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Chuuya takes a sip from his glass. Cheap whiskey burns his throat, but it's better than nothing. He'd prefer wine, but Dazai's palate could never appreciate finer tastes, just as he was unable to truly cherish Chuuya at his side.
"You don't understand."
"Then fucking explain."
That's not the right thing to say, Chuuya knows it immediately as Dazai's face sinks further into that sallow immobility. Chuuya shifts in his seat, hoping he appears as laid-back and uncaring as usual. He isn't.
"Why should I bother if you won't even try to understand? No matter how detailed and logical my explanation would be."
Dazai's voice is impassive-- no, tired. He sounds like a teacher who's well aware that the subject he's supposed to explain cannot be comprehended by the child put in front of him, not yet having the brain capacity to analyse and unravel such convoluted structures of theory.
"But fine, if you insist."
Chuuya wants to believe that the shrug of Dazai's shoulders is practised, all fake nonchalance and honest trepidation buried underneath the meticulously crafted facade, but he can't. There are no hints he's taught himself to spot--no wringing hands, no twitching eyelids, no quirking corners of Dazai's mouth. He must've finally managed to turn himself into an emotionless statue, and Chuuya is terrified that this doesn't petrify him.
"He never forced me to do anything. I have never said no to him, and never have he violated my words..."
"Maybe because he didn't fucking bother to ask you?" Chuuya snaps, and Dazai only blinks at him, unimpressed.
"He did ask me many times if you insist to know. He asked me if I wanted to be touched, where, and how. He asked me what things I wanted to do, and how far I wanted to go before we--"
"Okay, fuck, I will stop you there...just-- Dazai, Christ."
Chuuya hates being so weak that he has to chug all the whiskey down his throat to endure this. Even hearing Dazai speaking about those unspeakable things in such a casual, almost cheerful manner turns his stomach inside out. His brain stutters as though it refused to absorb the words, to comprehend the meaning behind them and god forbid, compile them into morbidly vivid images.
He can't look at Dazai when he bends forward to pour him more alcohol. It's not that Chuuya can't bear his gaze or the hypothetical judgement of his truly pitiful sensitivity. Dazai's eyes are not boring into him, not at all, just resting on his shocked figure, utterly impassive. And Chuuya just won't, can't see him so calm right now. He can't lest he may do something he's going to regret, like slapping Dazai across the face only to elicit some sort of reaction. Although he guesses he wouldn't succeed.
Chuuya swallows thickly, trying to somewhat regain his composure, but it crumbles in his fingers.
"Even provided he did ask you, this doesn't fucking matter. You were a kid, Dazai, you could not consent to things like that. Even less so to a person whom you perceived yourself indebted to, looked up to, depended on financially, emotionally and in every way a boy can depend on a fully grown-ass man. Even if you wanted to protest, subconscious fear wouldn't let you go against someone you considered your saviour." It's childish, but Chuuya spats the last word as if he tasted bile on his tongue. "You were bound to play along with every vile, fucked up thing this man proposed to you. You were conditioned to."
"Now you're just trying to insult my intelligence," Dazai sighs.
"Not everything is about your ego, Dazai," Chuuya spats, hating himself right away. He's playing right into Dazai's hands, getting riled up and provoked just as the asshole calculated.
Although, oddly enough, this time Chuuya doesn't feel like a pawn in Dazai's mind game. Dazai doesn't seem to care much for his reaction, and it's on Chuuya himself that he gets so worked up over this. Over nothing, as Dazai claimed, and Chuuya knows the words were true to him.
Dazai waits patiently until the storm in Chuuya's head quietens a bit to speak up. He might not plan to affect Chuuya this way, but he knows exactly what he's doing to him, nevertheless.
"You won't accomplish anything by speaking to me with words you read in psychology books. That is, assuming you can read at all." The jab sounds painstakingly familiar, but if it's an attempt at Dazai's side to push Chuuya into a more comfortable headspace, it fails fucking splendidly. "By listening to you, I almost got an impression it was better to do such things with a person one hates rather than loves. That's how vile you're making it look." Involuntarily, Chuuya's face scrunches up in disgust, and Dazai picks up on it. "Yes, I loved Mori-sensei. He was kind to me, and despite being a morally corrupted doctor, he was only ever good to me. I was a child, you say. Well, you should know best how fast orphans are forced to grow up in the world we live in. They are raised by the wild streets, fighting off the parasites that want to latch onto them until they finally give up and just try to survive another day. Until even that becomes too hard, a waste of effort." He hums, and Chuuya could've anticipated his next words. "If not for Mori, I would have killed myself long ago."
"Maybe that would be for the best."
It's mean, so Dazai chuckles, eyes sparkling with mirth. "There you are, Chuuya-kun. I was beginning to worry since you didn't lust for my death yet during our little chat."
He's so fucking stupid, Chuuya thinks. So fucking damaged. Deteriorated. He hates him for pitying himself in every aspect of his life but the one he needs to be pitied for.
"I assume you first-hand experienced the atrocities that Yokohama has in store for children at a tender age and know full well how fast we grow up. And yet, you deem yourself fit to take my younger self's free will away..."
