Chapter Text
“Seriously, what kind of—” He's interrupted by a sequel of chuckles as he gasps out a bubble burp. “—Idiot spawns behind a person, and puts their hat on their head?”
“Ay, Chuuya, I think it's called human decency.” His friend tries to joke, brushing off the obscurity of the situation like it's old rum.
Chuuya rolls his eyes, huffing in retaliation of his friend's comment. Isn't he allowed to have a good laugh every once and a while? Shouldn't he, of all people, take this opportunity to burst in fast breaths, and forced laughs of enthusiasm?
After everything that's happened, he deserves a good laugh.
“You're too serious, Tachi,” he replies, taking another sip of his vodka. “Besides, when's the last time I'mma see that freak again?”
Tachihara hums, taking a deep breath. “You never know, Chuuya…”
“Ha—?!” He purses his lips together, making a little popping sound. “Ya saying you think I'mma bump into him?”
“What I'm saying is…” He trails off. His friend has always been stupidly rude and stubborn, even after he moved here to the city. Old habits don't die hard. “You're opening a flower shop, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And it's one of the only ones in the city. You see where I'm going?”
Chuuya swipes the alcohol off the side table, taking a few swallows straight from the bottle. He chugs making sure they're loud, and audible through the other side of the phone.
“Ya think he's gonna come to the Grand Opening, or whatever?”
“Well, that may be stretching it… unless you told him you were opening one.”
“...”
“Chuuya.”
“I didn't tell him, all right?!” He yells, throwing the empty glass bottle elsewhere. He'd have to pick up the shards later. “I didn't say anything. He guessed I was a florist.”
“He guessed?” Tachihara teased.
Chuuya growls, not meaning in a primal way, but in a ‘I’m going to murder you,’ way.
“We were playin’ a fucking game. Are you on my side or not?!”
“Mingling with strangers, I see…” Tachihara shuffles.
Chuuya rolls his eyes at that, he's really, really, is getting tired of his friend's bullshit. “You don't know the whole story—”
“Oh, I know. You've only repeated it thirteen times. And each time makes you seem desperate—”
“—I am not desperate.”
“Oh, shush.” Tachihara inhales. “You were smoking on the rooftop, he caught your hat. He returned it to you ‘cus that's what any kind person would do. Y'all started conversing, got to know each other's jobs. And you find out he's a cute neurosurgeon?”
“...Well when you put it like that—”
“You sound like a pimp?”
“I—” Chuuya stutters. “Y'know what? I don't even need to be having this conversation with you.”
“It's not like you have a lot of friends,” Tachihara mutters, but he wasn't quiet enough.
“You mind repeating that for me?” Chuuya demands, he's too drunk on vodka and three shots of tequila to properly control his emotions. Everything seems muffled, not real, either amplified or null.
Chuuya's used to this feeling of influence. Letting the alcohol seep through each crevice of his brain, and influence his psyche. It's a procedure he repeats almost daily; whenever he has a bad day, or feels like letting loose, when the flashbacks get too bad.
“I'm just saying that you don't have many friends,” Tachihara reiterates.
“I got you, and Gin, and— uhm.”
“Chuuya the loner.”
“It ain't like that! Okay?”
Tachihara shakes his head, giving up on tonight. He's argumentative, and so is Chuuya. They would keep going until they've uncovered all of the blackmail they have on each other, and make more in the process. There's no reason to keep up the banter, especially when one of them is drunk, and the other is sober.
“Shouldn't you be resting up?” Tachihara changes the topic. Good, because Chuuya didn't want to keep arguing anyways. “You actually get to see the place you bought.”
“And it'll be a shitton of handiwork,” Chuuya complains, opening up his fridge.
“Ay!” Tachihara yells, and Chuuya winces at the sound. It was too damn close to his ear. “No more booze.”
“How the hell did ya’ know?” Chuuya suspects, only wishing that he could give Tachihara a look of disrespect.
