Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the dimly lit room of a small Tokyo apartment, Nakahara Chuuya sat alone at a rickety wooden table covered with assorted papers and ink-stained blueprints, his frown sharper than the knife resting beside him. It was only late afternoon, but the oppressive weight of the city pressed against the walls, casting shadows that felt like chains tightening around his heart. He glanced up, scanning the room’s meager furnishings before muttering to himself.

This was not a life he wanted for his loved ones.

Chuuya had always been the kind of person who fought tooth and nail for what he believed in. A man of fierce loyalty and relentless determination, he had made a name for himself as a member, an Executive, of the Port Mafia. But maintaining that ruthless facade was slowly tearing him apart inside, especially when he thought about the many faces of his loved ones. Especially Kouyou, his Ane-san. The way her eyes lit up when she interacted with the women at the brothels she managed—it was these moments that made him question every decision he had made so far.

Kouyou had dedicated her life to others after suffering multiple tragedies in her life. Her brothels supported countless families in a city where survival was a constant struggle. But her compassion drew the line beyond mere business. From every earned yen, a portion was set aside for the women she tirelessly nurtured, places that fed and clothed the lost children of the streets. This was the woman who practically raised him after he joined the Mafia. She was a pillar of strength, but Chuuya could see the toll it would take on her if he left without any plans in place.

Chuuya sighed, ruffling his hair in frustration.

He had made up his mind. It was time to lay his plans into motion, even if it meant executing them under a veil of stealth. Kouyou suspected nothing—she trusted him too much, and he intended to keep it that way, at least for now.

In the folds of the flowing sleeves of his black jacket, he pulled out a small notebook filled with details of fraudulent bank accounts he’d opened under a fake identity. Street-smart and cunning, he had spent weeks crafting the setup. Chuuya had earmarked funds from his own activities in the underbelly of the city to ensure Kouyou had enough to continue her work without ever needing to depend on him. 

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, he began to sketch out plans, designing an intricate web of anonymity that would ultimately lead to Kouyou’s independence, if she wished for it. He wanted her to take over completely, to manage the businesses as she saw fit, and to sink her roots deeper into their community. If he could just see her smile when she realized she could run everything without him by her side, he would be content. (Unfortunately, his plans would not allow him the comfort, for he would be gone way before they could come to fruition.)

Time passed swiftly as he plotted his course, but outside, the world continued its unrelenting rhythm. Thugs roamed the streets, loose alliances formed over cigarettes in alleyways, and the oppressed clung to fleeting hopes—all while Chuuya pulled the strings in silence.

He had selected a date for his demise, and had been planning for months now, after all.

Days flew by, and every night he found himself collecting a fraction of the earnings from various operations to funneled into his secretive project. With each passing day, he unearthed more ways to mask his involvement while ensuring that Kouyou was settled and comfortable. The accounts became expansive—a carefully constructed foundation designed to provide for her in the years to come. But as Chuuya orchestrated his backroom dealings, a gnawing worry crept into his chest. Would Kouyou accept this future without him there to guard her? Would she understand the extent of his sacrifice when she witnessed the wealth he quietly amassed for her benefit? He shuffled the papers, his stomach knotting with uncertainty, but he pressed on.

This was for her, after all.

And besides, Chuuya was a walking corpse with temporary skin.

Moving on from the plans set for Kouyou, Nakahara Chuuya found himself at a crossroads. The rain drizzled relentlessly, sleek umbrellas dotting the streets as pale light flickered from dim lampposts. For years after Dazai’s defection, he had been the pillar of support, the backbone of the Akutagawa siblings—training them and keeping them fed. But in the turmoil that defined their world, Chuuya found himself wrestling with a more unsettling notion.

He was weary. 

That day, he stood by the edge of the bustling city square, observing the lively chaos of people navigating life. Laughter and ambition pulsed through the air, a pulse he once resonated with but now found alien. The Akutagawa siblings were growing, carving their trajectories amidst the turmoil. Ryuunosuke had matured into a formidable figure under the influence of the were-tiger, his literary genius marrying his growing reputation in the Port Mafia. Gin, too, had begun to rise, a delicate flower blossoming in the cracks of their dark world.

Chuuya brushed raindrops from his coat, a contemplative look crossing his features. It was time—time to step back and allow them to forge their own paths. He envisioned a future where Ryunosuke and Gin didn’t depend on him, where they could wrestle with the shadows without their older guardian’s looming presence. But if he were to retire from this chaotic life, he needed a plan—one that wouldn’t let them suffer in his absence. 

Without any of them realizing, Chuuya began to lay his groundwork. Quietly, over weeks steeped in silence and nocturnal meetings, he set up everything necessary to ensure their future. The financial groundwork began. He crafted a series of fake identities, constructing a meticulous web of anonymity. Under the guise of an ostensible businessman, he opened two separate bank accounts next, one for Ryunosuke and one for Gin. The funds he deposited were sizeable, enough to provide them with stability while they wrestled with the ties of their world.

In the deep recesses of his apartment he barely called his home, Chuuya juggled papers and monitors, deep in the labyrinth of bureaucracy and deception. But this was necessary, for he won’t be alive long enough to do any of this later on. He transferred funds discreetly, careful to avoid detection, his mind racing with scenarios where his efforts could fall apart. But no, this was for them, Chuuya’s last act of kindness. And towards that end, he worked tirelessly, finely tuning the operatives under the Port Mafia who would manage these accounts swiftly and without question. 

Yet the shadows of crisis were relentless. Hours slipped into days, each filled with small conversations with Ryunosuke, Gin, and fleeting glimpses of their lives, punctuated by the larger conflicts brewing around them. Chuuya watched as they strove, their individual journeys intertwining with the tumult that surrounded them. Sometimes, the young siblings would speak of dreams disguised in discussions, of aspirations that floated beyond the grasp of their stark realities, and Chuuya felt a twinge in his heart, one that felt both bitter and sweet.

His final plan for them came together seamlessly, the threads woven tightly until he felt a sense of satisfaction. He’d taken every precaution—Ryunosuke’s ego would be intrigued, while Gin, keen but a little naive, would trust the benevolence inherent in their mentor’s choices. The timing had to be right, he thought. A quiet disaster he had orchestrated would serve as his exit, a carefully designed power vacuum that would plunge the siblings into burgeoning leadership of their own lives. With their growth inevitably catalyzed, they’d naturally stumble upon the discovery of the accounts he’d strategically established. 

One rainy evening, the storm thudded against the roof like an unrelenting pulse, and Chuuya commenced his planned chaos. He knew how to sculpt events, mold them like clay under hands that knew of sharp turns and harsh residuals. Chuuya was a fighter first, but that didn’t mean he was stupid by any means. Chuuya, ever the silent observer, slipped into the shadows as his actions finally bore fruition in hindsight. He could see it in the way Gin met challenges head-on, the fervor in Ryunosuke’s actions matching the thunder of the storm raging outside. 

Days turned to weeks, and Chuuya remained hidden within the folds of the madness he had unleashed upon himself. Unseen but ever-present, he felt pride as he glimpsed the siblings surviving yet thriving as he slowly pulled away from them. Conversations had shifted—the language turned from dependency to one of vulnerability intermingled with strength. They were discovering themselves in the midst of it all, and would continue to do so even in Chuuya’s absence.

Eventually, amidst the chaos, Chuuya decided to separate himself entirely. They would be on their respective journeys soon—he merely hoped they would remember the spirit of their time together.

The next person on his list was Hirotsu-san.

Nakahara Chuuya stood at the window of his small office, which overlooked the bustling streets of Yokohama. The murmur of the city below was a constant reminder of the work that awaited him, but today, the usual energy fell flat against the weight on his shoulders. Chuuya sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair, and glanced at the clock. It was getting late, but he knew he’d have to work through dinner. This wasn’t just another assignment—it was something much more personal.

The faint sound of paper rustling took his attention away from the view. Hirotsu-san, the trusted advisor of the Port Mafia, sat at the desk across from him, immersed in the details of the latest operational briefing. Hirotsu-san was an enigma—a man who had been part of the underworld long before Chuuya had even found his way in. With his slicked-back hair and dark glasses, he exuded a sense of calm and control, qualities Chuuya both admired and envied. As much as Chuuya took pride in his own strength and skills, he regarded him with a respect that bordered on reverence. The older man was a constant presence, a ledger of wisdom that offered guidance where shadows lurked.

Chuuya had learned to trust him—he often depended on the man’s quiet but firm grasp of strategy, whether in business deals or mafia ethics.

But today was different.

Today, Chuuya was not merely his subordinate—he was a planner, a schemer with his heart set on ensuring that Hirotsu had a solid and peaceful retirement. It was an unspoken dream for Chuuya, one he had nurtured quietly over the years. Hirotsu, for all his expertise, had been far too committed to the Mafia, as if he were married to it. He poured his life into it, and while Chuuya respected that, he couldn't help but feel a pang of concern.

“Chuuya-kun?” Hirotsu-san’s voice brought him back to the present, “Are you listening?”

“Yes, just thinking,” Chuuya replied, shaking off his daydream. He forced a grin. “What’s the plan?”

“Hmm.”

Hirotsu resumed outlining their strategy for an upcoming trade negotiation—a transaction that could mean trouble if they weren't well prepared. As Hirotsu spoke, Chuuya’s mind drifted again, but this time it was focused, sharp. He was already strategizing, imagining how he could nudge Hirotsu towards retirement without him ever knowing. The idea had struck him a few days ago when he found Hirotsu working late one night, his hands trembling slightly as he poured over the details of an old deal. Chuuya had only caught a fleeting glimpse of the toll it had taken on him. Despite his cool demeanor, Hirotsu had grown weary, shadows darkening the bags beneath his eyes. Chuuya didn’t want to see him like that—not when the man had given the redhead so much fatherly love.

Chuuya decided then that he would set a plan in motion—a series of calculated moves that would gradually pull Hirotsu away from the chaos without him even realizing it.

First, he ensured that Hirotsu had financial security.

Chuuya had devised a financial portfolio that would secure Hirotsu’s future while working on setting up the bank accounts for the others. He had approached several trusted allies within the Mafia, suggesting subtle investments in legitimate businesses. Under the guise of seeking additional revenue for the organization, he designed a plan where Hirotsu-san’s name would be at the forefront of the new ventures, giving them legitimacy while ensuring Hirotsu’s protection from the fallout of inevitable betrayals, since people could be unpredictable, no matter how loyal.

The first meeting with a reliable associate came and went without incident, courtesy of Chuuya’s charm and persuasive capacity, at least when he needed it. They discussed a restaurant that would be perfect as a front for laundering money—the profits would flow generously if managed correctly. Chuuya made sure to encourage Hirotsu to spearhead the project on the days before his inevitable decision, selling it to him by highlighting how his ‘business acumen’ could ‘really bring the Mafia into the modern age.’

“It’ll benefit us all, Hirotsu-san,” Chuuya had said, his tone emphasizing companionship over order.

Hirotsu-san merely nodded in acknowledgment, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. Chuuya knew, that even though the man had good intuition, he also trusted the redhead irrevocably.

As the days passed, Chuuya regularly checked in on the burgeoning enterprise, nurturing Hirotsu’s involvement in a way that gradually began to shift the older man’s focus. Hirotsu-san became more enthusiastic, the promise of a mission different from the usual sparking a light in his eyes that had dimmed in recent years. Chuuya dreaded the day Hirotsu-san would begin to suspect anything, but at each meeting, he masked his ulterior motives with charm and affection, waiting for his countdown to reach zero. 

One late evening, a celebratory dinner was held in honor of their successful launch, courtesy of Chuuya unbeknownst to everyone else. The restaurant filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses as Mafia members toasted to their future. Chuuya watched Hirotsu’s reaction closely—he looked genuinely content, a sight that warmed Chuuya’s heart.

“Hirotsu-san,” Chuuya called, raising his glass, his words contradicting his future plans, “To new beginnings?”

“To new beginnings,” Hirotsu-san echoed, a glimmer of something resembling hope in his eyes.

The redhead merely hoped Hirotsu-san would remember Chuuya’s words.

When all was said and done within the Mafia members he cared deeply enough about to improve their lives even in his absence, he eventually turned towards another beloved he held the closest to his heart. Dazai dominated all his affection, even if Chuuya was unable to give it to the brunet under the guise of enmity. Stood in the dim light of his sparsely furnished apartment, the scent of dust mingling with the remnants of a spring rain that drizzled softly against the window, his hands trembled slightly as he reached for the hidden box on the top shelf of his closet, the memory box that had seen the collected joys and sorrows of his life. It was a small, battered thing, adorned with creases and scratches, but to Chuuya, it was a treasure chest overflowing with the weight of nostalgia.

Today, he had decided, was an appropriate time to sift through those memories.

The chilling truth lingered just beneath the surface—he knew the day of his departure was approaching. The shadows had begun to take on familiar forms and the silence of his apartment felt heavier, as if the very walls mourned for him. 

He carefully set the box on his desk, its wooden surface polished with years of use. As he lifted the lid, the familiar scent of aged paper and worn leather wafted out, wrapping around him like a warm embrace. One by one, he pulled out the contents, feeling each item as if it were an old friend. 

The first was a torn photograph, creased in the middle but still vibrant enough to evoke warmth. It was from a summer’s day long past, a snapshot of drunken laughter. In it, Chuuya and Dazai stood together in front of a chaotic array of fireworks, their eyes ablaze with youthful exuberance. Dazai had always had this unsettling ability to draw laughter from Chuuya, even during moments of despair. The corner of Chuuya’s mouth quirked up as he remembered Dazai’s ridiculous attempt to imitate a firework, spinning around and declaring himself a ‘human rocket’ before stumbling into a nearby bush and sprawling there like a sack of potatoes.

With a muffled chuckle, he placed the photograph back into the box but couldn’t help but linger on that moment. Dazai had made it seem effortless to live despite his suicidal tendencies, to enjoy the small, messy moments, and perhaps that was what made their bond so enduring despite the chaos around them. 

Next came a crumpled piece of paper—an old ticket stub from a kabuki show they had attended together. It had been a rare night out, a reprieve from the trials of their work. Chuuya recalled Dazai’s exaggerated critiques of each performance, his rare and genuine laughter echoing through their moments together that he had tried to keep quiet lest they got kicked out. Dazai had always danced along the thin line between seriousness and nonsense, and in those fragments of time, they had found solace in each other.

With careful deliberation, Chuuya placed the stub aside and felt the weight of reality settle in again.

What would life be like without Dazai’s laughter, without his relentless teasing? At least before he had only defected, but now Chuuya would go someplace Dazai won’t follow, not now that he had found a purpose to live, no matter how fleeting. But still, it was like losing a part of himself—a part that balanced him, grounded him even in the midst of supernatural calamities and criminal enterprises. Resigned, he reached for the next item, a small silver charm shaped like a crescent moon, with a clip-on that Chuuya could wear on his choker. It had been a gift from Dazai after Chuuya had lost a bet, a token, even if Dazai had teased the redhead relentlessly for it.

“To balance your fiery nature,” Dazai had jested, placing it in Chuuya’s palm with a flourish.

It had seemed trivial at the time, but that charm had come to represent them—a bond forged in fire and tempered with laughter. Chuuya’s throat tightened as he realized that his time to wear that charm was rapidly dwindling. He had relied too heavily on the hope that they had more memories to create, that there remained moments yet to be cherished. But with his death day looming closer, he could feel the warmth slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. 

Finally, he retrieved a folded piece of paper, stained with time. It was a letter Chuuya had written to the brunet during a particularly dark chapter of his life after Dazai had defected, a time when Chuuya had doubted the very fabric of his existence. As he read over the words, tears gathered in the corners of Chuuya’s eyes, blurring his vision. He could hear Dazai’s voice, teasing yet sincere, echoing in his mind, if Chuuya had ever found the courage to send them. Chuuya closed the letter, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He took a deep breath, steadying his pulse as he looked around the apartment, the prospect of being alone settling dreadfully in his chest. Memories were precious, but soon they would become ghosts, drifting through the halls of his mind without form or substance.

The inevitability of loss threatened to overshadow the vibrancy of their shared moments, but he couldn’t allow it to.

With a sudden fervor, he began to commit each memory to heart—the laughter, the warmth of Dazai’s presence, every joke, every battle fought side by side. He breathed deeply, knowing that while his physical presence may fade, the essence of their bond would weave itself into the fabric of time, an indelible mark in both their lives. (At least, Chuuya hoped so, he hoped he wasn’t alone in feeling like this.)

As darkness enveloped the room, Chuuya carefully placed everything back into the box, shutting it with a resolute click. He would keep it near, a comforting reminder of what had been and what would never truly fade. As he stood, he vowed to himself that he would meet Dazai again, if the brunet wished so, in whatever afterlife lay ahead, ready to dance once more amidst the echoes of their shared laughter.

With a final glance at the box, he said a silent goodbye. 

Days later, Chuuya sat on the edge of his bed.

A narrow sliver of sunlight inching towards him, casting a warm hue across the floor of his cramped apartment. The walls were bare save for a few framed photographs—remnants of lives once intertwined. Outside, at the twilight hour, the sky unfurled a tapestry of golden and lavender hues, a stark contrast to the shadow curling around his heart. In his hands were hand-written letters, their ink smudged slightly from past regrets, each an elegy for what could have been. Each letter bore the name of someone he had once cherished—a friend, one potential lover, a fleeting connection.

He had watched the sunset many times before, drawn to its beauty, its delicate artistry. But tonight, the serenity only served as a reminder of his solitude. It filled him with a profound emptiness. Chuuya had grappled with turbulent thoughts for far too long—browbeaten by life, the weight of disappointment accumulated like heavy stones in his chest, suffocating him under the pressures of unfulfilled dreams and unreciprocated love.

He had enough.

With a steely resolve, he stood and left his apartment. The hall smelled of mold and dampness, a fitting scent for a place overflowing with memories that haunted him. He trudged down the stairwell, each step echoing in the hollow space, and made his way to the nearest post office. Time felt lost. He sensed neither the chill of the evening air nor the distant hum of city life. Everything was distant, blurring at the edges as he inserted the letters into the mailbox, one after another after another. His heart thrummed a heavy beat in his chest, the act of letting go both liberating and suffocating. He pictured the recipients of his letters—their faces blooming in his mind, shifting between warmth and coldness.

“Forgive me,” He murmured under his breath.

He didn’t linger after posting the last letter. Instead, he returned to his apartment, the glow of the street lamps flickering in and out of his periphery. As dusk descended into night, Chuuya navigated through the shadows of the interior spaces he had come to occupy, feeling more like a ghost than a man. He entered the bathroom, peeling off layers of his day—the shirt that still clung to him after being dismissed as too loose and the faded jeans that held just the right amount of memories. As he sank into the hardly inviting coolness of the empty bathtub, he closed his eyes against the harsh realities creeping into his thoughts.

With his back against the damp tub, he retrieved his dagger.

It glimmered in the darkness, a reflection of his tumultuous spirit. For him, the blade was more than a weapon—it was a symbol of permanence amidst his wandering existence. Chuuya held it delicately, the familiar weight grounding him in a reality that had begun to slip through his fingers like sand. He had fought too hard and loved too fiercely to falter now. Desperation coursed through him, unfurling in tendrils of anger and loss. The last few weeks—years?—had drained him, the events spiraling in a way he had never anticipated. Friends falling to betrayal, love lost to the vagaries of fate—it struck him with a clarity that left no room for negotiation.

He pressed the dagger against his wrist, the sharp tip breaking the skin with ease. He exhaled slowly, a deliberate act meant to stave off the pain, but in that moment, he found solace in the anticipation. As the blade drew a line of deep crimson across his arm, it felt as if he were creating a map carved from his own sorrow and strength. The scarlet liquid soon dripped down, mingling with the countless other memories etched upon his skin—each one a story of survival, sacrifice, and at times, folly. Chuuya’s gaze was fixed upon the vivid stream, an odd sense of control washing over him.

