[There's a lot between them that can be conveyed without words. Chuuya knows in a way that Dazai needs this to ground himself, to settle himself in the present moment. And maybe just a little, Chuuya needs it too. To reassure himself, even if he'd rather die than admit it.
Dazai isn't allowed to leave him. Not here. He'll drag him back kicking and screaming every time, because Chuuya's not sure how he'll handle being alone again, with only Fyodor and Gogol as familiar faces.
He squeezes Dazai's hand back in response, inclining his head in an acknowledgement.] Yeah. You wanna stand or stay here?
[His hand lingers a few seconds longer in Dazai's hair as if reluctant to leave, before departing to reach to his pocket to pull out his smokes and light.] Y'know, stealing 'em doesn't change the taste none.
(determination and restraint are what get him away from the other's skin, as if leaving a comfort zone he doesn't quite feel like moving from. the hand stays with chuuya's own, a gentle run of his thumb against the back of it so chuuya knows not to worry.
long, long legs stand, and redoing the bandages would take too long, so he'll just take his coat, leaving the hand so that he can put it on to cover the wounds and scars before they're back joined.
hardly does it matter if dazai leaves. like a curse, they'll be back together, it seems. it's been that way since forever, at this point.)
[Chuuya pulls himself to his feet as well, and though the handholding is probably not necessary at this point, neither of them seem ready to let go beyond the brief moment for Dazai to tug on his coat. His fingers curl around Dazai's palm the moment he's back in his grasp almost instinctively, as if wanting to tether the other man to himself for a few moments more.
When they reach the window, Chuuya taps out two cigarettes, one for each of them, and sets the pack on the windowsill in easy reach. He tucks his own unlit stick into his mouth before he holds out the lighter to Dazai first, offering him a light.
Dazai might think it doesn't matter if he leaves, but it matters to Chuuya. As wild of spirit as Chuuya is, There's a core part of him that needs the familiar in his life, trusted people and a place to belong to.
He wouldn't handle it well, if Dazai up and disappeared without a trace again.]
(it's just one of these things that make them hate each other so much. two stupid souls in two stupid bodies that are pretty much just one. they don't need to talk, they don't need to tell the other what they need, and neither of them will accept saying it out loud. it's awful, to have a shared mind, where your vulnerabilities are so clear for the other to see, almost tangible.
it's also so wonderful it's disgusting. today can just go on the pile of things they will pretend never happened, with all this unwillingness from both of them to depart from where they find safe, if they can openly say that to themselves at the end of the day.
cigarette, mouth, fire, a drag, the wash of nicotine as grounding as the hand he holds, and presses a kiss to. another quiet apology, this time not for the reluctance and avoidance, nor for the deal that could crumble without him.
perhaps for simply not saying anything before he left, perhaps for leaving altogether. who knows, dazai doesn't. he's apologizing for something.)
[Chuuya's sure someone more fanciful than he was would say that looking at a mirror of yourself was never a pleasant experience. But Dazai wasn't a mirror, he was a person... and so was Chuuya.
It meant they worked together almost seamlessly, it meant they could understand the turmoil that clawed beneath each other's skin. But neither of them enjoyed being seen so completely: the good points, the dark and twisted, the deepest, most painful vulnerabilities that could leave them snarling like an injured animal in a leg trap if brought into the daylight.
Today was yet another one of those moments. Dazai was mourning, likely had never stopped mourning, and grief refreshed and dragged into the light was the bitterest of poisons. While Chuuya had been scared, for the briefest of moments, that Dazai had left him alone in this new world.
The things loss did to a man, eh?
When Dazai lights his cigarette, Chuuya isn't expecting the warm press of lips to his hand, and his fingers twitch, his grip on Dazai's hand squeezing just a little tighter in response, some of the tension in his shoulders seeming to fall away.
He sees the gesture for what it is. He's surprised that it's given at all... and yet, maybe he shouldn't be.]
Dazai... Tell me about Oda?
[Maybe, just maybe, he wants to know about this man who made Dazai try like this.]
(there are things their connection can't explain. things they've seen, things they've done. being seen, not necessarily heard, and that leaves gaps that it won't fill. dazai'd elected not to talk about oda to chuuya, respect rather than sharing his feelings on the matters at hand - but then he asks, and dazai's eyebrows raise a little.)
Odasaku... People thought he was weak, you know, due to him not taking lives. It's the opposite. He was incredibly powerful, a one-man organization. Truth was... He wanted to write novels. He thought he couldn't write about people while being like that, so he stopped. He was... Kind. He wasn't like me, he said what he meant, and meant what he said.