“You have shit to do tomorrow. And I swear to God, I'm going to fucking strangle you if you call me crying over a fucking migraine.” Tachihara swears. “Oh my fucking God. Bad cat!” He yells, abruptly hanging up the phone.
Looks like the cat is trying to deepthroat a banana again, Chuuya thinks, giggling at the thought.
Tachihara has an orange cat, he only took it in spite of Chuuya. Tachihara has never had the best patience, which is why he should never be a father, of any kind. He's brash, and like Chuuya, he enjoys getting blackout drunk every now and again.
He's been friends with Tachihara since childhood. He considers him to be his best friend, if those even exist, or have any meaning. Trainwreck after trainwreck, relapse after relapse—whether it be running away, or being forced to live with Tachihara until things died down, he's been there.
There came a time when he began questioning his feelings towards the man. He's the closest thing he's ever had to a lover, if that means anything.
It's hard to differentiate platonic affection from love. You can want to be really close to somebody because you think they're cool, but that doesn't necessarily mean you're romantically compelled to them. It just means you want to get to know them, and be by their side.
And love can completely destroy that, in one fell swoop.
Chuuya walks over to the place he threw the bottle, it's certainly broken, but it's more in big chunks than tiny shatters.
He does it all the same, using the broom to gather up the shards, and the dust pan to carry them to the trash can.
The spot looks like nothing was ever thrown on it. It's a good thing he doesn't have any pets that could trample and injure themselves.
He made way to his bedroom, getting undressed. He doesn't bother with pajamas, he lives here alone. Only creeps who are peeping at him through the window can see his naked, pale body.
Chuuya flops onto his bed, the mattress squeaking at the weight. He really should get a new one.
He didn't take any pills, it's too much of an effort to take something that won't completely feign off the inevitable hangover he'll have in the morning.
He claps, and the lights in his apartment turn off. Leaving him in the dark, and only his thoughts to accompany him.
The morning comes around, there's a brisk wind swirling around in the air, the sun is still busy rising, and people are just now waking up from their night slumber, or going to bed after pulling an all-nighter.
He's walking to his soon-to-be flower shop. He has no idea what he'll call it; he'll figure it out as he goes along.
He shoves his gloved hands into his dijon-yellow colored overalls. Shivering at how cold it is outside. It's almost spring, but it certainly feels like it's mid-winter.
Chuuya buries his head into his zip up jacket, it's navy blue, and has a turtleneck. Perfect for this chilled weather.
He walks into a coffee shop, it's right across from the place he's renting. It's coincidental, but he isn't about to complain. It benefits the both of them; he gets coffee, and the place gets business.
As he walks in, the bell above the door chimes. It's still early, so there's little to no line. It looks like he's the first customer.
“Morning! Welcome in!” A girl greets. it sounds much too enforced for Chuuya's liking. She also isn't anywhere to be seen, maybe it's an automated message.
“Morning,” Chuuya replies, it's too early for façades and masks. He just wants his damn coffee.
“We have everything on the menu, except for dorayaki. But that should be out within the next ten minutes or so,” she explains, jumping out from behind the counter.
She looks young. She has long red hair that's tied into two braids. Her skin is pale, like Chuuya's, and she has dashes of freckles along her cheeks and arms.
Her bright green eyes shine in the morning haze. She's also a foreigner, like Chuuya. But unlike him, it seems like she already has a place she belongs, a home.
He stares at the menu, looking at what type of caffeinated drink would wake him up the most.
“It's the spring, so we have a special if it's hard to decide,” she assists, fiddling with the tip jar, and the cashier that's on the countertop.
“...Hello?”
“Just looking.”
“Do you wanna know the special or not?”
Chuuya wanted to roll his eyes, he did. But this girl is no older than a teenager. He shouldn't lash out on her just because he decided to get batshit drunk, and woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
So instead, he lets out a long, and deep exhale. “What is it?” He asks, whilst he still looks at the menu.
“Sakura Latte!” It looks like this one is a personal favorite. “It's just matcha with hot water, your choice of milk, and vanilla syrup. You can add as many add-ons as you like, and it's really sweet.”