With every drop that fell, he could feel the weight of his decisions coalescing into a singular purpose.

This was not just an act of self-mutilation—it was a declaration of his intent. No longer would he be merely a pawn in the games of those more powerful. Tonight, he would reclaim something that had been lost to him—his decision to drown in a tide that sought to sweep him away. 

The stench of decay wafted through the air, mingling with the coppery scent of his own blood. For too long, he had been teetering on the edge, dismissed as just another soul wandering the shadows. Chuuya tightened his grip on the dagger, the blade now warmed by the heat of his blood. Chuuya’s heart thudded against his ribs, but he welcomed the adrenaline surging through him. The world around him faded into a blur—the rage, the pain, the scars—all bound together in purpose as he danced on the precipice of survival. 

Chuuya’s mind drifted back to his early years, to moments that felt effortlessly joyful. There was a time when he believed life would be abundant with color, not just echoes of laughter but moments splattered with vibrancy like the paintings he had once admired in museums. Back then, the world had a promise, a subtle undertone of hope. But hope turned into a paradox as he grew older—a cruel jest; a flickering flame that danced just out of reach. 

As he lay there in the submerged stillness, his thoughts swirled around one particular name that echoed louder than all others.

Dazai.

Dazai had been a whirlwind in the reserved landscape of Chuuya’s life. Charismatic and mysterious, he became both a fascination and an obsession, embodying all that Chuuya was not—carefree, charming, and willing to dance dangerously close to the edge of fate. Their connection had been electric, unpredictable, leaving Chuuya torn between exhilaration and agony. Memories clipped like erratic film reels played in his mind. The day they met—Dazai’s narrowed earthly eyes under the descending debris from the wall he was kicked into by the redhead, the mischief in his eyes as he wove stories that felt somehow real and absurd. They had laughed, argued, and explored. Dazai had drawn Chuuya into adventures that scared him, but he loved that thrill, that feeling of living outside the confines of himself. Yet, against the backdrop of laughter resided an unbridged distance that cut deeper than any argument could.

There were times Chuuya felt utterly lost in Dazai’s orbit, a gravitational force that pulled him closer yet urged him away in the same breath. Words unspoken hovered between them like an anchor. Dazai was a storm, a reckless energy that burned too brightly in the redhead’s eyes, and Chuuya had learned to keep his distance, an unwelcome friend lingering on the fringe of chaos. He thought of the last time they faced each other, the tension evident in the air, words hammered like nails into wood, puncturing their weakening bond. He remembered Dazai’s piercing gaze—so full of life, but Chuuya also glimpsed something darker. Dazai had become treacherous like a tempest, one that could consume but not sustain. And when the storm settled, it revealed a void.

Chuuya had stood alone, grappling with the devastation.

Sliding further down the cool porcelain, he let the stinging memory wash over him, pausing only to breathe in the emptiness that swelled in his chest. With regret came acceptance; he had pushed him away, perhaps not purposely, in an attempt to shield himself from heartbreak. 

Yet, the heart wants what it wants, and the moments that felt too fleeting turned into weighty specters that would never leave him.

Glancing outside the narrow window of his bathroom, he could see only the dim lights of the city flickering like stars—as though they were reaching for something intangible, something lost. In that moment, he felt disconnected from everything. He thought back to the letters, unfinished thoughts threaded with love and despair, explanations he could never voice aloud.

I’m sorry for being weak, he thought to himself, wishing he could deliver that line to Dazai one last time.

As the night stretched on, Chuuya sat quietly in the bathtub, the quiet enveloping him until he felt he couldn’t tell where he ended and the dark began. With each breath, he found his resolve hardening, the echoes of laughter fading while anxiety swirled in the recesses of his mind. He contemplated his fate then, not in anger but in resignation. Chuuya had delivered his letters, and today, he was ready to simply disappear—to leave behind a world that felt perpetually out of reach. As he closed his eyes fully, surrendering himself to the quiet embrace of the night, he wondered if anyone would ever truly understand the depths of his heart, especially Dazai.

Life was not kind to those who lost their way. But Chuuya was finished searching.

This truth gnawed at him, and yet, Chuuya had reached a resolution. Searching, in his case, had always led to disappointment. He traced the edges of his thoughts, feeling the sharpness of each failure. Lost dreams danced mockingly in his mind—dreams that once sparked fire in his heart but had since become mere ashes. His youth, once vibrant and filled with possibilities, felt like an old photograph, faded and scratched, the faces chasing happiness now little more than shadows.

He leaned back against the cool porcelain of the bathtub, the faint echo of dripping water punctuating the hollow silence that enveloped him. He looked out into the dimly lit bathroom, the bare walls closing in around him, a prison of his own making. Empty shampoo bottles and forlorn toiletries cluttered the small, tiled alcove where time had turned stagnant—much like his own life. It was a surreal stillness, one that mimicked the emptiness he felt inside. A life once rich with fervor, adventure, and ambition had curdled into a suffocating void.

He fished the wine bottle from the ground, its neck worn smooth from previous grips, and opened it with a practiced flick of the wrist. The sound of the cork popping was like a gunshot in the silence, and he raised it to his lips, letting the dark liquid spill forth, warmth instantly flooding his chest. Chuuya had spent the better part of the last month—no, perhaps it had been longer—in this state of self-imposed exile. Thoughtless days drifted by, and nights became a desperate cycle of intoxication and regret, leaving him comforted only by the numbing retention of his pain. Chuuya remembered his younger days when relationships blossomed like wildflowers. He remembered the thrill of connection—the thrill of his partner’s laughter as he won against Chuuya, the way his cheeks slightly flushed under the dim lights of the bars they frequented after long hours of work. Dazai had sparked something he thought had been long extinguished, a flame that surged to life.

But now, each thought of him echoed with sharp sorrow.

The wine burned as it slid down his throat, not quite overpowering the memories, but providing a thin veil of sweetness that merely coated the gargantuan ache within him. His heart was cluttered with guilt, digging into his deepest secrets held close to his heart—had he chased Dazai away? Did he ever truly deserve the brunet? 

In this tub of solitude, his mind danced between illusion and reality. Chuuya allowed the sudden tears—hot and unbidden—to streak down his cheeks. It felt absurd. The realization that he was alone in his sorrow flooded him, yet beneath it all was an acceptance of sorts. Chuuya had been an artist before he let ambition devolve into lethargy—he had crafted melodies that drew appreciation, yet all he now possessed were notes of despair, each bitter sip of wine a creak in the emotional rafters of his being. 

His body slumped forward, the aquatic chill of the tub contrasting with the fire in his heart, an uncomfortable juxtaposition. As he managed to bring the bottle back to his lips, a stark realization hit him anew—his dreams had evaporated, leaving only a hollow shell. The boy with bright eyes had been drowned by doubt, and the fear of disappointment had drawn him to this precipice, each sip further deepening his descent. Chuuya sat in darkness now, watching slivers of light dance through the cracked window, shadows making their ascent as the night sky brought out its true beauty. He thought about how life marched on, how others found their paths, often with palpable ease. Friends had moved on, growing roots, creating families, building futures. And here he was, an estranged wanderer stuck between lingering memories and tranquil futility, spiraling into a quiet despair.

In those fleeting moments of laughter and ‘what-if’s, he thought of picking up the pieces, of regaining the will to live rather than self-destruct in the shadow of self-loathing.

But each time he grasped fleeting hopes of revival, reality would thrust the weight of his failures into his forsaken heart like a blade, reminding him that his spirit had withered as he let life slip past. Gazing at the bottle in hand, Chuuya chided himself for where he had ended up. The remnants of a human turned into overt indulgence—a cheap escape from the hollow heart he had cultivated. As the wine level sank, so too did his capacity to deny the truth that lay beyond the rim of the bottle—he had lost the way not merely to his dreams but to the fragments of happiness he had once splintered into countless shards. 

It culminated in a profound emptiness, a void that roared louder than any mantra of hope.

A painful clarity rose within him like a star bursting from the darkened horizon—there was no magic still left to wield, no spontaneous craft to resurrect. Reality was unrelenting, and while others could convert their brokenness into something new, he couldn’t.

Not anymore. 

With trembling hands, Chuuya tilted the bottle, tilting his head back like a hardened soldier succumbing to fate. This time, there would be no more search, no more excuses wrapped in posturing. He closed his eyes and did the only thing that felt ever so slightly right—he surrendered to the bittersweet abyss. His heart was full of agony, yet in that agony, he found a strange release, surrendering to the overwhelming weight of his solitude.

There he sat—Nakahara Chuuya—a haunting figure lost in time, trapped in the echoes of a life that could have been.

Reality felt suspended, as though time itself had decided to take a break, leaving Chuuya sagging into the worn porcelain, his body wrapped in the embrace of spiraling intoxication. He lifted the nearly empty wine bottle to his lips, the deep red liquid a desperate comfort, a bittersweet potion that numbed the cacophony inside his head. Just earlier that evening, he had stood in front of the mirror, letters in his hand, a stranger in his own skin.

What have I become?

He had whispered to his reflection, eyes glistening with unshed tears. The spirit of the young man he once was flickered like the candle before him—fading, flickering, extinguished.

At that moment, guilt and regret swirled around him more thickly than the fog outside. Memories of laughter, ambitions thwarted, and promises forgotten filled him like smoke, intoxicating yet suffocating. They came rushing back with vivid force—evenings spent with friends, their laughter echoing through crowded streets, dreams painted in effervescent colors that seemed so attainable. Yet here he was, stripped bare, burdened by the weight of choices made and opportunities lost. He had been the star of his own narrative once, a brilliant fighter but also an impulsive dreamer. The stories that had flowed from him were filled with characters that breathed with life, their hopes and struggles aching with authenticity. But as the years slipped away, the ink had dried, and the inspiration vanished like autumn leaves caught in a dismal storm.

He had learned to concoct his own elixirs for heartache—dagger shoved into its sheath, a half-empty wine bottle in the other, all quantities tailored to drown the despair that wrapped around his heart like a vice. And as the crimson cut previously painted, and the wine bottle currently in his hand did their job, Chuuya slipped into a state of half-consciousness, a small relieved smile on his lips, the dusty corners of his mind finally quieting. 

In the recesses of his mind, Chuuya drifted through another realm, where the shadows could not reach him.

Here, the air was fresh, untainted by the bitterness of regret. Laughter bubbled forth like a stream flowing over smooth stones. But as memories washed over him, they morphed into specters, each fateful twist of the plot reminding him of the fractured threads of reality. The sound of Dazai’s voice echoed hollowly as the dreamscape faded like smoke in the wind. Chuuya desperately grasped at it, longing for the warmth of his presence, but the ground fell away as regret yanked him back into darkness.

What had he become, truly?

The question haunted him even in his sleeping moments—an empty shell adorned by accomplishments long forgotten, friends who faded into whispers of a once-vibrant past. Chuuya felt like a ghost of the man he used to be, endlessly searching for something—anything—to anchor him to the ties of life. The wine bottle rolled away, clattering against the tiles, as his fragile grasp on consciousness wavered.

Lying there, something flickered faintly.

A distant memory of chasing sunsets, laughter echoing through crowded streets, and unfulfilled promises tugged at him. He recalled those firefly-studded nights spent under the stars, where dreams unfurled like wings ready to take flight. But chasing them had thrust him deeper into darkness. As he floated, suspended in silence, a shadow approached—a figure that loomed large. It was the embodiment of his anguish, the pain that coiled around his heart and twisted like barbed wire. It whispered dark thoughts, casting him further into despair. Each fiber of his being screamed for relief, for a lonely heart to be cradled and understood.

The room around him began to blur, colors bleeding into one another. He recalled his last interaction with Dazai, the brunet’s voice straining through the static of Arahabaki.

“I’ve got you, Aibō.”

His velvety voice, tinged with an unknown emotion, had slipped through the fog, making Chuuya ache with heartache even now.

(But, Chuuya thought, what a lying man you are, Dazai.)

Could he still fight? Shaking his head, he found solace in the empty abyss—anything was better than the harsh glare of reality.

Chuuya’s lips tilted upwards softly, a bitter sort of euphoria filling him as he slipped ever deeper into the void that awaited him. With a resolve that came not from strength but surrender, he willed himself to a fading embrace, and his breaths stuttered, stumbling into a fading melody that finally met its end.

Hours later, the world outside churned with life—the fog lifting, morning light seeping in through the cracks of his window like an unwelcome intruder. His body lay still, a minuet of dreams and darkness wrapped around him. There was no longer a battle raging within—the chaos had quieted, replaced by a morose stillness. Life, in all its vibrant chaos, moved forward without him as he lay still, a corpse of his own making—a forgotten whisper echoing through the streets where he once danced beneath the stars.

An empty shell left trapped in the echoes of what could have been.

Chapter Text

Dazai felt off-kilter. 

The afternoon sun pierced through the large windows of the Armed Detective Agency, casting long shadows on the floor. The air was thick with the scents of stale coffee and the lingering aroma of lunch, a combination that usually felt welcoming. But today, a peculiar heaviness settled around Dazai Osamu like the atmosphere before a storm—it was a feeling he couldn’t quite grasp or articulate. He sat at his desk, fiddling with the edges of a well-worn manuscript—the ink still felt damp—yet his mind was a million miles away, lost in thoughts that clashed like winter waves against the shore.

His colleagues went about their usual business, talking about cases, debating strategies, or simply indulging in the occasional banter. Atsushi had dropped by fifteen minutes earlier, bringing a steaming bento box from the new cafe that had opened a few blocks away. At the time, Dazai managed a weak smile and accepted a few mouthfuls, but food felt tasteless in his mouth. The conversations faded into background noise—he was detached, an outsider in his own world.

“Dazai-san,” came a voice, pulling him from his spiraling thoughts.

It was Kenji, his ever-enthusiastic colleague, approaching with the bounce of someone who had just discovered a hidden treasure, “How do you feel about the case with that missing shipment? I think we’ve finally decoded the cryptic message!”

Dazai blinked, forcing a smile as he struggled to summon the kind of enthusiasm Kenji expected, “Ah, yes, fascinating.”

“Fascinating?” Kenji paused, furrowing his brow, momentarily at a loss for how to react.

It was then that the office door swung open with a creak, allowing a blast of fresh air to slice through the heavy ambiance. A young delivery boy stepped inside, the sunlight glinting off the numerous stickers plastered on his cap. He scanned the room, scanning faces until his gaze landed on the chaotic stacks of documents piled on Dazai’s desk.

“Uh, is this the Armed Detective Agency?” His voice wavered slightly, uncertainty threading through his words.

“You’re in the right place,” Dazai replied, finding an uncharacteristic softness in his tone, his piqued curiosity hinting at the anxious undercurrent within him.

The boy shuffled forward and produced an envelope from a small courier bag slung over his shoulder, “It’s addressed here… for someone named ‘Mackerel’?”

Dazai’s heart skipped unnaturally as he recognized the moniker, a playful nickname that Chuuya had once flung at him during a rather spirited exchange. His fingers twitched ever so slightly, a stark contrast to the static calm on his face. The room, he realized, had fallen into a disconcerted quiet, all eyes now fixated on him as if anticipating an explosion from the otherwise tranquil mind of Dazai Osamu.

“Thank you,” He said, reaching out to take the letter.

The envelope was plain, with nondescript handwriting, the kind that stirred the imagination with potential intrigue. Every curious gaze felt like a gentle prod, pushing him to unravel whatever awaited inside. Ignoring the burning glances, Dazai turned the envelope over, tensing just the slightest as he slipped his finger beneath the flap. As he opened the letter, the silence in the room pressed in against him. What could this be about? He wondered, struggling to shake the sensation of imbalance still lingering in the back of his mind.

His heart thudded in his chest as he recognized that neat cursive script. Chuuya. With fingers trembling from a cocktail of anticipation and dread, he unfolded the note, the fragile paper seeming to whisper secrets only meant for him.

I hope this letter finds you before I do, though I suspect you’re already weary of my writing. I’d like to ask you for a small favor: please come by my apartment and find a box for me. When you arrive, you’ll know which box I’m talking about right away. It’s tucked away in the corner, and I trust you to handle it with the care it deserves. Inside, there’s a collection of some things, and I need you to go through them carefully, piece by piece.

This isn’t just about the contents of that box, it’s about understanding what lies beneath. I’ve always believed you had a knack for seeing beyond the surface, and I hope you’ll take this opportunity to dig a little deeper. Consider it a farewell of sorts—without the need for goodbyes. Thank you for being someone I could always count on, at least in regards to my Ability, and I hope this brings a sense of closure, however unneeded it might be.

Don’t forget to take care of yourself in my absence, you suicidal bastard.

The words pricked at his mind like needles of ice, and as he continued to read, chilling dread settled in the pit of his stomach. The message felt heavy with impending doom. Each line was woven with intimacy and trust, yet the underlying meaning gnawed at him with relentless urgency.

What had Chuuya done?

Dazai stood abruptly, the chair clattering behind him like a gunshot, echoing into the stark, sterile corners of the office. His heart raced—a frantic drum calling out to the world, demanding recognition, and rattling in time with the pounding of a thousand dark thoughts.

“Atsushi!” He called out, the name shooting from his lips with a desperate urgency that sliced through the usually mundane air of the office. 

Atsushi emerged from the infirmary, his face pale and filled with a concern that deepened the hollowness in Dazai’s chest. Kyouka followed close behind, her brows knitted together, sensing the tumult she often witnessed intertwining with Dazai’s carefully constructed facade.

“Dazai-san? What’s wrong?”

Without answering, Dazai grasped Atsushi’s arm, yanking him forward, “Your phone. Now!”

The words left his mouth like barked orders, fueled by an adrenaline that thrummed through his veins, mingling with his fear. The younger boy stumbled, breathless with confusion, producing his phone from his pocket. Dazai fumbled to dial the number—the numbers long burned into his memory. Each ring echoed ominously, a metronome of dread building in the pit of his stomach. There was no time for doubt; the air felt taut with an electricity that promised the worst possible news.

Dazai spoke instantly, “Ane-san?”

Kouyou answered, her voice drenched in something so raw it twisted a knife in his heart, speaking with a certainty and knowledge of exactly what the brunet was asking.

“He’s dead. Has been dead for a week, my boy.”

The breath caught in Dazai’s throat as his world crumbled around him, as if someone had flipped the switch to darkness and stripped every color from his perspective. Chuuya. Dead? No. Impossible. The word echoed in his mind—a mantra of denial—as he struggled to grasp the enormity of those words. Images of Chuuya flashed through his mind—laughter shared over whiskey, late-night conversations punctuated by playful banter, the way his eyes sparkled with life. It all felt like a cruel joke, a trick played by grief, but the truth was barbed and unrelenting. He stood frozen in the wake of Kouyou’s words, the weight of her grief pressing against him, the letter Chuuya had written thrumming like an anxious heartbeat in his hand. He felt an overwhelming urge to scream, to clash with the universe for snatching away the man who held so many of his secrets, but he would not give in to the despair consuming him. Not yet.

“I need to find him,” Dazai said, voice barely more than a whisper, yet wrapped in an iron resolve that threw up defenses against the burgeoning tide of grief threatening to swallow him whole.

“Where are you going?”

Atsushi’s face was a canvas painted with worry as he watched the shadows of pain flit across Dazai’s usually placid features. The boy’s warmth radiated a comforting light, yet in the face of the encroaching darkness, even that felt fragile and fleeting.

“Somewhere important,” Dazai replied, urgency flooding through him like a cascade of cold water.

