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I. Dazai
I don’t really know when I realised that I was in love with him, or what made me think so. It really makes me laugh now that I look back at it. Maybe it was the way he laughed, always the loudest in the room, not being able to read it; even during classes, when someone turned to him to tell him another unfunny joke, he laughed, and then, when the teacher was lecturing the class, he was always the one to take the blame, agree for extra hours, detention, and to bring his violent father to the principal. He always hid the bruises, but not because he was ashamed of them; he just didn’t want anyone’s pity; it was an inconvenience to him; I think he wanted to be remembered this way: always smiling, always charming, always up to some mischief after school; never tired, always ready for a fight on the side of justice. I admired him for this. I wanted to be like him. I wanted to take him by the shoulders and kiss him on the lips, I wanted to feel how that laugh tasted in my own mouth, I wanted to make him mine, to charm him, to conquer him as one conquers the world, I wanted to always have him look only at me…
I’m getting ahead of myself.
At first, it was nothing but mild interest. Ambiguous looks cast at each other from across the room. Then, he helped me write an essay for our Literature class; one time, two times, three times… And that was, perhaps, when I knew. What I searched in others was kindness, and Chuuya consisted of it, even though he didn’t want others to believe he did, but he did. He always protected those who were bullied; he always took the punches, fearlessly, spitting blood on the tarmac and throwing himself back into the fight. He was my person. He was my person. I realised it, perhaps, the moment I saw him punch off another dude three times his size, so he’d stop picking at helpless nerds. He jumped, and screamed, and tugged at their hair, and punched, and punched, and punched, and for an onlooker, it looked like ladybug trying to crawl to the top of the mountain, but he kept crawling, he always came back for more, for revenge, even when they toppled him over on the ground and kicked him in the stomach until he coughed up blood, he always got up and threw himself back into the fight, this bloodlust was never enough for him, he wanted justice, and I was a coward. He was my person. I wanted him all, the entirety of him, and I wanted him only to myself.
I loved him, I loved him, I loved him, I love him, let me press this pen harder against the page and make it bleed ink, I loved him. I’ve always fucking loved him.
But he never so much as considered my existence.
Chuuya is cool. Chuuya is independent. He has this little thing about him, teens online call it aura, but Dazai knows better, because Chuuya owns something that can’t be taught; one can only be born with it – the pure, untarnished sense of what’s right and what’s wrong; he calls it justice, but Dazai thinks it’s just something inherently his. Some people are born to live in the world, and others are born to change it. They have always, since the very beginning, belonged to the different camps. But on one sunny day in April, their paths suddenly cross, and it changes everything.
Dazai is strolling back to the bus station after hours and hours of classes when he notices Chuuya, sitting alone on the grass, under the tree, and retying the laces on his left sneaker. Something pushes him forward, and he approaches, and it’s probably a mistake, because he’s so scared he feels like he’s swallowed his own heart. Chuuya looks up at him condescendingly, at the way he covers him from the sun, and says nothing. Dazai says nothing, either. He puts his school bag on the grass and crouches in front of Chuuya to even their score. Without asking for permission, he reaches for his shoe and takes the laces in his own hands, retying them in a set of fast, sharp, mastered moves. Chuuya draws in a surprised breath but quickly relaxes.
“Thanks,” he says, and this simple gesture becomes Dazai’s melting point. “I’ve always sucked at this.”
Dazai smiles with the corner of his mouth, not looking up at him. The reality is, Chuuya has this habit of walking around the school with his laces untied, and he doubtfully even notices it most of the time. “I know,” Dazai mutters under his breath before straightening his back and sitting down on the grass. Chuuya keeps looking at him, as if trying to remember his name. “I would advise against it,” Dazai speaks again, when the silence starts growing unbearable. “These can be a hindrance in a fight,” and you love fights, he adds in his head.
Chuuya scoffs. “I could fight with both my legs broken. I ain’t got no care about some fucking laces.”
Dazai smiles, again. “I know.”
Something in his face changes, and it’s not pleasant, but Dazai thinks he can live with that. The mere reaction is enough for him to complete a little milestone, which is alerting Chuuya’s attention to himself.
“You aren’t bullying anyone, are you?” Chuuya squints at him, voice suddenly unfriendly, dangerous.