"It's not me who--"
"Would you please shut up?"
Chuuya gulps, teeth clicking as he snaps his mouth closed. Dazai has no right to speak in this morbidly melodic, lilted voice that resembles this of Mori so much, even less so when Chuuya shamelessly pries into the part of his life he shouldn't be permitted to know shit about.
He keeps silent, though, and Dazai visibly relaxes, though he seemed perfectly at ease before.
"Thank you. As I was saying, you think you can say what I could and could not consent to, almost as if you were the owner of my autonomy--just because you're now older than I was and thus know better what is right and what is not. Doesn't it sound familiar? Me accusing you of owning a person's decisions?"
Chuuya wants to scream that he has the right to speak on younger Dazai's behalf because he's sane and not fucking perverted and as a responsible adult is obliged to protect him from the harm other adults could bring him, but he knows what Dazai would say. He would defend Mori the same way. Argue that Mori wanted to protect him, and did what he could to make him feel safe and trusting. Dazai thinks Mori did his best to heal him after the streets had broken him, he really does. He doesn't mind the supposed cure was more toxic than the damage already inflicted.
So Chuuya keeps his mouth shut, save for another long swig of alcohol. It makes him feel warm and fuzzy, but in such circumstances, cosiness is contemptible. He isn't permitted to need comfort right now, much less to seek it in the familiar haze of alcohol. But since Dazai seems to despise Chuuya's pitiful attempt at consolation through twisted victim blaming, he may as well indulge.
This ping-pong of an argument could last with no end, and Chuuya starts to think he has no right to win. He wasn't with Dazai when any of this happened. He can be all talk and wise words and righteousness personified but he didn't protect Dazai when he needed it, and nothing Chuuya says can save him now. There's nothing to save him from, not anymore. He's long lost.
"You think children need adults to play their guardian angels and forbid them to understand some matters. But it's Mori-sensei who was mine. Ah-ah!" he waggles his finger, spotting the tell-tale signs of Chuuya vibrating in his seat, itching with the desire to speak over him again, "I know what you're gonna say, Chuuya-kun, so don't waste your breath. You'd say that Mori-sensei was a really bad guardian angel then, and he should've never taken me in."
Actually, Chuuya wanted to yell that Mori was no angel but a devil himself, a fucked-up, sick demon who wore human form to make the others' lives a living hell. Which Dazai knows, of course, using the cotton-padded speech to twist everything according to his distorted mindset.
"If so, maybe you'd prefer me to have gone on living in the streets and selling my body to strangers so I could either feed on scrapes or just get straight-up used without even seeing my pay? I know you're weak at heart, Chuuya-kun. You're still an idealist, and I pity you for this. This world forces us to choose between evil and lesser evil, and I pity you for seeing something genuinely good for once happening to an ill-fated person as the worst evil. There were no downsides in what we had with Mori-sensei. Neither of us regretted what we did. We didn't harm anyone."
He's doing it on purpose, volunteering his part for the crime that was committed against him, saying we as though he and Mori were one, as if he was ever Mori's equal.
Chuuya thinks he may vomit. He feels dizzy, and nauseous down to his core, not due to consumed alcohol, but because all Dazai just said is so fucking wrong, so fucking true. He is an idealist. Though he's always known he should have toughed himself up for his own good, he never managed to rip the roots of weak morality from his mostly withered soul.
He can't offer anything better, fails to see a better solution to throw in Dazai's face, and the asshole is perfectly aware of it. Dazai, you idiot, it would be enough if instead of letting a criminal basically kidnap you, you would have just...
If there were more options in the game of life, orphans in Yokohama would lead happy lives, minds undamaged and unbroken. Chuuya didn't meet children like these. He considers himself lucky, having been taken care of by the Sheep, only to soon grow into their protector. He suffered his fair share of atrocities, but that was mostly his body that took the wounds, leaving the mind mostly unscathed. The same could never be said about Dazai.
"Even though you seem so sure I would've been happier if I had a normal life like any other kid my age, a high-school crush and a heart broken by them, I wouldn't trade what I had the chance and privilege to experience with Mori-sensei for anything else."
"You only say so because you've grown into a fucked up adult, Dazai," Chuuya manages weakly, though it's no use. His fiery voice has burnt out its ire. "He spoiled you like this, moulded and manipulated into becoming his personal marionette."
"You're wrong, Chuuya-kun. He picked me up spoiled. You think a sane child would attempt to kill themself more times than they have fingers to count?"
Chuuya scoffs, Dazai's tiredness seeping into his bones. Or maybe that's the alcohol, its numbing effect finally catching up with him.
"Yeah, whatever, even worse. He fucking latched onto your self-destructive tendencies and made sure to exploit them as much as he could."
"You're so wrong, Chuuya-kun," Dazai echos. Chuuya thinks he won't even bother with explanations until he picks up after a long pause, "I would say it's me who exploited Mori-sensei, but he wouldn't be pleased to hear that. He forbade me to feel any gratitude or indebtment towards him."
