“To the stray dogs,” both the Port Mafia and Armed Detective Agency say as they clink their glasses together in midair.
Following the defeat of Dostoyevsky, the two opposing forces have agreed upon a temporary truce, should it not be broken. Laughter echoed throughout the room, forks and knives tapping against plates with an accompaniment of lively chattering.
Chuuya leans against the wall, a glass of red wine in his hand as he takes a dainty sip from the cup. He sighs, his eyes narrowing at the bright lights laced around the room, on the walls, on the tree, and even on the tablecloth. But who can blame the party planners? It was New Year’s Eve and a victorious day for all of Yokohama, after all.
Someone makes their way next to him, their hands in their pockets as they lean against the wall.
Chuuya ignores them, of course, for he knows who it is (someone who he absolutely wishes to NOT make contact with any time soon).
“Why are you separating yourself from the party?” The man next to him muses, swirling his glass of champagne. “Social anxiety?”
A deep laugh comes from the man, and Chuuya has the sudden urge to punch the fucker right in the face.
“It’s not social anxiety, bastard.” Chuuya takes another sip of his wine, savoring it in his mouth before swallowing it. The wine cools the heat simmering beneath his skin, cooling his hot temper.
“Oh? Then what is it? Your height?”
Chuuya whips his head toward the man, and there, face and hair illuminated by the bright light is Dazai-fucking-Osamu. A smirk spreads across Dazai’s lips, smug as his successful attempt to catch Chuuya’s attention.
“What’s it to you?” he growls. The temperature in the room seems to rise while he glares as his ex-partner who left him four years ago.
“No need to get so mad, chibi,” Dazai chuckles, standing upright so that he towered over the redhead like a giant.
“I’m not fucking mad,” Chuuya spits, slamming his empty glass of wine on an empty table. “If I was, the reason would be because of you.”
He storms out then, throwing the door open as he walks out into the frigid cold without his jacket, the snow crunching beneath the soles of his shoes. He doesn’t know why he’s so angry at Dazai; he’s seen him when they fought against Shibusawa and Lovecraft. It must have been the wine, he tells himself, his skin prickling in the low temperature.
He rubs his arms, white puffs of air coming from his mouth as he tries to warm himself up. He doesn’t remember how far he walks, but his legs eventually stiffen due to the lack of heat and so he takes a seat under a tree where patches of green grass stick out from the white snow. He collapses against the tree, the back of his vest digging against the bark.
The sky’s dimming into a dark blue and the street lights flicker on with a hum. Chuuya rubs his arms faster while he brings his legs in. He looks up, through the branches and into the darkness above. He wishes he can disappear into that void, be free of his problems, of Corruption, of Dazai.
It has always been him at the center of his troubles. When Dazai first left the Port Mafia, Chuuya had opened a bottle of Petrus to celebrate his departure when in reality, it was to drown out his sorrows, the feeling of betrayal he felt on that night, the broken bond of trust they had shared during their years as Double Black.
And most importantly, it was to drown out those feelings Chuuya had harbored for Dazai, sink them deep below the waves of his memories, bury them at the bottom of his pile of thoughts. He rid of them by drinking, by driving himself off the edge of consciousness as he lamented over the loss of the other part of his soul, the one who kept him in check when he lost control of himself.
Chuuya feels his eyes begin to droop, his hands stopping on his forearms while his head hangs to the side.
Just as he’s about to succumb to sleep, a warm feeling embraces his arms and shoulders, the cold no longer stabbing at his skin.
“You should have grabbed your jacket before you left,” Dazai murmurs against his ear as he, too, takes a seat under the tree. Their hands brush for a slight moment, but Chuuya quickly pulls back though he yearns for the heat of Dazai’s hand.
Chuuya averts his eyes and turns his head to the side, staring off into the street behind them.
“It’s almost midnight, Chuuya,” Dazai speaks softly, so softly that it makes Chuuya seem to relax even at the sound of it. “You know what that means.”
The beginning of a new year. Right.
“Let’s make a deal, okay?” Chuuya feels Dazai’s arm wrap around his shoulders and pull him in, his head resting against Dazai’s shoulder. Chuuya flinches, but he makes no attempt in separating himself from Dazai. He shifts his hands, however, and Dazai is quick to notice.
He takes Chuuya’s hands in his, his larger hands wrapping around Chuuya’s. Chuuya’s palms begin to thaw, and for once, he allows himself to relax in Dazai’s hold.
“What deal?” Chuuya whispers, staring off into the sky.
“After midnight, put everything behind you. All our years as teenagers, as Double Black, as rivals. Put it behind you. Let’s start anew when the clock strikes twelve.”
An ounce of hesitation hits Chuuya; he can’t just forget the sins Dazai’s committed before and after he’d left him. There was no way.
“Are you willing to?” Dazai prompts.
Chuuya’s absolutely conflicted by his feelings, stuck between this or that. But time’s running out, and he has to make a decision before midnight strikes and the new year starts.
It’s either keep or lose Dazai, his brain tells him, choose one before you regret it.
And Chuuya doesn’t want to regret any longer. He’s been plagued by remorse when he never told Dazai how he felt before his partner left the Mafia, when he never accepted Dazai’s teasing and flirting, when he never ran after Dazai when he made the choice to leave.
He doesn’t want to make the wrong decisions as he’s had before.
Dazai glances at his watch briefly, exhaling into the air. His legs shift positions as if he’s about to leave. Chuuya’ s hand flies to Dazai’s lapel coat immediately, forcing him to stay.
“Yes,” he breathes, right as the clock’s hands land on twelve.
Dazai crosses his legs again, leaning on Chuuya as Chuuya leans back on his partner.
“Happy New Year’s, Chuuya.”
Chuuya smiles; he lets go of his memories, all the good ones and bad ones alike in a silent farewell, never to dwell on them again.
It’s a new year, a new him, a new life with Dazai by his side. His hand grips Dazai’s tighter, and Dazai squeezes back as the distant sounds of fireworks reach their ears.
“Happy New Year’s, Dazai.”
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