Chuuya nods his head, taking in the information. It does sound good, but he also wants coffee—something with caffeine to wake him up, and help him get through the day.
“Uh,” he stares. “I'll take that and a caramel macchiato.” He says. “Make it have five shots of espresso.”
The girl looks at him, face deadpanned and in shock. “...Five?”
She sighs, “Can I get a name for the order?”
“Chuuya.” He says.
He doesn't acknowledge her. He gets out his card, and swipes to pay, leaving a tip (he likes to support small business,) even though this girl was really getting on his nerves.
“It'll be out for you shortly,” she says, going to the back to yell the order.
Chuuya takes a seat, right beside the window, having a direct view of his shop.
It looks vintage, it's been unoccupied for a few months now according to the renter. The outside does it justice, the city comes to clean the brick from time to time so it doesn't impact the other businesses.
He can work with that, if anything, he likes the old-look feel it has. It'll make him stand out, something he does well already.
“Order for Chuuya!” She calls, sliding his two drinks on the counter.
He walks up to grab them, so ready to leave this place. But he's interrupted by her talking, again.
“You get a free pastry since you're our first customer,” she snaps on a pair of elastic gloves, and walks towards the variety of desserts on display.
Chuuya is a sucker for sweet and savory, it comes close for his love of alcohol.
“Do you see anything of interest?” She asks, readjusting some of the food.
“Is there anything sweet and savory?” He asks, bending down to look at all the options.
“Yeah!” She chants, pointing at one of the pastries. “Isobeyaki; it's a sweet rice cake, it's really good with soy sauce, and comes with a little container of it.”
Chuuya nods, eyeing the dessert. “I'll take that.”
She nods, not being able to hide the smile that's tugging on her lips.
She sets the pastry into a clear, plastic box, along with a tiny container of soy sauce, placing it on the counter space above.
“Is that all?”
“Yup,” Chuuya replies, eager to try the dessert. He takes all the items into his hands, and begins to walk towards the door.
“Have a good day,” she salutes.
“You too.” The door closes, and the bell rings behind him, as he walks across the street towards his shop.
The shop looks like a fucking trainwreck on the inside. That explains the wooden planks on the door that he had to tear down.
Inside of the shop is flowing with dust gusting in the air, causing his allergies to go off. There's dust bunnies left and right, cobwebs hanging on each corner wall, and the city must've only recently put the planks up, because there's graffiti everywhere.
This was going to be some work.
He took a sip of his caffeinated, five-shot macchiato, toppling over some desk, and setting his belongings on it.
The sun is beaming in on the place, so that does it some justice, but overall, it's a fucking shitfest.
Luckily, there's no rodents around. If there were, he would've freaked.
He decides to open the windows, the fresh winter-spring air would help alleviate some of his allergies, and make it more bearable to be in here.
Walking over to another corner of the room, he opens up a pantry-closet, hoping to find some sort of broom, duster, and maybe a mop if it isn't hanging on its last legs.
Lo and behold, the objects he's looking for are in there. Score.
He brought some cleaning supplies of his own, he crammed it all into the backpack he brought—he didn't expect this place to be clean, given how cheap the price was.
He gets to work, and maybe by sundown, this place will at least be painted.
A few hours later, the shop looks leagues better than it was before. Every single cobweb has been swiped, every spider killed and fended off for good, and it isn't nearly as dusty as it was when he first entered.
This is good, it's supposed to be good, it's supposed to feel good.
So why does it feel like he's accomplished nothing?
“God fucking dammit!” Chuuya swears, kicking at one of the many broken pieces of furniture.
“Hello?” A voice knocks, and then his shop door opens. “Jeez, you made a hell of a mess in here. Holy fuck.”
Is that…? “Gin?!” He exclaims, dropping the dawn power wash dish soap bottle on the floor.
“Chuu-stud!” She greets, and immediately runs up to greet her friend.
They hug. Gin's arms are carrying Chuuya's body off the ground, holding him up in the air with ease.
