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Assistant: Title: Project Personality
        Author: run_mello run_mello 
        Chapter: 1/1 
        Summary: For as long as he could remember, Dazai Osamu had known that there was something wrong with him. Between upholding the image of office jester and the promise to save people, there was no room for failure. Dazai had to be in control of everyone and everything, completely and continuously. He lived the life of a surveillance system, but was that really who he was, or was it who he was made to be?
 In which: Dazai doesn't know who he is, but Chuuya does.
        Contents: Summary:
            
              
  For as long as he could remember, Dazai Osamu had known that there was something wrong with him. Between upholding the image of office jester and the promise to save people, there was no room for failure. Dazai had to be in control of everyone and everything, completely and continuously. He lived the life of a surveillance system, but was that really who he was, or was it who he was made to be?
 In which: Dazai doesn't know who he is, but Chuuya does.
            
        

        
  Notes:





    
      Happy Bottom Dazai Week!This is a gift fic for the lovely Lex, who gave me the prompt “drunk confession”. I hope you like it!Biggest thanks to Vik (arkastadt on ao3 go read their fics!), the light of my life, for betaing this and being a sweetheart.
    

    
        (See the end of the work for more notes.)
    



  





    
        
          For as long as he could remember, Dazai Osamu had known that there was something wrong with him. Other kids were full of feelings that spilled over into laughter and tears. Dazai was full of emptiness.It seemed most people were born with an innate ability to respond to the world around them. Dazai observed, and he mimicked. He was the puppeteer and the puppet, but the play-pretend left him unfulfilled. Desperation made him seek adult guidance. He thought about telling it as it was, stating it plain and clear, ‘I don’t feel human’. Honesty, though, seemed to violate some unstated grown-up code. The only way to get them to swallow the truth was to serve it like pureed baby food. Dazai minced his words. “I feel like I don’t fit in. There’s something wrong with me.”His plight was smilingly dismissed. “Nonsense, you’re perfect the way you are,” they said as though Dazai’s humanity wasn’t buried in the trenches of the uncanny valley. “It’s just a feeling. You’ll get over it,” they said as though Dazai had ever been capable of getting over anything. “Oh, you’re a clever kid. You’ll figure it out,” they said as though ‘it’ meant life and ‘clever’ meant doomed because the closest Dazai came to figuring out life was wanting to die.He couldn’t get rid of the emptiness inside him without getting rid of himself, so that was exactly what he set out to do. He took a razorblade to his thin skin. He bled. He passed out. He didn’t die because he was no one and he belonged nowhere. Not even death, who was otherwise known as an equal opportunist, wanted him around. He was 14 years old when a suicide attempt landed him on Mori Ougai’s exam table. Mori was an underground doctor who ran a clinic that served the city's underworld. Famously, he was the Port Mafia’s primary physician. Mori’s gloved fingers were cold and slimy cucumber sticks, but when he wrapped Dazai up in bandages, it was with the intention to heal, not to hurt. Probably. Having nowhere better to go, Dazai attached himself to Mori’s heel, following his footsteps like a shadow. Soon after their first meeting, Dazai watched Mori take a scalpel to the mafia boss’ throat and thought, the man who brought me back to life knows how to kill. “The previous boss has succumbed to illness. His last testament was to have me assume the position as the mafia’s next leader,” Mori said. He turned to Dazai, wide-eyed and blood-stained. “You’re my witness.”This, Dazai understood, was a purpose on a silver platter. As long as his testimony had weight, his life (which he didn’t think was worth living) was being treated as if it had value. One day, Dazai stopped by Mori’s office on the top floor of the highrise that stood as a watchtower over the city. The new boss was nowhere to be seen, but his absence was almost as tangible as his presence. The room held its breath as Dazai entered. Mori’s desk was bare except for a thick hardcover book, opened on a page with the corner folded. Dazai skimmed the text in just a blink of an eye.It laid out a theory of developmental psychology, describing the formation of the psyche in a series of steps that read like a recipe. A mix of different ingredients, chopped up, thrown