Chuuya stood before the sturdy wooden door, clenching his jaw and his fists tightly. He took a deep breath to calm himself, his hand hovering over the doorknob for a long moment.
On any other day, he would have easily barged his way into the room without a second thought, but at this moment he was feeling unusually nervous for a reason he couldn't quite understand.
Finally, he gripped the knob and swung open the door.
The room was empty. He heaved a sigh of mixed relief and disappointment. He had been torn between wanting to speak with his partner and wanting to turn around and walk straight back to the elevator, so he quickly decided that it was for the best that he didn't have to make that decision.
He slowly stepped into the dark office, flipping the light switch on. The room was exactly as he remembered it from his countless previous visits. Dazai's desk was placed along one wall, and at the other end of the room rested a faded red couch and armchair. The windows looked out onto the sprawling expanse of Yokohama, but the view was not nearly as magnificent as that from Mori's office. Still, he could see the blinking lights and illuminated streets that criss-crossed the city in the moonless nighttime darkness.
Chuuya made his way to the couch, flopping face-first onto its thin cushions with a sigh. He turned his head to the side and once again caught sight of Dazai's desk at the other side of the room. After lying still for a few minutes, he rose, went over to the desk, and settled into Dazai's chair. He idly tapped his fingertips on the wood as he surveyed Dazai's workspace. Stacks of unfinished paperwork and loose folders were scattered across the desk's surface, collecting dust. Several half-empty cups of stale coffee sat to the side of Chuuya's hand. The redhead wrinkled his nose in disgust at his partner's complete lack of organization.
He leaned back in his chair, and, as he did so, his eyes were drawn to the drawer under the desk. The bronze handle of the drawer was worn and scratched, and dully reflected the glow of the ceiling lights. He cast a surreptitious glance toward the doorway before reaching out, grasping it, and slowly pulling the drawer open.
The drawer was heavy, and it caught several times on its rollers. Chuuya resisted the urge to force it open with his ability, and instead carefully wiggled it until it was pulled all the way out.
He widened his eyes as he stared into the absolute mess that was Dazai's drawer. Its contents had been loosened by the opening of the drawer, and crumpled sheets of paper and strips of bandage spilled out of the top and onto the floor. Empty pill bottles were tucked into the edges, sandwiched between the wall of the drawer and haphazard piles of ancient paperwork. Loose pens were scattered in every nook and cranny, along with occasional paper clips and folded sticky notes. To the side of the drawer, under a wad of unused bandages, lay a handgun. Chuuya shook his head slightly in distaste.
Always prepared, isn't he.
He then bent down to snatch up the fallen pieces of paper, grumbling. He lightly tapped the stack on the desk to even them out, but paused when he noticed what was on the creased sheets.
On the topmost sheet of paper, facing him, were written several lines of Dazai's characteristic messy scrawl. He brought the paper closer to his eyes, squinting. He could barely make out the words hidden within the loops and scribbles of his partner's handwriting. He scanned it, his eyebrows furrowing as he read.
"I am afraid because I can so clearly foresee my own life rotting away of itself, like a leaf that rots without falling, while I pursue my round of existence from day to day."
He slowly set the thin stack of papers on the desk. He rested his forehead on his hand as his eyes moved back and forth across the page, rereading Dazai's writing several times. He then shifted the piece of paper to the bottom of the stack to expose the next one.
The page was empty except for one sentence: "I shall be nothing, the wind, the sky." Around the margins of the page were wavy lines and lazily scribbled doodles of buildings and tall trees with outstretched branches. The drawings might have been pleasant to look at if Chuuya didn't have a sinking feeling in his gut as to what they might signify.
He lifted the paper to read the next one, his breath hitching as he caught sight of the large, blotchy letters scrawled at the top of the page.
"I want to die.
I want to die more than ever before. There's no chance now of a recovery. No matter what sort of thing I do, no matter what I do, it's sure to be a failure, just a final coating applied to my shame."