“When the hell did you get here?” He asks, hugging his back in glee.
“Let's just say someone told me you'd be mid-hangover and cleaning up this shitfest.” They laugh. “You feel lighter, have you been eating enough?”
He rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're not my damn mom.” He dismisses, jumping down from her hold.
“But have you?”
“Eh? When I remember,” he brushes off, not wanting to continue with the topic any longer.
“I'm definitely ordering us a shitton of Italian later,” they joke, but with seriousness. Meaning no funny business.
He purses his lips, “Fine, only if you help me clean this joint.”
“This is supposed to be your frickin’ flower shop, not a pub for gay strippers.”
“What if I wanna be a gay stripper?” He adds on, grabbing the cleaning chemicals from off the floor.
“Nah, you'd be the gay stripper.” She laughs. “So… What d’you need help with?”
“Uhhhh,” he looks around. “I'mma finish cleaning the walls in a bit, maybe mop. I just need paint. The flowers should get here later.”
She nods, picking up the duster from off the floor. “I'll pick up the paint in a bit. Right now…” They trail off, and swats one of the spider webs Chuuya missed off of the ceiling. “I'm going to get all the places your short ass missed.”
“I'm not short.”
“You're three inches shy of a midget—”
“Asshole!”
“Virgin!”
“We aren't seventeen anymore! That's not a valid roast!”
“Nothing has changed since then, has it?”
“...”
“That's what I thought. Now c'mon, let's get to polishing this wannabe swamp ecosystem.”
He rolls his eyes, even though Gin acts like the little sister he never had, he really does enjoy their company.
Gin is fun and extremely out-of-pocket. But she's also blunt, and knows when to keep it real without scaring people off. Some people may not like how erratic they can be, and how much she keeps to herself, but Chuuya understands it.
He met Gin in middle school, they were stuck in a woodworking class, and Chuuya couldn't lift the tools up, and kept nearly sawing his fingertips off in the process.
Gin has always been a brute; they could out-lift any person that dared to challenge her, they could run faster than anyone, and she was only loyal to those close to her, not caring for any other disputes that didn't involve close friendships, and her little brother.
That's what compelled him to Gin; how weird they can be, how many random facts they can recite, how many different talents they're capable of.
(He also thinks it's really cool that they can recite the entire first thirty-minutes of any musical, but you'd never hear that from him.)
Another thing is, like himself, Gin doesn't bind themselves to gender norms. They don't see the pressure to conform to what society deems as “normal.”
They're both androgynous, and don't give two fucks if people stare at them presenting more masculine or feminine. Gender is a range, it isn't a bind.
Gin doesn't hide the fact that they don't align with their assigned sex, they're open about it, and that's something a lot of people won't do, or struggle with.
Heart-to-heart conversations happened whilst they were cleaning, Gin (apparently) got into some sort of romantic love triangle, and is adamant that tits are better than ass.
Overall, it was a much needed evening of truths, lessons, laughs over subReddit tags, and short cries.
“You can't be serious,” she says, kicking her legs up on her office desk. “I'm all for delusion, but this seems out of hand, even for you.”
He rolls his eyes, facing upside down on the red couch. “I'm telling you! He's gotta be the one.”
“You say that about everyone—”
“But he's different!”
“Is this how you're coming out to me, of all ways?” She jokes, turning her pen around in her fingers, fiddling with it.
“I didn't know either! I mean, I always considered myself to be bi-curious, but now I am certain that I like—!”
“—Dick?” She interrupts. “C'mon, Dazai, I've seen you down more pussy than me, and I'm a goddamn lesbian.”
He kicks his feet, complaining, throwing a tantrum like a toddler. “You're not listening to me, Yo-yo!”
“Oh, I'm listening,” she says, putting on her ‘I’m going to diss the hell out of you’ look. “And what I'm hearing is that you're head-over-heels over some boy you met on a fucking rooftop.”
“More than just that!”