His steps quickened, colliding with the chaos in his mind as he pushed through the weight of disbelief. The pounding of his heart was relentless, a metronome of fear keeping time with every desperate thought—each echo of ‘he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone’ chanting a dark lullaby that threatened to ensnare him in a pit of despair. Outside, the cool air struck Dazai’s face, mingling with the stolen sun’s glare—an unwelcome brightness when all he felt was suffocated by shadows. He turned left, taking off at a brisk pace, each step resonating with the promise of searching for a piece of himself entangled in Chuuya’s presence. The bustling streets of Yokohama felt alien—each passerby blissfully unaware of the fracture in his world, dancing and laughing, connecting in ways he longed to replicate.

Atsushi jogged to catch up, confusion twisting his brows tighter, “Dazai-san, wait! We can’t—”

“We can’t?” Dazai interrupted, the sharpness in his voice blending disbelief with a spiraling sense of urgency, “You don’t understand! I have to—” The words clawed at his throat, raw and jagged, a requiem for everything he had lost. At that moment, he didn’t recognize himself—he only saw the echoes of a past tainted with warmth and laughter, now replaying like a cruel film reel of memories.

Dazai’s voice trembled as he ordered, “Atsushi-kun, go back to the Agency.”

Atsushi tried to protest, seeing his mentor’s condition even if he didn’t know the reasoning behind, but Dazai merely stared at him steadfastly, and Atsushi reluctantly nodded. The were-tiger turned back, glancing at the brunet a few times before disappearing from view. Only then did Dazai move again.

It seemed impossible that someone who stood beside him, someone so vibrantly alive—the very embodiment of light and mischief—could be snuffed out so easily. It felt like being thrust into an abyss, grappling with the cold, disorienting realization that he would never hear his laugh again, would never engage in their usual banter. The specter of denial loomed heavy within Dazai as he stood before Chuuya’s apartment building. The beginnings of gray clouds huddled close overhead, casting a pall over the bustling city, as if nature itself conspired to echo his troubled thoughts. Each step he took toward the entrance felt like a descent into a void, a tightening coil of trepidation wrapping around his gut, squeezing out his breath.

Chuuya was supposed to be waiting.

He was always waiting, with that all-too-familiar cocky grin, or maybe a scowl, depending on Dazai's mood. But today, a sinister quiet warned him that something was dreadfully wrong. 

Dazai hesitated, anchored in place by memories he scorned yet could not shake. Images of sorrow swirled through his mind—the blood, the sirens, the static that ominously overtook everything at the death of his dear friend, the defection, his last act of rebellion against the mafia—the last time he had crossed the threshold into this very apartment. The thought rattled in his chest like a phantom. What if he opened that door again and found nothing but silence, nothing but the chilling reminder of loss? He could almost hear Chuuya’s voice, a wavering echo in the back of his mind, a cruel taunt against the tide of hysteria threatening to sweep him away.

Agony pierced him, hot and unforgiving, a razor slice through the veil of denial he fought so desperately to maintain. The familiar scarlet of Chuuya’s hair flashed before him, hidden beneath his tacky hat—its absence rendered more acute in this jarring moment. He would never again tilt his head to the side, that knowing smile daring Dazai to tease him back. Guilt flared anew—he had still been bantering when he should have been holding him close, should have whispered truths rather than tangled them in veils of irony. How could he face the truth that unwinded in his mind, a tapestry woven with fear and lingering hope?

He took a deep breath, raising his hand to the knob.

The metal felt cold, though he willed warmth into his skin. The layers of fear peeled back reluctantly. Memories collided in a storm: laughter over cheap beer, late-night conversations entwined with confessions, and the weight of unspoken feelings that had always danced just beyond their grasp. What if fate had spun a cruel yarn, unraveling all of it into threads of desperation? Dazai swallowed hard, the motion feeling choreographed by the suffering of a thousand heartbeats, each one begging him to just turn away. Just leave.

But then, there was Chuuya—the stubborn fire that demanded acknowledgment, the undeniable essence knitted into the fabric of Dazai’s reality. A fear etched deeper into his bones than even death itself. Closing his eyes momentarily against the budding anguish, he could hear the distant echo of Chuuya’s laughter, something he might never experience again. Reality rippled, unveiling the truth, one jagged piece at a time. The moment of denial finally slipped, chased away by a hollow, biting clarity.

The door creaked open, revealing the dim and claustrophobic interior.

Shadows danced against the walls, stretching fear and doubt into an indeterminate hue. Dazai’s heart raced as he navigated the threshold, every inch feeling like a plunge into the unknown. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back. But a deeper drive pushed him onward—there was a choice always to make, to confront the darkness, no matter how terrifying. The stillness was deafening, whispering sorrow in idle breaths as he stepped inside. Each creak of the floor was a plea for acknowledgment, vespers for a friendship teetering on the edge. The apartment was an altar to their shared memories—cluttered but curiously alive.

And then he saw it. The couch with the faint imprint of Chuuya’s form, the coffee table littered with old reports and scattered dreams. There was love in that clutter, bittersweet and burnt by time, and there, at the very edge of his consciousness, loomed the truth. 

With brutal force, grief broke through, cascading over him like a tidal wave. Dazai’s breath hitched uncharacteristically, a broken gasp escaping as daunting realizations crashed upon him. He could feel the weight of loss—an anchor that threatened to pull him underwater, rendering him helpless with nostalgia and sorrow. A tremor seized him as he let the truth settle in his bones: Chuuya wasn’t here, and it was too late to say what had lingered un-uttered for far too long. He crumpled, collapsing against the couch, a tangle of unyielding grief and denial finally merging into a singular ache within his chest. The specter that had haunted him was not Chuuya’s absence but the crushing weight of knowing he had lost his other half while still blanketed in fear, wrapped in levity that felt sacrosanct but now seemed tragically misplaced.

Daylight waned outside, but within him, darkness reigned, unyielding and raw.

[FIVE DAYS EARLIER]

Kouyou stood at the threshold of her modest apartment, the weight of the evening settling on her shoulders like a heavy cloak. Her umbrella swung to one side as she reached for the door, ready to embrace the day—another day of meetings, deadlines, and the predictable hum of life in the city. But as her foot crossed the threshold, she froze, her eyes falling upon an envelope lying disturbingly out of place on her doormat.

The envelope was simple, a plain white square with no return address. Kouyou glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting the universe itself to spring forth an explanation, but the street remained as nonchalant as it often was at this hour. Drawn by a sudden pang of instinct, she picked it up in shaking hands, her fingertips brushing the paper as if it were a living thing. There was no name, no identifier—only a sense of something ominous lurking just beyond the edges of familiarity.

With her heart hammering in her chest, she tore it open, the sound of paper ripping echoing into the silence as if it were a scream. Inside was a letter, its letters a familiar scrawl, neat and cursive, threatening to unravel the very fabric of her reality. As she unfolded it, her breath hitched, a hollow sensation forming in the pit of her stomach.

Ane-san,

It began, the words becoming a painful knot in her throat.

As I sit down to write this letter, a heaviness presses on my heart. Each word feels weighted, bursting with emotions I’ve struggled to put into a coherent expression. I suppose that’s the nature of goodbyes—they’re never simple, no matter how prepared we think we are. But it’s time for me to take my leave, and before I do, I want to take a moment to reflect on everything you’ve meant to me and what I’ve carried with me from our time together.

From the very first day you took me in, I felt a warmth in your presence that I had never known before. Your home, with its simple comforts and quiet corners, became my sanctuary. I remember the first time I stepped through your door, the sunlight streaming through the window, illuminating the gentle chaos of your life—books piled in corners, mismatched cushions, and the aroma of something delicious simmering in the kitchen. You welcomed me with open arms, wrapping me in a sense of belonging that I craved, a feeling that I was finally seen and understood. I often recall the little moments—the way you’d smile when you found something I loved, or the way you’d listen to me over tea-time, genuinely invested in my day-to-day thoughts and dreams. Those small gestures built the framework of our bond, creating roots that dug deeper than I ever imagined possible.

You taught me so much about kindness and resilience. Your strength in the face of adversity showed me what it truly means to fight for what you care about. When life threw challenges my way, you never hesitated to stand by me, your unwavering presence reminding me that I was never alone. I remember how, during my darker days, you’d sit with me in the quiet of the night, your hand on my shoulder, encouraging me to rise after every fall. Your belief in me ignited a flicker of confidence that had turned into a flame, bright and bold, pushing me to venture into the unknown. I will forever be grateful for the support that molded me into a person I can be proud of, one who carries forward your lessons of courage and hope.

I often think back to the moments we shared over meals, the way you’d whip up a dish that was not just food but also a testament to your care. It became a ritual, our meals together, filled with laughter that reverberated off the walls and filled the air with warmth. I remember your culinary experiments—some disasters, some delightful surprises—each one a new story to tell. You infused those moments with heartfelt conversations, creating a space where I could truly express myself. It wasn’t about the perfect meal; it was the love and joy behind it that made it all worthwhile. Those meals were more than sustenance; they were a celebration of our lives together, a mingling of flavors and stories that tethered us even closer.

And then there were those quiet times when we sat in comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other's company, perhaps after a long day, leaning against each other on the couch, lost in our thoughts. During these precious moments, I learned that silence doesn’t need to be filled with words to be meaningful. I found strength in our shared quietude, realizing that comfort in companionship can often speak louder than conversation. Those invaluable lessons taught me the power of presence, of being there for someone without needing to fill the space with noise.

It’s hard for me to encapsulate how much you have shaped the person I became. Saying goodbye is bittersweet, yet I leave with a heart full of beautiful memories and lessons that you generously gifted me. Each day, I committed myself to carry forward your spirit of kindness and strength, integrating what I learned from you into my own journey. The tools you equipped me with—in resilience, kindness, and courage—will guide me as I navigate the challenges ahead. For that, I cannot thank you enough.

Although this is farewell, please know that my heart will always hold you dear, as my beloved Ane-san. You are not just my sister—you are my guiding light, my confidant, and the person who has instilled in me the belief that I could have been more than what I began as. I hope you find joy in knowing that your influence has echoed through my life, shaping me into the person I am today. I have honoured the lessons you taught me and carried your spirit with me until the end of my days.

Even as I move towards a place you cannot reach, I have cherished the memories of our time together. Every laugh, every tear, every shared moment will stay within my heart as a proof to our love and bond. I promise to watch over you as you had watched over me, ever the protective sister you’ve always been. Perhaps, one day, in some space beyond this world, we can meet again. Until then, know that you are deeply loved and appreciated.

With all my love and gratitude,

Chuuya

The ink blurred, her vision swimming, and for a fleeting moment, Kouyou thought it must be some sort of cruel prank. The chill that gripped her chest governed her reasoning, forcing her to read the lines again, each word sinking sharp claws into her thoughts. Yet, the absurdity of the situation refused to fade, leaving her trapped in disbelief.

This wasn’t happening. Not to Chuuya.

Grief bubbled beneath the surface of her confusion, attempting to claw its way free, but in its wake, Kouyou felt only denial. She couldn’t process such a finality, especially concerning someone who had been woven into the fabric of her life, into her dreams and careless laughter. She’d seen him just last week before he had taken a few days off from work, full of challenges and playful arguments; the memory felt like a privilege she didn’t want to squander. Kouyou stumbled back into the apartment, the letter transforming into a mere piece of paper in her trembling hands, devoid of meaning.

Chuuya, who had consistently teased the seriousness from her world and replanted color in her life, could not possibly be gone. Her mind raced with desperate logic, her thoughts whirring like an old machine long overdue for a tune-up.

There had to be a mistake. A misunderstanding.

She sank into the nearest chair, unrest settling within her like a storm brewing, each thought circling back to the reality she refused to accept. He couldn’t be dead, she would have felt it—a tugging at her heart or an echo of despair if something were to happen to the man who she had practically raised with her own guidance. How could it be? It was impossible. Impossible, impossible, impossible.

Outside her window, the city carried on with the insistent bustle of life, oblivious to her crushing revelation. Cars honked, pedestrians jostled, and above it all, the setting sun spilled warmth that felt like an insult to her spiraling sorrow. There was irony in the indifferent world moving onwards, while here she sat, crumbling under the burden of loss, isolated in grief. Kouyou crumpled the letter into a ball, the coldness of the paper biting at her palms, and she fought the instinct to scream. Footsteps echoed through her empty corridor, yet her apartment had never felt so lonely. No voices would fill it with laughter again, no shared glances or mischievous banter. She thought of Chuuya, of all his quirks and the light he brought into every room, the promises of life that now felt so hollow. Undoing the ball of paper, she forced herself to re-read the words until they lost the sense of shocking significance and transformed into a litany of the fate she could not avoid.

Chuuya is dead. 

Three simple words that dismantled everything she held dear, forcing grief to seep through the denial like poison. The agony settled in, her own breath turning into a serene yet haunting whisper that echoed painfully against the walls of her mind. How could a life—his life—be extinguished, while hers continued? It felt unjust, unspeakable. As the tears she had fought so hard to contain finally broke free, Kouyou was left gazing into the harsh light of evening, feeling the heavy burden of that empty silence wash over her. Chuuya was gone, the letter had practically declared it, and though she was not yet ready to hold the weight of reality, she knew.

Eventually, she would have to confront it head-on.

Akutagawa stepped out of his apartment, the chill of the evening air wrapping around him. He was in a rush—the fluorescent lights of the city blurred into streaks as he navigated the familiar but often chaotic streets towards his workplace. The cold metal of his keys clinked together rhythmically in his pocket, an unceremonious soundtrack to his evening routine. But as he crossed the threshold from dimly lit hallway to the world outside, something caught his eye—two envelopes lying innocently on the doorstep, their pristine surfaces contrasting sharply with the dull concrete. One bore his name in an all-too-familiar scrawl, the other addressed to his sister, Gin. His heart quickened with curiosity.

He recognized the penmanship immediately—Chuuya-san.

The name hung heavily in the air, an anchor in the sea of preoccupations swirling in Akutagawa’s mind. It felt surreal to see it there, on a piece of paper. Automatically, he pocketed Gin’s letter, intending to deliver it to her later, knowing she would be back from her shopping at the bakery any moment now. Turning his attention to the first letter, he hesitated. Pushing his fingers along the edges of the envelope, he felt an unexpected tremor slide through him. With a mix of dread and anticipation, Akutagawa tore it open, the crinkling sound whispering secrets he wasn't prepared to hear.

Ryuu,

As I settle down to write this letter, I can’t help but feel the weight of every word hanging in the air, thick with memories and unspoken thoughts between us. It's peculiar how the act of writing serves as both an outlet and a burden. A part of me wants to resist putting pen to paper, yet here I am, compelled by the urgency of our situation.

I imagine you, clad in that constant air of indifference, perhaps even disdain, rolling your eyes at the very idea of sentimentality, but I write nonetheless. I owe you this—an ode to our tangled existence together, filled with battles fought and the bonds formed amidst everything.

From the very first moment we crossed paths, I sensed your fierce ambitions. You carried an essence of raw power that was both intimidating and alluring, and there was something about your tenacity that resonated within me. However, I soon realized that under all that ice, you housed a fire that burned just as brightly as my own. It was a strange thing—this unspoken understanding, a nameless connection that felt both unavoidable and terrifying.

Our lives have been marred by bloodshed—we’ve been instruments of violence in a world that tries to drown us in its cruelty. Yet, even amid these storms, I found solace in your presence. We were two lost souls, thrust together by the tides of fate, fighting desperately against the currents. I always believed we complemented each other—where you were rigid, I was fluid—where you took sharp, cutting approaches, I found ways to soften the blows.

There were moments, too few and fleeting, but utterly profound, when these differences didn’t feel like barriers but rather bridges connecting us. I can still picture those rare instances when you’d let your guard down, if only for a heartbeat. There was softness in your eyes that belied your tough exterior, moments tangled in laughter that felt alien yet welcome. Those slips behind the mask, Akutagawa, shaped my admiration into something deeper, something familial and protective.

As his eyes scanned the neat lines of Chuuya’s handwriting, laughter and banter began to swirl in his thoughts—the late-night debates, the lighthearted arguments, and shared silences that spoke volumes. But the further he read, the more those memories twisted into tendrils of despair. The letter a confession written with so much raw emotion that it felt like a slap in the face. Akutagawa’s heart sank. Each word weighed against him like stone.

Time, however, is relentless.

It has its way of pulling the threads of our lives apart, and as much as I’ve fought against it, I can see our paths diverging on the horizon. I’ve always known that this world can be unforgiving—and for those of us who tread in shadows, the light is often fleeting. You embody the relentless spirit of wanting to rise above, to matter in a world that often seeks to erase us, but I can’t help but worry that this very drive may lead you down a path of isolation.

I remember your last mission together with the were-tiger. You described it to me in extremely vivid details. It had echoed of tension and dread. You stood resolute while the boy tried to reason with the chaos threatening to swallow you whole. I should’ve known better than to think words could sway you, yet my heart ached, fearing what your relentless pursuit would cost you. Our fates have seldom aligned perfectly, but perhaps I was naive to think I could offer solace against the inevitable.

As I pen these thoughts, I feel an overwhelming sense of finality. This could be the moment when I fade from your memory and become merely another figure lost in the fray. But know this: my hope for you will linger far beyond this letter. I wish for you to harness your strength and forge your own path—one that isn’t blanketed in darkness or drenched in blood, but one that embraces the winds of change and invites you to soar. Be kinder to the were-tiger, Ryuu, he is good for you.

Take these memories with you. Keep them close but don’t let them weigh you down. It’s easy to let the past shape you or to become ensnared in its patterns, but I urge you to break free—to carve out a new existence for yourself. Love or loss, victory or defeat—don't let them define you. Create your own identity, one that is bright and filled with purpose.

He felt it then, a stroke of disbelief, quickly followed by an undercurrent of denial. It can’t be true. Chuuya-san wouldn’t say goodbye like that. He was too brash, too full of life. Akutagawa clenched the letter, his knuckles white, as if the sheer force of his grip could change reality, could bring his mentor back.

As I close this final note, I wish for nothing but the best for you. I hope you can find peace within yourself and the world around you. Whatever may come next—for you or for me—utmost respect and appreciation remain. It has been an honor standing by your side, sharing moments that will echo in my heart long after the final curtain falls.

Goodbye, my precious brother Ryuu. Chase your dreams, run with the wind, join the were-tiger as a duo, and don’t look back too often.

With sincerity and respect,

Chuuya

In the haze of denial, the uncertainty could almost be comforting—a flimsy veil shielding him from the truth that threatened to spill into the corners of his mind. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe... But the more he read the letter again and again, the more desperate his reasoning became. Chuuya described a struggle, a final act—not a life extinguished gently, but rather snuffed out violently, leaving nothing but echoes of laughter and warmth in the void. The words bled into Akutagawa’s mind—he could almost hear the sharp inflections of Chuuya’s voice amidst the chaos of it all. Panic surged forth, drowning out the persistent thrum of reality. He shut his eyes tightly, willing the tide of grief to recede, but it rushed forward insistently, crashing around him, numbness giving way to sorrow.

The letter slipped from his grasp, fluttering to the ground like a fallen leaf.

Suddenly, he sensed her presence—Gin’s quiet footsteps drawing closer, her laughter mingling with the distant sounds of the waking city. The notion of sharing this moment with her felt impossible. There was a great chasm opening between the two of them—a divide that grief would unleash, one that would transform every conversation into a countdown until silence. She rounded the corner, her smile a cakewalk to sweetness. But when her eyes found him, the joy flickered.

“Ryuu-nii?”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he simply stood there, the weight of Chuuya’s final words wrapping around his chest like chains. His face must have been a canvas of storm clouds, shadows deepening the hollowness in his gaze.

Her smile faltered as she approached, “What’s wrong?”

