Dazai scoffs at him. It's a pathetic noise, full of denial and hypocrisy.

"Don't be stupid," Chuuya flinches just a little at that, "I'm not... like that."

The dawn spills across the horizon, awakening the sleepy residents of Yokohama, and alerting those who haven't slept of their grave mistakes. Dazai is in his bed, shirtless with a furrowed brow and averted eyes. Ashtrays and empty bottles litter the light filled room.

"Like that?" Chuuya repeats, pulling his cigarette away from his mouth, angry, "Like what, Dazai? Like me?"

Dazai shifts upright, crossing his bandaged arms over his bare chest and staring blankly out the big window.

"We're just messing around, Chuuya, I thought you knew that," Dazai mutters, picking up the bottle of whiskey on the sidetable and sipping a little.

Chuuya makes a sarcastic sound, "God, asshole, I'm not inlove with you or anything. Just, having sex with a man is pretty fuckin' gay."

Dazai groans loudly and dramatically, burying his head in his hands and placing the whiskey on the carpet, "I'm not! You aren't — I! Ugh..."

Chuuya feels anger bubble up in his throat, clawing at his voice pipes, "Like what? Say the word, Dazai!" He shoves his cigarette stub into the ashtray, wishing he had something stronger for this conversation.

"Gay," Dazai says after the biggest gap Chuuya has ever managed to fill with angry breathing and a hot glare, "I'm not gay, like you."

Chuuya sits up, snatching up another packet of cigarettes, "Fine, what was last night then? And last Wednesday? And the Sunday before that? The 23rd, 24th and 25th?"

Dazai squirms, not used to having such an important answer pressed out of him like glue in a hot glue gun— turning him into a sticky, hot mess, "Just... a casual hookup. You look like a girl anyway, any guy would do it."

He pauses, "Why do you look so bitter?"

Chuuya flings the blanket off him, sitting on the edge of the bed, "This— this is not fuckin' casual! I know you better then anyone you've ever laid eyes on, and you call us casual? Tell me why I'm fuckin' bitter."

Dazai sits motionless in the bed. He's never been one for emotions.

"I hate that I let this drag on so long," Chuuya hisses, "I don't think we should see each other in this way anymore, Dazai."

First, a burst of the worst, Rehearsed and coerced and traversed and unearthed, Thirst of a cursed sunburst, cloudburst, starburst is immersed, At the worst, a feetfirst bloodthirst.

Teeth sheathed in a bitter wreath, Bitter like a quitter, a hitter or a sad little critter, Ad for an armour-clad notepad, Not yet unclad from the mad, not yet glad.

Don't fret, don't fright, No need to sweat at a threat or a debt, Deep-set, coldsweat cassette of an asset, Forget! Not a duet onset so quickset as the sunset.

The dullness of the room weighs heavily against Chuuya's caring hand, partly weighing to a painful press against Dazai and partly pushing Chuuya's muscles for maintenance.

Blood runs hazardously down Dazai's pale arm, dripping onto the pristine white tile as emotion slowly drips back into his eyes. Chuuya dab's carefully at the streams of blood and their sources— long, deep cuts.

"You need to stop," Chuuya whispers, clutching Dazai's wrist, gaze not rising from the pad of tissue soaking in blood, "I'm serious. Promise?"

Dazai shifts to look upward at Chuuya, at the kneeling man attending the lying man's injury, "Promise."

Chuuya's eyes narrow. Fucking liar, they hiss at him, and rightfully so— Dazai's a liar to the bone. That's why he tries to reach it with his own equipment.

"Fucking liar," Chuuya spits, never much been one for leaving things peaceful and unsaid. His mind is his mouth, and his mouth is his mind.

Blood soaks up into the pad of tissue like Dazai's promise; shrivelling like a raisin, devoid of all or at least most meaning. He'll never stop, not by Chuuya's request anyway.

The promise lies, hollow and angry, against the stained tiles of the bathroom floor.

Chuuya's ridiculously drunk again.

It's a shame, he would've liked to say goodbye to his loyal dog, bearing his teeth. But wine has such an influence over the man, it's incredible he stays sober at work.