Dazai’s smile falls for a second. “No,” he’s quick to shake his head.
“Good,” he nods, leaning back against the tree and hugging his knees, looking nowhere in particular. “Everyone here is so fucking evil for some reason.”
Not you.
“What do your parents say about these scars?” Dazai asks, pointing at the marks covering his bare arms, a little token from every single fight he’s ever jumped into.
Chuuya sucks his tongue for a moment before breaking into a soft, quiet, genuine laugh. “The dead don’t really speak, do they?” But his father is alive, Dazai thinks, and he beats him too, which means that cruel people stop existing to Chuuya by default the second they think themselves godly enough to cast suffering on another human being. This is wise. Too wise for his eighteen years. “Anyway,” Chuuya sighs, propping himself against the grass before getting up to his feet. He looks down at Dazai, no particular emotion on his face. “Be good, alright? I wouldn’t fancy scarring your pretty face, too.”
Like that, he leaves, and Dazai keeps sitting there on the grass, in the graceful sunlight, taking in Chuuya’s figure, getting farther and farther from him before disappearing from view whatsoever. Be good, alright? He thinks he can promise him this much.
II. Dazai
I think he knows that I like him, but chooses to ignore it because he doesn’t know what to do with people who come at him without fists. I think he’s scared of me, which is alright, because what is fear if not a byproduct of admiration? I keep watching him everywhere – in the corridors, at the canteen during lunch, alone, chewing on his bread like it’s the tastiest meal he’s ever had, watching everyone like they’re his enemy, and drinking his cold tea. I even notice him at the smoke spot behind the school sometimes: alone, having waited patiently for everyone else to leave, he whips a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and smokes one as if he doesn’t know how to do it right but really wants to learn. I think he wants to seem older than he is, which is a totally understandable wish at eighteen.
I wonder if he suspects I’m writing all these things about him. I wonder how he’d react if he found out. He’d probably beat the shit out of me, but I’m not scared. If there’s a place for all these feelings to live, let it be this notebook.
To the pages, I can talk about how Chuuya is the holiest I’ve ever laid my eyes upon; how he doesn’t notice how beautiful he is under all these bruises and scars; how he never does his hair, never cuts it, barely ever brushes it, but always makes sure that his clothes are ironed and proper; how sometimes, in the corridors, he looks at everyone around like he’s cutting them into pieces with his glare, but then, I notice him feeding birds in the park after school, and my heart reaches a melting point; about those rare moments he shows up for the PE class, getting undressed in the locker room, and I watch and try to remember his scarred back, the way his vertebrae peek from under his thin, pale, freckled skin, and how I want to put my dry lips against each one and kiss him until he, too, reaches a melting point, breaking apart in my arms, letting me catch him and then, kiss his neck, too, trace this battleworn path to his lips, take him by the chin and force his eyes to look at me before touching his mouth with my own, knowing too well I will be punished for this; his elbow to my stomach, or worse, my crotch. I wonder if he knows that I’m not afraid of him. I wonder if he’d believe me if I told him that I might be the only person in the entire school who’s not scared of a fight with him. I wonder if he’d laugh at me for this.
Regardless, my reverence is not for him to dissect.
When the new kid, Atsushi, gets transferred to their school, for long weeks, he doesn’t know how to protect himself, and there’s always something (or someone) to protect himself from when you’re in high school. Dazai risks his nonexistent reputation to become Atsushi’s only friend; he takes the spot next to him in every classroom, lets him sneakily peek at his notes whenever he doesn’t know the answer to the teacher’s question and ignores the unfriendly glances thrown at him from nearly every corner of the room but Chuuya’s; he also walks Atsushi to the bus stop every day after lessons, so he doesn’t get jumped by bullies trying to take away his money from around the corner. Dazai might not be extremely good at fighting, but he’s tall and broad, even a bit too broad for his age, and his menacing exterior has always been about his only shield from violence. Atsushi is short, small, and pretty fragile, a lot like Chuuya, but he doesn’t have the same bloodthirst in him, and this is what makes them drastically different.
“Thank you,” is what Atsushi says at the stop, seeing his bus pull up from the other end of the street. He fixes the strap of his bag on his shoulder and looks up at Dazai from under his unevenly cut white bangs falling onto his eyes. “You’re very kind to me.”
