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As the Armed Detective Agency and their allies finally managed to take down Fukuchi and the rest of the Decay of Angels, they were left to deal with the aftermath. Most would have expected destruction, chaos and losses all around, but it seemed like life decided to finally shine a bright light over Yokohama and its inhabitants. The unusual quietness was putting all ability users on edge. Normally, one would expect things to settle down naturally after the war ended.
But what about the ones who never understood normality to begin with? What about the ones who faced life’s capricious whims time and time again, to the point of being incapable of trusting its sudden light? What can one do in such a predicament? Where do the stray dogs go when their owners welcome them back home, after ruthlessly driving them away in the first place?
Of course everyone is wary: detectives, mafiosos and certain government workers. Each email is opened with unprecedented apprehension, each light stroll through the city plagued by the manic drive to oversee and understand all. Everything that seemed so normal and complementary to their daily routine suddenly lost its familiarity, turning into the roots of some type of plaguing weeds, in their minds.
The worst of the gist was that the Agency president declared two weeks of rest mandatory, after the takedown of Dostoievsky. Dazai Osamu is no exception to this particular order, leading him to be even more on edge than usual. Without the time he spent annoying Kunikida and lazily solving cases he was left to dwell in the emptiness of his apartment. It felt an unpleasant lot like his cell back in Meursault. Blank walls and dusty floors, a kitchen island completed by an empty fridge and a lonely, old futon. A house completely devoid of anything that could turn it into a home. He couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not. He seemed to have that effect without meaning to. What he could do was to inhabit an already existing space, or to cling unto others to the point of feeling himself merge with them. He scrambles to take in their very essence hostage, to lock them beneath his ribs, in the place where a gaping hole resides.
The only splash of personality is his library, which is filled to the brim and cared for attentively. Not gently, mind you, and most of all, never to be considered dear. To hold something with fondness is dangerous for people like himself, because it always leads to losing it to his own destructive nature, or to losing it to others. It’s much easier to act as if it doesn’t matter to him, the things he owns and cares for, the things he wishes for, the way people talk to him, the way he’s seen by others. The very thought of allowing himself to be as vulnerable as to allow himself to enjoy something, even in the privacy of his own home, was mind numbing to him.
After all, everything he finds worth desiring is lost the moment he obtains it. There is nothing worth pursuing at the cost of prolonging a life of suffering.
Therefore, instead of wallowing in his self-pity, he decided to try being productive for once. He took the time to oversee his colleagues and how well they were faring after the end of the conflict. He suspected many of them were just as restless as he was, if not even more so.
Even after the two weeks of rest were up, Dazai was still unsure as to how to proceed. He simply checked in on the other Agency members, dialing up his clowning to a maximum in hopes to distract them from the still lingering anxiety plaguing their thoughts, (to distract himself too, maybe). It felt like that was the only way he’d ever be able to help or comfort them. To make things clear, he wasn’t doing this because he was a good person, but because he was also benefiting from making a fool of himself. Still, Dazai was a selfish man, a greedy man that took and took and pried things open just because of his need to understand others.
Such is how he found himself prying smiles, giggles and fond, if slightly exasperated, glances from Atsushi, Kyouka and Kunikida, even if the latter was doing his hardest in hiding them. Slowly, their happiness becomes genuine once more and part of his job is over. He performs his intricate acts daily in the office, for whomever is in need of a good time to see. It gives him a sense of purpose, as lackluster as it is.
Is he really a better man? Regardless of how much he bends himself over backwards to put on his show, regardless of how natural smiling and laughing have become now, they still feel foreign to him. Smiling is an intricate baring of teeth and a painful stretch of his cheeks, and his own laughter sounds like an unusual and bizarre sound, rattling his vocal chords and leaving him breathless. It is as close to humanity as he’s going to get. At this point, his body knows what to do to make himself appear humane, even though his mind is far from it. It’s in its own way a frightening experience - he finds himself doing all these things, without really understanding them.
It feels more natural nowadays, but it still catches him off-guard sometimes. Just like it did now.
He never intended it to happen, but seeing Chuuya after what felt like an eternity made a weird, sacchrine smile strech on his face. The short mafioso looked as stupid as ever with frown etched on his face as he surveyed the coffee menu of the Uzumaki cafe. He looked out of place in here, and Dazai reveled in the fact.
He’s dressed casually, clearly on a day off, but he couldn’t understand for the life of him why would he choose to come here, so near the Agency when he could be out enjoying one of his expensive hobbies, like wine-tasting. The Port Mafia’s alliance with the Armed Detective Agency was no secret, but that didn’t exactly mean their members were friendly with each other. He tries to muster up some insult to piss him off with, but he comes up empty for once.
He’s still too preoccupied by what Chuuya’s presence here entails. Just as he makes up his mind about interrogating him, Kyouka enters the cafe all but dragging Atsushi with her.
“Good morning, Chuuya-san” says the girl respectfully, as her companion finds his balance once more. “You too, Dazai-san” adds Atsushi, having noticed him. All the staring he’s been doing up until this point, suddenly feels slightly pathetic, so he decides to deflect by addressing his partner instead: “What brings you here, in our esteemed cafe, Slug?”