together and cooked into a full meal. Bon appetit. The emptiness inside Dazai churned and growled. It wasn’t hunger, but it was close. A primal need begging to be met. He flipped a page and continued reading. Being terrible at forgetting was the curse of being good at memorisation. He knew that these words would stay with him like a mental sticky note forever: The acquisition of stable self-views allows for continuity in subjective experience. This is the foundation upon which a set of characteristics that organise an individual's thoughts, feelings and actions into a distinct pattern can be built. If all goes well, the internalisation of this developmental process results in the formation of a stable personality. Defensive structures may emerge to protect a fragile sense of self from threatening internal or external stimuli that can not be integrated into subjective experience. In extreme cases, these defences may overpower the organising principle of personality, which can leave an individual feeling dead inside and empty behind an inconsistent and incompetent appearance of realness. Dazai snapped the book shut with a flick of a wrist. The sudden movement sent a few dust particles dancing in the light. Dazai reached out a hand, fanning his fingers through a shadow theatre scene. The light could touch him, but he couldn’t touch the light. The dust could settle, but he couldn’t. That was how it went. Dazai cruised through life like a spare tyre. He was in for the ride, but he wasn’t an active participant.Maybe the solution was integral to the problem. Maybe if Dazai was someone rather than no one, he could take the wheel and find some direction in life. “Hereby launching Project Personality,” he announced to the empty room. An imaginary audience gave a standing applause. — — —When Dazai looked inside he found nothing. So he looked out, observed his surroundings, and—following a compare-and-contrast method—measured himself against them. He learned about normal distributions and outliers. His weight was below average for his height while his IQ was above the 99,99% percentile. “You’re very clever,” Mori said. This wasn’t the first time Dazai had been told so, but it was the first time he believed it. One year later, at 15, still searching for himself in the dark, he found Chuuya—Chuuya with his red-ish hair that flamed in the wind of his presence and a voice that could make even a whisper sound like an explosion. He was a nuclear bomb of a boy, and to Dazai, nothing was more life-affirming than the potential for death and destruction. It didn’t take Dazai long to convince Chuuya to join the mafia’s ranks. It was a simple matter of stacking the odds. Chuuya was strong, but he was also one of those “with great power comes great responsibility” idiots. An inflated sense of responsibility made him subservient to people much weaker than him. Strong, but he acted like a sheep in the eyes of wolves. It was a little pathetic, and Dazai was a little charmed by it. Chuuya lived with a litter of street grunts. When a misunderstanding made them turn against him and chase him away, it wasn’t because Dazai had stage-managed it, it was because they were sh@tty friends. Really, Dazai was doing Chuuya a favour by pointing it out—by throwing him to the wolves and then throwing him a lifeline.— — — Months passed. Dazai climbed the Mafia’s ladder and pulled it up behind him. According to the whispers in the hallways, he was a ‘demon prodigy. While the nickname wasn’t affectionate, it was instructive. A ready-to-wear character for Dazai to tailor himself to. His efforts to fit in were acknowledged. “See, I was right. You are such a clever boy,” Mori praised, and Dazai thought being clever was better than being empty. Chuuya became the muscle to Dazai’s brain as they were partnered up. Sometimes, Chuuya would get this look in his eyes. Like when a mission ended in a shiny getaway car, engine roaring, traffic laws breaking. Like when he walked the city during the monsoon to rescue stray kittens and find them a new home. Like when he popped open an expensive vintage wine and drank it straight from the bottle (Chuuya had grown up poor, and coming in possession of mafia money made him act all nouveau riche). Like when he looked at Dazai. It took Dazai a while to figure it out, but when it finally hit, it was with a vengeance. He was in a meeting with a black-suited collection of mafia kingpins thrice to quadruple his age when he had a quiet yet cataclysmic breakthrough.  Chuuya likes me, he thought, and nearly regurgitated the five vitamin gummies he’d had for breakfast. “Oh dear,” he coughed, clutching at his chest.  