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bs-dogs · 4 years

Text

Reason Living

Summary

Nakahara Chuuya. Bold. Confident. Dramatic, with just the right amount of flare.

Behind the mask, there’s little Chuuya can do to keep the tremors, the lassitude— the void that threatens to consume his entire being— at bay.

And then suddenly he’s switching bodies and falling for a stranger who has dead eyes, a familiar face and a name that tastes like hope and regret on his tongue. There’s a shift in Chuuya’s chest that feels like it should’ve been there all this time, and breathing comes easily to him now.

So what do you think would happen if Chuuya stopped switching bodies? Find out why, of course!

(or the Kimi no Na Wa AU nobody asked for, but here it is. Complete with idiots!Skk pining for each other, fluff, angst, time travel and 2 people trying to find their place in this world.)

CH 1

As Melos lay with arms and legs flung out on the ground, sleep began to overcome him. But then, suddenly, a murmuring sound reached his ears. Raising his head slightly, he held his breath and listened. The sound came to somewhere nearby. Rising falteringly to his—

A knock on the door interrupts Chuuya’s stream of thought, cutting off the vivid imagery that was building up inside his mind. He jumps slightly at the sound, not even noticing how his hand is tired after gripping the pen too tightly, and that the playlist he had the mind to play before working has already stopped. Now, he sits disgruntled on his swivel chair, alone and surrounded by silence with a short manuscript in front of him.

Whiplash. That’s the word to describe what he’s feeling right now. There’s a sense of nausea after being pulled back with enough force to startle him, and then there’s the familiar feeling of apprehension that quickly reestablishes itself into the groves of his weary body.

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to anchor his mind back to the real world. Reaching out, he grabs the small Sheep plushy besides his pen holder, grounding himself with the texture. It works, and he sets it down before looking out of the window. It’s dark out, something that doesn’t really shock him since he has the tendency to forget the passage of time whenever he’s focused on something.

Shooting a glance at the clock to his right, the hands point to ‘7:48’. He isn’t given the chance to think about who might be visiting him, of all people, this late into the evening for another knock makes itself known this time with a little bit more force behind it.

“Yes, wait up,” Chuuya says, voice lighter than he feels, and stands tiredly after pushing himself away from his desk. His feet gently pad across the room to reach his front door, not even bothering to look through the peephole to check who it is. Pausing before opening the door, Chuuya takes a couple of breaths to mentally ready and compose himself before opening the door.

‘It’s showtime.’

With his best smile in place, Chuuya greets the visitor, a close friend of his— really, his only friend at this point.

Opening the door wider, it takes a moment for Chuuya to get over his initial shock, “Poe! What brings you here?” He asks and gestures for the shy man to enter. The man ducks slightly under the doorframe, his impossibly tall build making it difficult for him to enter— his hand protecting the raccoon on his shoulder, Karl, from knocking into the frame. Being a smaller person than the foreigner, Chuuya can’t help but be a tad jealous of the man’s height. It’s an ugly feeling which he tries his best to dismiss.

“Oh, I just thought to check on you and stuff…” His voice is almost a whisper, trailing off at the end as if unsure.

They sit down on Chuuya’s couch, one of the few things of luxury in his apartment, and let a moment pass in silent as Karl titters downward and on his guest’s lap. Once Poe has situated the two of them comfortably, the man takes note of the singular light source and the disheveled desk before opening his mouth, “Did you get too engrossed in your work again that you forgot, Chuuya?” He asks in his soft voice, aware of how much of a workaholic Chuuya is.

All the man in question can do is laugh awkwardly, swiftly flicking the lights on, “Well, you know me…” Chuuya is a little bit blinded by the sudden brightness and laughs lightly to try and mask it, “Would you like some tea? Coffee?” He offers, already halfway to his small kitchen when Poe politely refuses, “No, I’m good. I already ate something.”

“Oh, okay then.” He sits down again, his brain scrambling to think about why Poe would visit him so late.

‘He already passed me his draft, and we had lunch the other day so…’

As if hearing his thoughts, Poe heaves a sigh and chuckles, “We were supposed to meet by the café, remember?” The brunet chuckles, “I invited you…”

Then it suddenly clicks for Chuuya and his chest tightens, “Oh!” He exclaims “The date with the cute guy! I’m so sorry I forgot.” He looks down, voice taking an apologetic tone, “I swear I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine. It looks like you have a lot of work to do, so I understand.” Poe kindly says, pausing his petting of Karl to pat Chuuya’s shoulder in reassurance before retreating to Karl’s fur once more. The smaller man smiles at his effort, appreciative especially since he knows of the author’s shyness and aversion to physical contact, “So, how’d it go?”

Poe’s face reddens at an alarming rate, sputtering as Chuuya leans forward and teasingly grins at him, “It was, uh, nice. We just talked and ate and…”

“And?”

It doesn’t take long before he caves in, “We agreed to meet again next week,” He pauses, biting his lips, but it’s obvious to Chuuya that he’s happy with the way the corners of his lips lift up, “Ah… And he… I think he flirted with me?”