“I forgot the most important part! His “ocean eyes that reflect the entire galaxy and all its stars,” right?”
“You make me sound like some passively suicidal, depressed author—”
“Well, you're certainly not Shakespeare—”
“—He isn't a fucking child! He's an adult!”
“He's barely passing a midget—”
“But he's passing!” He complains, fixing his position so he could sit on the couch comfortably, like a normal person. “You never listen to me.”
“Because you're delusional.”
“Am not!”
“The last girl you dated broke up with you after three days, and you went outside her apartment room, played Billy Joel on a radio speaker, and got a restraining order filed on you.”
“Our love was too strong for this world.”
She sighs, “As I said, delusional.” She huffs. “For being a fucking neurosurgeon, you have the worst delusion I've ever seen. You sure you don't have a tumor in progress growing in that noggin' of yours?”
“For being a psychiatrist, you sure don't listen to your clients.”
“You're my baby brother, of course I'm not going to listen to you,” she says as she throws her pen straight at his forehead.
“Ow…” He whines. “Yosano, that hurt!”
“Oh, shush,” she dismisses. “What're you gonna do? Tell Dad? Oh, wait… He doesn't fucking care.”
He rolled his eyes, throwing the pen back at her, missing on purpose. “I can't go telling good old daddy-o that you're throwing pens at my poor, poor head.”
“You say that as if you're sane.”
“Sane enough to operate on people's brains—”
“Okay, and? Edgar Allen Poe was going through psychotic episodes when he wrote most of his stories, he wasn't sane, and still wrote amazing shit.”
“I still don't get the appeal of that man.”
“If you picked up a damn book, you'd understand.”
“Back to the love of my life!” He changes the topic. “How am I going to find him, Yo-yo?”
“I'd help you if you stopped calling me ‘Yo-yo.’” She says with sarcasm, already pulling out her phone. “What do you know about him? Any jobs? Government name? IP address?”
He furrowed his eyebrows, pretending that he has to look for the information in the depths of his mind, when in reality, he has it all recited. “His name is Nakahara Chuuya, but don't ever call him Nakahara, and he's a florist.”
A laugh builds up in her throat almost making it past her mouth, but her cheeks puff as she tries to keep it in. “A florist?”
“Yes.”
“You're serious?”
“With certainty.”
“Okay, uhhhh,” she types all the information into her phone. “There's a new flower shop opening up, how convenient.”
“Really? Where?!” He exclaims, grabbing up his phone to see if there's any more major surgeries he has to do for the day. If they're simple enough, he'll throw them onto the residents.
“It's downtown,” she explains. “It's not open yet, but it should be within the week or so."
He jumps up from the coach, stretching his arms in the air. “We're going to Vegas, baby!”
“Dazai…—” She sighs, placing one of her hands on her forehead. “You can't just say that whenever something good happens to you.”
“Bye, Yo-yo! Thanks for stalking!” He shouts, and slams the door shut behind him.
What the hell am I going to do with him? Her phone rings, the screen turning on at the sight of a notification. “Oh, fuck.”
“That should be everything,” Chuuya stands, proud of how much work he made today.
“Really? Thank God,” Gin sighs, planting her ass on one of the new couches.
“I swear if your musty ass butt ruins my new couch, I'm going to strangle you.”
“Mm, kinky,” she says nonchalantly, nodding her head.
“You're a fucking lesbian.”
“Yeah, but I'll fuck just about anyone.”
“You're a walking STD case,” he rolls his eyes, readjusting the puffy white shirt he's wearing underneath his overalls.
“Why'd you wear that to clean?” They ask, brushing off the comment as if it's nothing.
“It fits with the theme, don't you think?” He does a little twirl, showing off the outfit.
“If you had blonde hair, you'd be the textbook definition of a twink,” she jokes, pulling out their phone from her pocket. “I’mma order the Italian. Wanna eat it here or at your place?”
“Can I say I'm not hungry?”
“No.”
“The isobeyaki was really filling—”
“You ate that nearly seven fucking hours ago. You're eating dinner.” She says sternly. “Tell me what you want.”
