soukoku.
note: angst. unhealthy coping mechanisms. suicidal ideation. suicide attempts.

They were Double Black.

The most infamous duo in Yokohama, the harbingers of destruction and utter havoc, one soul in two bodies.

Well. That was once upon a time.

They had been Double Black.

He had planned everything out.
Fight alongside Chuuya. Win against Lovecraft. Get that annoying little shortstack out of Corruption.

So why didn't it work?

Why did he have to get knocked out before he could reach Chuuya? Why couldn't he just try to get up again? But... the most important question was,

Why did he cry over his lifeless body?

"Chuuya..."

"Chuuya, wake up..."

"Come on you stupid hatrack! Stop playing dead, that's my job! Please-"

"Wake up!"

He didn't wake up.

He didn't know when he stopped screaming, after seconds, minutes, hours, centuries, he didn't know because his throat was raw and his body tired and his mind addled with despair-

-let me die-

-and then he remembered. He remembered everyone Chuuya had held dear to his heart like a promise (he was sure he wasn't one of them, hadn't been since he left the Port Mafia without a word, maybe even since they'd met), everyone who cared about him in return and saw him as someone important.

kouyou yumeno akutagawa mori tachihara gin hirotsu kaiji higuchi kouyou kouyou kouyou-

He'd have to go to her, eventually.

So with a lifeless redhead scooped up into his arms, looking even frailer in the cold, cold moonlight, blue eyes closed and hat on his chest, his weak, pained legs carried him to Kouyou's traditional japanese house (how long had he walked, he wondered), and laid him down gently beside the koi pond.

Dazai's hands, blood-stained and shaking, moved on their own as he ripped off a piece of his coat and sunk it into the dark water, then pulled Chuuya's head into his lap to softly wipe away smears of red from his nose, eyes, neck, his lips, chapped and, yet again, soft.

He wiped away every remnant so it'd be at least a bit easier for her to look at him.

When he was done, he smoothed out his sunset hair, crossed his arms over his chest with the strip of cloth tucked inbetween, his fedora resting above all. When he was done, he picked him up, walked to the front stoop, placed him there, looking like he was fast asleep.

Dazai knocked swiftly and vanished in the shadows without a trace, the only thing left being his tears on Chuuya's features.

He still heard Kouyou's scream echoing in his head when he came home.

The Armed Detectives attended his funeral, too, watching Chuuya in his sleek white coffin, clad in an elegant black suit, a halo of red camellias around his head and his hair tied into a braid with the strip from his coat.

Dazai was watching the elegy from a distance, wondering how he still had any tears left to cry.

When everyone had left, he was the only one who stayed.

The third phone call to Kouyou worked.

"Ane-san, I'm-"

"Don't. I know, Dazai. I know."

He got back to the Agency the day after and worked and worked and worked, until his wrists hurt, his eyes got bleary, and his heart heavy.

Kunikida shot him glances filled with worry the whole time.

One bottle of sake got two a day, then three.

Dazai just wanted to drown in it and die already.

His insomnia only got worse, too.

He got to work early and left late.

That was, if he left and didn't fall asleep in his office chair.

His home was scattered with books and clothes and empty pill bottles, dried flowers and stacks of records and half-burned candles, jars of pens and broken inkpots and shards of his soul.

He stayed up late, and he didn't know if it was his lack of sleep or the alcohol in his veins that caused him to see a certain redhead every night.

God, Chuuya was always awfully on time, even when he'd been still alive, and only visited him at 2 AM, no matter where Dazai was.

In his bedroom, out in the sparkling neon-coloured, rainy city, the office. No matter where, Chuuya followed him.

Tonight was no exception.

Sitting on the other end of a lonely bench in an even lonelier park, a broken brunette detective held a drained bottle with a limp grasp, tears at the corners of his eyes.

Tears that started to flow when Chuuya spoke, and his voice, his eyes, his whole body were so vibrant, so lively, that Dazai couldn't resist to forget that he was just a reflection of his memories.

"What are you trying to do, shitty mackerel?", he asked, leaning his head back and laughing amusedly. "Drinking 'til you get alcohol poisoning?"

"You still know me best, you midget."

"I wish I didn't, you idiot."

"Are you sure?"

Silence.

Then a quiet, "Who knows."

He texted Atsushi the next night.

atsushi?

dazai, it's late. why are you still awake?

oh, i miss him, atsushi. i've missed him ever since but didn't know and now it hurts.

do you wish you had said some things before he left?

...yeah.

and what?

i'm sorry for leaving.

i'm sorry.

i don't hate you.

i never did.

"What is it now, Dazai? Cutting your wrists until you bleed out?"

Chuuya, sitting on the windowsill of the detective's bedroom. Chuuya, framed by moonlight. Chuuya, here.

And Dazai, lying on his bed, waiting for... what, exactly? It wasn't just death, he knew that. So what was it? Why did he want to go so bad, even more since-

"Looks like you wanna get to me real fast", Chuuya answered, finishing his thoughts for him.

Oh, he'd always done that. Always always always, and he'd always been right, so right it hurt.

And, despite that, instead of accepting what he felt, he kept denying it, and that... that would be his demise one day.

"What makes you think that, chibikko?"

"Isn't it the truth?"

It had been six months and Dazai was lying on the ground bursting with flowers, right in front of Chuuya's grave.

It had been six long, fucking months, and Dazai kept falling.

Then, the sweet, quiet rustling of leaves indicated his arrival. The redhead lied down at his side, hat resting on his chest and a sigh leaving him, lit cigarette between his lips.

“...hey, Dazai.“

“Hi, Chuuya.“

The soft breeze carrying the scent of violets and forget-me-nots the gardener had planted on the brunette's request, alongside red and white and yellow camellias that bloomed in his heart and would never wither away.

Just like his love.

“Do you regret it?“, Chuuya asked suddenly, out of the blue.

Dazai turned his head to him, bandaged hands interlaced on his chest. “Regret what?“

“Loving me.“

Now, did he regret meeting the only person who made him feel alive and on fire? Made him feel electric and like his blood was singing and his nerves igniting?

No.

No, he didn't.

For once in his pointless days, Dazai Osamu didn't regret living.

“Ah, Chuuya.... I don't. Because, you see, I wouldn't have it any other way. Everything that happened since you left... I wouldn't want it any different.“

this one's for my bae rainboom004
man i rly hope u won't need too many tissues -