Mori’s eyebrows crept up his botox-smooth forehead. “Is everything alright, Dazai-kun?” Suddenly Dazai’s well-being was the next point on the agenda, and he was trapped in the age-old humiliation ritual that was unwanted attention. “It’s nothing,” Dazai said, forcing a smile. It was a self-harm scar of a smile, perfected over many mirror sessions. It let people know not to ask stupid questions like ‘is everything alright?’.To never be taken by surprise again, Dazai made sure to enhance his observational skills. He learned to read other people like instruction manuals, figured out which b@ttons to push and knobs to twist in order to elicit the reactions he wanted. Unfortunately, knowledge guaranteed no insight. Dazai remained a blank page to himself, and he was left to wonder, “do I like Chuuya back?”Doubt was an incessant nagger, keeping Dazai up through the night and sleepwalking through the day. He was 16 when he devised a plan to ascertain his feelings towards Chuuya based on the proposition of a logical bi-directional argument: If two people who were romantically attracted to one another liked to kiss, it followed that two people who liked to kiss were romantically attracted to one another. At 17, high on adrenaline after a successful mission, he found the courage to carry out the experiment. Research question: Do I like Chuuya? Test: Kiss, with and without tongue. Results: affirmative.  Dazai thought about putting his feelings on the table, and he thought about cute linguistic fidelities, such as ‘boyfriends’. But then he thought better of it. In the mafia, ‘boyfriends’ were ransom material, were death threat magnets, were a liability. Chuuya was strong, but liking Dazai made him weak. Dazai was clever, but liking Chuuya made him stupid. It would never work. The only way Dazai could express himself was by the principles of reverse psychology. He flirted with opposites and declared his undying hatred. “I despise Chuuya, actually,” he said if anyone—especially Chuuya—asked, “and also, he smells like wet dog.”When Dazai wasn’t busy taunting Chuuya, discussing game theory with Mori, or doing his actual job—which mostly consisted of swindling, scheming and scamming—he liked to hang out with Oda Sakunosuke, an assassin turned conscientious objector. These days, Oda wasted his talents doing bottom-of-the-food-chain grunt work for the mafia. Oda was a balm for the soul. His vibe was captured by the overlapping Venn diagram of himbo and zen master. He never had a thought he didn’t voice, and he didn’t speak much at all. Silence amplified Dazai’s incessant inner monologue, so he externalised it. He could chat at length without saying anything of substance. It was a gift. One time, he decided to invite a bit of ping-pong. He bumped Oda’s shoulder and asked, “Hey, what are you thinking about?”For a long moment, it seemed Oda hadn’t heard. He stared straight ahead, unblinking. Then he turned to look at Dazai, a million miles caught in his gaze. “Nothing,” he answered.It was the most profound thing Dazai had ever heard. When circumstances and schedules allowed for it, they liked to visit a hole in the wall of a bar named Lupin. This was where Dazai had his first sip of whiskey. It intensified his emotions, dulled his senses and made his mood deteriorate into philosophical territory. He started conversations he couldn't finish. “Am I a good person?” he wondered out loud, only to conclude that ‘good’ and ‘evil’ were social constructs invented by those in power of the dominant culture to continue oppression based on their own definition of morality, and that he was in fact above such indoctrination. Under the influence, Dazai was presented with a side of himself that had little in common with the person he tried to be during business hours.This was cause for equal parts concern and curiosity. Alcohol was an experiment in psychonautics that he only dared to conduct with an assistant close by. Someone who could keep him safe while he lost his mind. Oda—Oda, with his calm demeanour and borderline prophetic, assassin-sharp intuition—was perfect for this role. So. One  drink with  one  friend. It was a strict protocol, but Dazai never strayed from it. Sometimes, after a mission, Chuuya would open one of his overpriced bottles of wine. Mannered as he was, he offered Dazai a swig. Dazai declined every time, afraid that the wine might make him spill his feelings. He toasted with a juice box and kept his secrets. Dazai was 18 when his life’s trajectory took a sharp turn. Oda died, and his last words were directed at Dazai. “You won’t find a reason to live in the mafia. You must know that already.”There it was, the truth served like whisky, straight. Dazai swallowed it and spat it back out. “Tell me what to do.” “I know you don’t believe in good or evil.. but if both sides are the same, choose to become a good person. Save the weak, protect the orphaned,” Oda replied. “Be on the side that saves people. It’s more beautiful.” Be on the side that saves people.  