the Mafia, Kunikida came to quickly understand. This was something deeper, it was something tethered and unbreakable. Dazai wasn’t moving, he was a phantom, some parody of something considered human. He allowed Chuuya to toss around insults, feel how it felt to raise his voice and be angry about the course of events happening.
To Kunikida’s surprise, Chuuya stopped suddenly, in the middle of speaking, with no warning and bent down in front of Dazai.
For the first time since their encounter, Dazai raised his eyes to peer into Chuuya’s. They stayed like that for a while, staring at each other, communicating in a language of heartbeats and years of unwavering trust, a language Kunikida was simultaneously glad and angry he couldn’t understand.
The rain continued, the thunder rumbled underneath them, a lone car of a late-night worker whizzed by, but nothing moved them. The pair stood planted in place, considering the other, watching under a careful eye.
Chuuya opened his arms and pulled Dazai into them, falling back to cradle the man in his arms.
It was a stark contrast to the scene that had originally begun, Chuuya had relented his anger, swallowed it and instead reached out to hold Dazai, console him, and be the one who decided whatever was going to happen was not the end.
The cry that bubbled from Dazai’s throat was animalistic.
Kunikida had never seen Dazai cry, he hadn’t even seen him show a single genuine somber emotion since he’d known him. He didn’t even know if it was possible for Dazai to cry, especially in the arms of another person.
It didn’t seem real, the untouchable, invincible Dazai Osamu was breaking down in Chuuya’s arms, in an alleyway lit by distant billboards, rain descending from the heavens.
Kunikida sat unmoving as the cries continued, washed away by the monsoon, drowned out by the cracks of thunder. Chuuya kept a heavy hand on his back, the other in his hair as Dazai began to tremble, his legs giving out and ending in a heap of skin and bone, holding onto his partner like he was the single thing tethering him to earth.
Tears mixed with the rain, falling at a rapid speed down his cheeks, both eyes exposed- open and unforgiving. His mouth was open, breathing heavily against Chuuya’s chest as he attempted to catch his breath before ultimately failing.
Dazai’s grief was tangible, like it was something Kunikida could reach out and touch, an ever-consuming beast that was looming in the corner, latched onto him in a soul-tie.
Kunikida hadn’t known despair like this.
“I’m here,” Chuuya said, “I’m not leaving, you aren’t doing this alone.”
Chuuya was desperate, his attempts to comfort Dazai falling short, the beast in the corner, with open maw and shiny teeth ready to pounce at any moment. It wasn’t something for him to fix, it was something for him to quell, to wash away, to hold and console.
“I’m sorry,” Chuuya whispered, “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Because Chuuya knew the pain, it was a dear friend, a relative, a family member you see at holidays and do your best to forget about for the rest of the year. He was familiar with the circular staircase of grief, oftentimes finding himself winding up it for months at a time.
But Dazai, he had just entered. Charting unfamiliar territory, sucking air into his lungs as he processed the death of his friend and the betrayal of another.
Dazai turned his head, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes met Kunikida’s, full of agony, of torment, tears spilling over like he hadn’t known it was a thing his body could handle. Full body sobs continued to wrack his body, wet and weak in Chuuya’s grip as they stayed locked in eye contact, obviously never knowing Kunikida was truly standing there.
Instead of black creeping into his vision, an assault of blue overtook him as he was yanked from the memory.
Kunikida’s breath hitched, eyes full of tears as No Longer Human washed over him.