(there's a little bit of a laugh, one nostalgic, one that misses.)
After Dragon's Head, he took in five orphans. He was... A great father figure to them. When they were killed, he lost it. I asked him not to go, but he went either way... And he died in my arms... His last words... Were that I would never be better, not really, but if I tried to be a better person, my life'd be a little more wonderful.
(and he was right. his hand is a bit shaky against chuuya's, but he squeezes it in an attempt to stop it from trembling.)
When I saw the jacket, I thought he might have been here, so I looked, the blood was still fresh. I didn't find anything.
[He remembers Oda. Not in any personal way-- Chuuya's jobs often required maximum fire power, his work most often than not with the black lizard or similarly aggressive squads. A man like Oda and Chuuya just didn't end up in the same circles in the Mafia, and it certainly begs the question how Dazai met him.
But the picture Dazai paints is a vivid one. A man with power he didn't want to use, who wanted a mundane dream, the kind that seemed outrageous to those who grew up like they had, having to kill or be killed all their lives. He remembers Dragonhead, too. Oda lingering in the danger zones.
Saving what little life he could in that bloodbath... it was admirable, in many ways. It was also risky, for a single man in the mafia to raise a bunch of children himself.
A life that's just a little more wonderful, huh....? It's long been apparent to Chuuya that there's no fixing Dazai, that his struggles weren't something you could just cure. But he can no longer deny that there's... something different about him, since they reunited in that basement dungeon.
He's put in effort for things Dazai might never have put in effort for before. There's something in his eyes that wasn't there before. It says too much, to someone who knew Dazai like Chuuya did.
(He'd resented it, denied it.)
He squeezes Dazai's trembling hand in his, thumb brushing along the bare skin at the back of his hand in soothing motions.
Grief refreshed. Hope destroyed as quickly as it sprouted, heart flying high on wax wings before the plummet to the ground. It was a painful, terrifying feeling. It's really not at all surprising that Dazai would run.]
(there truly isn't any fixing, there's taping, bandaiding, stitching, and hoping it holds for as long as it can before it has to be done again. darkness screams and quiets, but it's always there, his loneliness never fully leaving, but the sheer thought that maybe it could makes his feet move forward instead of sinking in place.
all this is complicated. even talking to chuuya is complicated, it's something that ever so rarely occurs, if at all. it's been four years, and now that chuuya can hear all this, he is, and dazai doesn't feel proud of it. while dazai can't say it, can't express it any better than the other, he cares about chuuya more than he should. leaving him in the dark, and leaving, after he put chuuya through tragedy itself feels like something.
something he likes to ignore. he'd do it again, if he thought it was for the best. yet, who's here, caressing his skin, unafraid of it? chuuya himself. there's a sigh, before he dips his face to rest against their fingers, and kiss chuuya's hand once again.
apologies he won't say out loud, but he knows that chuuya understands all the same.)
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no subject
Dazai isn't allowed to leave him. Not here. He'll drag him back kicking and screaming every time, because Chuuya's not sure how he'll handle being alone again, with only Fyodor and Gogol as familiar faces.
He squeezes Dazai's hand back in response, inclining his head in an acknowledgement.] Yeah. You wanna stand or stay here?
[His hand lingers a few seconds longer in Dazai's hair as if reluctant to leave, before departing to reach to his pocket to pull out his smokes and light.] Y'know, stealing 'em doesn't change the taste none.
no subject
(determination and restraint are what get him away from the other's skin, as if leaving a comfort zone he doesn't quite feel like moving from. the hand stays with chuuya's own, a gentle run of his thumb against the back of it so chuuya knows not to worry.
long, long legs stand, and redoing the bandages would take too long, so he'll just take his coat, leaving the hand so that he can put it on to cover the wounds and scars before they're back joined.
hardly does it matter if dazai leaves. like a curse, they'll be back together, it seems. it's been that way since forever, at this point.)
no subject
When they reach the window, Chuuya taps out two cigarettes, one for each of them, and sets the pack on the windowsill in easy reach. He tucks his own unlit stick into his mouth before he holds out the lighter to Dazai first, offering him a light.
Dazai might think it doesn't matter if he leaves, but it matters to Chuuya. As wild of spirit as Chuuya is, There's a core part of him that needs the familiar in his life, trusted people and a place to belong to.