“Ugh,” he complains, readjusting a bouquet of flowers that are in a pot. “Tuscan Butter Gnocchi, then.”
“I'm ordering you another one, too.”
“What? Why?” He asks, fighting the urge to snatch Gin's phone.
“Because I'm willing to bet your fridge is filled with nothing but alcohol, and you need dinner for tomorrow.”
“You are not buying me groceries—”
“I am buying your groceries.” She settles. “Does Pasta Pomodoro sound good?”
He rolls his eyes. He hates how caring and overbearing Gin can be. It's annoying.
He knows it shows they mean it out of love and care. She and Tachihara were there when it got really bad in highschool, bad enough to where he needed to get admitted, and sent away for a few weeks. They do it because no one else bothers to, or is too nervous to confront him about it.
Chuuya knows he should be thankful that someone cares enough to go above and beyond for him. But he doesn't want to be cared about, and he doesn't need to be loved. He just wants his friends there, not to do all the extra crap like ask how he's doing, and make sure he's watching the alcohol, or eating.
“Chuuya?” She interrupts, waving their hand in front of his face. “You good?”
“Sorry,” he apologizes, even though there's no reason to. “Just got lost in thought.”
They nod their head, suspicious of his actions. “Okay… You want it delivered here or to yours?”
“My place is fine, we're just about done here anyways.” He says, fluffing up a batch of tulips.
Just as they were about to leave, the door opened, the bell rang above it—it’s louder than a chime, so it wasn't just a gust of wind.
“We're not open for another—” Chuuya says, and he's interrupted by the person in question. “You.”
The person walks in with not a hint of shame. “Me.”
Gin looks around, eyes dotting between the two of them. “Who's he?”
Chuuya sighs, “Remember how I said that I met some rando on the rooftop last night?”
“...Yeah— Wait— Oh…” She realizes. “That's him?”
“I'm not just some rando,” He says. “Chibi here knows my name.”
“You think I bothered to remember it?” Chuuya scoffs, leaving the flowers he's been attending to alone for the evening.
He whines, “I remembered yours.”
“And?” Chuuya mocks. “Just ‘cause you remembered mine, doesn't mean I'm obligated to remember yours.”
He's almost tempted to walk over there, look him dead in the eyes and make Chuuya remember him. But he knows better, he's been down this road too many times.
“To refresh your memory,” he starts, and begins walking over to Chuuya.
“Eh—?!”
He grabbed Chuuya's hand, holding it out, subtly taking a bow to kiss the top of his hand. “Dazai. Dazai Osamu is my name.”
His heart started pounding, but it wasn't that subtle increase you get when you're nervous. This newfound feeling of sappy romance came suddenly, wasting no time to latch itself onto his heart strings.
He could feel his heartbeat through his ears, his face heating up in a shade that could only be beet red. He wanted to speak, but his tongue was tied—knotted from the base back.
The room blurred, and God, he wanted to run. Yet he couldn't, he wanted this feeling to stay, to linger on for as long as he lived.
He blushed, and instinctively snatched his hand away. “What the hell!?” Were the words that came out of his mouth, but not what he wanted to say.
Please, do it again and don't stop. It feels right and I don't know why.
Dazai chuckles, “You remember now, don't you?” He looks around the shop. “Hey, are any of these for sale right now?” He asks.
“I—” He stutters, Gin takes notice of her friend's current dilemma.
“Why’re you asking?” They butt in, crossing their legs together while they smoke a cigarette.
Dazai gives them a look; a cheeky, uneasy smile full of flirtatious effort. He was serious, but just as nervous as Chuuya was right now.
Gin sighed, “Whatever bouquet is actually blooming right now is for sale. The shop isn't officially opened yet, though.” They answer.
He hums, “Okay… Then…” He walks over a fluffy bundle of Asagao’s. He brought the bouquet up his nose, taking a nice inhale of the floral scent. “I'll take these.”
“That’ll be ¥2430,” Gin says.