His voice was lost, lodged in his throat like a piece of shrapnel. All he could do was gesture towards the letter on the ground, the flickering air heavy with unsaid implications, as he slipped Gin’s letter out of his pocket. Gin’s fingers trembled, reaching for the letter. The sudden reality clawed at him, waves of grief crashing unrelentingly against the shore of his heart. As the morning shifted into the bittersweet agony of a new day, Akutagawa knew that acceptance had no place in this story. He felt tethered to the pain, anchored by the sense of longing that would echo in every morning light that followed. Chuuya was gone, and a part of him felt like it had vanished into the same void.

Half-formed and shattered, leaving a torrent of grief in its wake.

Gin felt a familiar spark of anticipation race through her, the way one might feel at the first preview of a summer storm.

“Gin.” His voice was low, a whisper meant to cut through the morning’s stillness.

As she reached for the letter, the corners of her vision darkened. The parchment felt heavy in her hands, and the moment she unfolded it, something primal inside her coiled, instinctively bracing against the truth she was about to unearth. She began to read Chuuya’s words, each line etched deeper into her heart, like nails trying to hold the pieces of her fading hope together. His penmanship was spidery, infused with an unmistakable warmth that she could almost hear in his teasing tone.

Lovely Gin,

As I sit down to write this letter, I find myself grappling with the gravity of what I’m about to say. I don’t quite know how to start, as these words carry a weight that feels almost unbearable. But I feel that it’s necessary—perhaps for both of us—to put this all into writing, to share my thoughts one final time.

There’s a myriad of moments that flood my mind, memories of laughter, struggles, and moments of sheer resolve. Your presence, however fleeting, has sparked something profound within me. The way your eyes gleamed with determination, even in the face of overwhelming odds, was nothing short of inspiring. I often marveled at your strength, a quality that I valued immensely and sought to emulate.

I remember our first encounter—how you stood there, bold yet guarded, your sharp knives masking a heart that longed for understanding. I understood that, because I had built walls around my own heart. Yet, as we worked together, as allies and then, in our own strange way, as family, those walls began to crumble. You taught me that it was okay to let someone in, even when the world razed your expectations.

I have often reflected on the choices we made, not just as individuals but as parts of a greater whole. We found ourselves ensnared in a game of fate, where every decision came with the potential for both triumph and tragedy. It feels surreal to think about how we’ve both danced so closely to the edge without either of us truly realizing the risks until it was almost too late.

But tonight, the weight of our experiences ties me to a final truth—it is time to part ways. I never wanted this for any of us. I wished for a world where we could remain comrades in arms, facing whatever came our way together. But the reality is, we are confronted with a choice that may drive us apart, paths that lead us to separate destinies. You are meant for greatness, Gin. I see that so clearly. Your talent is unmatched, and you carry a potential that deserves to flourish, unburdened by the shadows that cling to me.

Her breath caught in her throat, a strangled gasp that echoed around her. Denial flickered like a flame struggling for life—no, this couldn’t be... He had promised—had sworn he would always come back to her. 

But as the letter unfolded outside the realm of rationality, time stilled around her. The implications—each one a hammer strike against her chest—demanded her attention whether she was ready or not. Her heart clawed desperately against the certainty creeping into her mind, the visceral recognition that the warmth of Chuuya’s laughter would never again fill the spaces around them.

No, she thought fiercely, heart racing and irrationality bubbling to the surface. He’s fine. This is a mistake. She read on, desperate for a reprieve, but the words, no matter how warm, became daggers, sharp and piercing.

As difficult as it is to acknowledge, I have come to terms with my own limitations. I fear that I am a dark cloud that may overshadow your brilliance. It’s hard to explain how that thought alone brings me to the brink of despair. You have fought so valiantly and still have the chance to carve a name for yourself in a world that, too often, forgets those who fall between the cracks of power and recognition.

If I had the strength, I would stand beside you as you rise to embrace your destiny. Perhaps it’s selfish of me to feel this way, but I want you to know that your journey matters to me. I don’t want it tarnished by someone like me who often feels lost and adrift. Trust that I believe in you wholeheartedly, and although it is difficult to say goodbye, it’s important to remember that my departure doesn’t lack admiration for you.

I cherish every moment we spent together—in battle and banter, in shared silences filled with understanding. I learned from you in ways I could never articulate. You drew out a ferocity in me I didn’t know existed, and it was exhilarating. Your spirit ignited flames of determination that, for a while, made me feel invincible.

I worry that I haven’t expressed my gratitude enough. Please know that every thought and consideration I have carried with me is steeped in appreciation for you. Your tenacity impressed upon me the importance of fighting for one’s beliefs. You taught me that there is elegance in fury. And so, I hope you find joy in what lies ahead, pursuing your dreams with an unyielding spirit.

If I may offer one final piece of advice: cherish the bonds you create, nurture the ones that bring you joy, and lean on those who care for you. Please know that I will be rooting for you from wherever I may be, brightening your path in whatever small way I can manage.

While I am saying goodbye—this is not an end to your story, but rather a chapter closed. I will always be glad to have walked alongside you, even if just for a few seasons. You have left an imprint on my life I have never forgotten.

Take care of yourself, my little sister Gin. May the winds guide you to where you are meant to be.

With sincerity and respect,

Chuuya

There it was, an unyielding truth that crushed her, a sudden vacuum where all the air had fled the room. Gin’s heart split like glass, and she felt herself teetering on the precipice of despair. It was at that moment, reality crashing down like an avalanche, that her façade crumbled. Gin’s breath hitched as she looked up at Akutagawa, his expression as immovable as stone. But his eyes—she could see the storms brewing in their depth.

He, too, was drowning.

Silence stretched between them, fractured only by the soft sound of her breathing as she began to tremble.

“Chuuya-san…” She murmured, the name slipping from her lips like a prayer, one infused with disbelief. Her hands began to shake, spiraling as the walls that had once felt sturdy began to crumble. “What has he done?”

The question was barely above a whisper, a threadbare remnant of hope that no longer had substance. She felt the world blur around her as tears welled up, spilling down her cheeks. Akutagawa stepped closer, his arms enveloping her, the warmth of his embrace a fragile lifeguard in an ocean of despair. But even as he held her, his form remained rigid, almost as though he too were afraid to fully surrender to the grief that was rising like a tide, merciless and all-consuming. The weight of reality pressed hard against her chest, and with each heartbeat, denial dwindled into a suffocating grief, dense and unapologetic. Gin found her voice, her body shaking with the force of her cries, a guttural sound full of pain and disbelief. She buried her face in Akutagawa’s shoulder, the warmth of his body both comforting and crushing as she tried to reconcile the impossible.

“I—I can’t...” She sobbed, each syllable erupting from her like a desperate plea, “He can’t be gone, Ryuu-nii. Not Chuuya-san.”

Akutagawa held her tighter, his own expression a tumultuous sea of emotions held behind a mask of stoicism. He made no attempt to silence her grief—instead, he became a conduit for her sorrow, absorbing the unbearable weight of her anguish. But what could he say to comfort her? There was no undoing, nothing unbecoming of a situation as impossible as this.

Gin’s cries turned into gasps as the full weight of their loss crushed her spirit, curling into Akutagawa’s arms as if seeking sanctuary from the unfolding chaos. She felt the ache settle deep in her bones, solidifying into a grief that was boundless yet completely foreign. Amidst the golden shafts of sunlight breaking over the horizon, they remained locked in an embrace, sharing their silence—a broken promise of a world continuing without Chuuya in it. The boundaries of disbelief twisted and frayed, merging into a grief that churned like the sea within them.

But there was no closure, only the infinite void where hope used to thrive.

[FOUR DAYS EARLIER] 

Hirotsu stepped out of the dim subway station, the harsh morning light catching him off guard. His uniform, still crisp and neatly pressed, was a remnant of his long shifts at the mafia. The streets of Yokohama were beginning to bustle, the early morning commuters flowing like rivers through the labyrinthine paths of the city. But Hirotsu’s mind was elsewhere, trapped in the memories of another sleepless night fueled by work and distant thoughts.

As he neared his doorstep, he noticed something out of place—a single piece of paper, white against the dark wood of his porch. Curious, he approached slowly, feeling an inexplicable weight in his chest. The letter was addressed to him, the neat handwriting unmistakably belonging to Chuuya. His heart raced—it was odd for Chuuya, his colleague and mentee, to send a letter. They rarely communicated outside the mafia—it was always quick texts or hurried phone calls between shifts. Hirotsu felt a tingle of unease creep up his spine. With trembling hands, he unfolded the letter. The folded paper was already creased from having been held too long or perhaps from the weight of the words contained within. As he read, his breath dwelled in his throat, and time seemed to shatter around him.

Hirotsu-san,

The letter began.

As I sit down to pour out the thoughts that have been brewing within me, I can hardly find the words that do justice to the whirlwind of emotions I’m feeling. It’s difficult to put a marker to this moment,  bittersweet intersection where gratitude meets sorrow.

You’ve always been so much more than just a mentor to me, Hirotsu-san. In a world blanketed b y shadows and uncertainties, you stood as a steadfast pillar of strength—a father figure in a milieu that often feels devoid of familial ties. I know the life we've chosen is fraught with danger and tribulations, yet you have always had this uncanny ability to see the flicker of hope even in the darkest corners of despair. Your unwavering belief in me fueled my own belief, as we both know that sometimes, our faith is the only weapon we have against the darkness that surrounds us.

As I reflect on our time together, it feels almost ephemeral. I remember the first time we met—I was young, brimming with anger and confusion, driven by a tumult of emotions I couldn’t shoulder. You welcomed me into your realm with an open heart, never once scorning my vulnerabilities. Instead, you guided me, taught me that being vulnerable isn’t a weakness—it's an intrinsic part of being human, something you knew I struggled with. All those lessons you imparted, whether through words or actions, remain etched in my memory, shaping the man I became.

You taught me about loyalty, honor, and the fleeting nature of life. Each story you shared resonated deeply with me, though I may not have always shown it. You fought tirelessly against the encroaching darkness, not just for yourself, but for all those you considered family. I admired your strength, even when it fragmented your soul. It made me realize that even amidst the bloodshed, it was your compassion and humanity that set you apart.

The moment comes now when I must take my leave from this life, and the thought weighs heavily on my heart. You deserve more than fleeting words crafted in desperation. Instead, I want you to know that because of you, I found parts of myself I feared were lost. You gave me the courage to embrace my own darkness and an avenue to fight against it. I take with me the lessons you've taught me as I step into the unknown. You showed me how to stand tall against adversities and how to wield my own darkness as a shield rather than a chain.

Please, Hirotsu-san, don’t think of this as a sad farewell. Instead, consider it a celebration of everything we have shared. Do you remember those long talks we’d have late into the night? The conversations that started as whispers and ended with laughter echoing against the walls? Those moments were bright lights, guiding me through darkness, pulling me back when I dared to stray. I savor those memories, a proof to our bond that goes beyond blood—woven from shared experiences and resilience.

It felt as though the air around him thickened with every word he read. The letter continued, each sentence feeling like a punch to the gut, each word marked by an insistent finality that Hirotsu could hardly grapple with.

As I take my final steps, I will carry forth your legacy. The lessons learned—combatting fear with hope, holding steadfast to honor when faced with betrayal, and cherishing the fleeting moments of joy—will continue to guide me. I chose this path, knowing it may consume me. I choose to face it head-on, armed with the love you’ve instilled within me.

Before I end this letter, let me leave you with one more thought. Life is a fleeting dance, and in this dance, you were my teacher. Though the music may have reached its crescendo and will soon silence, know that you will forever echo in the rhythm of my heart. Your influence will ripple across my choices and the legacy I leave behind.

Take care of yourself, Hirotsu-san, and protect those who still walk in the shadows. Your light remains vital to so many, and while I may be stepping away from the stage, there are still those who need your guidance.

Thank you for everything. You will forever be etched in my soul, a beacon guiding me through the dark.

With all my love and respect,

Chuuya

The letter was crisp and formal, punctuated by words that cut through him like shards of glass. He read it again, as if, by sheer will, he could rewrite the reality it contained. Chuuya would come bursting through the door any moment, half-exasperated, half-laughing, with some new scheme or misadventure to share.

But that was impossible.

He felt a mixture of denial and anger bubbling inside him, like a tire that had been punctured but refused to deflate. A death notice, in a roundabout and warm way, had stripped Chuuya of life in a few linear sentences. Hirotsu’s chest tightened, as if the very act of breathing had become an act of defiance against the cosmos that had taken a child who was more than just a protege. Chuuya had been a spark, a relentless force of youthful energy, a boy who had made the world feel larger and more vibrant than it truly was. The weight of memories tugged at him, moments shared over late-night assignments, the playful sparring sessions where Hirotsu would remind Chuuya to bend his knees, or the time he had scolded him for overusing his Ability on a risky job and exhausting himself. Those echoes filled the silence, bouncing off the walls of his mind, relentless and achingly vivid.

How had he failed Chuuya? How had he allowed this?

The phone rang, its shrill voice slicing through the stillness of the room. Mori-dono. Hirotsu braced himself, calmed his quaking hands, and answered with a professionalism that felt alien in this state of grief.

“Hirotsu-san.” Mori’s voice, intentionally devoid of emotion, got straight to the point, as was his way, “Chuuya-kun was found dead in his apartment this morning.”

A wave of cold acceptance washed over Hirotsu like a bitter tide threatening to drown him. The words settled in deeply, uninvited yet irrefutable. How could that be? Chuuya—full of fire—could not be reduced to a lifeless form, could not have simply ceased to exist. What had occurred when the sun rose, illuminating the world, and yet rendering his boy into shadows?

“I need to see him,” Hirotsu said, the fervor of a plea clawing at his voice.

Hirotsu traveled to the mafia headquarters like a man condemned, his body moving through the world but his mind lost in a fog of disbelief. Each step felt heavier, as if he were pulling the weight of the universe behind him. The polished floors of the headquarters shimmered in the morning light—so normal, so indifferent to the tragedy that had unfolded within its walls. When he entered the small, sterile room where Chuuya lay, it felt like stepping into another realm altogether. Hirotsu’s heart hammered in his chest, each beat a grim reminder of the life so easily extinguished, surely matching the rhythm of the others present in the room—Kouyou, the young siblings Chuuya mentored, the members of Black Lizard and Chuuya’s own personally trained subordinates.

The sight before him was a crushing blow.

Chuuya’s body lay motionless, a tragic juxtaposition to the vibrant youth that once filled him. The image of those lively eyes, so full of mischief and ambition, replaced by the pallor of death, struck Hirotsu with a force that knocked the air from his lungs. Grief wrapped around him like a dense fog, thickening the air and marring every breath with the absence of the boy he had tried so desperately to protect and guide. He sank to his knees, the world blurring around him as he reached out a shaking hand to touch Chuuya’s cheek, cold and devoid of life. It was a hollow form, stripped of spirit, of laughter, of everything that made Chuuya who he was.

And as the finality sank in, Hirotsu realized there would be no returning from this. The closure he sought, the last words left unsaid, would remain forever unfulfilled. Anger flared anew within him, hot and tumultuous—anger at the world that had swept Chuuya away, at the boy for not calling him that fateful night, at himself for never fully preparing to lose what he had cared for most. As he collapsed to the floor, engulfed in sorrow and the arms of someone he didn’t turn to look at, he knew he would have to carry this grief with him—a burden without respite, an ache that would never truly fade.

Chuuya was gone, leaving behind the echoes of laughter and the reminder of what was lost in every quiet moment that followed, binding Hirotsu to a reality forever altered.

[PRESENT]

The rain tapped a steady rhythm against the window, a haunting echo in the silence that enveloped Chuuya’s apartment.

Dazai Osamu had taken a seat on the worn-out couch, eyes glued to the wall, and mind wandering aimlessly in an abyss of numbness. The air, thick with despair, weighed heavily on his chest, and around him, the ghost of Chuuya haunted every corner and shadow. Dazai had realized the truth hours ago, each thought stamping down harder than the last until he felt a crushing weight in his heart. Chuuya was dead—lost to a world that had never seemed fitting for someone so vibrant. Each moment passed in agonizing disbelief, and yet he couldn’t shake the absurdity of it all. They had fought side by side, bantered relentlessly, and navigated the ugly terrain of their lives together. To think it had all amounted to this—Chuuya’s absence—was unfathomable.

He couldn’t remain still any longer.

With the weight of grief embedded in his bones, Dazai finally forced himself off the couch, shaking away the lethargy that threatened to entrap him forever. He needed to move, to breathe. This apartment, once vibrant with Chuuya’s laughter and teasing remarks, had become a mausoleum. Dazai made his way toward the bedroom, his heart aching with every step. The soft lighting was dim, casting long shadows across the bed where they had shared countless moments, both trivial and profound. He found himself drawn to the closet—a peculiar instinct urging him forward.

It was a strange impulse, but in the haze of his grief, he didn’t question it.

He opened the closet door, a small creak echoing in the silence. Dust danced in the subdued light as he stepped inside, shoving aside clothes that smelled faintly of Chuuya’s cologne—the scent still lingering within the fibers, a cruel reminder of a presence now gone. Dazai rummaged through the chaos, cords entangled with shirts, and his fingers brushed over something small and foreign. As he pulled at it, a dislodged area of a shelf collapsed, and in a flurry of surprise, he stumbled backward. He caught himself against the thin wall of the closet, breath stuttering, and there it was— the box Chuuya had mentioned, the one he’d forgotten about.

The one that held their memories. 

He knelt down, pulled the box into the light, and sat amidst the scattered clothes on the floor, oblivious to the world outside. The box was unremarkable—a simple wooden structure with scratches and a dulled surface, holding all the moments of a time when life had seemed both mundane and extraordinary. He hesitated for a moment, fingers tracing the edges before lifting the lid. Inside were mementos—the little fragments of their shared existence that were too potent to fit anywhere else: photographs from their misadventures, hastily scribbled notes tossed between them, an old ticket stub from a kabuki show they had attended together and almost gotten kicked out of. 

Each item bled memories, flooding his mind—a kaleidoscope of laughter, fights, moments of silence that spoke louder than words. With every piece he lifted, something within Dazai deepened, a realization slowly dawning on him. Grief, in its rawest form, had ebbed to the surface. This was grief in its purest form, a tumultuous tide rising, overwhelming in its familiarity but beautifully horrible in its intensity.

One photograph caught his eye, his heart lurching inexplicably as he drew closer to it. It was a snapshot from a summer long past—faded yet flamboyant. The image was creased in the middle, a disciplined scar that spoke of nostalgia, but the exuberance radiating from it was inextinguishable. 

In the photograph, Chuuya stood beside him, his eyes sparkling with a youthful exuberance that Dazai had always yearned to see. Beneath the brilliant glow of fireworks, Chuuya’s laughter had rang out, vibrant and pure. Dazai remembered that day well, the way the warmth of the redhead intertwined with the kiss of firework smoke, igniting the horizon in hues of red and gold while washing away the ordinariness of life. He could almost hear Chuuya’s carefree laughter now, echoing in his mind, a melody that played on repeat as he relived the moment. His thoughts spiraled back to the absurdity he had concocted to elicit that joy. Staring up at the effervescent explosions blooming overhead, he had felt an overwhelming urge to make Chuuya laugh, to capture that glimmer of delight that charmed him so entirely.

In his mind, he’d imagined himself mirroring the colors of the sky, each laugh anchoring him to the fleeting moment.

Dazai could still see himself spinning around, arms extended, declaring himself a ‘human rocket.’ It was ridiculous, this whimsical façade, bordering on shameful, yet his heart had swelled with an odd mixture of pride and mischief. The moment he stumbled into that bush, toppling over like a sack of potatoes, he remembered the glassy-eyed amusement that shifted over Chuuya’s face. Those beautiful scarlet locks danced in the air around him, his ocean eyes filled with twin storms, illuminated by the fireworks, and the sight had brought forth an irresistible warmth inside Dazai’s chest—a longing mixed with pure joy, underscored by an ever-looming sense of impermanence.