“Hot damn, our precious boy bags himself a second date!” Chuuya laughs. At the sudden loud sound, Karl skittishly stands up in alertness before trying to sleep again. The next time Chuuya talks, it’s comparably quieter, “It’s a good thing I didn’t third-wheel, eh?”

“You wouldn’t be bothering us though, he likes debates.”

“Are you saying I like to argue?” Chuuya can’t help but tease, drawing in his eyebrows and pretending to frown. Poe doesn’t buy it though, choosing to simply smile at him, “Chuuya! I could never!”

They both share a laugh, a nice ambience settling around them. Talking to Poe really calms him down. It really is nice to have a friend or two, Chuuya supposes. He grew up as a very quiet child, rarely letting anyone in— his cold and closed off demeanor only intensifying after that incident a few years back. Over time, he did shake off the hard exterior and began to try the whole “friendship” thing again. Chuuya ponders that it paid off quite well, if his nice chat with Poe is anything to go by.

They met each other almost a year ago, when the man was looking for a new editor for his novel after his previous one, Lovecraft, suddenly disappeared from the face of the Earth. Luckily for him, Chuuya saw his online ad and the rest is history. The writer is quite skilled, his works mostly science fiction and mystery, and Chuuya admires his passion for literature and writing.

“It’s one of his works, isn’t it?” Poe’s voice cuts through the comfortable silence between them, eyes resting on the manuscript on Chuuya’s desk, “The one you’re working on right now?”

Speaking of skilled authors…

“Yeah,” He starts, “The style, the aura, the feel…” Chuuya struggles to find the correct word to explain how he just knows that it’s his work— the mysterious author Chuuya’s been handling for all of 4 months now. He uses different pseudonyms, affirmed by his boss when he once thought to ask, but the distinctive tone and presence of his writing stays the same. Something about the way the author uses word and symbolism is striking, almost alluring, and the literature-geek inside him just melts every time Mori hands him another manuscript.

It doesn’t help that he doesn’t even really need to proofread anything; the grammar is absolutely impeccable, so he spends his time just absorbing the story, Chuuya doesn’t understand why his boss still sends them to him if everything is flawless already, but he’s not really one to complain.

“Well, what name is he using right now? What’s the manuscript about?” His guest’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Kuroki Shunpei. It’s a retelling of one of Schiller’s, about friendship and trials.” He starts, “It’s amazingly short, the shortest I’ve ever handled of our mystery person— but I’m sure it’s him.” There’s conviction in his tone, certainty clear in his eyes. Maybe it’s only a gut feeling, but Chuuya’s instinct and intuition have never failed him before.

Poe hums, “That’s new. Isn’t he more of a darkly personal introspection kind of person? Maybe it was, um, written experimentally?”

“Maybe,” Chuuya considers this, “But I haven’t really finished reading yet. I was actually hoping on doing everything today since it’s not as long.”

“So that’s why you were so invested, you were pining away at your mystery guy.” Poe says, tone flat and eyes twinkling. Chuuya thinks he sees smugness in there somewhere.

“Pining? I was just reading, you moron.” To which Poe replies, “Oh, I know you. If anyone had to court you, they’d make sure to send you disgustingly purple prose because of your disease.”

“Say that one more time, I dare you.” Chuuya says, trying to exact the respect he deserved because he is the host here, damn it!

Poe just languidly stares at him, “Chuu-nii, think about it. Maybe he’s your, uh, soulmate or something? Why would Mori even give you the manuscripts if they’re already perfect as is? Maybe there’s a hidden message or a code…”

“First of all, you are older than me, and I don’t have some stupid high schooler disease. Second, there are no hidden messages. And what if he’s an old guy?” Chuuya almost shrieks at Poe, words starting to jumble together the faster he speaks, “And, you know, you’re a mystery writer, not a romance writer for fuck’s sake!”

“So, you checked for secret messages, huh?” Poe raises an eyebrow questioningly, his amusement radiating off him in waves. Chuuya ratters on, sharp sounds and indignant noises as he tries to save himself from the slip-up, “That’s not it at all! I was just— How— What?” His brain short circuits, regretting all of his past choices that’s led to this bout of teasing.

Karl skitters off of Poe’s lap and onto the floor before being scooped back up again, this time being settled against Poe’s chest, “Relax,” He says, lips twisting up, “I was joking anyway. But I do hope we find out who it is.”

‘We’, Chuuya thinks. It’s the first time someone he’s only known for so long used that word in conjunction with him, and it’s a nice feeling— like someone is on your side for once. He warms at the thought and inwardly promises to himself to make it up to the man.

“Yeah, I do too.”

He closes the door behind him, slowly making his way to the kitchen and grabbing himself a glass of water. The cool liquid is a welcome feeling as it slides down his parched throat, drinking greedily after talking for a long while. He glances at the clock again, idly wondering how he survived interacting with a human for 2 hours straight. Chuuya sets the now empty glass on the counter with a loud clunk, the harsh sound cutting through the heavy air like a butter knife, and contemplates whether he’s hungry enough to want to eat. It takes him a few minutes before ultimately deciding that no, he’d rather sleep because talking really does take a lot more energy out of him than most people. Besides, it’s not really the first time he’s skipping so he’s quite sure that his stomach wouldn’t protest that much after all this time.

