Work Text:
“When did you start your career?”
When Chuuya died he knew they didn’t find him but he knew already was gone. No one wants to tell you these things. No one wants to be the soldier with a flag knocking on a mother's door. No one wants to be the doctor walking into the waiting room with their head hung low. No one wants to be the police officer coming back from the alley telling the family to take down the missing posters.
It all started like how it usually did, a bottle, two, a drug cocktail on the side, shaky vision and a hand gripping onto a gun with one bullet in it. He had already staggered this far here, crashed into the door frames, the coffee table, he broke his favorite mug, stepped on the glass too so now his feet were bleeding.
It was a common game he played, opening up the cabinet behind the door and with trembling hands loading one bullet into the revolver. He watched it spin, around and around before he turned around and opened up the window. The cool air sobered him only gently, it was enough to keep him conscious which was basically a corporal sin.
“So what’s your thought process when you work?”
The night air blows hard on his face and blows his bangs back, he blinks widely as his eyes readjust to the dark bathroom. Blindly in the dark, his hand wanders around to find something to put the gun down on and he sets it in the tub. He took a deep breath in, held it, and let it out while hanging his head. Mori taught him to do that ages ago whenever things were overwhelming though he never really could remember any of the times he used it, though he knew he did.
He stood up straight and fumbled around his jacket for his flask and tipped his head back. He needed a drink, the drink would ease his nerves he’s sure and god did he need to relax. His hands trembling made him spill a bit of the contents on himself but it was fine. He licked at the corners of his mouth and sighed, screwing the cap on and throwing it into the tub.
He picked up the gun and inspected it, he opened up the chamber and laughed a little. If he had shot it when he did he would have gotten what he wanted. He shut it and spun it again, turning the safety off and sighing again. He shrugged out of his clothes and turned on the faucet so he could crawl into the bath. He held so tightly onto his gun and time felt agonizingly slow as he pressed the gun under his chin.
“And then what? What do you feel? Do you feel scared?”
No. He hadn’t felt scared in ages. If he felt scared he would have stopped trying to blow his brains out for no one to find. But his hands were still shaking weren’t they? He couldn’t comprehend why his body acted that way even now. He couldn’t understand whose eyes he was looking out of anymore.
He tensed up as he put his finger over the trigger, in and out, shoulder high we bring you home, but he did not deserve the funeral procession that awaited him. He sunk down into the water and let out one last long breath. He opened his eyes and found himself glad he didn’t turn on the lights. He swore he could feel some kind of shadow watching him, it was disappointed. He couldn’t live with himself if he saw the eyes of the person he knew was there looking at him that way. He can survive know he was a disappointment, but in the dark he had some kind of a deniability.
“Then what? How did the first time you shot go? Was it just by a hair that you survived?”
When the gun went off and he found himself not dead, he pointed the gun at the bathroom tile and pulled the trigger. For a single moment he contemplated pointing the gun at the shadow that slowly approached him like the shadow of death, the man who would loom over at the end of the bathtub when he was done and he would be forced to see the eyes that agonizingly stared at him and saw him for who he was.
But there would be no shot into his head like poetic justice, Russian roulette was never romantical to him, neither was death. It just occurred.
That’s how the next few shots went, back and forth as the chamber counted one more round down. Click. Click. Click. Bang. He didn’t even mean to jolt has hard as he did when the gun went off, it was instinctual even through years of working with these kinds of devices over the years. Even though he did this on the same exact day of each week, it still caught him off guard.
His eyes slowly turned to the shadow which slowly had made its way to the edge of the tub. He didn’t have any face but he could clearly see where the eye sockets used to be. He could have tasted his disappointment in the way he just bored his eyes at him. He swears he could see them cry even though they only looked like a thick shadow from here. He was much taller than he should have been and he swear the dark was so deep he could see his face reflected back to him.
He stood up, splashing a bit of the water out of the tub and Chuuya’s eyes came to meet him. He was taller, it wasn’t him but he knew it was and as he turned away and closed the door and collapsed on the door he swears that he could still feel his eye staring at him through the door, like he could burn holes into the door if he tried, and just maybe he really was.
“Did you very quickly start doing the business right after this time?”
Like an addict, he kept doing it and like touching your hand to an oven the same things occurred. He’d finish the game and then Chuuya would show up and ruin it. No, not ruin it he’d say, he’d shame him. He’d shame him like he had to stay alive and carry the guilt of what happened to him because only he knew, and if he died then so would Chuuya. Maybe this was punishment for all the things he wrote about doing in other worlds and leaving him behind.
Eventually he just couldn’t seem to take it, the holes in his bathroom wall were too many to make it worth being seen through by his shadow every time. He had connections, that was the easy part for him. The hard part was to clear up his name so people didn’t know he was a cheater. It wasn’t hard, it never was, it was how he always lived.