Chuuya’s laughter had blended with the boisterous sounds of the festival, a melody that felt like the universe was cheering him on. He had realized in that heartbeat of clarity that Chuuya was the sun, shining brilliantly and illuminating everything dark and desolate around him. Dazai had an affinity for trouble, for the discomfort of the shadows, yet there, in the light of Chuuya’s laughter, he found himself yearning for the warmth of the sun.

Lost in thought, Dazai let himself touch the photograph gently.

It felt like a talisman, a portal to memories that shimmered beneath the contours of laughter. This slice of time was a gravity that drew him closer to Chuuya, taming his tumultuous heartbeats while urging him to bend closer to the light. Each laugh they had shared, every moment of delight, was a treasure he wished to keep close, a battle against the haunting passage of time. Dazai remembered the teasing aura that had enveloped them that day, that fierce understanding of each other only they held. It was a silent vow that through everything—death, chaos, or darkness—they would endure.

But now, one had fallen, and the other stood alone, adrift in a sea of sorrow.

Cracks drifted in Dazai’s chest where a heart was supposed to be, uninvited yet cathartic, as he recalled Chuuya’s laughter and the way his eyes would light up, captivating and dangerous all at once. Each moment surrendered painfully to the void, but in that small closet, with shadows wrapping around him, he felt connected to Chuuya in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to feel until now.

“Damn it, Chuuya,” He whispered into the cavern of sadness that encased him, the words coming out choked and coarse, “You fool. You shouldn’t have left like this.”

He held the photograph tightly, his grief transforming into something else—something chaotic, uncontrolled. It enveloped him, swirling around as he remained still in the echo of their shared laughter. Suddenly, he chuckled softly—a bittersweet sound borne of pain and nostalgia. His thumb brushed over the photograph’s surface, tracing the outlines of smiles that once thrived. They had always thrived on chaos, on the edge of danger, yet here he was, now ensnared by silence more tumultuous than any fight they had ever faced. Dazai placed the photograph gingerly on the floor beside him and glanced at the scattered remnants of Chuuya’s life that remained—the clothes draped over the shelves, the old laptop that seemed to hum with untold stories, and the forgotten candle that still exuded a faint scent. There was an underlying sterile scent enveloping some of the things, but Dazai didn’t want to dwell on that particular fact, he simply couldn’t.

It was the stack of letters below the charm that drew him in next. Each envelope was addressed to him, their edges slightly frayed, as if they had been held too tightly by someone who could no longer hold on.

To,

Mackerel.

It began, sparking a sharp ache in his heart. He reached for the top letter and unfolded it numbly. Chuuya’s familiar scrawl greeted him, sharp but fluid, every stroke carrying the weight of unfiltered emotion. As he read, he felt as if Chuuya were right there beside him, speaking reverberating truths that both soothed and twisted his heart.

July 3rd .

You don’t know the chaos that ensues when you leave an empty chair at the table. I suppose I should start from the beginning, though I’m not sure how to untangle these feelings of rage, hurt, and disbelief. It’s been weeks since you vanished from my life, and yet the serrated edges of that void cut deeper each day.

Anger consumes me every moment since the day you decided to turn your back. Each morning, I wake up expecting to find you sprawled across the couch, that bemused expression plastered on your face as if the world were a grand joke, while I’m stuck here as the punchline. How could you? After everything we’ve been through, I thought we had something—something worth fighting for. My fists clench at my sides whenever I think of your calm demeanor amidst the storm you left behind. Were you always this calculated, or did I just never bother to notice? What were you hoping to achieve by leaving me here to face the fallout alone? Why didn’t you take me with you? With each passing day, the shadows of betrayal loom larger, wrapping around me with a suffocating ferocity— a darkness I once believed you could help illuminate.

At first, I imagined confronting you, if you ever appeared in front of me again, screaming at the top of my lungs, demanding to know how you could abandon everything we built. The countless hours spent in battles, the laughter shared in quiet corners of chaos—did they mean nothing to you? My rage is like a fire, boiling and blistering, consuming everything in its path. I could spew venomous words in a torrent, accusing you of cowardice, of selfishness, yet somehow, the very thought of voicing that anger feels almost laughably futile. What was once my fiercest weapon has dulled into something more complex, complicated by the ache of loss that weighs heavy on my heart.

Dazai closed his eyes momentarily, absorbing Chuuya’s frustration. He could almost hear the bite in that voice, the fuming passion that utilized anger to mask fear. But the anger dissipated as he read further, revealing the depths of Chuuya's heart. 

I want to hate you, you shitty bastard. I want to condemn your choices and everything they’ve cost us—the plans unfulfilled, the battles lost without you, the silence where there should be noise. But instead, I find myself missing your presence—the sound of your laughter, the weight of your words that challenged me, the cleverness in your schemes that pulled me from the brink time and time again. I want to tear apart the mask of indifference I’ve worn since you left, but every time I think of you, I’m only reminded of the undeniable bond we forged in the fires of chaos. You’ve left an emptiness that echoes, a haunting reminder of what could have been. Every friend, every ally, every moment is a cruel reminder of the absence you’ve imposed upon my life.

Dazai felt a lump form in his throat, self-condemnation creeping in like a thief in the night. He could almost perceive Chuuya’s tumultuous emotions curling around him, ranting against those choices he had made, and he couldn’t help but recall every moment spent together within the underbelly of Yokohama, where chaos sizzled in their veins. His heart thundered as he read the weight of Chuuya's spirit transformed beyond anger into cold bitterness, punctuated with vulnerability that echoed in every word. 

This letter isn’t a plea for you to return. Make no mistake, I’m not seeking your absolution or your promises, though I doubt you will ever read this. I have no desire to reopen those wounds or to chase after a ghost who willingly severed our ties with nothing but a blown-up car. No—this letter is a testament to the chasm you’ve carved in my heart. Each day, as I sit at the table set for one, I feel the bite of isolation creeping in alongside a bittersweet nostalgia for a time when we were so much more than fragmented memories.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds, and I don’t know if we’ll ever share a table again. But know this, Dazai—your absence has left behind scars that won’t heal easily. You’ve shaped my world in ways I can’t yet comprehend, and the echoes of your choices will linger long after this letter is sent. Perhaps one day I’ll find the clarity to forgive you; perhaps I won’t. Either way, the emptiness remains, a testament to the life we once lived side by side.

The seat remains perpetually empty, and I suppose it always will be.

Dazai found himself staring blankly at the words, every phrase conspiring against him. How could I do this? He thought, burying his face in his hands, wishing, for one fragile moment, that he could turn back time and rewrite their fate. The letters were a mirror reflecting the demons he had fought relentlessly within himself, showing him a Chuuya he had betrayed in both heart and action. Dazai drew in a shaky breath, the air heavy with unspoken words and halted moments. He picked up another letter, desperate to immerse himself deeper into Chuuya’s thoughts, the last of him he had. 

July 17th .

This is not anger anymore—it’s a simmering frustration at the absurdity of it all. I’ve cooled off a bit, I suppose. What good is it to lash out, to scream into the void? The initial fire coursing through my veins has dulled, just as the vibrant flames of autumn yield to the chilling breath of winter. I can’t deny the anger is still there; it’s just evolved. Perhaps you’ve grown tired of my intensity. The stubborn red of fury gives way to the muted colors of annoyance and confusion, a palette I didn’t think would ever replace the vividness of my rage. I want to understand your choices, but I find myself stuck in this whirlwind of emotions that refuse to fuse together into a coherent thought, spiraling around me like the leaves caught in an unforgiving gust.

You know me too well to assume I would easily forget our moments. They linger, sharp yet faded, like photographs yellowing with time. I find myself thinking about you unexpectedly—everywhere I go, fragments of our time together surface uninvited. I recall the way your laughter used to fill the air, vibrant and carefree as it bounced off the old, cracked walls of our hideouts. Your lopsided grin would appear whenever you took a jab at my temper, an irritation that was, in retrospect, strangely comforting. I despised it then; I craved your sly comments like some twisted form of companionship, a familiar rhythm amidst the chaos of our world.

Dazai swallowed hard, his chest tightening. He could almost hear Chuuya’s voice in those words, feel the warmth of his temper and the tenderness that lay just beneath it. He shifted, sinking into the solitude of the floor as he continued reading, the world outside blurring into a backdrop of rain and despair.

I’ve done everything I could to distract myself, to avoid feeling this emptiness that settled into my bones like the damp fog that clings to the morning streets. I turned to work, threw myself into battles with reckless abandon, and sought out company wherever I could. But my efforts have been met with disappointment; seeking company has become tedious. Conversations lack depth, and laughter feels hollow, echoing against the walls of my hollow heart. No one compares—not that I’d want them to. They don’t ignite the same spark, nor do they carry the weight of our shared burdens. They don’t understand me like you do—like I thought you did, at least.

Was it all just a game to you, Dazai? Am I merely another chapter in your inherent chaos, destined to be discarded when it no longer serves your plan? Or did you build our bond on the shaky ground of trust that you knew would eventually crumble? The uncertainty gnaws at the edges of my mind. I miss arguing with you, the verbal sparring that somehow felt like a dance. I realize now how much I welcomed the challenge; your presence was a tether to my sanity, a reminder that I wasn’t as alone as I often think.

Dazai’s heart sank further.

He felt as if he were peering over an abyss, the depths unfathomable and hauntingly familiar. Chuuya’s words struck like bitter arrows, hitting their mark with painful precision. He had convinced himself that walking away without Chuuya would alleviate the burden on both of them—especially when, according to his (wrong, wrong, wrong, proven wrong) calculations, Chuuya wouldn’t follow after him anyways, but now he realized how tragically wrong he was. 

It's strange, isn’t it? To find comfort in chaos, to seek clarity amid confusion. I thought I understood you—your brilliant, twisted mind and your inclination to walk the line between darkness and light. Yet here I am, placed on the other side of that line, grappling with shadows of a past I can’t shake off. I guess the roots of our bond run deeper than I realized.

I’ll end this before I start rambling, before these thoughts spiral out of control more than they already have. I’ll attempt to piece myself back together while I aim for understanding that may never come. I hope you're doing well in whatever absurd endeavor has taken you.

Take care of yourself, Dazai. I’d like to believe you have someone watching your back, even if it can’t be me anymore.

The letter trailed off, leaving Dazai engulfed in an overwhelming swirl of emotions—regret, sorrow, love tangled intricately in a tapestry of what-ifs. He swallowed thickly against the tightness in his throat as he leaned back, staring blankly at the wall, dimly aware of the storm raging in his heart.

“Why did I have to be such a coward?” He whispered, fingers trembling as he traced the elegant cursive of Chuuya’s handwriting, “I should have known better.”

Dazai fell into a spiraling silence, where bitter laughter threatened to erupt. What a joke it was—he, a man who had always danced on the edge of life and death, had let the most vital connection slip through his fingers like sand. Chuuya had been the anchor he never knew he needed, and now that very anchor was adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Sighing, he placed the letter down and picked another, fist clenched at his side. The rain continued to fall, a steady rhythm that mirrored the anguish of his own heart. It was a strange thing, these letter—so incredibly simple yet brimming with weight. The scent of rain lingered in the air, mixing with the faint trace of cigars and dust. As he opened the third letter, Chuuya’s neat scrawl pulled him into a world of vulnerability that he wasn’t sure he could keep on confronting.

August 26th.

I find myself numb sometimes—alive, yes, but feeling utterly hollow. It’s a peculiar sensation, a void that settles deep in my chest, so profound that I often wonder whether I’ve truly lost something, or if I had never possessed it in the first place. Your absence strikes me sharper than any blade; it cuts through the veil of nonchalance I forge for the world to see, laying bare my vulnerabilities beneath the fluorescent glow of street lamps and the indifferent stares of passersby.

Each day bleeds into the next, a monochrome landscape devoid of the vibrancy you painted with your presence. I’m tired of pretending to be okay—of putting on a brave face and enduring the weight of the silence that fills the spaces you once occupied. How disorienting it is to sit in that silence, your voice echoing in my mind like a fading melody, memories tumbling around like leaves caught in a relentless wind. Every insult, every playful jab, every moment of companionship we shared dances in my memory, yet here I am, alone. I wish I could shake it off, to find solace in the bustling crowds or bury myself in work, but the quiet only dulls my senses further, making each day feel like a thousand lifetimes repeating in somber monotony.

In the shadows of this apartment, where once we plotted, laughed, and even fought, the atmosphere feels charged with your ghost. Your absence seeps into the walls, whispering secrets meant only for us, and it drives me mad. I hear you sometimes, in quiet corners of my mind—the sound of your laughter that nudged me to the brink of madness, or the way your eyes sparkled with mischief before executing yet another outrageous plan that somehow worked. There’s a continual tightness in my chest, and with each beat, I’m reminded of us, the unlikely bond we forged amid this darkness. I can’t help but question my sanity—am I going insane, or is this grief for something that perhaps never really was?

Memories flooded to the surface—Chuuya laughing with abandon, that fierce fire in his eyes when he fought, his quiet dedication to protect those he loved. Dazai had once stood shoulder to shoulder with him, feeling invincible under the weight of their bond. And now it felt like he had extinguished that light, lost in his own desires.

You were supposed to be the one to hold me together, Chuuya, he thought into the desolate space. The soft patter of rain mingled with the fervor of his thoughts, reminding him of the times they would share coffee here, in this very apartment, laughing over the trivialities of life while plotting their next chaotic heist. The air was once electric with energy, yet now it felt devoid of purpose.

Do you even care, Dazai, from where you are? Or am I just a fleeting memory, tossed aside like your old coats, remnants of a past you were never particularly fond of? Sometimes I catch myself staring at the blurry photographs—the ones of the two of us, caught in perfect moments frozen in time, smiles defying the chaos surrounding us. I wonder if you look at them too, or if you carelessly pushed them aside, forgetting the spirals of fate that led us to those points.

You’ve always seemed to have a way with moving on, like a cat that always lands on its feet, while I remain trapped in this labyrinth of choices. The people we once fought alongside are still moving forward, but I feel anchored, suspended in this limbo between what was and what is. It’s as if the world continues to spin around me, unfazed, while I become a mere observer in my own life—an echo of laughter in a world bereft of its spark.

As he contemplated the pain behind Chuuya’s words, Dazai’s mind began to spiral into self-loathing. The moment he had walked away from the mafia, he thought he was choosing freedom, fulfilling Oda’s last wish for him.

But freedom without Chuuya was simply a gilded cage, beautiful and cruel.

I spend my nights tracing constellations on the ceiling, whispering your name into the void, hoping that somewhere, somehow, my words will reach you. I’ve grown adept at pretending; I wear the mask of indifference so well that even I forget what’s underneath. But the truth seeps out in uneven breaths, in the way I clench my fists when the memories threaten to drown me.

There are moments when I wish I could forget you, to sever this invisible thread that binds my heart to yours, but I know that would be an impossible task. You were the flaming comet that crossed my sky, brilliant and fleeting, leaving a trail of light that now serves as a haunting reminder of what once was.

Perhaps one day, I will find a path back to equilibrium, but for now, I wait in this silence, trying to desperately survive with the weight of my own solitude.

“Oh, the irony,” He murmured bitterly, “To think I managed to escape but broke your heart doing so.”

He clutched the letter tightly, as if physically holding onto Chuuya’s feelings would somehow mend the void inside him. The rain outside intensified, mirroring the torrential tide of his emotions. It felt surreal to sit in a room marked by their shared moments, slowly being overtaken by the reality of their irrevocable separation.

With increasingly trembling hands, he picked the next letter. 

November 20th.

Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me that numbness would transition to grief. When you departed, it felt like a gaping void opened within me, stretching endlessly in all directions. I often catch myself wondering how I could have let someone like you infiltrate my heart, only for you to walk away so easily. Was it my hubris that allowed you in? Or perhaps a foolish optimism that convinced me our bond was unbreakable? Some days, I feel utterly bereft—not just of your presence, but of what we might have become.

I still wake up in the morning, squinting against the first rays of sunlight, hoping it was all a figment of my imagination. I search the sky for a sign, anything that could bring us back together. The way the clouds drift in the azure canvas often reminds me of how effortlessly you moved through my life, weaving chaos and clarity in equal measure. Yet, it remains a cruel and painful reminder, a living testament that those beautiful moments are now tucked away in a corner of my mind labeled as my ‘past’.

The mornings have grown heavier without you. The empty chair across the table seems to taunt me. I find myself replaying the days leading up to your defection, searching for clues, pieces that might make sense of it all. Did I miss something? Were the cracks already present, just waiting for enough pressure before shattering? Was it the very thing that drew me to you—the unpredictable storms that swirled around your soul—that ultimately sent you sailing away?

Tears blurred his vision that he viciously blinked back, and he leaned forward, resting his head against the cool surface of the shelf. Guilt gnawed at him like a relentless parasite. How could he have thought it would be easier this way? He couldn’t remember the last time his devotion to Chuuya had waned, but in that very moment, he felt like the cruelest villain in his own story.

Why did I think I had to do this alone? He lamented, wishing for Chuuya’s presence to drown out the silence that enveloped him. He could almost picture him there, a scowl on his face yet a warmth in his gaze. But that was just a ghost now—flickering shadows that danced tantalizingly out of reach.

I still remember the way you would lean against the wall, that half-smirk playing on your lips, your eyes seemingly alight with secrets only you were privy to, daring me to guess what lay behind them. I thought I was brave enough to match that charm with my own bravado, to dive headfirst into the depths of your ambiguity. Now, I realize I might have been too naive, too caught up in the spark of it all, blind to the inevitable storm.

It’s unsettling, evolving from the anger I felt at your decision to this aching hollowness that seems to echo endlessly in my chest. There are nights when I find myself pacing the confines of my room, anger simmering beneath the surface. I want to scream—at you, at myself, at the absurdity of it all. The embodiment of our shared memories feels almost like a tangible ghost, floating in the air, whispering fragments of laughter and warmth that mock my current solitude.

Sometimes, I wonder if you think of me at all.

Do you glance back down the path we walked together, or has it already faded from your memory like a half-remembered dream? I can’t seem to shake the feeling that our story was supposed to veer off into something more, something profound—an adventure etched into the fabric of our lives. Instead, it feels like a cruel joke, a plot twist I never saw coming.

Outside, the storm raged on, an unending accompaniment to the grief swelling inside him. Every drop of rain painted a face of sorrow that he could never erase. The letter nearly slipped from his fingers, yearning for a response that he was too broken to provide. Even in this solitude, there was an undeniable truth—he could not forget. He was left with the harrowing knowledge that he had shattered the bond that meant more to him than anything in the world.

If you ever feel the weight of loss as I do, I hope you find the courage to confront it. But I’m not writing this for you to respond; this may just be my final farewell to whatever flicker of connection remains between us. Time will continue its merciless march forward, and with each passing day, I find that I’m changing just as much as I’m standing still. Perhaps someday, I’ll look back at all of this with a sense of acceptance. Until then, I’ll carry the remnants of us with me—a bittersweet souvenir of the light that once filled my life.

He felt like an exiled king in a castle of memories.

Dazai understood that the worst kind of loneliness wasn’t the absence of someone physically, but the haunting awareness that their heart—once entwined with yours—now beat in a different rhythm, a silence too heavy to bear. With rain as his only witness, he grieved for the love that had slipped through his fingers, hoping that somehow, he could find a way back to Chuuya, or somehow bring Chuuya back to him.

With tremors wracking his body practically useless, Dazai held the last letter in his hands, his heart heavy and his mind an uncontrolled storm in the reality he found himself in.

March 22nd.