Sighing, he closes the lights and feels the tension from his shoulder lift slightly. The cover the shadows provide him is a much needed comfort— Chuuya’s always preferred the dark over brightly lit rooms. There’s something about people not seeing him and feeling invisible enough to let the cracks through that makes him feel more human than when he stands under the spotlight. Or maybe because it’s the familiarity of having your environment match how you feel that puts his mind at ease? Whatever it is, all Chuuya knows is that he feels safer now.

It doesn’t take long for his eyes to acclimate to the dark; his body already accustomed to the way his apartment is laid out to the point where he could live comfortably even with his eyes closed. He doesn’t trip over wires or stray papers or the books haphazardly strewn about, doesn’t bump into the corners of his desk and bookcase as he goes into his room. Chuuya hasn’t cleaned in a while because of work, but even then he still knows where everything should be in the organized chaos.

He doesn’t change clothes since he didn’t really go out earlier today, and barely goes through his nighttime skincare routine. Chuuya doesn’t really see the point of taking care of himself if no one is going to see him on a daily basis anyway, but he was brought up to at least maintain his cleanliness and appearance.

His adoptive mother— Kouyou, or Ane-san as he likes to call her— beat the need to look presentable into him the moment he stepped foot in her teahouse. And even after years of moving out, he still can’t shake the need to stay clean and hygienic as much as possible. He supposes that he should thank her for that, since he would be akin to a hobo by now if she didn’t raise him to be so prim and proper.

He pats his face dry and looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes trail after the dark bags and tired expression and thinks he looks miserable. He does feel miserable, so he gives himself that, and proceeds to brush his hair. The split ends are troublesome, but he makes it through with only a few red strands sticking to the brush before his arm tires and the giant need to just lay down and rest consumes him. Sluggishly, he drags himself to bed and just stares at the ceiling.

Despite the fatigue that uncomfortably settles in his body, he can’t sleep— and Chuuya’s just so tired of everything but of course he can’t sleep. He thinks about what’s wrong, as if he can list down all the things that’s wrong with him before the sun rises up in a few hours, before he finally gets up and turns the fan on. The sound of the machine whirring does little to calm him down, but it’s better than wallowing in silence. He never could sleep in the quiet, the static blaring in his ears somehow louder than the occasional loud shouts coming from the unit next to him, so he does his best to get comfortable. Chuuya readies himself for another night of terrors, already anticipating the way smoke clogs up his nose and the way heat tickles his skin.

He hopes the empty feeling that continues to persist inside is gone the next day before he surrenders himself to unconsciousness.

The next time he meets Poe again, it’s in their favourite café. It’s two days after they last saw each other, but Chuuya can’t really remember what happened yesterday. Maybe he got drunk. Remembering how tired he felt the other day, he wouldn’t put it past himself to try and drown himself with wine. The fact that he woke up with an unsettling feeling in his stomach just cements his theory. Must be a weird hangover.

Poe is waiting for him at their corner, a milkshake already in front of him, “Chuuya! Are you really sure you’re okay enough to go out? We could always reschedule.” The concern is palpable in the man’s tone, his soft voice hurried and fretful.

Chuuya thinks it’s because Poe caught him blacked-out drunk.

“I’m fine,” he says, “And I wanted to make it up to you anyway.”

“For what?” Poe asks, hands stilling from scratching behind Karl’s ears, his head tilting slightly in question.

After sneaking a glance at the counter and noting that the line is, in fact, longer than usual, he answers, “For ditching you the other day?” Maybe Chuuya should wait until the queue is shorter?

“But you already did?”

This makes Chuuya halt, confusion tearing its way through his mouth, “What?”. The question slips from his tongue, his mind automatically forcing himself to Think, damn it! What did you do yesterday?

Poe stares at him, trying to find a hint of whatever it is he’s looking for before carefully responding, “You did— yesterday, remember?” He says, “You suddenly called me and we ate in your apartment and talked about your mystery author.”

It takes a few minutes for Chuuya to recover from his brain short-circuiting. Distantly, he notices how his breath is getting a little bit labored and shallow and how he’s shaking. He doesn’t feel like himself right now— doesn’t feel like it’s his body and feels more like an outsider privy to his thoughts.

“Oh… Maybe I got too drunk to remember.” He tries to laugh it off, sounding like he’s convincing himself rather than Poe, “I don’t really remember much. Did I do anything stupid?”

The man takes another sip from his milkshake, already halfway through and it reminds Chuuya that he still needs to order, “You did say a lot of, uh, dark things…”

Warning bells sound through his mind.

“Like, you know— Chuuya, if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. I know how it feels like and I care about you, okay?” Poe continues to worry, eyes strong and vulnerable. His hands fidget, like he wants to reach out and touch Chuuya and reassure that he’s okay, “I’m not trying to pressure you into anything…”

Chuuya now knows it’s not because Poe caught him blacked-out drunk.

Thoughts of hot chocolates and banana bread fly out of his mind. Faintly, he feels the back of his eyes warm and thinks that there’s a slight possibility that he might cry. He takes a deep breath in, counts from ten just like his therapist told him and tries to relax. It’s hard— harder than usual, like he’s sinking deeper and deeper into the ground and right now he feels like he doesn’t want to breathe anymore.