He wouldn't handle it well, if Dazai up and disappeared without a trace again.]
no subject
it's also so wonderful it's disgusting. today can just go on the pile of things they will pretend never happened, with all this unwillingness from both of them to depart from where they find safe, if they can openly say that to themselves at the end of the day.
cigarette, mouth, fire, a drag, the wash of nicotine as grounding as the hand he holds, and presses a kiss to. another quiet apology, this time not for the reluctance and avoidance, nor for the deal that could crumble without him.
perhaps for simply not saying anything before he left, perhaps for leaving altogether. who knows, dazai doesn't. he's apologizing for something.)
no subject
It meant they worked together almost seamlessly, it meant they could understand the turmoil that clawed beneath each other's skin. But neither of them enjoyed being seen so completely: the good points, the dark and twisted, the deepest, most painful vulnerabilities that could leave them snarling like an injured animal in a leg trap if brought into the daylight.
Today was yet another one of those moments. Dazai was mourning, likely had never stopped mourning, and grief refreshed and dragged into the light was the bitterest of poisons. While Chuuya had been scared, for the briefest of moments, that Dazai had left him alone in this new world.
The things loss did to a man, eh?
When Dazai lights his cigarette, Chuuya isn't expecting the warm press of lips to his hand, and his fingers twitch, his grip on Dazai's hand squeezing just a little tighter in response, some of the tension in his shoulders seeming to fall away.
He sees the gesture for what it is. He's surprised that it's given at all... and yet, maybe he shouldn't be.]
Dazai... Tell me about Oda?
[Maybe, just maybe, he wants to know about this man who made Dazai try like this.]
no subject
Odasaku... People thought he was weak, you know, due to him not taking lives. It's the opposite. He was incredibly powerful, a one-man organization. Truth was... He wanted to write novels. He thought he couldn't write about people while being like that, so he stopped. He was... Kind. He wasn't like me, he said what he meant, and meant what he said.
(there's a little bit of a laugh, one nostalgic, one that misses.)
After Dragon's Head, he took in five orphans. He was... A great father figure to them. When they were killed, he lost it. I asked him not to go, but he went either way... And he died in my arms... His last words... Were that I would never be better, not really, but if I tried to be a better person, my life'd be a little more wonderful.
(and he was right. his hand is a bit shaky against chuuya's, but he squeezes it in an attempt to stop it from trembling.)
When I saw the jacket, I thought he might have been here, so I looked, the blood was still fresh. I didn't find anything.
no subject
But the picture Dazai paints is a vivid one. A man with power he didn't want to use, who wanted a mundane dream, the kind that seemed outrageous to those who grew up like they had, having to kill or be killed all their lives. He remembers Dragonhead, too. Oda lingering in the danger zones.
Saving what little life he could in that bloodbath... it was admirable, in many ways. It was also risky, for a single man in the mafia to raise a bunch of children himself.
A life that's just a little more wonderful, huh....? It's long been apparent to Chuuya that there's no fixing Dazai, that his struggles weren't something you could just cure. But he can no longer deny that there's... something different about him, since they reunited in that basement dungeon.
He's put in effort for things Dazai might never have put in effort for before. There's something in his eyes that wasn't there before. It says too much, to someone who knew Dazai like Chuuya did.
(He'd resented it, denied it.)
He squeezes Dazai's trembling hand in his, thumb brushing along the bare skin at the back of his hand in soothing motions.
Grief refreshed. Hope destroyed as quickly as it sprouted, heart flying high on wax wings before the plummet to the ground. It was a painful, terrifying feeling. It's really not at all surprising that Dazai would run.]
So that's why....
no subject
(there truly isn't any fixing, there's taping, bandaiding, stitching, and hoping it holds for as long as it can before it has to be done again. darkness screams and quiets, but it's always there, his loneliness never fully leaving, but the sheer thought that maybe it could makes his feet move forward instead of sinking in place.
all this is complicated. even talking to chuuya is complicated, it's something that ever so rarely occurs, if at all. it's been four years, and now that chuuya can hear all this, he is, and dazai doesn't feel proud of it. while dazai can't say it, can't express it any better than the other, he cares about chuuya more than he should. leaving him in the dark, and leaving, after he put chuuya through tragedy itself feels like something.
something he likes to ignore. he'd do it again, if he thought it was for the best. yet, who's here, caressing his skin, unafraid of it? chuuya himself. there's a sigh, before he dips his face to rest against their fingers, and kiss chuuya's hand once again.
apologies he won't say out loud, but he knows that chuuya understands all the same.)