He knew people who would get him cleaned up well, though he’d force himself in if he very well needed. What he needed was someone else to take the burden off of him. He could play and hope that he died. He doubted he would but god would he try.
“And your job, how was it? Was it fun?”
It wasn’t for the money, though he could use it just the same to pay off things he needed. It wasn’t enjoyable to see human lives lost, the work wasn’t exactly something he woke up overjoyed to go to after all. This job wasn’t even that much for him, he still got to feel the blood splatter on his face as bullets entered the skulls on his opponents. He watched their body fall and lay twitching on the ground before someone stepped up to the chair and took the gun up and they played again.
Click bang step. Click bang step. Click bang step. It was a repeated circle, all the same like the game he played in his bathroom. Lives didn’t matter here, they all knew what they signed up for. Many people came in, too many people lived, some cried when they went out, some shared a drink with him. He remained there like a statue, something made to decorate the place to be splattered with blood. He had no enjoyment out of watching people lose their lives. He’s used to this life, it’s the same life he’s lived just in different colors. He’s seen gray, bright yellows, blood red, and now they mean nothing to him.
Sometimes he saw his face in the crowds, sometimes the people who watched him, their eyes were his. But the thing was that they were both sets of his, the black out black eyes of his shadow, and the two faced eyes that always shined at him. Sometimes it was his face in the fallen men that lost to him and their deadeyes looked at him as blood pooled under them.
Sometimes his shadow came to visit, staring at him from where the newly laid to rest was. His eyes gazed through him so hard that he couldn’t breathe. That he had to get up and leave early for the day and drink and drown himself out just to forget, even if attempting that was useless.
And every day was the same. And every day was in and out. And every day he clocked in. And every day he watched people die. And every day he wallowed down in vices and sim. And every day he planned his death. And every day he became even less of a person.
“Dazai-San?”
Dazai snapped up and looked with wide eyes, the interviewer had a thin concerned smile on her face. He looked around into the crowd of all the same people who had eyes that watched and ate up anything before him. He felt like he was burning up under the lights but he still smiled gently.
“Sorry, I think I was thinking too much about something, what’s the problem?” He sat up straight, glancing momentarily out to the crowd. The tv cameras caught his smile, they caught him, but they did not get him. He was smiling in such a practiced manner, something he stood in front of the mirror and practiced so hard that know one would know the difference.
He felt hands on his shoulder, he did not look for he knew the coldness of those hands, of who they were, of the eyes that stared through the back of his head like the ones he knew far too well. Those hands were the only ones that had ever made him smile and he would never smile like a normal person would again. In the gaze of these people he knew that no one would know who Dazai Osamu would be. This, he knew, would be the last time Dazai existed for the public, for he knew well his time to perish was soon, or at least he hoped so.
The interview was practically over so he got to leave not too soon after, no one noticed his blunder, or at least they didn’t notice. Then again, maybe they did and they were being nice, or they wanted to hold it over his head like some big grand joke to feel they were better than some guy who plays Russian roulette for fun.
He went and got a drink, bourbon, he bought the whole bottle and like he always did when he went out drinking he watched. He watched people socialize and wondered how easy it would be to shoehorn himself into their conversations. Maybe some of the people would love the company, maybe some others would think he’d be rude, maybe someone would try and punch him for trying to hit on ‘their’ girl or guy. But he knew that even if they communicated in ways easily understandable by the masses, no one would understand him, no one would see who Dazai was.
It didn’t matter, he didn’t want to stay here long anyway. Clutching his bottle, he staggered his way back into his car. His head rested against the steering will and he felt a sob bubble out of his throat. He shouldn’t be allowed to cry, he didn’t have the right to steal this from people. Every smile and laugh he gave wasn't his, just as nothing here was him to own. He didn’t have a right to own anything at all.
He lifted his eyes and looked up at the rear view window, blankly staying back as the shadow of a man that he knew stared at him in the backseat. This might just be the closest he’s ever been, his hands were reaching towards his throat and gripping so tightly he could feel the wind leave his lungs. He leaned back into his hands and felt his vision blur, but from lack of air or because he was crying he didn’t know, he didn’t care, it didn’t matter.
“Pour me a drink would you?”
He felt his lungs fill with air, he put a hand to his throat and blinked the tears away that clouded his eyes. He sighed with a relief he didn’t know he could feel. He slowly turned to look at the man beside him and froze, became a statue, died and then came back again.
Chuuya was there, he lit a cigarette in his cupped hands, taking a long drag and exhaling smoke. He tilted the seat back and tipped his hat over his eyes. Chuuya was there, but he knew very well that it wasn’t Chuuya, it was enough for him that that didn’t matter. He didn’t feel Chuuya fully, he could still feel those hollowed out eyes that looked through him, but he was human. He was enough that he could let out a breath.