He tries anyway.

“Thank you,” He finally murmurs, “ I— Fuck…” The words are like broken glass, slicing at his lips the moment they try to break free from his mouths and it stings, “I’m not…”

Chuuya came here today with a slight bounce in his steps because he missed feeling okay when talking with Poe, so he surely didn’t expect to be talking about this. It’s like a slap to the face— like a cold bucket of water being dumped on him because he sure as hell wasn’t ready for his only friend to learn about this.

It’s like a breach of privacy. He was trying so hard to seem fine and okay— he should be fine and okay, damn it— so the fact that Poe thinks he’s not is throwing Chuuya off right now. In retrospect, it was a bit outlandish to think he could take this dirty, dark little secret with him to grave. Soon, preferably. But now the cat’s out of the bag, and he really wishes he didn’t wake up today.

How funny and coincidental is it that someone probably borrowed his body for a day and they’re just as, if not more so, miserable as Chuuya? Because if it were Chuuya, he’d keep up the façade as the workaholic, the outgoing and headstrong and stubborn person until the day he finally died. But he wasn’t Chuuya. He wasn’t Chuuya yesterday, and he slipped and now the first friend he’s had the pleasure to have in years knows how ugly and pitiful he is.

Something warm presses against his shoulder and he looks and sees Poe looking at him with his arm outstretched. There’s no pity, no disgust, just resolve and worry and a promise.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s okay.”

Oh fuck, Poe is going to realize that meeting Chuuya was a mistake sooner or later. He’s going to finally figure out that Chuuya isn’t really who Poe thinks he is and that he’s a fake. Oh fu—

“It’s okay to not be fine.”

Chuuya tries to remember if anyone ever told him that. He’s not sure.

The man— Poe, his name is Poe— stares at him worriedly. It finally occurs to him, in order, that:

a.) He probably shouldn’t have said that.

b.) He’s not himself right now.

“Chuuya, are you okay?”

c.) He definitely shouldn’t have said that.

He laughs it off, waving his hands. The lower-pitched tone scratches against his voice box and he feels like a stranger and an intruder and that he shouldn’t be here. He feels like this is a fever dream, like something from a movie or a novel. He thinks, ‘If this is a fever dream then why couldn’t I have just dreamed about Odasaku?’ and promptly shuts that thought down because does he really want to wake up crying and shaking inconsolably again?

He smiles, “I’m fine.”

Hi everyone! I’m vvv late but here’s my work for the bigbang! I’ll be queueing my work over the next few hours. Thanks for reading and see y’all in the next one!

Links will be provided at the last post, thanks!

#skkbigbang2019 #soukokubigbang2019 #bungou stray dogs #nakahara chuuya #osamu dazai #adelie writes stuff

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bs-dogs · 4 years

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Reason Living

CH 2

Chuuya wakes up with the same empty feeling in his chest, like a beast clawing at something broken and void. It’s bright and musky, his limbs unbelievably tight, and… yup, there’s the headache he was waiting for.

Wait, musky? Bright?

He groans as he opens his eyes, wondering why his black-out curtains aren’t doing their jobs and if he needs to send them back to the company because they’re faulty.

And that’s where it all starts.

For one, the ceiling’s not the same. He’s spent a lot of sleepless nights to know how much mysterious stains and cracks are on his ceiling. The sight leaves him disoriented before he fully sits up and—

“What the fuck?”

His voice is scratchy, probably from bawling his eyes out too much. That and the fact that he just woke up and his morning voice is absolutely horrible; like a broken record on loop, or something scraping on a chalkboard, or something. Chuuya swallows, hoping to erase the dryness from his mouth and takes his time to take in everything.

First, it’s bright. Those aren’t black out curtains, and the scenery outside is a far cry from the park back in his apartment. He spots a couple of potted plants on the window sill, which just proves that this isn’t his apartment because he could never trust himself to take care of another living being. He’s doing poorly with himself as is, thank you very much.

Then, there’s the issue with the smell. Chuuya spots a shit ton of canned food and bottles scattered about everywhere, almost toppling over where they’re stacked upon each other. There are also dirty clothes on the floor, and Chuuya is tempted to clean everything.

Where is he? Did Poe suddenly kidnap him and bring him somewhere? Is this a dream? Is he dead?

“Wh—”

And then he stops, something niggling at the back of his head. Something’s wrong, his gut says, and his gut is never wrong.

It hits him. Hard.

Aside from the obvious fact that he isn’t in his own apartment, something else bothers him. His limbs feel like lead, his chest constricts in an unfamiliar way, the way he sat up was different— taking longer, like some additional weight was slowing him down. He felt like a stranger in his own body, which isn’t something he is a stranger to, but today the feeling was hitting him full force. Chuuya may very well still be drowsy, but he is alert and observant enough to know that something is wrong.

His voice is different. He’s sure of it because he most certainly did not drink himself to sleep last night. He went home with Poe and had a deep conversation, and he thinks he cried himself to sleep but he can’t really recall. All that’s left now is the thought that it’s the first time he’s cried while smiling. Plus, his voice— is it even his voice? He listens to himself monologue daily and this is definitely not his voice— is smoother and higher and not his. He tests out a hypothesis.