Dazai was good at following instructions. He could be a robot, He could act without feeling—without understanding.Dazai left the mafia. He shed the demon prodigy like a snake shed its skin and assumed a new identity: traitor. Just like that, his former allies turned into his enemies. He wanted to take Chuuya with him, but Chuuya was too loyal for his own good, and he would break himself in half to serve both the hand that fed him and the one that tugged on his leash. Port Mafia versus Dazai. Dazai didn’t think he had enough to offer to deserve being chosen, so he didn’t give Chuuya the choice of coming along. He was glad he never confessed his feelings. It was better that way. What Chuuya didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.The next months were spent wearing a groove in the floor of his safe house by incessantly pacing back and forth, waiting for someone-who-owed-him-a-favour to clear his criminal records. Then, through mostly legitimate means, he got himself an interview with the big chief, Taneda of the Special Division for Unusual Powers. When asked what kind of job he was looking for, Dazai listed his one requirement: “something where I can save people.” That was how he ended up on the Armed Detective Agency’s roster. A life of crime in the rearview mirror and an ever-shifting horizon ahead.  Being good was a destination he wasn’t sure he would ever reach, but he kept going. —- — — By the time Dazai reached the age of 22, he had lived many lives and been many people. Operation Personality was an ongoing failure, so he was left to improvise. He did this with a certain bitterness. If he didn’t know who he was, no one could know. ‘All the world’s a stage’, that’s what they said, and Dazai cast himself as the star of the dark comedy that was his life. He cut a new character for every scene he entered, styling his performance to suit his audience. When he played a part, he gave it everything, but after the last curtain call, there was nothing left of him. Empty words, empty stomach, empty home. There was Dazai, and then there was the rest of the world. The two had yet to figure out how to co-exist peacefully. He was made of teflon, untouchable and toxic. At the same time, everything got under his skin. The boundary of the body wasn’t strong enough to hold him, so he wrapped himself in bandages, traced his own outline with a razorblade to prove that he was real. “Defences may overpower the organising principle of personality, which can leave an individual feeling dead inside and empty behind an inconsistent and incompetent appearance of realness.” Sometimes, Dazai talked to himself to have someone to tell his secrets or simply to practise inflexions and intonations. He made faces at the mirror, trying on different expressions. It was all fun and games until he caught a glimpse of himself in the seconds between exchanging one mask for another. It felt as deeply inappropriate as making eye contact with a stranger in public transport. His one defining feature, the embarrassment he kept dragging around like toilet tissue stuck to his heel, was being ‘clever’. ‘Clever’, he discovered, was just another word for having constant racing thoughts that ran all the red lights. His stupid genius brain was a perpetual motion machine. He couldn’t stop it, but he could set up guardrails and warning signs. In his new job as a detective, he made sure that his hard work was seen through a fictional framing of clownery. Day drinking, womanising and romanticization of death made up the tripartite core of this character act. With practised sleight of hand, he pretended to sip his sake, pouring the contents into other cups when no one was looking. He singled out women looking for an excuse to leave their current arrangement to offer them an out. His version of flirtation went something like this: “Would you like to commit a double suicide with me?” He spoke in high tones and volumes, putting on a show. He left with these women but never went home with them.Chaos was the spirit. He knew exactly what he was doing when he acted like he didn’t know what he was doing, strategizing vulnerability and weaponizing ignorance. Every day, he came into the office late, doing mental gymnastics while lounging on a coach to give the impression of laziness. He never took credit for the cases he solved. Instead, he lined up dominos and watched them fall, pushing his coworkers into position and letting them play the game while he cheered from the sidelines. Whenever his colleagues, his quote-unquote friends, said,  “You’re clever,” it was followed up by, “I wish you’d act like it more often.”Always in character, Dazai was quick with comebacks. “I live to disappoint,” became his new motto. Some might call it a tragic lifestyle, Dazai called it performance art.  ♡♡♡ “You’re so f@ck@ng hot like this.” Chuuya’s grip around Dazai’s waist was the kind of possessive that would probably leave a mark. “Mghhh,” Dazai answered. He was multilingual and ‘wanton b@tch’ was just one of the many languages he spoke with fluent jargon. “That’s right,” Chuuya answered, sounding happy as a puppy. He slobbered all over Dazai’s collarbone. This was just a regular Friday night for Dazai. Naked in Chuuya’s bed, legs in the air, wrists pinned above his head. Falling into a pattern, falling for Chuuya, was just so easy. All Dazai had to do was bat his lashes and next he was pushed against a wall with Chuuya clawing at his clothes. Easy.Easy was meeting up two days a week, Tuesday and Friday, a repeat calendar notification in Dazai’s calendar: ‘sparring’ followed by that gross winky face emoji. Easy was making their arrangement exclusive because that way, they didn’t have to worry about STDs and condoms. (Early on, Dazai had faked a latex allergy to sell this argument. Chuuya accepted it without dissent). Easy was dropping by, even without an invitation, when the blue-balling gap between Tuesday and Friday seemed too dire. Easy was staying the night, Dazai’s icicle feet reaching for Chuuya’s calves. Easy was waking up to breakfast and coffee, served just the way Dazai liked it. Decaf, lots of milk and even more sugar. Easy was the familiarity. Chuuya was so irrevocably, so unapologetically, so devastatingly Chuuya. He had a hunger about him, a constant growl. It organised his behaviour and his pattern of speech, making him predictable without ever being boring. In a life of hardships, Dazai liked easy. “Look at you,” Chuuya smeared the words across Dazai’s chest. “A speechless, drooling mess.”Dazai kept perfectly still and took what was given to him like a brainless doll because that was what he wished he could be.“I love,” Chuuya panted and squeezed the back of Dazai’s thigh, “f@ck@ng you stupid.”This was Chuuya’s favourite s@xual fantasy. It was Dazai’s favourite as well, but it was just that. A fantasy. An escapist flight of fancy that temporarily relieved him of the burden of being the clever one. The reality was that Dazai never stopped thinking. Not even when he was being split apart.The glide, the friction, the penetration, the feeling of falling. Carnal desires were divine, but the cerebral background noise never ceased. It was the leaking faucet, the drip of self-surveillance. Dazai observed himself from the outside and took running notes to adjust and optimise his performance. He wanted to be good. Good for Chuuya. With blank eyes, he focused on the hypnotic swish of hair across Chuuya’s forehead. When Chuuya ran a thumb along the seam of Dazai’s lip, Dazai opened up, sucked and moaned. “Yeah,” Chuuya said, stuttering movements as he kept f@ck@ng Dazai through it. Chuuya was loud when he came, Dazai was perfectly quiet, they were both shaking. S@x was great but the real climax was the post-cordial hush. The quiet after the storm, the dirtied sheets, the faded scent of tobacco that clung to Chuuya’s hair, and the dip of the mattress. Dazai gave a hooded look and poked Chuuya’s washboard abs, waiting for the reaction. Ah, there it was. That smile.  Chuuya likes me, Dazai thought, but then he over-thought it. The old breakthrough readily turned into a breakdown. This was the existential kicker that circled Dazai’s head as he pretended to think about nothing: why does he like me?  Dazai was more clown than person, more lie than lover. No one liked clowns. No one liked liars. The rationalisations commenced. Chuuya was allowed to feel whatever he felt. If he confused instinct and desire, bite and touch, libido and love—if he liked Dazai—that meant he had questionable taste, sure, but that was no news. This was a man who wore pork pie hats and rode a bright pink motorcycle, of course he had questionable taste. “You’re being quiet,” Chuuya commented while idly drawing patterns on Dazai’s steadily sinking and rising chest with a fingertip. “What’s up?”If Dazai didn’t take active measures to shut himself up, he would end up saying something real. He surged up to give Chuuya an aggressive tongue-first-ask-later kiss. — — —Monday 10 am. Arguably the most demoralising time of the week. Dazai had spent the weekend alone. Well, not entirely alone… Saturday, Chuuya shot Dazai a text. 