Dazai smiles, ruffling his hair like they’re already best friends, which draws a surprised sigh out of Atsushi. He says nothing and gets on his bus, still watching Dazai through the stained window glass as he pulls away from the stop.
They do study sessions together at the library. Dazai helps Atsushi with English, History, and Math. They share the same table at lunch. Atsushi shows him the pictures of a white kitten that his foster parents allowed him to adopt from the local pet shelter. Atsushi is the only person at school with whom Dazai shares his chocolate bars and chewing gum when he has some, and in turn, Atsushi buys him cold soda cans from the vending machine on the school’s ground floor.
Their friendship unfolds well, and it’s a good point of distraction for Dazai, whose existence has recently revolved around Chuuya and everything associated with him. He thinks that Atsushi must be a guardian angel sent to him from above, even though it’s Dazai who’s protecting him from violence most of the time. With time, Atsushi also grows more perceptive to the world around him; he starts smiling more often, he becomes unafraid of raising his hand in class and speaking up when he knows the correct answer, and he even signs up for a drama club for a change, joining the cult of those weird theater kids, led by the somber emo boy Akutagawa Ryuunosuke. Dazai genuinely enjoys watching Atsushi step out of his comfort zone, talk to people, and feel like he belongs to the community he’s in. All of this – only for the illusion to break against the sharp rocks of reality like sea waves crash themselves against the shore over and over again.
It happens during lunch. They are at their table, again, chewing slowly on their cheese noodles and talking about nothing – mostly, it’s Atsushi bragging about the role he’s managed to bag in the upcoming play set for the school stage in winter. Dazai is about to ask him what techniques he’s using to memorise the lines, since he has so many of them, when one of the kids, bypassing their table, accidentally topples a whole bowl of ramen on Atsushi’s head, staining his white hair and white clothes with sticky, orange-colored liquid.
Dazai stiffens, unable to move a single limb, feeling how Atsushi starts shivering all over, his gaze fixated on the single spot on the table, humiliated and terrified; the kid, whose name Dazai doesn’t know, starts laughing like he’s just heard the funniest joke in his life, and half the room picks it up, their laughter forming a disharmonious, disgusting melody, each one louder than all others. It only lasts until a certain someone sprints to their table from across the canteen and delivers a delicious punch, his bony fist meeting with the bully’s face, erasing the disgusting grin off his lips. When Dazai looks up, Chuuya is standing there, enraged but quiet, watching the kid squirm in pain on the floor, grabbing his face with his hands, smearing the blood from his broken nose. Chuuya feels his gaze on him and looks back, meeting his eyes with an ominous spark. He clicks his tongue – in disappointment, Dazai thinks.
“I told you to be good,” he says, not looking as he picks a single thread of a curly noodle off Atsushi’s head, throwing it on the floor. “Who will protect him if not us?”
He says us, not you, and Dazai already knows that the memory of it will stick with him.
For now, however, he still can’t stomach a single word, watching Chuuya turn around and leave, stepping over the shuddering body on the floor, not looking at anyone around, his hands in his pockets.
III. Dazai
Chuuya is fucking cool because he rides a motorcycle. I doubt he even has a license, and I have no idea how he hasn’t been caught yet, and it’s also not the only reason why I think he’s cool, but all these reasons have been accumulating lately, and every single day brings something that makes me see him as even cooler than before. I wonder if he likes boys. I wonder if he likes me. I’d want to ask for his permission to kiss him and watch him say yes; this is everything I’d ever ask from him, I promise. Every time he punches another bully in the corridor and gets lectured for this by the principal later, I want to kiss him a little bit more.
This is stupid, probably. Clearly, he is not interested.
Lately, out of boredom mostly, I’ve started writing down his most remarkable behaviors. He always looks down when he walks, raising his head only when some injustice sparks his attention. He’s extremely quiet when he’s not fighting anyone, and I’ve realised that I hear him shout more often than I hear him talk. He’s much smarter than he wants to appear. Last week, he helped me with my essays, even though I never asked him to, I could’ve perfectly written them on my own, I just didn’t have time with all the extras.
Alright, maybe I did use the essays as a pretext to finally talk to him. I wish he spoke to me more. I wish he would notice me whenever we pass by each other at school, but he still keeps looking sometimes like he doesn’t recognise my face. I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him. Why won’t he leave my head?