Dazai's leaving tonight.

Odasaku died two weeks ago, and Dazai can't stop thinking about it, about him, about his words.

Chuuya knows he's been distracted, uncaring and devoted to someone bigger than him, so he's been getting pissed out of his mind to forget the fact that he'll never be Dazai's number one.

The man is passed out on the couch, only after some hefty hauling, face frowning and eyes sealed shut.

Dazai looks around.

Wine bottles, whisky bottles, empty cigarette packs and stubs. The smell of weed. Discarded clothes, nothing but canned cran in his kitchen.

Chuuya needs help, but Dazai can't do much for anyone; ever.

He kisses Chuuya's forehead (it would be wrong to kiss him on his lips while he's asleep, and Dazai's a good man from this night and far, far onwards) and walks out the door with nothing but the fag in his hand and the clothes he wears.

Chuuya's fists pummel into his chest, unrelenting and unresponsively angry.

"Chuuya—" Dazai begins to say, before another fist connects furiously to his jaw, knocking his head hard against the dungeon floor, "I—!"

Chuuya stops beating him, very momentarily, to stare down at him, tears trembling in his eyes as he grips Dazai's shoudler, "I fucking hate you."

The fists begin again. Something cracks weakly; nothing fatal. Chuuya doesn't mean to kill him. He means to convert four years of unresting suffering and betrayal into a physical issue.

"You fucking," Another punch, "Left me," Another, and another, "Alone!" More and more.

It's true.

Honestly, a normal person would've killed Dazai by now. He's a traitor to the Port Mafia amd more importantly, an emotional criminal.

"Chuuya!" Dazai cries out, finally wiggling his hands free, and catching Chuuya's fists, "Listen to me."

Chuuya's whole body shakes, but he makes no more movements to pull away from Dazai's touch. It's been so long. . .

Dazai sits up, effectively pushing Chuyya off his legs— where he'd been sat when bruising Dazai black and blue— and leaving him trembling and almost-crying.

"Why did you do that?" Chuuya whispers and Dazai can't tell if he means to ask why he moved away or why he left.

Dazai puts a hand on his cheek gently, tilting his vulnerable face up to look at him, before shuffling closer and wrapping his arms delicately around the shaking man.

"I had to."

"You're a fucking liar," Chuuya spits through heavy tears, staining and wettening Dazai's shirt with the evidence of his grief, "Bastard."

It's 8 am.

It's 8 am on a Friday.

It's 8 am on a Friday and he has a message from Kouyou.

It's 8 am on a Friday and he has a message from Kouyou and Verlaine.

It's 8 am on a Friday, he has messages from Kouyou and Verlaine and he hasn't even showered.

It's 8 am on a Friday and holy fucking shit, he is going to rip off Verlaine’s ass and serve it to him like a steak.

Attempting to force him to join him as a brother when he was 16 apparently wasn't enough and Verlaine needs to take the whole fucking Agency hostage when he's 22.

When he arrives, it's chaos. Expected, but still dull and predictable. This last pleading attempt at making a duo of them is already failing, as in already Chuuya knows exactly what to do. Him and Paul are brothers. It's like a weaker version of Dazai.

Bricks and debris scatter the dusty floor and Chuuya is sure to be extra picky stepping around the piles of dust and trails of blood.

“I'm fucking here! Asshole!” He yells, grimacing when no response indicates he needs to actually enter the building.

He finds his brother in the main office area, all Agency members tied to chairs , only Dazai with a gun pressing against his pale temple.

“This is real pathetic, Paul,” Chuuya sneers, snapping his eyes over the row and finding the majority have mainly discreetly escaped the main form of binding, bonds around the chair just loose enough to slip from.

Verlaine smiles serenely back, not missing a beat, or even blinking, “But, surely you don't wish for more friends to die due to your stubbornness and stupidity? The Flags death was your lone fault.”

This game is easy, hardly fast paced at all, “Kill them. And I kill myself.” In sync, Chuuya pulls out a fully loaded gun, ebony and heavy in his palm and places the bullet hole right up on his forehead. No doubt cracks his face, no apprehension about suicide even flickers across his face, not even for the spiltest second, “Did you overlook the issue of your undying brotherly care for me?”