"How fucking noble of the motherfucker that he wants you to speak only those lies which he puts into your mouth."
A small, indulgent smile grazes Dazai's lips. Chuuya feels so small. He hates feeling small, and now he does in every sense of the word. As though time got reversed and he was a gullible kid again. Or maybe his maturity never grew in the first place, just like his body.
"Do you want to know what he was like?"
"I already do."
Chuuya's baffled to realise that his words come out a little slurred. Instantly, he regrets being the only one drinking. Yes, it would be nigh impossible to take it all sober, but he hates allowing Dazai the advantage of a clear mind.
Dazai studies him, seeming to guess exactly how the gears in his head turn.
"I don't want to hear any more of his lies," Chuuya mumbles defensively, only because Dazai seems to be waiting for it and he's never been good at refusing him, even less when tipsy.
"I will tell you though," Dazai muses, letting Chuuya's protests pass unheard.
Still, he stays. Despite Dazai, the asshole, deliberately ignoring everything he just said, deciding to forcefully feed him their truth.
Maybe he is a dog, after all. Somehow, in the light of what he heard today, the awareness is not that insulting anymore. As though Dazai lost that certain power over him. Let him slip from his hold, willingly stripping himself bare from secrets and daring Chuuya to turn his back and trot away.
All Chuuya wants is for him to snatch his leash back.
The dog has to respect its owner, and Chuuya's loyalty has been feeding on scrapes.
"Mori, he...always took such good care of me."
Dazai blinks slowly, recalling the memories that should make him shudder, but only cause a slow smile to curl his lips. Chuuya shivers. It's like watching a miserable sociopath unravelling his musings.
"He was gentle and patient with me, so caring. I didn't know human hands could be so delicate, you know? Stroke my skin gently rather than scratch and claw at it, pet my hair and carefully untangle the knots instead of grabbing it harshly and ripping half of it out. I wouldn't expect a person's mouth to bring pleasure in lieu of pain. Utter timid words of endearment, not degrading slurs. I was so shocked when I first felt a tender kiss, being used only to violent bites. There were also many things about my body and its reactions that I didn't know existed, and Mori-sensei taught me all about them patiently, like a good doctor should. Don't fret, I will spare you the details," Dazai has the nerve to sound amused.
Chuuya is too petrified, or maybe too numb to think at this point, too drained out to feel anything for his friend, be it sympathy or well-used, comfortable scorn. His head is spinning, and he's glad he's not able to focus anymore, lest he could think something that would break through the thick fog of denial and shatter the carefully crafted illusion-- no, poison him with's Mori's fucked up mindset as he did with Dazai.
"He made sure to make me feel good. I thought I was never enough, but he told me I was too much. I couldn't fathom why, but he treated me like I was his priority. Never took advantage of me, even though he could fuck me rough and I would have thanked him afterwards. He could play me like a fiddle, break me only to entertain himself by putting me back together. I asked for it, sometimes, but he didn't dare acquiesce. Those times, I hated him, but it could never last long. He couldn't stitch me back together, but at least he didn't tear me further apart. He never made me cry, either. Even though he always seemed so sad, oddly forlorn whenever he thought no one looked at him. As if his mind was filled to the brim with lingering, perpetual sorrow that no one could scrub away. The time we spent together was the rare occasion when I could see Mori crack a coy smile, even if it was wiped off soon after it bloomed."
There's a fondness in his voice as he recalls the events. Jesus, there's actual fondness in his mackerel eyes. Chuuya's mother told him that everything about a man could lie, but not his eyes. Mothers lie, too, but up to this day, Chuuya has believed in this lie. Now, he doesn't know if it's safe to trust anything. He's chewing on his lip, tasting bitter blood, but he doesn't care. His hands ball into fists, and he imagines they squeeze Mori's throat till the tendons crunch. He imagines he's there on the day Dazai meets Mori and flings the man away using gravity manipulation; but this is not enough, so he uses his bare hands to beat the life out of him.
Chuuya is so pathetic. Dazai's staring at him with unseeing eyes, smiling. He seems to be engrossed in watching his own memories flash by, and Chuuya deflates.
He shouldn't have come here in the first place. It would've been better to leave things untouched, unblemished in their mock-sacred blasphemy. Chuuya feels tainted now, tainted with sorrow too encompassing and helpless to be fully comprehended. And yet, in his core, he's shamelessly pure, compared to Dazai. It's blood-curdling.
Chuuya doesn't realise it when Dazai's fingers curl around his nearly empty glass, slipping it from his loose grasp before it can crash onto the carpet. It wouldn't break, but the stain would be hard to clean.
Their hands don't brush; Dazai must be doing his utmost to prevent it. As if his stigma hasn't been already engraved deep in Chuuya.
Dazai speaks yet again, in a murmur so quiet he might be praying Chuuya doesn't hear him.
"Even when he told me he loved me, in such a broken, hollow whisper, he sounded like he was apologizing."
Dazai isn't looking at him anymore.
Chuuya's had enough. The last sparks of incandescence urge him to move, to flee. On jelly legs, he gets up and leaves the room, the door shutting softly behind him.