Instead, Chuuya merely scowls his way, as he turns his attention back to his proteges. They talk a little bit, about what they’ve been up to the past few days, how Kyouka’s pot of geraniums is faring in the summer heat. He’s surprised to be hearing such a mundane topic being discussed between the three of them. However, things become even weirder when, after everyone’s finished their drinks or desserts, they collectively get up from the table. He barely even registered sitting down at the table, ordering and now rising to their feet again. The decision to stroll through the park while eating crepes has already been made, without a drop of input from him.
As unusual as this situation was to him, he couldn’t help but take in the content smile on Kyouka’s face, her eyes lighting up, so full of innocence, finally fit for her age. He was drinking in Chuuya’s unguarded laugh as Atsushi messed up his white shirt in an attempt to devour as much of the crepe in one go. Still, he was smiling, and his heart was beating in an unfamiliar rhythm, regardless of how much he was willing it to remain still. For once in a long time, he couldn’t control its steady beat.
“Since when are you lot so chummy?” It was an endearing if bizarre sight to behold, the mafioso hanging out with the two young detectives. Dazai tried his hardest to imprint the image of them in the back of his mind.
“Not everything revolves around you, asshole.” Chuuya simply shoots his way. The dismissal is clear in his voice, as if Dazai is no more than a speck of dust on the floor. ‘What an interesting development’ he thinks to himself. He decides to accompany them to the park. He listens intently to what everybody has to share, finding himself unable to utter a single word in response.
Because they look and sound so happy. It’s the kind of joy he wishes he could take for himself, but he can’t, so he’ll settle by attentively studying them, as he would under a microscope. Their delight with the world, and lack of reluctance regarding letting go of the past and living fully roots him to the ground he’s standing on. This peacefulness he wants to protect, but knows that mingling too much with them would only lead to damaging it.
He wants to will the three of them, Chuuya, Atsushi and Kyouka, into living wonderful lives from now on, to enjoying moments as bright as this one on the daily. He wishes it to the point he physically aches with it. He never would have expected to have such a sudden reaction to watching them, but he can’t help himself from basking in their joy. It’s as warm as the sun seeping into his bones. He wonders if he’s already jinxed it, just by wanting them to live on peacefully, but he knows he wouldn’t. Not this. It would be likely only if he acted upon his wish, if he’d try to live off of their glowing light, like the leech he was.
He was strangely content with his decision, as he looked at his ex-partner.
At this point, all he can do is merely watch Chuuya from afar, never getting the slightest bit closer. An insult here, a nickname there, all tied up with their light bickering is enough for him. It’s as close as he’ll allow himself to get. There is no point in longing for a place in Chuuya’s life anymore. He’s messed it up as much as it is anyway. Because looking at his peaceful expression nowadays, when he believes there is no one to notice it, he wishes it would never leave his face again.
Doesn’t Chuuya deserve a beautiful and peaceful life? He’s been through so much, hasn’t he? He’s faced hardships and grief time and time over, and yet he’s just as humane and fiery as he’s been the first time they’ve met. Dazai’s caused only misfortunes for him, ever since they were fifteen, and now was the time to make amends. He wouldn’t try to get close to him again, no, he would distance himself and fully let Chuuya live. If Chuuya were a flower, Dazai would certainly be a weed that needs cutting down immediately, for the other to grow and bloom. And with how mesmerizing and humane Chuuya is, how could he say no? He’s just pulling off the vine that kept him from being able to finally exist outside of Arahabaki, outside of Sukouku and outside of the Port Mafia. Chuuya could finally be free.
The thing is though, Dazai knows this grand scheme of his is a simple distraction from the fact that the only one suffering in this ordeal is himself. He isn’t saving anyone, not Chuuya, not himself. His partner has always existed outside of their duo. They wouldn’t have survived otherwise. The only weeds around are the ones steadily growing in his mind, so as not to take over other gardens, he has to raze it down.
Double Black - not opposites but the exact same. Two lonely souls of tar black that fed off of each other’s sorrows. Neither ever feeling truly human, except when next to each other. They were two diamonds polishing each other, as Mori put it. However, one of them was corrupted at its core, and the more they graced each other, the more the broken one was damaging the other. So Dazai would extricate himself flawlessly from Chuuya’s life, as to not damage him further. He would only glimpse from afar (not stalkerish in the slightest) and resign himself to falling deeper and deeper in love with him as their distance grows.
It was strange, finally putting a name on the sensation that’s plagued him for over eight years. It was fine, though, because only he would know. He needn’t bother Chuuya with such trivial matters.
He hears from the Agency things about him from time to time: Kenji went out to eat together and ‘he was so amazing and cool’, and Atsushi and Kyouka happened to meet him in a bakery. They chatted amicably and Chuuya paid for their sweet rolls. ‘Ever the gentleman, the slug’ he absentmindedly thought to himself.