   ‘hey. wanna come over tonight? feel like having a drink but don’t feel like going out. had an ass f@ck@ng week. i’m being worked to the bone. you do realise that since you quit it’s been my job to pick up your slack right? you don’t have to feel bad about that or anything, just saying. my skeleton f@ck@ng aches and i’m too young to feel this old. anyway drinking alone is a little sad right? might open a bottle of red, and you’re always my first choice when it comes to sharing wine cuz you don’t drink any.’ 
Next, Chuuya sent a photo of a bottle labelled ‘Chateau Petrus’ with a little ribbon around the neck. As far as phallic shapes went, Dazai would have preferred a d@ck pic.  ‘I don’t even know why I like you’, he typed, then he deleted it and started over. ‘Coming’. He deleted that too, declining the offer just to feel in control of something. He could stay away, he could be mysterious.Sunday night, he caved and sought the company of a rusty kitchen knife. Anything, anything at all, was better than the emptiness.Now his arms itched under the bandages. The overhead lights in the ADA’s meeting room glared judgmentally at him. He dug his nails into his palms, hoping his colleagues wouldn’t notice anything amiss.“This is…” Ranpo, Dazai’s favourite coworker, put on his glasses and squinted at a heap of photographs, receipts and other documentation, pinned and red-stringed to a board. He popped a piece of candy into his mouth, chewing loudly. “This case is curious.”“What is it?” Dazai asked, fearing that he already knew the answer. Tiresome. Knowing the start and end of a conversation made it hard to go through the steps. “It’s not at all what it seems, that’s what it is.”“Ah,” Dazai said. “I need you to collect more evidence.” Ranpo ripped a piece of paper from a notebook and scribbled down a name. Fyodor Dostoevsky. “This guy will have the information we need, I’m sure of it. Heard of him?”Had Dazai heard of Fyodor Dostoevky? It was a name of whispered glory. Dostoevsky was to the crimeworld what rats were to sewers. He freeloaded on a delicate ecosystem, operating from the shadows. Back in the bad old mafia days, Dazai and Chuuya frequently had to do pest control. “Hmm, yeah. Name does ring a bell.” “Interesting. I’m quite good at spotting patterns—I’m sure you’ve noticed—especially when it comes to criminals. It’s like deviancy type casting. Dostoevsky’s style is quite unique. But…”“But?”“In some ways he reminds me of you.” Ranpo unwrapped a lollipop and popped it into his mouth, throwing the wrapper over his shoulder. “It won’t be an easy job. You have to think like the enemy to beat them, right, but what if the enemy thinks like you?”It was a good sell, piquing Dazai’s flat interest rates with a challenge. “No, I got this.” He pushed his chair back, collected the wrapper from the floor and deposited it into the nearest bin. “There’s a loose thread in this web.” Ranpo banged the pinboard with a fist like he was knocking on a door, waiting for it to open. “If we just pull, it will all unravel.” He went on to explain details that Dazai already knew, which was perfectly fine as Dazai massively enjoyed being talked to as though he was stupid. The conclusion was simple: they just needed a name. The name of someone who had sold the wrong things to the wrong people at the wrong time. A Russian crime lord who previously had done dealings with Dostoevsky. “Got it.” Dazai ambled over to his desk, pulling up his work laptop from under a pile of dossiers and (unpaid) receipts from the downstairs cafe. He hummed a happy tune, ready to dive into the dark web to find Dostoevsky's contact details.