Verlaine’s face drains, like self-hostage isn't one of the oldest tricks in the book to get what you want, and Dazai’s face lights up, unable to stop grinning.

As good as this plan could've been years ago, any self preservation Chuuya had died and was scraped off the side of the road to be fuel for a bonfire.

“Now, that's hardly necessary, is it?” Verlaine is a good assassin. A good strategist in the field. A man overcome with emotion. An aging man. When his age grows, so does his disproportionate rationality, creating large loopholes and tears in his plan, “You won't do it,”

Chuuya just raises a brow and places his pointer finger on the steel trigger. Verlaine looks like he's going to be sick. Sick and angry. Sigry, his brain completely unhelpfully supplies.

He marches over, turning his back on the hostages and giving them the opportunity to slip from their binds and rise silently behind Verlaine. Chuuya doesn't flinch when his collar is roughly grabbed and Verlaine is boring into his eyes.

“You aren't stupid, Chuuya. Why are you seriously considering killing yourself in order to escape me?” Is angry, confused and even the slightest bit bitter or perhaps… saddened. The gun feels heavier in his hands than before.

“It's really the only way, isn't it?” Chuuya’s voice was meant to sound light, redirect the power of emotion to him, but it cracks foolishly, “You know everything.”

Verlaine pries the gun from his hands, no resistance in return now that the Agency members have escaped fully from their binds and can fend for their own sorry asses. Everything goes wrong from there.

Paul raises the gun to his own forehead in one swift motion and pulls the trigger even quicker.

A spray of blood catches across Chuuya’s face and runs down his cheek, as his face drops from calm indifference to absolute horror.

“Oh,” He hears himself say, and he's suddenly kneeling beside the already-dead man and shaking his body violently, “Oh my god, help. Help! Help him, please!” Tears mix with vermillion as they trail equally lazily and miserably down his face onto his neck. That's his brother.

A foreign few sets of hands lift Paul away and a trusted pair constrict around his side as he weakly struggles and sobs for his brother, arms giving out.

His wails fill the air and hurt the ears of occupants and acquaintances of the nearest mile around, inhumanely wavering in a Godly way. It's a banshee screech of grief, a siren song of loss and a mermaid snarl of disbelief. Time freezes when Arahabaki cries.

Debris shatters and the ground itself shakes. It will later be passed off as a rare, concerning earthquake, simply the result of two clashing tectonic plates and friction rather than a true tale of brotherly war and distress, suicide and consequences.

The horrific cries make way to fitful, piteous sobbing and gasping whimpers. Chuuya starts to come back into his own mind, shoved out by Arahabaki’s personal grief. Twisting his head up through tears, his eyes are met with curling brown hair, amber, soft eyes and wistful words muttered in his ear.

“Dazai,” Chuuya breathes through the tears, “Dazai, is he— okay?”

A pause, a beat, “No. He will not survive. I'm— I’m sorry.”

Yet another wave of screams crash over the earth, lesser but still terrifying. A window smashes, a dog whines and Chuuyas' throat dries up and becomes hoarse. Dazai’s arms tighten protectively around him, like a metal shield and the God will happily take shelter, stuttering breaths racking his frame.

The crying stops, strangely and abruptly. There's simply no more to come and he stands from his warm sanctuary on shaky legs.

“What,” He blinks, “Do I do now?”

Dazai doesn't speak any words, but hooks an arm around his waist and leads him toward the surprisingly only partly demolished Agency office. Eyes fix on him while clamouring seeps from under the doors to the hospital.

The President of the Agency stands, undeterred, in the middle of the dusty floor. His white hair sits majestically, neatly on his shoulders and his belt sits evenly on his high waist. Him and Chuuya look polar opposite, but when Fukuzawa catches his gaze for a moment, he feels for the first time in years, respected as an equal rather than a monster or a pawn.

Dazai leads him out the back door, toward a drywall line of dorms, each with their own personal touch, like a doormat, shoe scrubber or a grown ass cow tied to a pole. The furthest to the right, with the noose hanging on the door is Dazai’s, he already knows that from late night visits and early morning leaving.