“Hello?”

He’s halfway to having a vein burst and his lungs failing him when he sees the bandages.

Inhale...

Exhale...

Inhale...

Now count from ten.

Ten…

Nine...

Eight...

“Fuck! What is happening?” He screams, a tremor making its way up to the surface. His hands starts to quiver and he really, really, really struggles to try and remember how and why he needs to breathe.

This apartment is not his. The voice is not his. Nothing is his. Not the bandaged body, not the messy sheets, not the poor imitation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa via canned foods, not the potted plant. Nothing. Suddenly, he feels the world turn and the walls close into him and he—

“Okay, Chuuya,” He says, “You got this. Let’s do the breathing exercises again and try to stay calm.” And so Chuuya tries again and he almost perfectly succeeds. He’s dazed and confused and scared of what’s happening, but at least he’s calm and rational. All that’s left are the slight shaking but he can finally breathe again.

With a clearer mind and a no-longer-beating-erratically heart, he is able to assess his situation and conclude facts:

Fact 1, he is not in his apartment, nor is he even in his body.

Fact 2, the apartment reeks of garbage, crab, and cheap alcohol and it pricks at his nose.

Fact 3, the view is different from up here.

Inference 1, he is no longer Chuuya.

Inference 2, this is why he can’t remember the day before yesterday.

He tries to stand up, feet making contact with the sticky floor and he wobbles slightly but no one’s there to see him. He’s taller, he realizes, and thinner. The bandages extend all the way to his legs, and it makes Chuuya question if the man he’s— co-habiting? Borrowing? Possessing — is severely injured or just a very dedicated cosplayer. Judging by the fact that he’s not feeling any soreness from injuries, he’s betting on the latter.

Chuuya (not-Chuuya?) takes a breather, standing up taking more energy than he expected, before continuing on his quest to the bathroom. He has to see it for himself; has to see if he really is not-Chuuya or if he somehow got into an accident and now he’s taller and wrapped in bandages. A whisper of a thought goes to the forefront of his mind and he grimaces at the thought that this might not be a dream.

Once inside, he formulates Fact 4, he is no longer Chuuya.

This man, whoever he is, is the total opposite of him. Tall, lanky, gorgeous and it really is unfair. He knows his hair is pretty— Ane-san tells him that all the time and it was one of the few things that made him confident because it made him look like he really was biologically related to the woman— but he doesn’t think he can compare to the man’s unruly, brown locks. It’s a little disconcerting to be staring back at brown eyes rather than his own dull, blue ones, though.

The only thing he recognizes is the same tired and miserable look. Brown or Blue, the eyes still look dead and empty. Briefly, Chuuya wonders if that’s him or the other person that’s making such a beautiful person looks so sad, but is cut off when an annoyingly cheery ringtone blares from somewhere inside the apartment. Chuuya takes one last look before turning away to hunt down the device.

“Hello?” Chuuya says, trying to keep his voice from trembling. He uses a neutral tone because he doesn’t really know how this person normally talks, and he is too tired and overwhelmed to even try to keep up a guise right now.

The speaker is shocked, as far as Chuuya can tell, “Dazai-san! You picked up quickly.” The person says, voice high pitched, “Kyouka and I might be running late later, so we’ll try bringing some food.”

“Uh, okay?” It sounds more like a question, “Sure.”

There’s silence and for a moment, Chuuya thought he fucked up and the caller hung up already but is proven wrong when he hears someone else speaking.

“Ask him if he’s okay, he doesn’t sound like it.” The other person whispers, sounding suspiciously young.

Chuuya tries to be assertive, because he doesn’t really want to be at the tail-end of questions right now— especially ones he doesn’t know the correct answers to, “I’m fine. What time will you be coming around?”

More shocked silence, which just proves even further how this person is the complete opposite of Chuuya. Fuck, maybe he should’ve stayed silent.

“Uh, maybe around 4? I’m sure Kunikida-san told you about the stake-out mission, but we’re fine we can handle it.” And then he hangs up just as the sound of a gunshot rings through the speaker followed with static.

Shit, did he get stuck in the body of someone suspicious? Maybe that’s why he as bandages all over, as a cover to hide anything that can identify him. But wouldn’t that be counter-productive? And why wear them to sleep? Chuuya has a lot of concerning questions, and he tries his best to get the answer.

He fights through another impulsive decision to just break down and cry as he sets the phone down with a shudder, grabs some pen and paper, and starts writing.

“Let’s get to work, then.”

It’s almost 4 in the evening, and Chuuya has already ticked off all the bullet points on the to-do list he made earlier that day.

Clean apartment, check. Take a bath, check. Try to search for more information and snoop around, check. Cook something for the guests, check.

Chuuya lost track of time, mind finding the to-do list as a welcome distraction from whatever the fuck is happening to him right now. Tension lines his body as he tries his best to will them away by throwing himself into the “state” he knows best: working. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn’t— point is, being productive never hurt anyone, and at least he managed to keep himself from slipping down the rabbit hole that is his mind.