“Hey.” With a smack, Ranpo closed the lid on Dazai’s laptop. “Be careful.”“Always.” Dazai smiled a perfunctory smile. — — —Dostoevsky had a reputation. He was impossible to find if he didn’t want to be found, that was the word on the street. Luckily, Dazai was good at playing hide and seek, it only took him hacking into a few secure databases to get a phone number. He went to the staff kitchen, closed the door behind him, poured water into the kettle, flicked it on. The call was made from a burner phone.One ring, and then Dostoevsky picked up.  “I’ve been expecting your call,” he said by way of greeting. “Please, I’m sure you say that to all the girls,” Dazai answered. He hoped the eye roll was audible in his voice. “Not at all, Dazai-kun, you’re special.”‘Special’ had always struck Dazai as an underhanded compliment. ‘This is Dazai, he has special needs’ was the kind of context he imagined it said in. It made him feel 14 years old. He tried to act grown-up, snorting into the receiver. “Let’s skip the pleasantries. You’re sitting on information I need in order to solve a case.”“I’ll give it to you,” Dostoevsky said, like it was that easy. Dazai knew better. In his line of business, nothing was free. “Name your price, then.”“We can meet in person tomorrow evening. I’ll send you the address and the time,” Dostoevsky said. “Do make sure to wear something nice,” he added, voice dipping about an octave to drag a little scratch from his vocal cords like he was doing some sort of ASMR thing.It was not appreciated on Dazai's end. His sensory system was cross-wired and uncalibrated. Sounds could touch him in places no one wanted to be touched. Under his skin. He repressed a shudder and said, “Whatever.” “The call has been disconnected,” answered a digital voice.  Dostoevsky hadn’t said what he wanted in exchange for the information, but Dazai could guess. The curse of being clever was always being ten steps ahead, watching over his shoulder as the world tried to catch up. Having foresight meant having time to worry about the future. A moment later, a message ticked in with an address. Dazai took a mental photograph, then he got himself a mug from the cupboard—one of the tall ones he liked to use for his instant hot chocolate—put the phone in, and poured boiling water over it. That was when Kunikida, Dazai’s least favourite coworker, came into the kitchen. “Ah, there you are,” said Dazai. He pressed the mug into Kunikida’s hands. “I made you a hot drink. You’re welcome”— — —Once, Mori had told Dazai this, “The things that bother us the most about others are the things that bother us the most about ourselves.” It sounded like the kind of thing he had read in one of his many books about psychology. Mori believed in Freud (despite Freud’s questionable assumptions of human nature). Dazai believed in Mori (despite Mori’s questionable assumptions of human nature). The cycle continued. Dostoevsky was clever, and Dazai was bothered. — — — Dazai did as instructed. He wore something nice (a waist-cinching white suit and his lucky socks). He tucked his hair behind his ear. He was ready. He had a plan and he was going to be safe as long as he stuck to it. Before leaving, he shot Chuuya a text.  ‘Not going to be able to make it tonight.’  In typical fashion, Chuuya replied immediately. He never played hard to get because he never played at anything. “I’m Chuuya, what you see is what you get,” was an actual phrase that Dazai had heard coming out of his mouth. 
