Chapter Text
Chuuya leant against the railing of the beautifully intricate balcony outside the equally as intricate and artfully designed dinning hall. His cigarette had burned down to the filter, but he made no move to ash it out. He’d light up another one when he could find the energy. He’d already smoked four and his throat felt dry and constricted.
For the first time in a long while there was no war left to fight, now Chuuya could finally put down his fists and rest; and wasn’t that a terrifying thing? He’d been fighting his entire life, what was he without that? Without a battle hiding around the corner, just waiting for Chuuya to find it. But wasn’t this what Chuuya had been fighting for? A peaceful Yokohama, the Port Mafia safe, it’s crew left bloody and bruised but alive. He should be happy, but he only felt a deep, ancient rage. He wanted to blame it on Arahabaki, but the beast was oddly quiet, and had been for quite some time.
Chuuya had spent much of his life blaming Arahabaki for the flaws in himself, but just how much of his darkness was Arahabaki and how much was just Nakahara Chuuya? Where did one end and the other begin? Chuuya had been a person once, but what was he now?
Chuuya turned his head to the side slightly when he heard footsteps approaching from behind him.
“Am I interrupting some-sort of deep reflective moment?” Dazai asked, unapologetic of his interruption.
Chuuya sneered. “Like that’d stop you from opening your big fucking mouth.”
Dazai laughed that infuriating laugh of his, the laugh that always made Chuuya want to punch him in the mouth. It was different now, more carefree, but still as smug as it always had been when they were kids.
“If Chuuya asked me to leave, I’d jump at the chance,” Dazai said.
Chuuya gestured to the open air. “Jump then, you waste of space.”
Dazai hummed thoughtfully. “I’ll hold off for the moment.”
Chuuya scoffed. Of course that suicidal idiot would turn his nose up at the idea of death the moment Chuuya asked it of him. It seemed to Chuuya that Dazai conserved his annoying suicidal fantasies for when it’d annoy him the most. Chuuya shouldn’t have been surprised, Dazai had never done anything he’d wanted before.
Dazai moved to stand beside Chuuya at the railing. Chuuya inched away from him, and lit up another cigarette after throwing his previous one over the balcony.
It couldn’t have been even five minutes before Chuuya cracked. He’d always been good at breaking things, silence included.
“What the fuck do you want?” He demanded hotly.
“It seems the Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency have finally reached a definite truce and partnership,” Dazai hummed. If he hummed again, Chuuya would hit him.
“Don’t remind me,” Chuuya said.
“I suppose Mori will want Double Black back into the field,” Dazai said mournfully, “I want to die beside a beautiful woman, but I think I’ll commit suicide in any way I can find if I have to work with Chuuya again.”
Chuuya felt a dull ache in his chest at that.
“Go fucking die then,” Chuuya snapped.
Dazai laughed. “Did I hurt your feelings?”
“You don’t have any fucking impact on my feelings, Mackerel.” Chuuya said, but the dull ache was still there and Chuuya feared that Dazai could see it. Dazai always had the annoying ability to see past all of Chuuya’s walls, to see flaws and cracks in him that Chuuya thought he should have seen in himself. It was Dazai’s eyes that Chuuya hated the most.
Dazai leant further across the railing to get a better look at Chuuya’s face. Chuuya turned his head to face the open sky again, refusing to meet Dazai’s gaze.
“I know all of your moves,” Dazai said, “all your hits and kicks, all your facial expressions. I know you, Slug. I know you inside and out. There’s nothing you can hide from me.”
Chuuya clenched his hands into fists, crushing the cigarette filter. Dazai was right, and how unfair was that? It wasn’t fair that Dazai knew him when Chuuya didn’t know that for himself. He didn’t know what he was, hours pouring through government files and he was no closer to understanding himself.
He was buzzed from his single glass of wine, and he was angry beyond belief.
“My name isn’t Nakahara Chuuya,” Chuuya said, belatedly realising that maybe he was drunker than he first thought, “those scientists’ took my name from me, gave me a number instead. And I took Nakahara Chuuya from a dead man. The first man I killed. Dead men don’t need names, so I took it for myself.”
Dazai stayed strangely and uncharacteristically quiet, so Chuuya’s drunk rambling continued.
“But that didn’t matter. No-one knew my name anyway. What was I instead? A street-rat. The King of Sheep.” Chuuya took another drag from his cigarette, titling his head back to exhale the smoke into the night sky.
“You took that from me soon enough, though,” Chuuya carried on, “I was a Mafia dog next thanks to you. Then everyone knew my name. And they knew your name, too. You and me, Double Black; seemed like we were two halves of the same thing.”
Chuuya took a deep breathe, still refusing to meet Dazai’s stare. Chuuya felt like he might die if he did.
“I fucking hated you. I hated you so much I thought I’d thought choke on it. I trusted you with the darkest part of me and every time I needed you to pull me back you were there, and I fucking hated you for that, too.”