Dazai devises a tactic which might not work, but he will hate himself forever if he never tries.
He starts appearing in Chuuya’s vicinity on purpose, pretending that they need to be at the same place at the same time by pure accident, wandering through the same corridors as he does, ending up in the same auditoriums, blabbering something about getting lost and winding up there by mistake, only to catch a glimpse of Chuuya’s face and remember it.
Chuuya cracks his tactic open faster than he can, in fact, remember.
One time, on recess between Math and Japanese, when Dazai is following him sneakily down the corridor, hoping to get a chance to talk to him and explain why he didn’t stand up for Atsushi that one time in the canteen, Chuuya stops abruptly, his hands in his pockets, and turns his head to look Dazai in the eye. They are not alone, but for whatever reason, it feels like they are, because in that moment, everything around Dazai stops existing. He is so beautiful.
“What do you want?” And unfriendly, far from cheerful or warm, staring at Dazai with a frown like he’s about jump at him and beat him up if he doesn’t fuck off.
“Nothing,” he lies shamelessly. “I wasn’t following you.”
Chuuya squints at him. “Leave me alone, if you don’t want any trouble,” he warns.
But maybe Dazai does want some trouble from him. The problem is, he doesn’t know how to be romantic, not at all; or, at least, not with someone who’s all thorns and daggers. How can someone so beautiful be so off-putting?
He smiles at that, lightly, trying not to show how nervous he feels. He puts his hand on the strap of his backpack, his fingers fiddling with it purposelessly, just to keep himself occupied. When he smiles, he notices something change in the way Chuuya looks at him, but only for a fleeting moment – perhaps, his real feelings overriding the act, or Dazai is just deluding himself too much. Chuuya bites his lips, taking a nervous but barely noticeable gulp of air, and then – gives in. “Follow me,” he says, and Dazai didn’t expect that an order could be pronounced with so much hope in it.
He’s agitated, shivering, all the way through the hallways, downstairs, keeping just three steps away so no one would think that they are together; outside, Chuuya picks up pace, as if trying to lose him, testing him, but Dazai keeps pushing himself through the dense crowd of students, until finally, they are left alone in the back of the school building, where it is quieter, and the wind is softer, gentler, and the sun is brighter than everywhere else. This is where Chuuya has parked his bike.
Dazai can’t stop wondering what he’s about to do.
Chuuya hops on his bike and takes his helmet in his hands without putting it on. He doesn’t leave right away, his feet still on the ground. He turns his head only, looking at Dazai and breathing in long, deep, even breaths. His beauty is like a sword Dazai keeps throwing himself against, too much of a fool to tell pleasure from danger. “Do you want to get the fuck outta here?” Chuuya asks in a whisper, his wishes getting ahead of his words.
Dazai only needs this gentle push to fall. He takes a step forward and, hesitating for a moment, gets behind him; unsteadily, he finds, like a tower struck by lightning, threatening to crumble. He knows he crossed the boundary of what’s allowed to him when he twines his arms around Chuuya’s waist and lays his head against his shoulders, breathing in the smell of his hair, his skin, his clothes. He needs to readjust himself; their height difference is significant, to say the least, perhaps almost ridiculous to an onlooker, and that’s on a good day. He closes his eyes. Chuuya, in his arms, stiffens, as if bracing himself for a fight, but then relaxes, falls, letting his guard down. Anyone could tell he’s not used to this. Perhaps he wants to shrug Dazai off himself like one shrugs off a fly or a cherry petal. He endures. Dazai keeps holding him. He endures.
Anyone can be schooled into tenderness, he thinks.
Even Chuuya.
He starts the bike, and slowly, they pull away, gradually gaining pace, getting farther and farther away from the school, and Dazai can’t believe his happiness when he’s allowed to clutch against Chuuya’s waist the entire time, breathing in the fresh smell of his hair, wondering what’s going on in his head. He’s so close and yet so distant, and it drives Dazai insane.