It has been three long years since I last put pen to paper in your name, three years filled with silence that echoed louder than words. The day you left without me, I felt as if the ground had been ripped from beneath me, a cruel act that left me adrift in a sea of shock and confusion. I am sorry for what transpired, for the blame I placed on you. Only now do I understand the weight of your choices, the cruel hand that fate dealt you. Mori twisted your loyalties, forced your hand by killing your only friend—perhaps someone you actually looked towards as family—reduced you to a pawn in a wicked game. You were forced to make a decision that broke you, just as it broke me.

I should have seen it coming, I should have been there for you, standing firm against the chaos, but I was too consumed by my own disbelief and anger to notice your suffering. When I dug deep into the records secretly a while ago, hoping to uncover what happened to you, it felt like clawing through the ashes of a fire that still burned within me.

Dazai’s heart sank. He had thought leaving would shield Chuuya from the cruel machinations of Mori, who had played them like puppets in a tragic theater. Dazai believed that by stepping away, he was protecting the one alive person he cared for. But realizing that Chuuya felt the sting of abandonment worse than he predicted twisted like a blade in his chest.

The rain intensified, each drop a reminder of his solitude.

I want you to know that I miss you, Shitty Mackerel. I wake each day wrapped in the memories of our laughter, the fierce skirmishes that always masked our deeper connection. Yet here I am, grappling with a reality where you are an absent presence—a ghost that fades in and out of my life. I wouldn’t dare ask you to come back, especially not with the clarity that this knowledge brings.

There was a gnawing ache in Dazai’s chest. Each stroke of Chuuya’s pen sent ripples through his heart, awakening emotions he had buried deep under layers of self-deprecation. He had thought he would find peace outside the mafia, but the truth was far more harrowing. Chuuya had infused life into his world, and now, without him, it felt like a monochromatic wasteland.

Oh, how I wish for a time machine.

The letter continued, and Dazai’s breath hitched.

One that can take me back to unravel the threads of fate that entangled us so cruelly. I wouldn’t change a single moment we shared—I would only change that day, the day that marked our parting. The more I fought these feelings festering within me, the more they mutated into something unrecognizable—a yearning that stretches beyond the fierce edges of my pride. I find myself wrapped in tenderness, vulnerability cloaked in longing.

With this last letter of mine to you, I seek no pretense, no misplaced expectations. I accept that you might never read these words—this might merely exist as a fragment of my soul etched upon paper. But I must say it, let it seep into the silence that has lingered between us. My feelings for you transformed, matured, deepened into something bittersweet, the kind of sentiment that aches lovingly. Yes, I have fallen for you, Dazai Osamu, my Mackerel, and I long for you with a desperation that consumes me in the quiet of the night and in the bustle of the day.

Dazai’s vision blurred as he blinked away unshed tears. He longed to hear Chuuya’s voice—tremulous and passionate—sharing unguarded emotions, revealing the depths of his heart. But the truth hung like a specter, haunting him as he continued to read.

But a confession changes nothing, does it?

I stand on this precipice, feeling the weight of unreciprocated affection between us, knowing full well that these words are tethered to a past that cannot be rewritten. You may never see this letter, never need to bear the burden of my heart laid bare. This is not a plea for your return, nor a desperate call to action. It is a farewell to the dreams that slipped beyond our grasp, whispers of affection, and memories that can only play out in vacant spaces.

Dazai’s breath quickened, the weight of those words bearable and unbearable all at once. They pressed upon him, wrapping around his lungs like a vise, squeezing out his breath. Beneath the finality lay an ocean of emotions—sadness, regret, longing. It was the truth; Chuuya’s confession could not alter the fabric of time, it could not undo the pain, the separation, their broken paths. Tears streamed down Dazai’s face before he realized they were ever there as he shook, the letter clutched in his grasp, teardrops fluttering to the floor like discarded dreams.

He felt raw and exposed, as if the very foundation of his being had crumbled away.

In closing, I hold one solitary wish for you.

Wherever your path has led you within the agency, whatever family you have forged in this new chapter of your life, I genuinely hope that you are well. You deserve happiness, and if that means living without me, then I will take solace in the thought of your smile, even if it is from afar.

Forever and always,

Your Slug.

Those last words were both a balm and a dagger.

Dazai dropped his head in anguish, completely overwhelmed. Cherished memories flooded his mind, tainted with sorrow. He had thought leaving would free Chuuya from pain, but he now realized how selfish his decision had been. How could he have left all of that behind? Dazai couldn’t help but deprecate himself even further. With tears blurring his vision, he clutched his chest, as if he could hold his heart together. He had always walked the line between life and death, weaving through existential thoughts, and yet, in that moment, he realized he was utterly lost without Chuuya. The vibrant world had dulled to a monochrome existence—because Chuuya was gone, gone gone gone—, and the weight of his choices crashed down with the force of a thousand storms.

Dazai curled into himself, sobbing quietly, wrestling with the torrent of emotions in his heart. Each sob felt like a betrayal—against Chuuya, against himself for leaving, for failing to protect the person he loved most.

Outside, the rain continued to pour, relentless and unforgiving. It danced upon the windows and enveloped the world outside in shades of gray. The chill seeped through the walls, curling around Dazai like an unwelcome ghost, mimicking the freezing sensation that had settled in his heart. It was a requiem for two souls—one permanently snuffed out, the other mourning the loss of something precious. Here, amidst the quiet despair, Dazai grappled with the heavy fog of memories that filled the small space. 

He sat on the wooden floor, surrounded by scattered papers, remnants of a long-gone love and photographs that no longer held simple joy for him. Each picture offered a glimpse of a life that had once been vibrant, now muted by sorrow. Chuuya’s laughing face was intermingled with sepia-toned snapshots of their adventures, moments forever sealed in his mind yet painfully out of reach. They had walked through hard rain together, fingers brushing, their laughter resonating above the downpour. How was it possible that he was sitting here alone, burdened by the absence of the man who had filled those mundane days with electric thrill and uncontained passion?

Dazai’s palms rested against the floor, fingers splayed, as he recalled that fateful day when he had left, hesitant to leave Chuuya but unwilling to stay, unraveling the threads of their lives just when they had begun to weave a tapestry of something. And now, Dazai’s heart bled from wounds that refused to heal. He had escaped the underworld, but in fleeing, he had lost the very essence that made him whole. The jagged edges of his heart cut deeper with each passing moment. 

Within the storm, an abandoned shipwreck of an idea emerged.

His thoughts spiraled back to a case he had once worked, a young Ability user trapped within the machinations of a mindless organization. In a fleeting moment of desperation, Dazai drew a parallel—perhaps it was possible to reverse the impossible. Perhaps he could bring Chuuya back. The idea was reckless, tangled in an intoxicating desperation, yet underneath lay a flicker of something that had long been snuffed out—hope.

With renewed determination, Dazai pushed off the floor and began to search the apartment, rummaging through clutter. His heart raced as he sifted through the mundane, almost desperate to find a lifeline that connected him to bringing this plan to fruition without a hitch. And then, amidst the heap of books and forgotten trinkets from their escapades, he spotted it—the cracked phone, dusty yet functional. Dazai grasped it, his pulse quickening, and dialed the number etched into his mind like many others. Memories flooded back as each ring echoed in the hollow silence of the apartment, moments spent with Chuuya chasing rain-soaked dreams and indulging in impulsive laughter—a juxtaposition to the darkness that now engulfed his heart.

“Come on, answer…”

The final ring came to a chilling end, and a silence fell that was deafening, leaving Dazai with nothing but the sound of rain spilling against the window, an unyielding reminder of his heartache. Just as he was about to hang up, the number called back and Dazai, without missing a beat, picked it up. A familiar voice broke through. A voice that stirred echoes of a hope Dazai thought to be long diminished.

“Dazai?”

The very sound of the voice sent a jolt of anticipation through him, like a flare igniting the dark skies. It was almost too real, this reckless undoing Dazai was about to do. He felt the warmth of longing encircle him, as though Chuuya were right there, dripping with rainwater, grinning mischievously. The ghost of a laugh that only he had ever provoked danced in his ears. And with these thoughts swirling in his mind like a museum of precious displays, Dazai strengthened his resolve, and made a decision.

He breathed, his voice thin, “Ranpo-san, I need your help.”

Chapter Text

Chuuya was perched on the edge of his bed.

The dim room around him was steeped in an air of quiet contemplation. A narrow band of sunlight crept across the floor, spilling a warm glow that barely illuminated the starkness of his cramped apartment. The walls stood bare, with only a handful of framed photographs marking the presence of friendships long faded, each a token of connections that once filled his life with laughter and warmth. Outside, the sky was unfurling its evening canvas, a blend of golden and lavender that starkly contrasted the shadows curling in on his heart.

In his hands rested several letters, their ink slightly blurred from the weight of time and regret. Each sheet was an elegy of what might have been—a tribute to friends lost, a potential love never realized, a brief encounter that flickered and vanished like a dying star. Chuuya had admired the captivating sunsets many times before, always entranced by their beauty and delicate artistry. However, tonight, the serene view only deepened his sense of isolation, filling him with a disquieting emptiness. He battled the tempest of thoughts swirling in his mind—a relentless tide of disillusionment that had amassed over the years, each disappointment stacking upon the other like burdensome stones, suffocating him beneath the weight of dreams that slipped silently away and affections unreciprocated.

He had reached his limit.

With a firm resolve, he rose from the bed and stepped out of his apartment. The hallway greeted him with its musty scent of mold and decay, a fitting backdrop for the echo of memories that loomed overhead. As he descended the stairwell, his footsteps resonated in the hollow space, amplifying the solitude that enveloped him. He made his way to the nearest post office, the passage of time feeling detached and dreamlike, as if he floated through a world numbed by his own thoughts. The chill of the evening air barely registered, nor did the faint song of the city beyond; everything felt blurred and distant as he slipped the letters into the mailbox, one by one. Each insertion carried with it a mixture of liberation and suffocating dread. He could almost visualize the faces of those he was addressing—flashes of warmth intersecting with shadows of pain, a bittersweet tableau that spooled in and out of focus in his mind.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, the words escaping his lips like an unpracticed prayer.

Minutes or perhaps hours later, Chuuya sat in the dim light of his bathroom, the weight of the day’s burdens stripping him down to his raw self. Shadows flickered across the tiled walls like fleeting memories, and the air was thick with the scent of dampness and regret. He had just returned from sending his letters—a simple act that felt more final than any of his previous goodbyes. He let the coldness of the tub seep into him, every droplet of water whispering the echoes of solitude.

He had peeled off his shirt, the fabric falling away to expose skin that yearned to be touched and understood. The faded jeans had slid down too, remnants of a past he fought hard to protect—a past that now felt like chains tightening around his heart. With the dagger clasped firmly in hand, he reflected on its sheen, a deceptive glimmer in the gloom, reminiscent of the tumult that churned inside him. Chuuya had always been both fighter and lover, but today, he struggled against the demons clawing at his mind.

More than mere steel, the dagger was a companion, a bond forged in the fires of desperation and pain. It represented the fierce battles he fought—not just against enemies, but against the very essence of existence that threatened to consume him. Memories of betrayal and heartbreak swirled in his mind, creating a storm that seeped into his bones. Friends lost, loves abandoned, all crumbled under the weight of choices he had not made, yet bore the consequences of.

He pressed the cold blade against his wrist, a choice born from exhaustion and a yearning for the silence that anonymity offered. Just as he steeled himself to cross the threshold between existence and oblivion, the sharp crash of his bathroom door shattered the dense fog of despair enveloping him.

“Chuuya!”

The voice, urgent and piercing, sliced through the oppressive shadows in the cramped space. Dazai Osamu, the bane of Chuuya’s existence and the owner of his heart, burst into the small sanctuary, his presence surging with a tumultuous energy that seemed to fill every inch of the room. Time froze—disbelief hung thick in the air as Dazai stood there, wide-eyed, struggling to process the fact that Chuuya was still alive.

“What in the hell are you doing here?”

Chuuya’s tone was sharp, fueled by shock and a seething anger. His heart raced—not just from the initial fury but also from an undeniable wave of relief washing over him. He had not anticipated any visitors, let alone an interruption to his resolve against the world. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Dazai lunged forward, dropping to his knees in front of Chuuya. His hands reached up, gripping Chuuya’s shoulders with an intensity that conveyed desperation. In that charged moment, the outside world faded away, and the air crackled with an unspoken bond binding them together.

“Wha–what the hell are you doing, you bastard?!” Chuuya’s voice wavered, torn between the instinct to shove Dazai away and the deep, aching longing for him to remain so close.

It was a surprising vulnerability that unfolded within him, as Dazai enveloped him in his fierce embrace. The warmth radiating from Dazai felt like a protective cocoon, stirring something long buried in Chuuya’s heart—the faint spark of hope that suggested he might not need to fight his demons alone. Caught off guard, Chuuya felt his breath hitch as anger softened into astonishment, stifling a curse he could hardly muster. Dazai’s arms encircled him with a strength that whispered promises of safety. In that fleeting moment, nothing mattered outside of this connection, and the dagger slipped from Chuuya’s grasp, forgotten amidst a rising tide of emotions. He found himself sinking into Dazai’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart echoing in the space between them.

“Don’t you dare leave,” Dazai murmured into the softness of Chuuya’s hair, his voice trembling yet steadfast.

It was both a plea and a vow, reminding them both that love might flourish even amidst the most unexpected circumstances, just before the darkness threatened to engulf them.

Chuuya closed his eyes, allowing himself a brief reprieve from his defenses, desperately seeking a momentary relief from the whirlpool of thoughts that threatened to consume him. But as the weight of the moment settled, pressing against him like a heavy fog, he snapped them open again, unwilling to surrender just yet. He couldn’t allow himself to fall prey to the swirling doubts plaguing his mind—not when Dazai was so close, playing the gallant hero for reasons that remained a mystery.

“Dazai,” Chuuya’s voice was raw, tinged with a desperation he refused to mask as he tried to pull away from the embrace that felt more suffocating than liberating.

Yet, Dazai only drew him closer, a steadfast anchor in the storm of emotions that his mere presence ignited in Chuuya. How could he cling to this tether when the memory of Chuuya’s own actions lingered in the air, loud and accusatory like a silent scream?

“Dazai,” He tried again, frustration bubbling within him.

The only answer he received was the slight tremble that coursed through Dazai’s body. What could possibly cause such a quiver? Chuuya found it hard to believe that he was the source, that his own turmoil had unearthed a vulnerability in Dazai, something so rare and uncharacteristic of the man he knew.

“Answer me, you idiot!” Chuuya’s voice wavered, a storm of irritation and anxiety roiling beneath the surface, “Why are you even here?”

Silence. It stretched between them, the soft sound of water gently dripping against the bottom of the bathtub blending with the distant urban cacophony filtering through the window. It was maddening how Dazai knelt there, lips pressed into a thin line, as if the words he so desperately needed to share were trapped behind a barrier he refused to breach.

“Why come here at all if you intend to say nothing?”

Frustration seeped from every word Chuuya uttered. He attempted to tug at Dazai again, hoping that the mere action would provoke a reaction, yet the stubborn man remained steadfast, a rock in a relentless tide.  Exasperation surged within Chuuya, a storm brewing beneath his skin.

“Let me go, damn it! I can’t just sit here in a bathtub, half-dressed, while you–” He released a sharp breath, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the stranglehold of frustration tightening around his heart, “Just… let me put some clothes on, alright?”

In the confined space of the tension-laden bathroom, the remnants of unvoiced regrets and lingering confessions painted the air with an invisible tension—an unsung melody that resonated solely between the two of them. Caught in an emotional whirlwind of anger, fear, and a magnetic pull toward something deeper, the atmosphere felt charged, electric, as if their very beings were locked in an intricate dance. Dazai, with a hesitation that felt foreign to the redhead, finally relinquished his grip. Yet he remained close, his presence a steady weight against Chuuya’s skin as he maneuvered himself out of the empty tub, ignoring the unsheathed dagger and the closed wine bottle. The space between them thrummed with unspoken truths, each subtle shift in Dazai’s stance reverberating through the silence, his body betraying an intensity that his face did not.

He wore a mask of calm, but everything beneath the surface told a different story.

With a quizzical glance, Chuuya scrutinized Dazai, disbelief coloring his thoughts. Is this really happening? He turned and left the sanctuary for a moment, venturing into the cramped confines of his bedroom to snatch up a simple shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He slipped them on with ease, moving with a practiced nonchalance that belied the tumult within him. When he finally turned to face Dazai, the air was thicker, every beat of his heart reverberating in the silence.

Dazai’s gaze remained transfixed on Chuuya, an array of emotions flickering across his features—a blend of astonishment tangled with something profoundly tender, a softness that threatened to unspool all the tightly wound threads of their strained relationship. The gravity of his stare pressed against Chuuya, rendering him momentarily breathless, a thick knot of apprehension twisting in his throat. With a frown creasing his forehead, Chuuya felt the enormity of the unspoken tension between them tightening its grip, and he defied the oppressive silence with a question that hung like a charged particle suspended in the air.

“Seriously, what the hell is going on with you?”

The silence that followed was electric, the words reverberating between them, fraught with unresolved tension and yearning for acknowledgment. Dazai didn’t respond—instead, he took a deliberate step forward, closing the distance that separated them.

Before Chuuya could process the shift, Dazai reached out and enveloped him in a firm embrace, tugging him closer until there were no spaces left for doubt to slip through. The unexpectedness of the touch sent a jolt through Chuuya, his body freezing in response to the warmth surrounding him. Dazai nestled his face into the curve of Chuuya’s neck, an intimate act that felt almost foreign yet achingly familiar at the same time. Chuuya could feel Dazai’s breath against his skin, warm and steady, his heart thundering beneath the surface. Dazai inhaled deeply, embracing the scent that was uniquely Chuuya—the faint notes of cologne mixed with the alluring hint of sweat and the essence of him. The world outside faded, the ebb and flow of reality retreating into the background as Chuuya’s pulse quickened, matching the rhythm of Dazai’s presence.

In that suspended moment, Dazai let himself feel, letting go of the self-imposed barriers that had long kept him at bay. He listened—not just to the steady drumbeat of Chuuya’s heart, which throbbed with undeniable life, but to the unspoken confessions that danced between them.

Not dead. Not dead. Not dead.

He wanted to etch those affirmations into his very being, a mantra to dispel the shadows of doubt that had haunted him too long.

Chuuya felt a rush of confusion as he was swept up in the embrace, battling the instinct to pull away, to question, to understand. Yet, as Dazai held him, cradling him with a fierce desperation, Chuuya could no longer deny the charge that crackled in the atmosphere, an undeniable tether pulling them together. Time stretched, the room around them fading, and all that remained was the warmth of Dazai pressed against him, an unyielding reassurance wrapped in vulnerability. Chuuya’s breath slowed, the knot in his throat loosening, replaced by a flicker of something he had long admonished himself to ignore. The air was thick with a blend of uncertainty and unsaid words. Wrapped in Dazai’s arms, Chuuya felt an uncanny disorientation wash over him, as if the world outside had dimmed to a muted blur. The warmth emanating from Dazai enveloped him like a well-worn blanket, a fierce intensity radiating through the embrace that ignited a storm of questions in Chuuya’s mind.

Did he want to pull away? What madness had driven Dazai to cling to him so tightly?

For a fleeting moment, Chuuya stood paralyzed, suspended in a liminal space where his instinct to retreat battled against the magnetic pull of the connection they shared. The chaotic thrum of his emotions surged—hesitation crept in, yet compelled by an unfamiliar desire, he slowly began to close the distance, allowing himself to reciprocate Dazai’s hold. Tentative, he leaned into the embrace, an internal struggle rippling through him like a tide. The familiar scent of antiseptic bandages mingled with another, more elusive fragrance—something inherently Dazai—that soothed his tumultuous thoughts and dismantled the defenses he had erected around his heart.

