The Wild Geese || DAZAI OSAMU/CHUUYA NAKAHARA

[二十六] SUCCESSOR, SUCCESSFUL.

You return to the Port Mafia HQ with Dazai's words echoing in your head.

An animal playing God.

You were the God of death, in a way—you controlled who got to live and who didn't get to; their lives were like dolls held up by strings tied to your fingers: they would feel the knife when you sliced them off. You were their Doctor Frankenstein, except the experiment was yourself. You were detaching parts of yourself and replacing them, testing, with parts of other people to see if they fit. And most of them didn't. You were lonely, as all monsters are, and you wanted to look at least human to gain a companion.

But companionship meant trust. And with trust comes betrayal.

You would rather be alone than be with a traitor.

You walk to your room and find—

"Chuuya?"

He was sitting on one of the love chairs by the coffee table in your room, on the table an ashtray the colour of carmine velvet. He was smoking a cigarette nonchalantly as though he hadn't just broken into your room. His lips tilt into a smirk.

"Hey," He greets. You cautiously close the door behind you, checking for any sightings of your younger self—nothing. You step closer and take a seat on the other love chair, with the long couch separating the two of you. You narrow your eyes at him.

"Don't come intruding into other people's rooms like that," You say, gesturing for him to hand his cigarette over. He takes one last inhale before passing it onto your open palm. "It's rude."

"Not my fault you left your door unlocked, sweetheart," He drawls out. Your face scrunches up.

"Did you drink too much?" You ask, judgmentally. "Quit it with the nicknames."

He smirks at you. "What, you don't like it?"

Darkplace.

"I find it repulsive."

"Well, I had to give it a try." He shrugs as you purse your lips down onto the cigarette. You glare at him.

"Don't ever call me nicknames," Your face becomes veiled by smoke, effectively masking you. "It reminds me of your boss."

That sobers him up, and he cringes at the implications of what you have just said. He sees your life stretched out in front of him like a three piece triptych, and you are so young in the first and second panel. Something in your eyes denotes you are hollow; something in you has been beaten out of you. This disillusionment of your youth like cataracts, you were being blinded. This was called being under Mori's gaze. The Mori Gaze. The third panel you are sitting next to him, smoking a cigarette and staring intently at his face. "Oh shit."

"Yeah," You say. "Oh shit, alright."

He sighs. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

"You don't have to try to bring back bad memories," You say, staring into blank space, your voice detached and coming from your younger self, locked away far in some crevice in your head: thin and wispy. Fragile. Delicate. "It just happens."

Darkplace.

"You sure you're alright?" He asks, a tenderness exuding from him that you reject.

"Yeah," You suck the blunt end of the cigarette. "You gotta deal with what it is. But I'd prefer to stay away from anything that brings back memories."

"I guess it's hard for you to do that," Chuuya says, hooking his ankle over his knee. "Especially when you're back in the Port Mafia."

"It is," You affirm. "I feel like I'm constantly in danger of another breakdown of some sorts. As is everyone who opposes us."