The dorm is slightly grimier than Chuuya remembers, but he's hardly thinking about that. His mind is rather preoccupied. When Dazai lets go, his own arms wind around himself in a foolish replica of affection.

“You're in shock,” Dazai tells him, face blank and if Chuuya were anyone else, he would believe Dazai to be bored. Luckily, he can recognise nervousness on Dazai, “Sit down.” The double set of futons squished together does look lovely.

“He killed himself,” Chuuya says numbly, unable to feel his legs still, precariously wobbling to the bedding, “For m—me.”

Dazai says nothing, but turns the tap on.

Things move around me outside of this room. Birds are twittering and I smell of smoke. My room is filled with wispy herby smoke and my breath will stink for the rest of the day. Birds yell outside and trees breathe.

Its 5:11am everything's waking from a rest, unless the animal has forgone rest for play and pleasure.

I have taken an opioid but my brain is too dysfunctional to process it.

Today I took four amphetamines and I wrote four pages on Carol Rumens poems, so much so that I scarcely remembered being in the room at all. I remember pen and paper and ecstasy.

Although pen and paper are ecstasy, so it goes without saying. I have smoked dried scented things and tea bags that I have no business smoking

An animal— that's what Chuuya really is. It's in the way he walks, talks, holds himself and interacts with the shifting world around him.

Everything is just slightly unpredictable, like a skittish yet confident cat that sits at the end of the street all day. When he's drunk, it's rough and he's either a puppy separated from its mother or an excitable parrot.

It's hard to describe; animalistic is truly the only way.

Maybe it's because he was raised locked away from real society, maybe it's because of the people he cared for, maybe it's because he works into the early hours of the morning. In any circumstances, he really is a strange man.

If you asked him, he'd agree. He would pour you a drink, tell you to get comfortable and begin listing off times he's felt true animalism or been told of his tendency.

He'd remember the way he talked to people at fifteen and the way he used to smoke. He’d remember the things he used to promise his friends, the way he used to sleep and the conditions he accepted. The way he used to walk, the way he still snarls like a cornered dog. He'd wince when he remembers the state he’s usually in — that he's in now. And he'd stifle a laugh because It really isn't funny, Chuuya! You could've been really hurt! Stop doing these stupid things for thrills, you’ll end up dead. . . ! Even though the way he remembers it, it was absolutely jokes.

“Well,” He'd babble, already considerably drunk as the waxy bar table held onto his leather jacket a little before peeling away, “Let me tell you. . .! Hic! I’ll tell you about it, just. . . Alright.”

Chuuya would down the rest of his wine in Bar Lupin before opening his doglike jaw to spill his life out in the form of literacy. . .

Most people in their line of work have a statement piece— something uniquely them about their masks.

Dazai has his bandages, mapping across his arms, neck and face. Kouyou has her traditional Japanese kimonos and her flashy lipstick, wrapped beautifully. Mori has that red scarf, passed down through generations of bosses. Hell, even Tachihara has a plaster on his face.

Chuuya has his choker.

It's a beautiful, sleek black piece with a silver buckle. It really is a top-tier choker.

Dazai teases him for it, but Dazai teases him for everything. From his height to his hair, his loudness to his politeness and from his kind inclination to his swearing issue.

Yet, Dazai got him it— 15th birthday, if he remembers. Might've been Christmas.

"Sheepdog," Dazai had called, utterly monotonous and his eyes shimmered and twirled with a strange light, "I have a gift!"

"Eh? A gift for me?" Chuuya has scoffed loudly, already considerably drunk. He makes an unintelligible gesture with his hands, grunting.

Dazai holds up a sleek black box, tied with a red ribbon and displaying a seductive kiss mark on the bottom corner— it's the company's logo.

He chucks it carelessly into Chuuya's arms, and the ginger frets to unwrap it, tearing the ribbon off with excitement, almost childlike.

After a few minutes of drunken fumbling with the bits of tape, Dazai snatches it back, ignoring the whiny complaints and opens it himself, presenting the elegant, now open, box to Chuuya like a wedding ring.

It's a pretty, velvet choker with a pure silver buckle. He looks at it in awe.