“Chuuya…”

Dazai’s voice was but a whisper against the silence, each word quivering like a fragile leaf caught in a sudden gust. Chuuya felt the warmth of Dazai’s breath dance across his neck, stirring a tension that hung palpably in the air. With bated breath, he sought to untangle the threads of dread that wound tightly around him.

“What’s wrong?” Chuuya finally breathed, his voice almost lost to the hush of the room, infused with concern rather than irritation.

The question lingered between them, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears swirling around the figure held secure within his arms. Silence enveloped them, thick and filled with an unshakeable tension. Dazai trembled ever so slightly against Chuuya, and with that gentle quaking came a surge of anxiety that twisted tightly in Chuuya’s gut. The intensity of Dazai’s silent struggle poured into him, deepening his own resolve to remain in that moment, to ease whatever unease simmered below the surface. And then, with a voice that was but a fragile whisper, Dazai broke the stillness.

“Chuuya,” He started, the quaver in his voice carving through the silence like a knife, each syllable piercing Chuuya’s heart with a profound sense of anguish, “You were dead.”

Time slowed as the implications of Dazai’s confession crystallized in Chuuya’s mind.

His breath hitched, a cold sensation flooding his chest as his heart plummeted—not for himself, but for Dazai, who had been forced to endure the agony of loss alone. Moments cascaded through Chuuya like fragments of glass—battles fought side by side, laughter shared under a starlit sky, secrets exchanged in the stillness of midnight. The realization struck him like lightning, overwhelming in its brilliance, leaving him submerged in a tide of emotion that threatened to drown him. Dazai’s grip tightened around him, a desperate grasp that betrayed the tsunami of emotions swirling within. Chuuya could feel the way Dazai’s body quaked, a choked sob escaping him, each sound resonating with a vulnerability he had never seen from the resilient facade Dazai often presented.

As the barriers crumbled, Dazai transformed before Chuuya’s eyes, unraveling into a mosaic of fear and sorrow, raw and hauntingly beautiful in its sincerity.

Chuuya responded instinctively, pulling Dazai closer, a solid anchor amidst the maelstrom of grief. With every shudder that passed through Dazai, Chuuya held firm, offering the strength of his presence, an unwavering bastion against the storm swirling around them. He allowed Dazai to pour out all the anguish he had bottled up, the air thick with the echoes of Dazai’s sobs reverberating off the walls of the small bedroom—a symphony of emotion reflected in the depths of Chuuya’s heart.

As the tide of grief receded into a fragile silence, Chuuya’s understanding deepened—he could no longer ignore the stirring emotions buried deep within himself, those feelings that had lingered quietly beneath layers of bravado and defiance. They surfaced in moments like this, amid the chaos and vulnerability, casting a shining reflection of something undeniably profound. The realization surged between them, an undeniable connection forged in the crucible of pain and vulnerability, and for the first time, Chuuya dared, allowed himself, to accept the tumultuous affection that tied him irrevocably to Dazai—a bond that transcended the chaos, stretching towards something profound and beautiful, far beyond their shared battles and the tumult of their respective existences.

Chuuya pulled away slightly, just enough to lead Dazai to the bed. In a gentle motion, he guided them both down, sitting side by side. He was careful to maintain the embrace that had begun to soothe Dazai, cherishing the warmth radiating between them. Yet, as Chuuya eventually pulled back fully, he looked into Dazai’s eyes—a mixture of sorrow and unwavering determination staring back at him.

“Dazai,” He said cautiously, a lump forming in his throat, “What… what did you do?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken dread that made Chuuya’s heart race. Dazai hesitated, shaking his head as if the very act of acknowledging the truth would unravel him. He avoided eye contact, his voice wavering when he finally responded.

“A week after today, I received a letter.”

The implications of his words struck Chuuya like a cold wave crashing against the shore. He felt his heart stop momentarily, knowing all too well the consequences of what Dazai was about to reveal.

“It was from you,” Dazai continued, his gaze finally meeting Chuuya’s, revealing tears that threatened to spill over once again, “It was cryptic and vague, filled with hidden meanings. I could barely make sense of it.”

Chuuya winced, shame curling around his heart like a tight noose. The letter was a plea written in shadows, a reflection of despair that he’d secretly hoped would never reach Dazai’s hands. A letter that, by the time it found him, he would have already been gone. Realization dawned, bright and terrible, as the pieces fell into place with Dazai’s next words.

“I ran,” Dazai whispered, his voice raw, each syllable tinged with desperation, “I ran to you like a madman, hoping against all odds that the conclusions I’d drawn were wrong—yet deep down, I knew better. The weight of experience taught me that my instincts have rarely failed me.”

Chuuya’s heart raced, the adrenaline from Dazai’s confession stirring something both exhilarating and terrifying within him.

“Why, Dazai?” He asked, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and curiosity, “Why go to such extents for someone like me?”

In the fragile moment, the emotional fortress Dazai had built began to crumble. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he drew Chuuya as close as possible, clutching his waist fiercely, as if desperate to stake a claim on the only thing that tethered him to sanity.

“I’m sorry,” Dazai whispered, the words spilling out between choked breaths, “I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to think you couldn’t rely on me.”

Chuuya felt his heart crack at the sight of Dazai’s anguish, the intensity of their bond pressing down upon him like a tidal wave. He wrapped his arms around Dazai, his hands smoothing the fabric of his shirt, patting his back soothingly.

“It’ll be okay,” He murmured, though the words felt inadequate for the depth of Dazai’s pain.

The two of them were caught in a spiraling grief that had become entwined with something fragile yet beautiful—love, perhaps, taking root among the ruins of their grief.

“Please, Chuuya,” Dazai continued breathlessly, his voice breaking under the weight of his emotions, “Hate me, hurt me, hit me... Hell, do whatever it takes. Just please…” He drew in a ragged breath, his grip tightening to the point of pain, “Don’t you dare kill yourself. You can’t die before me. Chuuya… you cannot die before me.”

His plea hung in the air, a stark representation of the battle between grief and hope that surged between them. Chuuya felt tears prick at his eyes, the ferocity of Dazai’s anguish igniting a fire in his chest. The gravity of Dazai’s words anchored their connection even deeper, carving a path through Chuuya’s bravado and defiance, revealing the delicate truth of what lay beneath. Chuuya kept his gaze fixed on Dazai, whose face was marred by tears—iridescent droplets glistening under the low light as they traced paths down his pale cheeks. The anguish that twisted Dazai’s features was nothing new with his suicidal tendencies—it had been a longtime acquaintance for both of them.

Yet, today was different. For the first time in a long while, vulnerability seeped into their hearts, breaking down walls they thought would forever stand between them.

“Dazai…”

Chuuya whispered, his voice thick with a mixture of concern and affection, each syllable weighted by the unspoken promises they had forged in the fires of their tumultuous lives. His hands reached out instinctively, gentle yet firm, cupping Dazai’s tear-streaked face, their foreheads brushing together, grounding them in a moment that felt both delicate and fiercely significant.

“I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere,” Chuuya murmured softly.

It was a balm for Dazai’s fractured spirit, a pledge that resonated with an honesty that was almost palpable in the air between them.

In that fragile moment, surrounded by the artifacts of their shared trials and the encompassing warmth they offered each other, time receded. They clung to each other as if the vast world beyond the confines of the bedroom had dissolved into nothingness—an abyss that could not reach them. Their hearts, synchronized in their steady beat, reverberated with the weight of their shared history, a testament to the bond they had forged through adversities that had seemed insurmountable. Chuuya felt a knot of emotion tugging at him, urging tears to spill forth from his own eyes, but he held them at bay. Instead, with a bittersweet smirk playing on his lips, he teased Dazai with a cacophony of warmth.

“Since when were you a crybaby?” He murmured, his voice tender yet playful.

In response, Dazai sobbed harder, a sound filled with both relief and heartbreak, as if Chuuya’s words had dismantled the last vestiges of restraint he had clung to. Without hesitation, Dazai tugged Chuuya closer, practically pulling him into his lap, their bodies melding into a comforting embrace—two pieces of a puzzle that had come home.

“Since you,” Dazai breathed, his voice thick and laced with emotion that seeped into the room, wrapping them both in an indescribable warmth.

Chuuya’s heart crumbled at the admission.

It was as if all the walls he had built around his own heart reverberated with the same truth—throughout the years, Dazai had become everything to him. Silent tears began to cascade down Chuuya’s cheeks, mixing with the fabric of Dazai’s shirt as he buried his face there, a tapestry woven with years of unvoiced feelings and unshed tears. They held each other tightly, breathing in the anchor that was each other’s presence. The weariness of their journeys converged in that embrace, and it was here, amongst the turmoil and the love, that healing began to stitch their hearts together.

Slowly, Dazai shifted their bodies, guiding them to lie down on the spacious bed that had held witness to countless sleepless nights spent contemplating their lives, the choices they had made, and the war that was their existence. The gentle sway of their movements stirred the sheets, enveloping them in familiarity as Chuuya adjusted himself against Dazai’s chest.

Eventually, as the tears receded, Chuuya’s eyelids grew heavy.

The emotional toll of their exchange wrapped him in a cocoon of exhaustion. It wasn’t long before the warmth of Dazai’s heartbeat lulled him into a deep slumber, where the chaos of the outside world faded into nothing but the soft syllable of Dazai whispering sweet nothings—promises of love, strength, and unwavering loyalty. 

As Chuuya drifted off, Dazai stayed awake for a while, cherishing the stillness around them. He felt a profound sense of responsibility over the peaceful expression resting on Chuuya’s face, as if he could shield the other from every storm that threatened to upend their lives. In that moment, the anxiety that had plagued him faded, as he acknowledged the beautiful truth of their affection—a bond so deep that even the fiercest tides of sorrow could not tear them apart. Perhaps they would still face storms. Perhaps still, there would be turbulence in their lives. But for now, amid the remnants of their struggles, they had each other, and together, they would continue to forge ahead. He kissed the crown of Chuuya's head softly, a tender vow that echoed silently in the quiet room.

They lay, entangled in each other’s arms, hearts beating in unison as the shadows of their pasts slowly faded into the night. It was in this embrace that they discovered the promise of tomorrow—an unwavering commitment to navigate every storm, hand in hand, and to cherish the love that had grown amidst the chaos.

And as Chuuya dreamt, he dwelled into a realm of memories.

[EARLIER]

The rain fell in heavy sheets, blurring the neon lights of Yokohama into a watercolor haze. It seemed as if the city had transformed into a painting of melancholy, vibrant colors running together like emotions struggling to be contained. Dazai Osamu darted through the maze of wet streets, dodging puddles and umbrellas, his heart pounding with urgency. With one hand, he clutched the phone to his ear, the other clenched into a determined fist against the biting wind. It was a lifeline that tethered him to Ranpo, whose confident yet laced-with-worry voice reverberated in his mind.

“Just keep going straight, Dazai,” Ranpo’s voice commanded, serious in a way he usually never was, “If you reach the bridge, you’ve gone too far.”

Frustration bubbled within Dazai, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he rounded a corner, shoes slipping briefly on the slick pavement. The rain hammered down relentlessly, echoing the tempest churning within him.

“I can’t lose any more time!” He snapped. Each second felt like hours, each drop of rain drumming like the ticking clock of his desperation. “You have to tell me exactly where he is!”

A pregnant pause met his demand, and Dazai could almost picture Ranpo in that moment—an ever-composed mastermind, pursing his lips as he weighed what to say next, “We don’t know enough about his Ability, and he might not take kindly to being approached without caution. You know that.”

With the storm raging, Dazai’s heart raced, fueled by memories of Chuuya—his laughter, their shared moments—the sound of which now reduced to echoes whispering in the storm. “I don’t care,” He shot back, his mind a whirlpool of regret, “He’s the only one who can bring Chuuya back!”

Each frantic step intensified the stinging ache of loss. The rain poured down like the tears he couldn’t shed, all leading him to one singular purpose: reach the man who was the only hope in solving any of this, in bringing Chuuya back to Dazai. The brunet couldn’t shake the flicker of hope kindling within him, lighting a path through the despair that enshrouded him.

“Dazai—” Ranpo’s voice cut through the downpour, but Dazai hardly heard him. The patter of rain drowned out everything but the thunderous pulse of his heartbeat, “You don’t understand—”

“Ranpo-san!” Dazai shouted into the phone, emotion spilling forth uncontrollably, “I’m not letting anything stop me. I won’t lose him again!”

The intensity of his words left a silence hanging in the murky air, heavy and thick. A soft sigh drifted from Ranpo, the mix of worry and reluctant understanding resonating between them.

“You’re a stubborn fool, you know that?” He said, the frustration tinged with something warmer, a silent admiration shining through, “You might not need the details then—he was taken in by a woman whose address is near the old shrine. I’ll send it to you—”

“I know where it is!” Dazai interjected, a wave of familiarity rushing over him as he recalled the laughter that had once formed immovable bonds in that very neighborhood. Memories of joy shared with Chuuya threatened to drown him anew, but he surged forward, pushing past the entrance to the square where they had once hidden away from the world, laughing and sharing dreams. 

What felt like an eternity later, the shrine finally loomed ahead, ancient and stoic, a figure of resilience amidst the storm. Dazai’s heart raced, torn between hope and impending despair, beating faster with each step toward the house that lay just across. The sight sent a thrill of bittersweet nostalgia pierce through him. What would he find when he crossed that threshold? Would it be a reunion laden with joy or a further plunge into grief?

“Dazai?” Ranpo’s voice jolted him back to the moment, grounding him amidst the rising tide of memories.

“I’m here!” Dazai gasped, stopping just short of the gate, breathless and waterlogged. He clutched the phone tightly, mind racing with the sheer weight of uncertainty. “What is it?”

“I know you might not believe me at first, but if you need the Agency’s help, just ask. You’re a part of us,” Ranpo said, the urgency beneath his calm conquerable resolve echoing in Dazai’s ears.

Dying inside, Dazai let out a hollow laugh. “Ranpo-san, I...”

“Dazai,” Ranpo cut in sharply, his tone now laced with apparent urgency, “The Agency is a family. Put trust in us.”

With those words, the weight of Ranpo’s trust fell upon him like the relentless rain, pressing against him in a tangible force. Dazai inhaled deeply, chilly droplets now blending seamlessly with the warmth of something deeply familiar—a flicker of Chuuya’s presence guiding him, a distant memory that ignited the flame of courage within him. There was resolve in that flicker. It resonated against the backdrop of despair that had threatened to consume him since losing Chuuya. Dazai stood at that threshold, merging not just memories of the past but nurturing a hope for the future. He stepped forward into the storm, allowing the rain to wash over him, washing away the remnants of fear, determination flooding his veins.

He would find Chuuya. He would not falter, not lose him again. No matter the cost—love would guide him through this darkness, and if the storm was the barrier, then he would become its master.

“Thank you, Ranpo-san.”

“Remember my words, Dazai.”

And with that, Ranpo cut the call with nothing else to say. Dazai lifted his head, the house before him adorned in mystery, and his heart swelling with love—love that reflected not just fear but an unyielding promise to break through boundaries and to find his way back to Chuuya, who was waiting, somewhere within the storm. Standing at the entrance of the modest looking house, the kind that felt simultaneously warm and foreboding, it held an unassuming structure, its peeling paint and sagging porch beams a testament to the stories it held within. Yet to Dazai, this house was a sanctuary, a refuge he had sought out in the storm of his heart.

He inhaled the damp air deeply, allowing the coolness to settle his thoughts. Thoughts of Chuuya flickered behind his eyes—moments sparked by laughter, heated arguments, and an undercurrent of something deeper, something both terrifying and exhilarating. Chuuya, fierce and untamed, a whirlwind that left him breathless and bewildered. As Dazai lifted his head, the house before him adorned in mystery, he felt love swell within him—not merely the thrill of passion, but an unyielding promise to break through boundaries crafted by circumstance and time. With resolve and increasing hope, Dazai pressed the doorbell. The sound echoed strangely, an invitation and a challenge all at once. Moments passed, each second stretched nearly into eternity, before a boy’s voice broke through the intercom.

“Who is it?”

His mind raced. How could he explain this? This wasn’t just a mission—it was a fragment of his soul seeking solace, a connection amidst chaos.

“It’s Dazai. Dazai Osamu. The man who solved the case you were involved in, who helped you free yourself from the clutches of that criminal organization,” He finally replied, his voice steady despite the storm raging around him, internally unsure whether the boy remembered him or not.

Silence greeted him, thick with disbelief. Dazai half-expected the boy to dismiss him, to shove the memories of such a trauma behind a door somewhere. But after a pause that felt like an eternity, he heard the sound of the latch clicking open. The door creaked, revealing Tokito, a boy not much younger than Dazai imagined, with wide eyes that spoke of childhood innocence mixed with the shadows of past terrors. Disbelief washed over his face, followed by a flutter of something like admiration.

“Dazai-sama?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he stepped into a realm not meant for him.

“May I come in?” Dazai asked, his heart pounding as he took a step forward, the rain-soaked fabric of his coat clinging to him like a second skin.

Tokito nodded, stepping aside as though under a spell.

Inside, warmth enveloped him, a stark contrast to the chill outside. Dazai removed his shoes, leaving the wetness behind, and stepped into the calm of Tokito’s world. The living room was neat, almost minimalistic—its decor sparse, yet every piece exuded thoughtful care. A worn-out couch stood opposite a modest wooden table, perhaps where mother and child shared laughter, their shadows flickering like ghosts.

“Would you like some new clothes?” Tokito asked as he eyed Dazai, noting his drenched state with concern.

Shaking his head, Dazai met the boy’s gaze. “No. This is... fine,” He replied, “Tell me, Tokito-kun. Do you know why I’m here?”

A sigh escaped Tokito, burdened with understanding, “I... I think I do.” 

Dazai’s heart raced, even as he tried to steady himself.

The boy’s voice had dropped low, revealing the fragile truth of his predicament, “You’re here for my Ability.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of expectation, the kind that wrapped around Dazai like a cloak, one woven from regret and longing. “I am,” He finally murmured, casting his gaze down toward the floor, as though it held answers to questions he wasn’t sure he could voice.

The storm outside only served as a backdrop to the tempest of emotions swirling within him—a concoction of desperation and affection. Tokito stood a few paces away, his youthful features still reminiscent of childhood, yet hardened by experience beyond his years. The boy possessed an earnestness that disarmed Dazai. He looked down at his hands, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, before speaking again.

“My Ability…”

Tokito’s voice was tinged with an almost painful earnestness, one that betrayed the burden of his knowledge.

“I understand it now. After everything that happened… after you—” He paused, seemingly grappling with the weight of their shared history, “When do you need me to send you back?”

The way Tokito phrased the question made Dazai’s chest ache with a sudden swell of emotion. This was not merely a transaction—this was a boy who had seen too much, whose heart had borne the scars of their shared fate, who was willing to selflessly help such a selfish man. Dazai struggled to keep his own emotions in check. The willingness in Tokito’s gaze was a beacon amid the stormy chaos that filled his mind.

“Tokito-kun,” He said, forcing himself to look up, to meet the boy’s hopeful eyes, “What are the conditions for your Ability to activate?”

Tokito’s brow furrowed, and he began to explain, his voice gathering strength as he delved into the mechanics of his power, “I need to touch an object of the person you want to be sent back to, since my Ability connects two people,” His brows furrowed, as if he wasn’t sure what that particular part entailed, “And I need some basic knowledge of that person. However, I won’t need to touch you, Dazai-sama. Only your consciousness gets sent back. The object just needs to be one that they have touched, is all.”

Dazai contemplated the information, letting it sink in as if each word was a lifebuoy tossed to him in rough seas. The revelation of such a unique ability made his mind race. He could see avenues forming, paths not taken, and all the myriad possibilities that awaited. Hope intertwined with dread as he thought of Chuuya.

Suddenly, his heart jolted.