The handwriting became increasingly illegible, ending in a blob of black ink. Chuuya found it hard to breathe as he stared at the lines on the page; he felt as though an invisible weight was crushing his chest, squeezing his lungs and mangling his throbbing heart. With a shaking hand, he turned the page over. Stains from where the ink bled through the paper mingled with the pen strokes.
"All that can happen now is that one foul, humiliating sin will be piled on another, and my sufferings will become only the more acute. I want to die. I must die.
Living itself is the source of sin."
Chuuya slowly sat back in his chair. He kept his eyes on the last sentence, which had been underlined several times.
"Living itself is the source of sin."
He ran a hand down his face and let out a deep, shaky sigh.
He kept his eyes away from the drawer and from the papers on the desk. He didn't want to read anything more. He didn't want to accidentally learn anything else about Osamu Dazai.
He felt uncomfortable. Sullied. Guilty. He felt as though he had pried into secrets which he was never meant to know. It seemed like Dazai had written these scraps of prose almost as a diary, chronicling the thoughts which Chuuya knew he felt as though he couldn't share with anyone. And by reading Dazai's notes, he had forced himself into his partner's deepest, darkest thoughts, unintentionally discovering and laying bare the most private recesses of Dazai's twisted brain.
So this was the real Dazai. The Dazai he had only managed to catch glimpses of. The Dazai which had been intentionally obscured by the man's own carefully crafted fake personality.
The Dazai who simply wanted to die, to escape the cruelty of life and his own seemingly fruitless existence.
Chuuya already knew that. He'd come to that realization that night with Dazai on the bathroom floor. He knew that Dazai didn't believe there was any value in living. He knew that Dazai yearned for death. He knew that Dazai's mind was an incomprehensible labyrinth, filled with a darkness that could never be taken away.
So why?
Why did he feel this way?
Why did he feel like his heart was caving in on itself?
Why was there an unfamiliar stinging pressure behind his eyes?
Why did he feel so hurt, so inexplicably angry?
His breathing shallowed as he clenched his fists on the desk. His eyes locked on to one of the coffee mugs by his hand, and, without thinking, he grabbed it and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall with a crash, but Chuuya could barely hear it over the roaring in his ears.
Why didn't he talk to me?
Why didn't he let me know he was hurting so much?
Why didn't he let me help him?
Oda's words rang in his ears. He trusts you. The man had said it so sincerely, with such strong, quiet conviction. And Chuuya, though he might try to deny it, had believed him.
He laughed suddenly. It scraped along the inside of his throat and left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"No, he doesn't," he said aloud, covering his eyes with his hand. His voice was rough, and it grated like sandpaper against his own ears. "He doesn't give a damn about me. He's using me. Manipulating my emotions for his own benefit. I'll bet that each instance I saw the 'real' him was a calculated move on his part."
He laughed again, but ended up in a coughing fit. The coughs wracked his body until he was hunched over, panting. He wiped his mouth before continuing his tirade.
"He doesn't trust me. He doesn't care about me. He doesn't care about anyone except himself. He glorifies his strategic abilities, but doesn't give a second thought about how his behavior impacts the people around him. He won't ask for help. He's a selfish, unfeeling, stupid, hopeless waste of a human being."
He had raised his voice to yell at the ceiling, at himself, at the sheets of writing sitting in front of him. He didn't care who heard him. He didn't care if he was being unfair or irrational toward his confusing, hopelessly broken partner. He wanted to scream, to pull his hair out, to break something–
"I'd ask you to continue, but I'm really more interested in hearing your explanation as to what you think you're doing right now."
Chuuya's eyes flew open and he whipped his head toward the doorway at the sound of the familiar silky voice.
Standing at the door, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, was Dazai. His voice was perfectly neutral, but Chuuya could tell by the tension in his shoulders and the narrowing of his visible eye that he was upset.
Chuuya's eyes flicked from Dazai to the open drawer, to the stack of crumpled papers on the desk, and back to Dazai.
This wasn't going to end well.
***Dazai's "diary entries" are quotes from the real Osamu Dazai's books No Longer Human and The Setting Sun.
This chapter kinda hurt to write. I just want to give them both hugs ;.;