“Digital payment?”
“Scan the QR code on the table over there,” they instruct, and Chuuya takes a seat beside them, face still flushed in a light shade of pink.
Dazai pays, as any customer would, but he doesn't leave the store.
Instead, he stood by the counter, and he quickly wrote something down, and dropped it in the bouquet.
Then, he brings the flowers over to Chuuya.
“For you,” he says, not being able to hide the smile that's creeping up on his lips.
Gin blinks, also in shock.
Subconsciously, Chuuya grabs the flower, legs closed together and subtly bouncing them.
“Thanks,” he says, still not out of his trance.
“You're welcome,” Dazai chuckles. “Have a nice night,” he says, and then he walks out of the store.
The door closes, and Gin watches him walk away.
“Holy shit, Chuuya,” they exclaim. “You didn't tell me he was that cute.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he spat. “I just—”
“And he's sly?”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up—”
Gin shut her mouth, looking at the flowers Dazai bought her friend. “Look at the flowers.”
He huffed. “No shit I've looked at them.”
“No. Look at them,” they rephrase. “They're Asagao's.”
Chuuya looked at the bouquet, swallowing a lovesick lump in his throat. “Oh, that's… that's just a coincidence.”
“That they mean “bond of love"? Sure, that's very coincidental that he just picked those out of all the one’s in the store.”
He puffed his cheeks, he knew Gin was right. The flowers do mean something romantic.
Even if Dazai didn't know they meant something along the lines of love. What compelled him to choose that bouquet in specific? There were too many plausible factors to take into consideration.
Maybe he chose them because they were the closest. Maybe they were the first one to catch his eye. Maybe they smelled the best. There were simply too many possible reasons.
And it's not like he knew what flowers would be at the shop. He wouldn't go into all that effort and do a bunch of research on species of flowers, right? He's a neurosurgeon, he has better ways to spend his time.
“Let's just get outta here,” he spits, pushing his plethora of thoughts to the back of his mind. “I won't eat the food if it's cold.”
“Whatever you say…”
It's later at night when Dazai gets home. Being a neurosurgeon isn't easy, and it oftentimes means having to repair a last-minute brain bleed one of your patients decided to have.
The patient died.
He wasn't fast enough.
He wasn't good enough.
He's mediocre, he's a failure to medicine, he doesn't earn the title of being renowned around the globe.
“Dazai?” A voice calls, but it doesn't matter, they can't fix that he failed tonight.
Someone lost their life because he lacked the skills to fix the issue at hand. He couldn't do something a senior resident could fix with their tongue-tied using a butter knife as their scalpel.
“Dazai?” The voice calls again, a little louder this time.
But why are they trying so hard? Can't they just leave him alone to down in his thoughts. He deserves it.
Why did he even think that he could fix someone else's neurology when his own brain is fucked up beyond comprehension?
“Dazai!” Two hands slam the table in front of him, snapping him out of his haze. “You good?”
He blinked into awareness, still getting ahold of his surroundings.
“Yeah, I'm fine,” he mumbled.
She sighed, “Did you lose a patient?”
He rubbed his eyes, partly to cover his unsightly appearance, and partly to just… rest.
“Yeah, I did,” he answered, shoving his hand into his jacket sleeve.
A quick wave of silence passed by. This happens a lot. They both need time to process—to think before diving deeper into the conversation.
“How old?” She asks.
“Twenty,” he states, but once he starts, his mouth keeps going—it's hard to stop talking. Everything is just falling out of his mouth, and he's unable to go against it. “Kirako Haruno. She was a beautiful woman, an office clerk, in fact. She came in to fix her hand trembling, so I- I did that. I fixed that, and for some reason she- she started having seizures, so we kept her overnight for observation, and it just got worse. We kept scanning and scanning, testing and testing, and nothing showed up on the screen, and today she… she was complaining about migraines, and how bright the lights were, so we dimmed them down, but then she couldn't talk. So they did an MRI while I was gone, and that—it showed the fucking brain bleed. They tried to keep her under control, but it— I wasn't fast enough, Yosano. She—She died and it was—” My fault. I wasn't good enough.