He knows the intention of this gift must be something dirty or teasing, but… it really is just such a lovely little thing.

“Does my dog like it?” Dazai questions, face oddly blank with something less hot than lust pooling in his big, red eyes, “Now everyone knows we’re together.”

“Together?” Chuuya slurs, face heating slightly.

Dazai grips the box tightly, “I am you— you are me. Can I put it on you?”

There’s an almost obsessive light glaring in his eyes, a wonder of beauty and mercy— because Chuuya wouldn’t be Chuuya if he was not merciful and beautiful.

And because Chuuya is merciful and beautiful, he nods softly and tilts his head up to allow Dazai to put the choker delicately on his refined neck.

Pale, trembling hands reach around Chuuya’s neck and pull the velvet onto his skin, taking the utmost care not to touch him with bare hands.

The silver buckle slides perfectly into place and fits snugly around Chuuya’s neck. Not so loose it falls, not so tight it hurts.

It's a perfect fit— what could that symbolize?

It's one of those nights.

These spoken of nights, being the ones where Dazai breaks into Chuuya's apartment one drink too late, and spends the rest of the evening caring for a little drunken, probably crying, equally angry redhead.

"'Zai. . ." Chuuya slurs, suprisingly not wine-drunk, but whisky drunk. It's strange, whisky has always been Dazai's vice of choice, cigarettes and wine Chuuya's, "C'mere."

That pretentious, red velvet arm chair Chuuya insists on keeping only makes him out to be smaller than he already is, the large back stretching far above his head.

His work attire is hazardous; shirt untucked and loose, first few buttons undone to show off his collar, vest suprisingly still tightened and ginger curls falling from their day to day ponytail in a very messy, intoxicating way.

"Such a messy dog," Dazai tuts and titters, easily whisking away the whisky and Chuuya's fancy little special cup, placing it on the furthest counter. Away from drunken grasps.

Chuuya whines loudly, making petty grabby and beckoning hands at Dazai, crying out in an ear piercing way, "'Zai!"

Dazai groans to himself; he'll wither so easily to Chuuya's whines and whimpers. Even if his options are, don't go to Chuuya and risk him coming over here and do go to Chuuya, just to be belittled or sobbed on.

He walks over to Chuuya, crouching beside the chair Chuuya curls in.

"Remember— remember when you left the PM?"

Dazai internally screams, not this, anything but this. Chuuya wears mascara and mascara tear stains will stain semi-permanently.

"I lied— I didn't celebrate!" Chuuya says stoutly, looking almost forlorn, "I ended up almost dying though. Don't remember much."

Something inside Dazai burns with a great fire, alight by the prospect of not standing in Chuuya's apartment, by the prospect of not hearing Chuuya's angry monologues, not teasing him, not sparring him. . .

Dazai falls to his knees beside Chuuya's armchair, which may as well be the seat of God to Dazai. A great agony washes him, but his face remains numb and blank.

"Took too many drugs and drinks, got in too many fights. Ended up getting shot; by myself or someone else, is still not known," Chuuya whispers, reaching tentatively out to cup Dazai's face.

"I'm talking a lot, I know, but there's a lot to talk about," He promises softly, ungloved hands running gently over Dazai's smooth cheek, "I was in a state when I was found. Some dingy pleasure house, too deep in shock to even speak."

Dazai moves around so he is now kneeling at Chuuya's crossed feet. A silent sob rips from his throat, choking in his regret as Chuuya cradles him from his post.

"Chuuya," Dazai groans, voice weak and fugitive as he grasps around Chuuya's waist for something outlining their connection.

"I'd find myself talking more to men who looked like you, or spoke like you," Chuuya presses Dazai's head to his chest, "I missed you inexplicably, irrevocably, constantly and reverently."

Dazai trembles in Chuuya's grasp. He can't bear to let go— not now, maybe not ever.

"The point is, Dazai Osamu, I'm a fool. A fool who yearns pointlessly for something devoted to a bigger cause than love," Chuuya oresses their foreheads together and Dazai is acutely reminded of the smell of whisky, mints and cigarettes on Chuuya's breath, "In your arms, I found my home."