Chuuya takes them to an abandoned building that used to be a library not far from the shore; some of its bookshelves, half-broken, are still holding old books, their spines torn and covered in dust, their pages wrinkled from time and humidity. They get inside through a broken window, and Chuuya claps the dust off his hands as he lands on the creaking woodboards. Dazai has to shrink into himself and crouch because he’s way too tall to fit in the window frame. Once he gets inside, Chuuya turns to look at him, serious and unfazed, and for some reason, Dazai remembers last year’s Valentine’s Day, when he left an anonymous heart-shaped card on Chuuya’s desk, only for him to tear it in two in front of everyone without even reading the message inside. The message said-
“I really want to punch you right now.”
Not what the message said.
Dazai’s blood starts to boil with a new kind of ferocity.
“Is this why you brought me here?” He asks, letting go of his backpack, unclenching his hand; it falls on the dusty floor, unattended.
Chuuya waits it out for a couple of seconds before speaking again. “No,” he says. “I was wondering if you’d follow, and you did.”
Of course, I did, Dazai nearly rolls his eyes at this. This love is way too mature for his lanky teenage body, outdated, expired. He’s been in love with Chuuya for so long that it has become an irreplaceable part of him, like a gushing wound turning into a scar turning into a memory. And they have never even kissed.
Chuuya gets down on the floor, his back against one of the bookshelves, and rummages in the pockets of his school jacket for his cigarettes. Lighting one, he takes a drag, staring at nothing in particular. Dazai sits down next to him, hugging his backpack. The sun coming inside from the broken window lights up every little particle of dust in the air. Dazai’s skin under the layers of the school uniform is about to reach a melting point. The smoke of Chuuya’s cigarette smells bitter, and Dazai makes a face. Every single second means going through some little torture with him.
“Atsushi,” Chuuya breaks the silence at some point. “Take care of him, alright? He doesn’t have anyone but you.”
Dazai nods. “Understood.”
To make Chuuya proud, he’s ready to conquer his fears.
“You want some?” Chuuya offers him his cigarette without looking at him.
Dazai wonders if it’s another test. He accepts the cigarette, half-smoked, and puts it into his mouth clumsily, inhaling. He starts coughing immediately, the smoke tickling his lungs, the bitterness scratching his throat. Chuuya side-eyes him and laughs. Dazai wants to tell him that he’s the most beautiful when he laughs. He doesn’t have the guts to.
It is an unknown day of an unknown month when Chuuya comes to school hobbling on one leg, holding onto a crutch. When Dazai sees him like that, his heart skips a beat. Three times, he wants to run up to him in the corridor and ask if he needs any help, but he knows he’d probably get punched for it, and so he doesn’t take the risk, waiting for a better moment.
The better moment comes much later, on recess, in the school’s front yard. Chuuya is sitting under his favorite tree, his crutch on the grass by his side, and Dazai approaches him like stepping into a battle unarmed.
“Come on,” Chuuya sighs heavily upon seeing him. “Laugh at me. Everyone already did.”
But Dazai is far from laughing. “Who did this to you?” He asks, crouching next to him and staring intently at his plastered leg.
Chuuya sucks his teeth, looking away. He’s beautiful, as usual, even though severely underslept. Dazai, naturally, expects him to lie, but he doesn’t. “My father,” he says, hissing through clenched teeth when he tries to move his broken leg on the grass. “Made a laughing stock outta me. One day, I’ll kill him, I will,” he doesn’t look at Dazai. “Will you be sending me heart-shaped cards to prison?”
Dazai’s next exhale catches in his chest. “You knew,” he sighs in disbelief.
“Of course I fucking knew,” Chuuya frowns, shaking his head, like berating Dazai for something he did, even though he’d been repeatedly told not to. “Glaring at me with your heart-eyes from every single corner all the time… embarrassing. Are you embarrassed?”
Dazai leaps faster than he thinks. “No.”
“Good. You should be-” Chuuya freezes. Then, laughs. “Oh, fuck,” throwing his head back against the tree. Then, something in the distance catches his attention, and he stops laughing, swallowing nervously instead. “Look,” pointing somewhere with his chin. Dazai turns his head. “Your friend is getting outnumbered.”
Dazai’s heart falls. He sees Atsushi at the turn to the school’s backyard, being pressed against the wall by one of the bullies three times his size, shouting into his face, demanding something from him; he’s shaking like a stray cat, clutching with both hands against his shabby school bag, his eyes filled with terror. Deep down, he knows that no one is coming to save him.