Before he could stop himself, Chuuya turned his head to look at Dazai, just to find him looking back. Dazai’s eyes were narrowed in the way they always got when he was thinking something through.
Chuuya threw his cigarette over the balcony and was tempted to light up another one straight away. He wanted Dazai to laugh at him, be cruel and mock him; that would have been easier to handle than Dazai’s unblinking gaze. Chuuya wanted to punch him, just to be able to say he’d done it.
“I didn’t know Chuuya loved me,” Dazai said eventually.
Chuuya spluttered. “What the fuck?! When the fuck did I say that?! You’re brain-dead!”
“‘Two halves of the same thing’,” Dazai recited, and then he shrugged, “sounds like a love confession to me.”
“It wasn’t!” Chuuya screeched. He went to flail his arms in a poor drunken attempt to hit Dazai, but instead tripped over his own feet. Almost as if working in slow motion, Chuuya forced himself to come to terms with the fact that yes, Dazai would catch him simply to further his idiotic point and yes, it would work to infuriate Chuuya even more. Neither of them would be the adult in the situation, both of them would argue until it caught the attention of every Mafia and Agency member in the hall, Chuuya would storm away, and Dazai would laugh after him.
See? Chuuya thought indignantly, you’re not the only one who knows how this fucking thing goes, Mackerel.
Chuuya scrambled out of Dazai’s limp hold with a sneer and a glare. Dazai straightened his arms, smiling pleasantly back at Chuuya.
“You know,” Dazai began, interrupting Chuuya’s oncoming rant, “you would have said ‘no’ if I asked you to come with me when I left.”
All the air escaped Chuuya’s lungs so violently he almost choked. He felt outside of his body at that moment, like he was watching himself tremble in front of Dazai and could do nothing to stop it.
“You would have laughed if I begged; beat me if I threatened; killed me if I tried to force you.” Dazai turned his body to lean his back against the railing, eyes never leaving Chuuya’s face.
“Maybe I should have,” Dazai said absently, “begged you to come, I mean. I should’ve begged you to come with me that night and let you crucify me for it.”
“You’re drunk,” Chuuya snarled.
Dazai shrugged. “Maybe I just have nothing to lose.” He gestured to the wide open sky of Yokohama with his arm. “The city is safe for the moment, our two organisations are at peace, and you’re here, like you always have been, and always will be. You’re a constant, Chuuya. Perhaps the only constant in my life, whether I liked it or not. There are moments where you are the least unfamiliar thing in this entire city.”
He was drunk, Chuuya confirmed inwardly. Dazai’s words were verging on rambling, his speech a little slurred. No-one else would have been able to pick it, but Chuuya could tell.
“I hated you, too,” Dazai said.
“Then why are you here?” Chuuya asked, exhaustion finally creeping into his bones.
“You would have said ‘no’ if I asked you to come with me when I left,” Dazai repeated.
He was looking for a confirmation or a denial. Chuuya didn’t know if he could give him either.
“Fuck you,” Chuuya said in lieu of any answer Dazai was looking for, “fuck you, Mackerel. I’m a fucking person, not some abstract idea that lives as a walking-talking comparison of what your life used to be like. Who fucking cares what I would have said, like it fucking matters anymore. You left. I stayed. End of fucking story.”
Dazai’s following look made Chuuya’s stomach churn with anger. Was that pity in Dazai’s eyes? Fuck him.
“I was fine,” Chuuya snarled, “you left and I was fucking fine. I didn’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”
“We both know that’s not true,” Dazai said softly, “you’re too human for that to be true. Maybe not needed, but you wanted. You wanted someone there, for you. I never understood that, because I wasn’t human, not like you were. I was void of everything that made you so... colourful. Now, years too late, I regret—“
“Stop,” Chuuya croaked, shocked at how desperate he sounded, “fucking stop. That’s— you can’t just— Fuck you, Dazai, fuck you. I don’t give a fuck about your regrets. They’re yours, not mine, so don’t dump them on me.”
Dazai laughed, loud and bright and breathless. “I am drunk! Uh, look at that, the little hat-rack was right about something!”
Chuuya’s following glare did nothing to stop Dazai’s laughter, the sound so unfamiliar to Chuuya that it made his skin crawl. Had he ever laughed like that around Chuuya when they’d been kids? Had Chuuya ever laughed like that around him?
“You never change, Slug,” Dazai said, “still the spitfire who kicked me to the ground when we were fifteen.”
Dazai turned around to grip the railing, hauling himself up to stand on top of it, grin still stuck on his face. He straightened his back and stretched his arms out, body lazily confident in its balancing despite the dangerous drop beneath him. He turned carefully on the railing to face Chuuya.
Out of instinct, Chuuya darted closer to grip the front of Dazai’s dress shirt with a clenched fist. Dazai’s legs wobbled and he laughed again.