The apartment is sparkly clean, stemming from the fact that Chuuya is an absolute monster when it comes to cleaning. When he first came to the teahouse, he worked menial jobs and cleaned around which is where he got the skill. Ane-san would threaten to kick him out if she saw so much as a speck of dust tucked away in a corner somewhere, so he did his best. He didn’t want to be a bother to the one kindly took him in, after all. Furthermore, cleaning is almost second-nature to him now and he thinks it may be because of something that happened in the past, way before the fire incident.

He takes pride and contentment in the way he walks smoothly on the floors now, a complete 180 from the sticky flooring a couple of hours before. It also helps that he’s now out of the bandages, hair soft, and skin scrubbed to clean perfection. He tried to be careful with the stranger’s— Dazai’s— body, delicately cleaning himself after he spotted the scars that lined the expanse of his body. It feels rude to be seeing them, like he’s hearing a secret, but he thinks ‘Hey! Dazai is going to see the scars on my body too, anyway.’. Or at least Chuuya hopes he does, because if he doesn’t then that means he didn’t bathe Chuuya’s body and that’s a no-no in his books.

It wasn’t as awkward as Chuuya thought it would be. The way the warm water hits him instantly relaxes him as he tries not to think about the fact that he’s taking a bath in someone else’s body. He doesn’t make a huge deal about the nakedness; more concerned about how the dents and carvings reach even to the back. Once done, he’s careful to pick a long-sleeved top because although Chuuya’s not comfortable with the bandages, he’s considerate enough to acknowledge the fact that Dazai probably wouldn’t want anyone to see the scars.

Admittedly, the hardest part is cooking. Chuuya would’ve thought it was going to be the snooping around but no, this person just had to have a useless refrigerator and cupboards. There was a sad amount of consumable things, his fridge consisting mostly of beer and canned crab that’s standing precariously on a line called “expired”. Chuuya tried, he really did, but all he could manage were some cold soba, some mapo tofu, and a few udon. Considering the circumstance, he guesses it’s not the worst he could’ve done.

Now, onto the snooping part. His name is Dazai Osamu, he’s 21 centimeters taller than Chuuya, is addicted to beer and canned crab, and is miraculously living life as a functioning adult considering the fact that he’s fueled by alcohol and almost-expired food. There’s not much decoration in the apartment, aside from a few post-it notes and the plants— which Chuuya didn’t forget to water— by the window in his bedroom. There’s a few books on his bookshelf, one all about suicide and a draft named “No Longer Human ” that catches Chuuya’s interest. Both have an ungodly amount of notes in them, and Chuuya promises to read the novel if he continues being stuck in this lanky body. Chuuya’s almost embarrassed to be prying so much, but intel is the greatest weapon known to man and he’ll be fucked if he doesn’t go to this particular battle without being prepared.

Almost an hour was dedicated to trying to come up with a cover story, to unearth the secrets to acting like a man he’s never met. It’s hard, no shit, but it’s better than doing nothing. Judging from how the people who called him earlier acted around him, then Dazai is certainly not the assertive type of person. But he also seems like the type to go ahead and throw caution to the wind to help and rescue people, if the way the man reassured him that they were fine. He also seems like an incredibly busy, lazy person because his apartment was nothing short of a pigsty before Chuuya came around and cleaned it. The calendar has not even been updated since last year, for fuck’s sake! Damn, this man was a mess. His closet is filled with nothing but bandages, simple polos and the same kind of dress pants, so at least he has some semblance of presentation. With determination, Chuuya supposes he can do his best to act like the disaster Dazai seems to be.

Well, as much as a disaster as he can afford to be, since he did already clean and cook and took a bath. Fuck, he should’ve thought this more thoroughly.

Ding dong!

And apparently, Dazai one-upped Chuuya by having a working doorbell.

“Dazai-san! We’re here!” Shouts the voice Chuuya recognizes from earlier.

He does his best to operate with longer limbs and quickly open the door when he is caught off-guard by what he sees.

‘Atsushi and Kyouka?’

He recognizes them. He’s seen Atsushi around one of his co-workers in the publishing company, Akutagawa, frequently enough to have exchanged a few pleasantries when he goes in to submit his finished proof-readings. At first, he thought the two were in a business relationship or were best friends considering the fact that they were always fighting, but then that quickly changed when he caught them doing unsightly things behind the building when he was leaving.

On the other hand, he recognizes Kyouka from the teahouse. When he last visited Ane-san almost a year ago, he remembers seeing a recruit in the back kitchens. Ane-san told her she was also an orphan like most of them that worked there. He also remembers the girl coming up to him to ask a weird question, like “Do you remember?” or something close to that.

What concerns him is that these kids might be digging themselves into early graves by messing with the bloodier side of life. While snooping around, Chuuya didn’t find evidence that pointed to Dazai doing illegal activities, but he also didn’t find anything debunking it. As it stands, there’s an equal chance of it being either.

“I wasn’t expecting the two of you so soon.” He says, bringing his hand up to rub his neck, “Come in.” He ushers the two of them, offering to take the plastic bag in their hands. He takes a peek inside and smells chazuke.

Once he puts it on Dazai’s table, he turns around to see that the two of them have yet to come inside.