Unless.
Dazai turns to look at Chuuya, only to find that the entire time, he’s staring at him, expectantly but calmly, no discernible emotion in his face, as if saying, come on, betting his last change on him, show me what you’re worth.
With a slow, deep breath, Dazai puts his backpack on the ground and gets to his feet, taking off his jacket. Not looking at Chuuya, he hands it to him, and for a moment, his heart skips a beat when he feels Chuuya’s fingers clutch at the fabric on the other end. He swallows the lump of fear in his throat. “I’ll be right back.”
I. Chuuya
just what the fuck does he want from me?
as if i don’t have enough on my plate already.
i wish he’d just fuck off.
II. Chuuya
found a stupid valentine’s day card on my school desk earlier today. i recognised the handwriting in the message immediately, but i didn’t read what it said. i won’t let it get to me. i don’t have time for this.
III. Chuuya
he keeps staring at me every time he sees me. he picked up some kind of friendship with the new boy, atsushi. i hope he knows what he’s doing. i hope he’s not doing it just to impress me. it’d be very pathetic of him.
thinking about it right now, he’s rather handsome.
i wish it didn’t piss me off so much.
IV. Chuuya
dazai saved atsushi from those fucking savages earlier today. he fought them like he was immortal or something. he beat them all up to the last one, and now, he’ll likely get put in detention after classes. i hope he doesn’t regret it, because he did the right thing.
i’m proud of him.
The nurse’s office is small and packed from the floor to the ceiling with various crates and medicine boxes; there’s chaos on the nurse’s desk, various papers, folders, and the students’ personal medical files, as well as an empty, white coffee cup with a half-transparent imprint of light pink lip gloss on the rim. Having tended to Dazai’s wounds as well as she could, the nurse left to talk to the principal so he could get dismissed for the rest of the day.
Dazai is sitting alone on the cot, bandaging his bloody knuckles and hissing through gritted teeth. This is when the door slowly cracks open, and Chuuya walks, hobbling, in. He pushes the door closed with his good leg without looking at it and stops there for a moment, sizing Dazai up. Dazai looks back at him, breathing out heavily through his parted lips.
“Let me help you with that,” Chuuya offers, hobbling closer to him and sitting down next to him on the cot, letting his crutch fall on the floor with a quiet clank. He takes Dazai by the wrist, putting his hand on his lap, and Dazai can discern every single freckle and every single little scar on his face this close. He thinks he needs to learn how to breathe anew. “I didn’t know you could fight like that,” Chuuya says, without looking up, and keeps working on winding the bandage around Dazai’s trembling hand.
On the same Valentine’s Day, Dazai arranged a kissing booth in the school corridor, hoping to scrape some money to donate to a local pet shelter. He was far from the most popular boy in school, not even close, really, so his hopes were set rather high; still, he managed to collect much more than he’d expected, and by the end of the day, his cheeks were burning from how many girls had come around to smooch him, stick a crumpled bill into the glass jar, and run away, blushing and giggling, covering their mouths.
The school day had long been over, the corridors empty, but Dazai kept standing there, on the other side of his makeshift booth, hoping, like a fool, for Chuuya to come by. He didn’t believe he would, he wasn’t even sure he’d seen him around after the incident with the torn heart-shaped card, and yet, he stayed, a pathetic loner with pink traces of lipstick on his face, leaning his temple against the booth, counting minutes.
When he heard remote steps coming from the farther end of the corridor, his heart stirred, and at first, he didn’t believe what he was seeing. Determined and blank-faced, Chuuya was marching right at him, his arms by his sides, and Dazai was sure he was tripping. He stood still, straightening his shoulders as much as he could, and used his index finger to push the donation jar closer to the edge of the booth, just in case.
When Chuuya stopped right in front of him, for a long moment, he was silent, just studying the whole exhibit with a judgmental face. At last, his eyes stopped at Dazai, and he frowned when he noticed the lipstick on his cheeks. “Are you really going to donate all of it to a pet shelter?” He asked, carefully.
“That’s right,” Dazai nodded, grinning against himself. “To the very last dime.”
“Which one?” Chuuya squinted at him, and this is how he realised that it was a test, again.
