[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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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.)