“Well?”

The two statues don’t reply for a long while, “Er, Dazai-san, are you sure you’re alright?” Atsushi asks.

Kyouka squints at him almost suspiciously, as if instinctively knowing that this isn’t the Dazai they know. Deep inside him, Chuuya can’t help but be proud of her, knowing Ane-san is raising another kid to do good things. But the feeling sours quickly when he remembers about the gunshot and dubious connection to Dazai.

“Don’t worry about li’l old me.” Chuuya says off-handedly and tries to smile at them, “I made some food. You two hungry?”

Said two share a look, a message passing between them before Atsushi turns to him and smiles, “Sure!” and that’s how Chuuya just knows that he’s fucked up. Big time.

He wonders how it came to this., with Chuuya on the ground and apprehended by two kids. Fuck.

They were just talking about the stake-out mission. Apparently, there was someone kidnapped and the guys let out a few bullets to taunt them. Chuuya’s so conflicted and confused that he couldn’t even react accordingly when Atsushi suddenly jumped on him and secured his limbs, disabling him with practiced ease.

It’s that asshole Dazai’s fault. He doesn’t have enough muscles and stamina. Plus, fighting coordinately with unfamiliar limbs is awkward and hard as fuck. So now here’s Chuuya, with his arm twisted behind him and Atsushi’s knee digging into his back as he tries to struggle without actually dislocating his shoulder. He gives up after a few futile tries.

Really, if he wasn’t so fired up and angry, Chuuya’s 100% sure that he would be sniveling pathetically right now.

“Yeah, we got him. Sure. Thanks.” Is all he manages to make out of Kyouka’s conversation with someone on the phone before he tries to strike on of his own with Atsushi.

“Won’t you just— fuck— let go of me? I won’t do anything stupid.” He growls, sounding weaker than it would have been if he had his actual voice. He never thought he’d ever miss his gravelly voice but he does.

“I’m sorry, not-Dazai-san, but I can’t.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake—”

Before he can continue his round of expletives, the doorbell sounds again and Kyouka’s already in the process of opening the door.

Four people enter, all of them dressed so distinctively that Chuuya wonders if they’re actually a group of cosplayers and not the crime syndicate he thinks they are.

“It’s fine now! Why? Because I am here!” The one with the detective get-up says flashily, striking a small pose. Chuuya almost snorts at the reference, internally labelling the man as ‘dork’.

Behind him, a woman with a golden butterfly pin follows while shaking her head, “Ranpo, if you keep doing that, I’m confiscating your laptop.” To which “Ranpo” gives an indignant yell before responding, “Try me, Akiko.”

The next person looks more normal. His soft features and clothing doing nothing to fool Chuuya though, because he just knows these people are dangerous. He yawns behind his sweater paws and fixes his hair clips, “What did Dazai do now?” he asks.

“Where the fuck is he?” says the last one of the odd bunch, his glasses askew as he frowns and stops his way inside the apartment. Once he catches sight of Chu— Dazai, he stops and stares. Chuuya notes the throbbing vein on his forehead.

“Yo.” He greets, “Can you tell them to let go of me?” It’s almost boring, now that Chuuya’s desensitized to the pain. He stares back at blondie and doesn’t back down. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he tells himself not to panic.

The next one that talks is “Ranpo”, “It’s you again?” He asks, peering at him with hauntingly green eyes, “You told us you weren’t Dazai the other day too. Of course, Kyouka and Atsushi wouldn’t know because they were away on a mission.” He surmises, leaving Chuuya stunned.

He clears his throat, “Excuse me, what?”

Taking pity on him, blondie tells Atsushi to release him and he does. Chuuya sits up and stretches his elbow, nodding at Atsushi who looks sheepish.

“Chuuya, right?” It’s “Akiko” speaking now, “Kunikida over here,” at this, she points at blondie, “stormed your apartment after you were late for 5 hours. Then you told us you weren’t Dazai, and now here we are.”

“I…” Chuuya opens his mouth several times, trying to find the words, “I don’t remember, but it explains something weird that happened to me recently.”

“Let me guess, someone you know told you that you were acting weird but you can’t remember what happened.” Ranpo says, sitting on Dazai’s couch beside Akiko. The others continue to stand by the door, excepting Kyouka and Atsushi who are on the floor with him.

“Ah—”

Fact 5, this is why he can’t remember the day before yesterday.

Ranpo doesn’t even let him finish before speaking again, “Called it, pay up.” He presents his hand palm up towards Akiko and the woman slaps a 1,000 yen note on his open hand while grumbling. Chuuya’s mildly interested about the whole circumstance about their bet.

“Um,” It’s the soft boy’s voice, sounding almost like Poe, “Chuuya-san, do you really not remember anything? At all?”

“No.”

Finally, “Kunikida” speaks up, “Every problem I have comes from that man.” He sighs and massages the bridge of his nose, “What’s your name, age, occupation, anything.”

“Why would I reveal information about myself? I don’t even know you!” He shouts, ire rising as it finally sinks that this is an impossible situation and he misses his small apartment and his friend. And his bed. He really just wants to sleep for a very long time.