However, he didn’t crumble. “Sakura no Wa,” he announced with a proud smile on his face, keeping his hands behind his back, his fingers interlocked, so that Chuuya wouldn’t notice how badly they were shaking. “I’m in regular contact with the owners.”
Chuuya hesitated, looking between him and the jar, like he didn’t believe him at first. But then, he sighed, letting his guard down, and reached with his scarred hands for his pocket, retrieving a moderately thick stack of bills; Dazai’s eyes widened. He watched every second, holding his breath, as Chuuya was pushing the cash into the jar. He fully expected him to leave after that, run away without saying a word more, but he didn’t. Instead, he cleared his throat quietly and leaned forward, and this was when Dazai thought he might’ve been dying. He was so beside himself, he didn’t even consider bending forward a bit to make it easier for Chuuya to reach his lips.
Cupid was missing all of his fucking shots.
The moment before their mouths could touch, Chuuya covered Dazai’s lips with his hand and kissed the back of his own palm, forcing Dazai to balance himself, crucified like Christ on a cross, between Heaven and Hell. But Dazai didn’t desire anything else; just this little glimpse into Heaven was enough for him to lose himself. When Chuuya leaned back, not looking at him, he was still shivering all over. “Thanks,” Chuuya muttered under his breath and ran away, almost embarrassed, hiding his hands in his pockets.
Now that Dazai looks back at it, he can’t believe he once got so close to having everything he’s ever wanted; and he’s only eighteen, but he already knows that he wants Chuuya and no one else. They say that the first love always crushes you with its ferocity but never lasts. Well, Dazai believe it’s only fair that his first love stays with him for a bit longer after everything he’s gone through for it.
Chuuya keeps bandaging his hand, even though the layers are already enough and more, and his fingertips against Dazai’s skin, even through the fabric, are the gentlest, warmest feeling. Chuuya sniffs. “You did great,” he says, barely audible. “I’m proud of you.”
“I did it for you,” he answers immediately, hoping desperately that Chuuya would look up and find his eyes. “You told me to be good, remember?”
Chuuya smirks, finally tightening the bandage over his hand and letting go of it hesitantly. He straightens his shoulders, propping himself against the cot, and stares at the wall for some time, at a formulaic poster about the first symptoms of flu plastered against peachy white. “Are you going to do everything I tell you from now on?”
Dazai nods without even thinking. Isn’t it the point of justice, after all, taking everything that fate throws at you and battling it fearlessly, without a fright, and not lamenting about it later?
Chuuya’s gaze is still fixated on the wall. “Kiss me, then,” he says, breathlessly.
Dazai thinks he’s hearing things; his head is still concussed after the fight. “What?”
“What you’ve heard,” Chuuya breathes out. “I won’t ask twice.”
There’s a patch of dried blood on Dazai’s bottom lip, and his mouth tastes like bitter medicine, and he’s almost sure that this is the worst possible moment to kiss Chuuya, that Chuuya is going to hate it and never want to kiss him again after that, but then, isn’t it the point of justice, after all, taking everything that fate throws at you and battling it fearlessly, without a fright…
Dazai wonders how he should go about this.
Then, he doesn’t wonder at all.
He catches Chuuya’s jaw with his fingers, turning his head gently to himself, and leans forward, finding his lips in what feels like the gentlest, most merciful kiss of his life. Then, quite quickly, he realises that Chuuya doesn’t really care. He doesn’t care about his scratched face, the blood on his lips, the taste of meds in his mouth – he kisses him back like it’s everything he’s ever wanted, his hands finding the sleeves of Dazai’s shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no air left between them.
They keep kissing like that, breathless and desperate, for minutes that feel like hours, and Dazai realises that all his suffering was, in the end, worth it; worth the look on Chuuya’s face he witnesses the moment they part, a second of weakness and hazy eyes, this Chuuya, who finally lets himself be coerced into tenderness like it’s something he’s never experienced before. He collects himself way too fast to Dazai’s liking and reaches to ruffle his tousled, dirty hair with his hand, looking a bit above his wet, needy eyes. “Good boy,” he whispers, a bypassing ghost of a smile on his lips.
It might not be the melting point for him yet, but slowly, they are getting there.
Dazai wants to believe it.
IV. Dazai
I think I don’t fear anything anymore.
V. Chuuya
i think i’m falling in love with him.