“Wait,” He said, fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a folded letter, the paper slightly weathered from time and handling, yet unmistakably bearing the intimate strokes of Chuuya’s handwriting, “What about this?” He held it up, his voice barely above a whisper, “This was touched and written by him barely a week ago.”

Tokito’s eyes widened, and Dazai felt a flicker of hope ignite deep within him. “That will be more than enough,” The boy affirmed, his confidence bolstering Dazai’s resolve, “Now, all we need is some basic information about him, so I can picture the person’s essence... Um, soul? That you want to go back to.”

It was as if a dam had burst inside Dazai’s mind, memories flooding back with an intensity that surprised him. Chuuya… his pride, his fiery spirit, the passion ablaze in his cerulean eyes.

“Chuuya Nakahara,” Dazai began, each word an invocation, “He’s fiercely loyal and passionate, passionate about everything he does. His Ability is called ‘For the Tainted Sorrow,’ and it manifests as gravity manipulation. He’s impulsive—often thinks with his heart instead of his head. There’s always fire in him, both literally and figuratively.”

For every characteristic Dazai recounted, Tokito listened intently, his features softening as he absorbed the essence of the man who mattered so deeply to Dazai.

“He loves fiercely and will do anything for those he considers his own,” Dazai continued, his heart swelling with the sheer weight of his affection, “But he hides his softer side behind a tough exterior. One sees it if they look closely.”

Silence wrapped around them once more, heavier than before, as Tokito processed the information. “You care deeply for him,” The boy said softly, a hint of understanding in his gaze.

Dazai’s heart clenched painfully.

“I do,” He admitted, “He’s more than a partner to me. He’s…” He struggled to voice feelings he’d adeptly buried under layers of sarcasm and self-doubt for so long, “He’s the light I never knew I needed.”

A slight blush colored Tokito’s cheeks at the weight of Dazai’s admission, but he nodded resolutely, “Then let’s do this,” He stepped closer, determination masking his uncertainty, “I’ll help you reach him.”

They stood together, a fragile alliance forged between a boy with the power to transcend time and a man stranded in his own memories. The rain continued its relentless dance outside, but in that moment, they were untethered, bound only by purpose and the promise of love.

“Are you ready?” Tokito asked, the earnestness of his gaze pulling Dazai from the depths of his thoughts.

Dazai took a breath, the decision firm in his chest. “I am.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, there was a warmth that radiated between them, a shared understanding that transcended words. As Tokito reached for the letter, their fingers brushed against each other, creating a fleeting connection—one that ignited sparks of hope in Dazai’s heart. That brief moment felt like a promise of what could be, despite the shadows of despair looming just outside. Dazai could hardly breathe as Tokito closed his eyes, locking onto whatever force dwelled in the letter. He felt the tremor of anticipation mixed with dread.

Could love traverse time? Could mere thoughts conjure images and feelings strong enough to bridge the gap separating him from Chuuya? Dazai didn’t have the answer, but the anxious kind of hope he had been nurturing flickered to life like the fragile flame of a candle, pushed to its limits yet refusing to extinguish.

“Think of him, and you’ll reach your destination,” Tokito whispered, his voice a lilting melody amidst the charged atmosphere.

The words, light yet heavy with implication, were imbued not with mere strategy but with a form of anticipation that made Dazai’s heart race hotter. Tokito was betting everything on this moment—for Dazai, for Chuuya, for a love that felt ever so distant yet clung to the brunet like the whispers of a forgotten dream. As the room began to fill with a soft light, reminiscent of Chuuya’s Ability, a warmth enveloped Dazai, offering him solace amid the tempest of uncertainty. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to resist the pull of the past.

Within the confines of his mind, he conjured Chuuya’s face—the way his vibrant hair seemed to catch the light at just the right angle, the little crinkle in his nose when he laughed, and the way his deep blue eyes could melt into an infinite ocean, capable of drawing anyone in. Each feature was a cherished note in a symphony he longed to play once more. Dazai could almost hear the echo of Chuuya’s laughter merging seamlessly with the rhythmic sound of rain tapping against the window, creating a melody woven through their shared experiences. Memories danced on the edge of his waning consciousness—a sun-drenched afternoon they had spent on the rooftop, gazing at the clouds as they whispered dreams into the sky, and the stolen moments in the shadows, marked by laughter and hushed promises.

He thought of everything Chuuya was—fierce, loyal, and gloriously unapologetic.

A warmth surged through him, weaving tendrils of courage and love that encircled his heart. The connection between them pulsed alive in that intimate moment, giving Dazai strength—the kind of resilient love that felt impervious, sheltered away from the impending storm of uncertainties. No matter the odds stacked against him, he refused to abandon this feeling, this flicker of hope that illuminated even the darkest corners of his soul.

As Tokito’s Ability merged with the glow filling the room, Dazai surrendered to the sensation, ready to reach for something that, until now, had felt so far beyond his grasp. Love—he silently vowed—would be his guiding star as he ventured forward, toward the possibility of reunion and the beautiful, fragile dream of a future.

Wherein time could finally bridge its relentless divide.

When he awoke, Dazai’s mind was disoriented, a chaotic whirlpool of thoughts, a hazy fog clouding his senses as he clawed his way back to consciousness.

The familiar yet foreign hum of the world around him trickled in. The cacophony of the bustling streets seeped into his awareness like the distant echo of a dream slipping away—a discordant symphony of laughter, car horns, and distant conversations, melding into a background hum that felt both comforting and jarring. He felt the ground rushing up toward him, an omen of gravity reminding him of his existence. Panic surged through him, a visceral instinct kicking in as he braced himself, his fingers gripping the cool, metallic surface of the kitchen counter. His senses filtered through the haze of his thoughts, a reminder that reality still existed just outside the cocoon of his disarray.

He blinked rapidly, the cool surface of the kitchen counter grounding him amidst the existential vertigo. The cold marble against his palm was an anchor, a small reassurance that he was here, that he hadn’t slipped beneath the waves of oblivion he so often danced with.

“Focus,” He murmured under his breath, though his voice wavered, betraying his inner turmoil, tinged with a vulnerability he rarely allowed to surface. There was a tremor to his words, an echo of the anxiety that squirmed within him. It took a moment—the chaos of noise began to settle, and his heartbeat steadied just enough for him to sift through the confusion swirling in his mind. He narrowed his eyes, the world sharpening around him as the dull ache in his skull becoming pronounced against the backdrop of his muddled thoughts.

With every unsteady breath, the chaos receded, revealing glimpses of clarity. He could feel the dull, persistent ache in his skull—the pounding rhythm of his heart syncing with the murmurs of reality around him. Slowly, his senses sharpened to their usual state, the blurry edges of his consciousness refining into overwhelming vividness. The evening air—the faint scent of rain mingling with the lingering warmth of sunset—wrapped around him like a thin veil, stirring forgotten memories of another time, another place. But what sent adrenaline surging through his veins was the haunting truth that echoed in his mind.

A lightning strike of realization that Chuuya was alive.

Not a specter from the past, not a memory drenched in sorrow. No, Chuuya was living, breathing. The notion ignited a fire in Dazai’s chest, a fervor pushing away the remnants of his disorientation. The thought, the realization, flickered within him, igniting an inferno of unexpected joy and sharp relief, an exhilarating collision of emotions that sent his heart racing. Chuuya, with his fiery hair and stormy eyes, wasn’t relegated to the past. He was here, a tangible figure etched into Dazai’s present. That thought, so simple yet so profound, shattered the gloom that had settled in Dazai’s heart. Just the idea of Chuuya breathing, laughing, existing somewhere close was enough to push the fog away. In that moment, everything else—the confusion, the pain—seemed inconsequential.

Dazai felt powerful, buoyed by the surge of adrenaline coursing through him like a charged current. Without a second to lose, he surged to his feet, abandoning the safety of the counter as he rushed toward the door. The kitchen, with its comforting familiarity, was no longer where he belonged. It felt too stifling, too small, holding him back from the very thing that had coaxed him from the depths of agony. Flinging the door open sent the crisp evening air colliding with his senses like a gust of wild wind. The world spun around him, colors blending into a kaleidoscope of urgency. He didn’t bother to throw on his coat; every second felt vital, a countdown ticking away in his mind. He was hardly aware of the passersby—faces turned to shadowy figures as he dashed past them, the faint whispers of evening conversations fading into insignificance against the roaring insistence of his own thoughts.

His mind honed in on one singular goal as he wove through throngs of people—Chuuya.

The name reverberated in his mind like a mantra, a pulse that matched the frantic beat of his heart. Every step pulsed with the memory of Chuuya’s laughter, the mischievous glint in his eye. Dazai felt his lips curve into an involuntary smile, mixed with an electrifying sense of relief that coursed through him. He had fought against the darkness that had tried to consume his heart, and now, it seemed that fate had drawn him back to the light.

But beneath the exhilaration lay a tremor of fear.

What if... what if this was just another fleeting moment of illusion, a cruel trick of time that mocked his longing? He shook his head in defiance of that thought—he couldn’t afford to dwell on doubts now. He needed to see Chuuya, to feel his warmth and hear his voice. He drove himself onward, the urgency in his chest igniting a desperate hope. With each step, Dazai felt the sharp edge of anticipation. Uncertainty prickled at him, a nagging reminder of all they had lost, but he brushed it away like a cobweb clinging to his sleeve. No, tonight was different. It was filled with the promise of reawakening, of another chance to redefine what they could be to each other. The thought alone brightened his spirit, dispelling the shadows of lingering doubts.

His footsteps beat against the pavement, rhythmic and fierce as he matched his resolve to the sound of the evening air. It was invigorating, the coolness of the dusk brushing against his skin as if the universe conspired to facilitate this reunion. The promise of what lay ahead propelled him—every fleeting thought coalesced into one singular drive—Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya.

While the night draped itself around him and the vibrant city thrummed with life, Dazai’s heart swelled with a bittersweet mix of longing and determination. He would reach Chuuya. He would find him, even if it felt like running toward an insatiable dream. With each hurried breath, with blood singing in his veins, he felt nearer to unraveling the threads that had long bound him in despair. He could almost taste the familiar tang of Chuuya’s presence, hung in the air around him like a fragrant promise. And as the streets blurred past, he concentrated on the feel of the night, the thrill of the chase, the undeniable truth that whatever awaited him at the end, it was worth every stolen second he had to grasp it.

Tonight, everything that had once seemed lost was suddenly within reach. And as he sprinted forward, destiny unfurling its wings before him, Dazai’s heart pulsed with an unwavering certainty—he was going to find Chuuya.

And this time, no shadows would stand in his way.

He turned a corner, and there it was—Chuuya’s apartment, a bright beacon amidst the dull gray of the evening. He could sense the warmth radiating from within, the flickering glow of lamplight spilling onto the sidewalk, beckoning him closer. His breath quickened, anticipation mingling with fear as he hesitated for a split second. What if, standing on that threshold, he found something other than the reunion he sought? What if the man he loved was already lost to the throes of darkness, locked away from the warmth they had shared, tucked away like a forgotten photograph?

But before doubt could take root and coil around his heart, he pressed on, barreling towards the door as resolve filled him. Each step echoed with the ghosts of their past—the laughter, the arguments, the quiet moments of shared understanding. He reached for the doorknob, the cold metal feeling both foreign and anxiously familiar under his trembling fingers—a bridge between two worlds, each representing a different version of himself. His heart thudded with a wild rhythm, realizing that Dazai Osamu was not merely running away from grief—he was hurtling towards a possibility, propelled by hope and longing, eager to embrace the man who was everything to him.

Dazai inhaled sharply and turned the knob, stepping into the warmth of a love he thought he had lost forever, ready to confront whatever came next.

[PRESENT]

As the first light of dawn seeped gently through the curtains of Chuuya’s bedroom, the world outside stirred to life, serenaded by the sweet notes of birdsong. Nestled under a warm cocoon of blankets, Chuuya began to wake, feeling the familiar rise and fall of a body beside him. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his gaze settling on Dazai—a picture of serenity, his dark hair tousled in charming disarray, his gaze locked onto Chuuya with a tenderness that made the moment feel profoundly intimate. 

In that tranquil dawn, time seemed to freeze.

The burden of the external world faded into a quiet backdrop. Chuuya held Dazai’s gaze, a soft, genuine smile playing upon his lips. There existed a sacredness in their shared silence, a thread that wove their souls together in an almost tangible tapestry. Chuuya let out a murmured sound, indistinct and airy, hardly breaking the stillness that enveloped them. It was meant to be a fleeting notion, cast carelessly into the space between them, yet it lingered, thickening the atmosphere around them. Dazai’s brow creased with curiosity, the sparkle of interest igniting in his dark eyes.

“What did you say?” He inquired, his voice emerging as a soft rasp, as if not to disturb the delicate serenity surrounding them.

Chuuya repeated the words, feeling them vibrate through him as they escaped his lips.

“I remember,” He murmured, drawing Dazai’s cheek into his palm, his thumb gently caressing the elegant curve of his jaw.

Inhaling deeply, he infused his confession with the weight of unshed truths. Leaning forward, he nudged his forehead against Dazai’s, an intimate gesture that promised warmth and closeness.

“I remember my death,” Chuuya articulated, his voice thick with emotion but his smile illuminating the dim corners of uncertainty.

Dazai’s eyes widened at the revelation, a mix of confusion and disbelief swirling within their depths, urging Chuuya to reveal more.

“And then…” He breathed, his gaze unwavering and earnest, transmitting the raw truth coursing through his heart, “I saw your memories, Dazai.”

The magnitude of his revelation suspended in the room, hanging like a fragile crystal poised on the brink of shattering or shining brightly. Dazai’s breath caught in his throat at this admission, shock flickering across his features—one thought rang through his mind, the Ability. Chuuya maintained his soft smile, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears, rich with a profound understanding that felt as if it transcended time itself.

“You saved me,” Chuuya finally breathed out, words rushing forth in an emotional torrent that threatened to overwhelm him completely.

As the weight of Chuuya’s revelation sank in, Dazai felt his heart flutter and ache, an exquisite mixture of feelings swelling within him. Unbidden tears streamed down his cheeks, mingling with the laughter that began to bubble to the surface as the truth of their connection crystallized into something breathtaking and undeniably beautiful.

In one fluid motion, Dazai drew Chuuya nearer, wrapping his arms around him in an embrace that transcended mere physicality. Their bodies interlaced, molded perfectly together, as if the universe had conspired to turn them into a single entity, fragile yet unbreakable. In that moment, they shared not just their warmth but an intimacy that spoke louder than words ever could. The outside world shrank to insignificance, swallowed whole by the sacred refuge they had built within each other’s arms. Tears streamed down Chuuya’s face, a sharp contrast against his resolute exterior, as they merged with Dazai’s own silent sorrow.

Each drop was a bittersweet release, a cleansing of the past.

Their shared grief brimmed with a unique joy borne from rediscovery. They clung to one another, suspended in their tranquil storm, defying the chaos lurking beyond the apartment door. Here, they fought against the remnants of their histories, two souls stitched together by the invisible threads of destiny. A stillness hung in the air, broken only by the soft whisper of Dazai’s voice that sliced through the tension like a knife.

“Chuuya,” He murmured, his typically mischievous tone softened into something more vulnerable, more urgent.

In a swift, fervent motion, Dazai’s hand found the nape of Chuuya’s neck, his fingers brushing against the delicate skin there. Tilting his head just so, he drew Chuuya in closer until their lips collided in a kiss—one that was both sweet and fervent, tender yet all-consuming. For a stolen moment, Chuuya was caught off guard, the intensity of the sensation flooding his senses. He felt as though a dam had burst within him, and he surrendered completely, the familiar warmth enveloping him like a well-worn blanket. 

Their kiss was an exploration—a delicate dance that intertwined their breaths, a rhythm building until Chuuya, slightly breathless, gently tapped Dazai’s chest, a silent request for release. Reluctantly, Dazai relented, but he didn’t withdraw far. Instead, he began to scatter fervent kisses across Chuuya’s face—starting from the corner of his lips, drifting to the gentle curve of his eyelids, then along the soft curve of his forehead, and tracing the line of his nose. Each kiss was electric, sending delightful shivers through Chuuya’s body, rendering him momentarily breathless, his mind blissfully devoid of thought. Then, Dazai returned to Chuuya’s lips, briefly but meaningfully, before trailing down to his neck, where he whispered the three words that changed everything within Chuuya’s world.

“I love you.”

The confession escaped his lips like a gentle breeze, yet it landed with the weight of the world upon Chuuya’s shoulders. The declaration wrapped around Chuuya, enveloping him in disbelief and warmth, cascading over him like a tidal wave. Chuuya froze, eyes wide with vulnerability. In that moment, he could hardly breathe, emotions swirling chaotically within him. He reached up, trembling fingers finding their way to Dazai’s face, pulling him closer as if he could bridge the gap between their hearts. Dazai leaned in, tilting his head to meet Chuuya’s gaze, which flooded with raw emotion, a rawness that left them both exposed.

And then, as if a dam had burst, Chuuya’s eyes overflowed, tears spilling forth like the floodgates of his heart had finally opened.

Each tear was a testament to years of longings they had left unsaid, hopes that had languished unrealized. Dazai’s heart raced at the sight of Chuuya’s tears, panic gripping him momentarily. Had he caused this? But as he examined Chuuya’s face, illuminated by a mixture of joy and sorrow, understanding dawned—these were tears of happiness, a release of burdens carried for too long. Relief washed over Dazai instantaneously, and a gentle smile broke through the tension as he brushed his thumb under Chuuya’s eyes, lovingly wiping away the remaining droplets that had traced paths down his cheeks.

“Is Chuuya crying because I said I love him?” He teased softly, his voice barely a whisper, yet lightened by a curious playfulness.

That question became a lifeline, igniting laughter amid Chuuya’s tears. He nodded, the vibrations of laughter shaking his frame, breath hitching as words spilled from his quivering lips.

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” He gasped, locking his gaze with Dazai’s, “It’s all I’ve ever…”

In that suspended moment, time seemed to pause, capturing the raw energy surging between them.

Gasping, Chuuya declared with fervor, “Love you, Dazai, I love you.”

The simplicity of the moment felt monumental, as Chuuya unraveled the delicate threads of his heart, revealing a confession that now hung between them like an electric current. The warmth of it washed over Dazai, a beautifully refreshing tide, reminiscent of sunlight breaking through the heavy veil of clouds that had long governed the sky—a beacon of hope and clarity. As Chuuya blinked away tears that dared to claim his stoic facade, Dazai’s smile unfurled like a flower awakening to spring. It was a joyous expression, one that brimmed with something beyond love and teasing affection as he lifted his hand to tenderly wipe the remnants of sorrow from Chuuya’s cheek.

“You really are a crybaby,” He teased, his voice laced with a playful melody.

Chuuya’s response was an effervescent burst of laughter, a sound that bubbled up from deep within him—each note resounding like a buoyant echo that illuminated the dim corners of the room. There was an ease that settled around them, a blanket of understanding and relief that chased away the shadows of past burdens. In that shared space, within the cocoon they had crafted together, flawed and imperfect as they both were, they found an unshakable comfort in each other’s arms. Two souls entwined, surrendered to the fierce current of their affection, stood resolutely against an external chaos that threatened to swallow them whole. The trust they built was a fortress against the darkness lurking outside their small universe, a sanctuary so rare and precious.

Their love, raw and unabashed, burned like a blazing fire, illuminating the path from their turbulent histories to an uncharted, shared existence filled with possibility. Together, they embraced the beauty of their newfound destiny—each scar the evidence to survival, each tear a shared moment of vulnerability, each smile a promise of what lay ahead. Here, within these four walls, they carved out a realm where only they existed, a space where they were not just survivors of their battles, but victors of each other’s love.

A flicker of light breaking the silence blanketing their hearts.