He opened up the rest of the bottle again and handed it over. “You won’t like it, it’s not what you usually drink.” His voice was oddly reverent, quite like he didnt want to hear his voice as is squeaked out of him.
Chuuya laughed in return and tilted his hat up so he could drink from it. He had a smile, Dazai let himself smile back at him. A bit of unease left him but he suddenly felt so unaware of what his hands were doing. They gripped tightly on the steering wheel and he pulled out and drove. He drove carefully, he couldn’t have anything happen.
Chuuya sputtered and grimaced, looking over the bottle’s label with disgust. “You’re right, this is shit.” The bottle was dropped into the cup holder, Dazai stared forward. He felt bad that he didn’t have anything he wanted, he deserved so much better after all. “You don’t have wine in here? I’m surprised, I know you’re not a wine drinker but I thought my death might affect you more.” He winced at that, Chuuya may be made up by him but he didn’t get it, he didn’t understand him.
Chuuya felt around a little in the compartment, Dazai sat up staring out into the road. “You did affect me. I really missed you.” He heard Chuuya stop feeling around and his eyes lock onto him, they were soft, sweet, he swallowed a lump in his throat, he felt dizzy. “I… I kept seeing you. You’ve been with me for ages. I needed to bury you. Is that why you’re here?”
“Maybe.” Chuuya shrugged. “You brought me here, you know why I’m here. You brought me back when I was resting so soundly, what do you want, Dazai?” He felt guilty, he didn’t mean to, he’s trying but even for Chuuya it wasn’t enough, he could never be enough for him, yet he still can’t accept it cant he? Could Chuuya tell he’s sorry just from his eyes? He couldn’t say it, no amount of words would make up the apology he wanted.
Dazai jolted a little as the cigarette smoke blew into his face, he swerved and the car came to an abrupt stop. He coughed and gasped for a second, waving the spoke from his face before looking over, tears brimming in his eyes. “Wanted you to talk like a normal person, look at me, would you?” Dazai fixed his eyes on him, he didn’t dare move as he was asked. He felt like he was about to erupt into flames, Chuuya was burning him up, he was boiling.
Chuuya opened up the glove compartment and held the gun he kept in his hand and opened up the chamber. “You were waiting for this, you want someone to kill, right? I said I’d kill you.” He remembered he wanted that, he felt selfish for wanting this but he wasn’t even living, he was existing, wasting up resources to keep the corpse that he was still alive. His eyes looked at the gun, watching how he closed the chamber it spun around. His hands trembled as he watched him point the gun under his head and a click sounded.
“It’s your turn.” Chuuya handed the gun over. He stared at it, he’s used this same model gun thousands of times, it basically grew up with him. He used it when he and Chuuya worked together, in his old job, when he was playing this job what felt like ages ago. He felt miles away from the present now, he felt away from the earth itself, like the world was destroyed and now it was just him and Chuuya.
He reached for the gun, Chuuya was patient enough to to wait as his arms that felt too heavy reached for the gun, brushing against it momentarily with hands that once found the gun familiar but now find it foreign. Chuuya looked kindly while his hands trembled and he found himself weeping bitterly. He shook his head and choked out in a voice that didn't match his face “I cant.”
“Sure you can.” Chuuya said in response, pushing the gun forward again, his hands jolted back like he just touched a burner. But Chuuya's patient eyes just waited for him to take it, before sighing and taking his hands and rubbing them gently. “Look, I'll even help you. Get ahold of yourself Dazai.”
Mori had told him that once, but he soon remembered that this wasn't the Chuuya he grew up with, it was some part of him mixed in that just wanted to be rid of the child inside him. He sniffed, tears dropping onto his lap. Chuuya's face was hard, he couldn't do anything about that. He realized how exhausted he really felt right now, the heavy weight that clung to him. He stared at Chuuya's open hand then back at the hard eyes that had no compassion for someone like him anymore. He took a deep breath in and offered his hand, their hands were cold, but at least he could recognize this feeling. Chuuya's hands were cold with death, finally he felt hands that were just like his.
The gun was placed into his hand, he tightly wrapped his hand around it and tilted his head back. The cold under his chin was so familiar that this situation just felt all too familiar. His hands finally stopped shaking and he let out a long laugh. Chuuya joined him, and he leaned back into the seat looking at the sky. It really was the perfect day, he never really realized it until now.
He shut his eyes and he saw many things but none of those things were important, Chuuya took his other hand and whispered sweet nothings to him that he cared enough to pay attention to. “Chuuya I hope you understand just how long I was waiting for you to do this.” Dazai felt himself empty out, his body preparing for what he knew would occur, but he didn't feel scared. It was just his time and here he was holding hands with the reaper. And he even got to watch the reaper grin at him and wrap his hands around his own.
"See you in hell, bastard."
The last thing he heard was the cut off sound of a bullet exiting the chamber.