“We are a Special Detective Agency, under Director Fukuzawa. We assure you; we aren’t here to harm you.”

He raises his eyebrows sarcastically, crossing his arms and lifting his chin up to gesture to the two kids beside him, “Seems like they didn’t get the memo.”

Atsushi starts to bow towards him frantically, “We’re so sorry!” He keeps his forehead planted on the ground, and Chuuya stonily stares at him. Atsushi peeks at him through his white hair, almost shyly, and Chuuya can feel his defences crumbling down. He sighs.

“Nakahara Chuuya, 24, editor at Port Publishing House, and I haven’t talked to this many people in years.” He cuts Atsushi, the words like ash on his tongue. He almost feels bad about the dryness in his tone or the bland look he shoots the bowing, kneeling boy but he is just so tired.

“Hmm,” Akiko says, “Same basic profile, but last time you told us ‘Dazai is too tall’.” She says, eyes cutting deep into his soul as if provoking him, “So, you’re short and a recluse?”

“And tired. You forgot that one.” He says wryly, somehow enjoying the banter. Oh, how Ane-san would love her.

They hold a brief staring contest, before Akiko smiles sharply at him, “It’s him, alright.”

It’s strange. Being in Dazai’s body almost feels freeing, in a way. Like he doesn’t have to keep up pretenses, doesn’t have to force himself into talking like he’s not bone-deep dead. It feels nice.

“So? What gave me away?” He asks them, settling into a more comfortable position, “How’d you know it was me and not Dazai?”

“Well, to start off…”

The moon shines brightly overhead, silver beams flowing into the apartment as Chuuya finishes cleaning up. The agency left half an hour ago, leaving him with a list of their landlines and phone numbers just as a heads up if Dazai and him ever “switch” again. Half of him hopes so, while the other half still wishes this was just an overly realistic and detailed dream.

His mind entertains a lot of thoughts, but he focuses on Dazai. The man sounds… eccentric, to say the least. Always upbeat, frequently sings songs about suicide, asks women about doing a “double suicide” with him, actually doing yet failing at doing the deed— basically, the man clearly wants to die but somehow makes it into a huge joke.

Chuuya’s heart hurts at that. He knows what that’s like. Knows the need to cover everything up about yourself like you never want to be seen again like an old friend.. Knows how the intrusive thoughts gnaw at yourself until you give in. You always give in, one way or another, and there’s no way out unless you… Chuuya doesn’t really know the right answer to that. All he knows is that his heart hurts, and that he strangely feels like he’s known Dazai for all of his life.

He remembers the dead eyes and scarred arms and thinks, ‘It’s him. It’s not me, it’s him.’. He remembers the suicide book and the words of his co-workers as they look at him, ‘Yeah, Dazai really is something else.’ and their far-off looks and tight smiles could only tell him so much, but it’s more than enough to tell him that Dazai is also hurting like Chuuya.

He remembers “No Longer Human” and wonders if that’s how Dazai also feels like; his skin and flesh something like a rented costume, never feeling comfortable and like it just doesn’t fit. Feeling like a fraud. Yeah, Chuuya understands.

He wishes he could remember a time when he did feel human and comfortable and happy and ‘I’m Chuuya. This is me.’, but of course even that is not allowed. All he can remember is fire, and empty, miserable eyes staring back at him as they take him in and then sell him away so the other kids can eat.

He was a kid too. He needed to eat too.

He remembers flames licking at his skin, his hair blending so well with the burning mansion that he still catches himself thinking that maybe, maybe he really was meant to go down with the embers that night. He doesn’t remember before that, before Chuuya was 10 and before he was sold off to Ane-san’s teahouse. Believe him when he says he understands. It hurts him to know that Dazai might feel like that too.

They’re strangers, and everyone within a mile radius knows that he’s not the best candidate to be consoling and helping other people when he’s shit at helping himself. There’s still a shard in Chuuya’s heart that protests, though, and he almost stumbles back as he recognizes the inherent desire to help. It’s wild how much his soul bleeds and cries out for that kindred spirit, despite having never met him once which is so strange because it really feels like he’s met Dazai somewhere before.

Everything around him is too much. He wants to help, but he’s scared because Chuuya can’t even help himself. There’s a want to erase the misery from Dazai’s sad face, but Chuuya doesn’t know where to begin. He’s been trying to erase his for years but look where that got him. How can he, useless and pitiful Chuuya, help this stranger when he doesn’t know how?

He suddenly remembers Poe, looking at him in his most vulnerable state and seeing him for the very first time. He remembers his words, ‘I’m doing this because you’re my friend, and because this is what I would’ve wanted to hear the most when I was in your position.’

His body moves on its own, his hands are scrawling messages across post-it notes with lighting speed. Messages like, ‘I cleaned, you’re welcome.’ Because the agency told him he doesn’t really bother to clean, and ‘Eat something else, for fuck’s sake’ because they also told him that he skips meals if it’s not canned crab. It’s not much, but he hopes it helps. They’ve never met each other, but he hopes he helps. Even if just a little bit.

That night, he lays down with Poe’s kind influence stuck on different places in the house and a new resolve growing beneath his skin.

For once, there’s a different feeling inhabiting his normally void chest.

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