“I used to tell Odasaku about you,” he said, “I used to tell him how ugly you were, how much your personality annoyed me, how horrible your fashion-sense was. I think he saw through me, though. He always did. He was always a better man than me, but he never lorded that over me; how so very grateful I was for that. Do you know, Chuuya, I think you really should push me now.”
Chuuya let go of Dazai’s shirt. “You’ve gone soft,” he scowled.
“I got better,” said Dazai softly; strangely, more to himself than to Chuuya.
“Lucky you,” Chuuya snorted.
Yeah, thought Chuuya bitterly, lucky Dazai, who could survive without the Port Mafia, who was damaged but not so monstrous that he couldn’t reassemble himself into some shape of a human that could heal and grow and be more than what somebody else had turned him into.
“I’m waiting, Chuuya,” Dazai said, “come on, Slug, push me.”
Dazai, who was still as manipulative as he’d been when they were Double Black. If he pushed, Dazai would finally get what he’d always wanted, and where did that leave Chuuya? If he didn’t push, it would prove Dazai’s point, and Chuuya didn’t know what he’d do in the face of that.
Chuuya pulled himself up on the railing, his balance perfect despite not activating For the Tainted Sorrow.
“What are you doing, Slug?” Dazai asked when Chuuya stood firmly on the railing facing him.
“Thought you knew all the answers,” Chuuya mocked.
Dazai smiled slightly. “You’ve been known to surprise me at times.”
Chuuya barked out a rough laugh. “I think that’s the nicest fucking thing you’ve ever said to me.”
”Well,” Dazai sniffed, “don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mackerel.”
Dazai stared at Chuuya for a moment. Then, to Chuuya’s surprise, Dazai began to climb down from the railing.
“I think I’ll pass on the nosedive for the night,” Dazai said. He was standing below Chuuya on the hard stone of the balcony.
“In other words,” Chuuya said as if he were fifteen again, “the suicidal maniac wants to live.”
Dazai smiled. “I’ve come to think it’s worth trying.”
A long time ago, a dying man had once told Chuuya that he was human, but Chuuya hadn’t believed him; he hadn’t been big in believing in people back then. Maybe he did now.
What made a human?
The pride Chuuya felt when he thought about his family at the Port Mafia; the grief he felt when he remembered Rimbaud; the way Dazai’s new dimpled smile made his chest ache with a feeling Chuuya thought that he could probably learn to live with.
Chuuya jumped down from the railing, landing gracefully in front of Dazai.
“I didn’t know you loved me,” he said smugly.
Dazai gaped at him.
“You’ve been known to surprise me at times’”, Chuuya recited, and then he shrugged, “sounds like a love confession to me.”
“Don’t be clever, Slug,” Dazai scolded, “it doesn’t suit you.”
Chuuya scoffed, but he didn’t say anything. He wanted to ask Dazai if he had meant what he’d said before, about having wanted to leave the Port Mafia together with him that night. He wanted to ask Dazai if he would have really begged. He wanted to ask Dazai what it was that he regretted. But Chuuya couldn’t do that, there were so many reasons why he couldn’t. He didn’t have it in him to open those doors, maybe he never would.
That was fine, Chuuya thought, obsessing over the past had never done him any favours before. The last time had ended with a knife in Chuuya’s gut.
The night would end eventually and a new age of peace for Yokohama would rise with the sun. A new Chuuya, too, maybe, if that’s what he wanted. If Dazai could do it, why couldn’t he?
He would never be a good guy, but maybe he could make himself into someone that didn’t keep him up at night.
Inside, Chuuya could see the two organisations drinking and dancing the night away, a few arguments here and there, but that was to be expected. Kajii was doing his best to avoid the Agency doctor, while Kenji seemed to be trying to track Akutagawa down to ask the older boy a thousand-and-one questions about Rashōmon. Atsushi was laughing at Akutagawa, who was standing off to the side with a panicked and overwhelmed look on his face. Higuchi was working up the courage to ask Gin to dance, while Ane-san sipped her wine and watched everyone with a calculating and curious gaze.
“Dance with me, hat-track,” Dazai said.
Chuuya grinned. “Not on your life, bandage-for-brains.”
“You’re so mean,” Dazai cried teasingly.
“Fuck off then,” Chuuya said, “I’m staying here for some peace and quiet. No-one asked you to come out and annoy me.”
”But I do it so well,” Dazai said.
Chuuya walked back to lean against the railing again, the hard metal of it digging into his lower-back. Dazai did the same, and this time Chuuya didn’t move away.
Dazai’s index and middle fingers were cold when he slid them under Chuuya’s glove to rest them lightly on his naked palm. Chuuya shivered at the sensation, but didn’t move to shrug off the touch.
“Ask me now,” Chuuya said after a long while. He didn’t need to elaborate, Dazai knew exactly what he meant.
“Begging and all?” Dazai asked.
Chuuya smiled. Dazai opened his mouth and began to speak.