He was happy and things were settling down. Yokohama’s skies were getting brighter in a way things hadn’t been for a long time. Chuuya went out weekly for drinks with Yosano (Who would have thought they’d become drinking buddies?) and apparently started dating someone. The alliance between the Armed Detective Agency and The Port Mafia was leading to more and more people hanging out casually and making friends. Bridges were rebuilt: Kyouka finally accepted Kyouyou into her life, and Akutagawa and Atsushi started getting along in some way. They were still at each other’s throats weekly, but now a camaraderie wound its way between them, just as he’d expected.
It should have been perfect, it should have been glorious and sweet like honey, but it all felt bittersweet, like oversteeped tea or bitter coffee. Every single feeling of his could be broken down into tiny smithereens of other small and exhaustingly dull emotions, which led things to feeling underwhelming. Just like how you’d break down coffee into hot water and some roasted beans. Things felt plain, and almost too straightforward for him. The problem was, actually, that he didn’t feel much of anything at all.
Every drop of happiness he felt was poisoned by a persistent seed of longing and lack of accomplishment.
Now he had neither happiness nor unhappiness. Everything passed. That was the one and only thing that he thought resembled a truth in the world in which he’d dwelled in, as one would in a burning hell. Everything passes.
Sometimes, he wishes he were a normal person that could deal with their emotions without them being feeling like too much or too little. But that was what life always was - too apathetic and too intense at the same time. There’s days when he believes the shadows that have been attached to his back ever since he was born are receding. He can almost feel them slip their claws off of him – he can almost feel content. Those are the times when he feels the sunlight seeping deep into his bones, no longer reflecting off his form, like a dull mirror. That’s when he’ll feel confident enough to delude himself into aspiring to impossible standards. All things regarding Chuuya blended in this category perfectly.
He could never truly understand what it was that he felt towards his partner, too much perhaps. It used to confuse him greatly. It still does, in a way. Such was the sensation he felt the day he met him – that made him want to live, or at least try to. As he mused over memories from a time long-forgotten he felt the muscles in his face contract into the sorts of expressions he usually tried to replicate manually. His insides felt like molten honey as he basked in the glorious light of the sun, remembering the first time he’s ever felt it graze his skin. And what a painful thing it was – he was bruised all over after that unexpected kick. He could swear he’d never willingly associate pain with pleasure, but that exact moment felt like a perfect antithesis – the blooming pain in his body, the rush of adrenaline and the beating of his heart.
Above, just like a mortal god stood an arrogant fifteen year old boy, starring down at him, his eyes burning with blue fire. He entertained the idea of dying by his hand then and there. He wouldn’t have minded it, but something spurred him into action. Soon, he’d categorized it as profound fascination. Years later, he’d call it love. He’s never felt more alive than in his presence.
He willed himself back to reality with a disturbed shudder. “Getting all sappy over a Slug?” how disgusting of me. It mixed weirdly in his gut with the swirl of admiration and shame. He finds himself wishing he could go back to being too numb to feel everything. Shame was the strongest, though. He ought to at least be happy for the others, if he couldn’t be happy for himself. Why was he so crooked, so shattered, so inhuman? Why couldn’t he feel happy?
What was he living for now? What was the purpose of breathing anymore? He’d played his role in defeating Dostoyevski.
Perhaps he ought to be making amends.
Afterall, he couldn’t be a good man if he was dead.
Can he live for that, though? In a way, he did, up until this point – so why throw in the towel now?
There’s things he should set straight before dying, anyway, it would only be troubling for the others if he died now. He should decide what to do about Akutagawa – he’d tried his best at the time, but it wasn’t what the boy needed, wasn’t it? Sure, he’s strong enough to survive the Mafia and pretty much anything else, and he doesn’t want to die – he’s got a reason for living, as messed up as it was. Dazai still thinks he did well enough, in a way – no one could touch him, but didn’t he do exactly what Mori did to him? Dazai was untouchable too, in way, and yet he hated him mentor.
Dazai conditioned Akutagawa into seeking his approval. At the end of the day, Akutagawa resented him too, but was too tightly chained to him to admit it.
It was a weird limbo, between not caring what the younger boy thought, and feeling disgusted with himself. He did feel shame about it, not because of how he treated Akutagawa, even if he acknowledges the wrongness of it, but because he behaved in a similar manner to Mori. The realization sent a nauseating chill creep up his spine and clouded his mind with dizziness. He wishes he could scream until his vocal chords stopped working, he wishes he could break something, watch it shatter into tiny smithereens.
Instead, he must keep spinning aimlessly in his office chair, twirl his pen as if deep in thought and quietly hum a song. His colleagues, his friends, go about their jobs without a care. They smile, they laugh (But what are they laughing about? Should I be laughing too?), they write down boring reports, skim through the Agency’s waiting list in search for a case. Outside of his own mind, the world is beautiful, filled to the brim with warmth and light and gentleness.
Dazai feels unbearably cold. He cannot see anything other than the blackness in front of his eyes.
Yet, there's a certain comfort to it. One day, it will all end.
Everything passes.