She walked on over to her baby brother. He knows he isn't a baby. He's a capable, struggling, and successful adult.
However, elder sibling instincts don't die down so easily. Her younger brother, her little brother, her baby brother is in distress, and she needs to help him.
Yosano sat down on the chair next to him, rubbing his back up and down. “You couldn't have seen it coming.” She says. “Sometimes, there's just inexplicable causes of death that we can do nothing to prevent.”
He sighs, “I wasn't good enough.”
“Oh shush,” she gently smacks the back of his neck. “You have a mortality rate of 0.7%. Do you know how low that is? Especially in your field.”
He nods, he knows he's better than the average neurosurgeon, but people still die by his hands.
“You wanna know what the mortality rate is for psychiatrists?” She asked, moving her hand back down to continue the soothing motions.
“That doesn't count.” He states, bringing his hands to grab the upper part of his arms. “You don't kill your patients. They kill themselves.”
“And it's my job as a psychiatrist to help them through that. If I fail to notice any behavior, it's on me. If I make them feel like they can't trust me, it's on me. If I prescribe them the wrong medication and it causes them to go batshit insane, it's on me.” It was her firm voice, Yosano has lost her fair share of patients as well. The mental health field was never an easy one, it required seeing things that most people wouldn't want to begin to comprehend. It involved being able to emphasize and listen to your clients, making sure they feel understood.
There's a saying that goes, ‘those who enter the mental health field often do it for the money, not because they care.’
“5.1% percent.” She breathes out.
Dazai stilled, looking at his sister.
There isn't a look of melancholy imprinted on her face—like if she came to terms with this fact long ago. Her face reeks of… pity and disappointment.
And honestly, Dazai doesn't blame her.
“I'm not saying that to make your deaths any less valid,” she closes the conversation. “I'm saying that everyone in the medical field has to see death in order to curate it. Medicine would not exist if everyone lived.”
Vulnerable conversations have never been their strong suit. It was something they were never taught, and when they dared to show emotion in their youth, they were reprimanded for it.
They grew up without a mother, and according to society, you don't develop properly without some sort of motherly figure in your life. And their father, Mori Ougai, was never the most nurturing human being.
Suppressing their emotions became automatic, a light switch the moment they were confronted with something remotely negative. They were dull knives, unable to cut into anything unless they used a vast amount of force.
They were each other's parents, in a way. Yosano more than Dazai, she’s five years older than him. Dazai was really a reason for her to keep going, so that they could escape the neglect that came from their father.
Both of them choose to suppress and ignore it, but their fathers ignorance and abuse was the reason they've made it so far. They read textbooks instead of children's fables, when they weren't at school, they were at the hospital watching procedures from the cockpit. And when they weren't doing either of those things, they were healing each other's open wounds.
It wasn't a fair life. It wasn't a childhood. Neither of them knew the other's full story.
Dazai leaned over to hug his sister, pressing his chin on her shoulder, as his hands wrapped around her frame, hands grabbing fistfuls of the back of her shirt.
“Hugs release dopamine, remember?” His voice quivered, but he attempted to hide it behind a soft laugh. “Thirty seconds a day.”
She sniffled, returning the same warm embrace.
“You can say you just wanted a hug, y'know?” Yosano jokes, squeezing her brother a bit.
“I'm not a squeaky toy, bobcut.”
“Always trying to ruin the moment, huh, peanut?”
“I fucking hate you.”
“You say that, but even stray dogs need love every once in a while,” she pats the back of his head, and ends the hug. “Got a new bottle of sake, wanna try it?”
They drank the night away, talking about previous lovers quarrels and triangles—the tangibles and intangibles of life. Some tears were shed, some wounds reopened, maybe they even healed a little bit.
Time. It takes time to heal, and unfortunately for some people, that time is cut short.
—
"Chuuya. What the fuck is this?"