   ‘you tell me that now? i already started prepping dinner. i was going to make you eat a proper meal for once. you better stop by tomorrow so i can force some food down your throat.’ 
 ‘I’d rather you forced something else down my throat,’  Dazai replied and pocketed his phone. — — — Dostoevsky’s choice of location was a private room in a private club, draped in shades of red from the rugs on the floor to the lamps hanging from the ceiling. When Dazai arrived, Dostoevsky was already there, looking pale as ever. He sat by a table decked up with a collection of props that foreshadowed the evening’s plot. A bottle of wine (which, according to its label, was named Domaine de la Romanée-Conti and was born in 1990. Dazai felt rather queasy about the prospect of drinking something older than himself). Two glasses. A game of chess, angled so that Dazai could play as white, which he preferred (because in chess, white made the first move and ‘the one to strike first wins’, that was what Mori had taught Dazai). Redwine smelled like a headache. It hit him the second he took a seat, and Dostoevsky poured him a glass. “The information you requested.” From up his sleeve, Dostoevsky materialised a sealed envelope. Dazai took it, a change of hands over unpleasant smiles. So far, so good. It was all according to plan. “Thank you,” Dazai chippered, head at a tilt. “I wonder what Fyodor-kun wants in exchange? To torture me, perhaps?” “Something much simpler. Let’s play,” Dostoevsky said pleasantly. And then, more pointedly, “And drink.” He lifted his own glass to his lips, keeping eye contact the entire time. An endless unspoken conversation of ‘I know that you know that I know that you know—and so on’ transpired between Dazai and Dostoevsky. No matter how Dazai encrypted his actions, he would end up revealing pieces of himself. There was no way around it. He understood what kind of game this was, and it wasn’t just chess. Clearly, Dostoevsky suffered from a bad case of p@n@s envy, and this was a d@ck-measuring contest where Dazai had to lose to win. He opened with a gambit, offering his p@wns for fast development and attack. He played by the rules; put his mind to the game and sipped his wine, fermentation jangling through his veins.  Up until now, Dazai had been a wine virgin. He hadn't been missing out. Wine was an assault on his senses. It was a testament to his self-possession that he managed to swallow and keep it down, all without a single nose-wrinkle. “Cheers,” he said, moving his queen into position. “And checkmate.” He flicked a finger against Dostoevky’s king and watched it fall. “The old king is dead, long live the new king, and so on and so forth.”“Ah,” Dostoevky said. With just that simple exclamation, he communicated that he had predicted the outcome of the game the second the first pawn was moved. “We’ll have a rematch.” “If you say so. You make the rules.” Dazai knocked back the last of his wine, and a second later, his glass was replenished. Alcohol did something strange to the passage of time. Dazai looked up, and the room ran in circles around him. Red wallpaper, red upholstery, red curtains blurring. He looked back down and found his king trapped between the rock and the hard place that was Dostoevky’s queen and bishop. So far so bad, but it was  still  all according to plan. “I won,” Dostoevky announced. A smirk played at the corner of his mouth like a deathwish played with a razorblade. “And I did it with minimal effort as well. It only took you one and a half glasses of wine to lose track of my strategy.” “Your point?” “Not a point, simply an observation,” Dostoevsky said. “An observation that confirms my hypothesis.”“Yeah, yeah. You’re so clever,” Dazai answered. The sound of his own voice unnerved him. It melted in his mouth and tugged at each syllable. He observed himself acting at half his usual speed. His thoughts were still racing, of course they were, slipping several gears at once as he scrambled to keep up. “Let me guess. You’re reading into my poor alcohol tolerance.” “Correct. I’ve been watching you, Dazai-kun—”“Creepy.”“And I think you work very hard to appear carefree.” He tilted his head and jutted out his lower lip in a patronising pantomime of pity. “I get it, I really do. It’s the fear of losing control.”Dazai didn’t want to be gotten by the likes of Dostoevsky, he wanted to be gotten by pretty girls with Hello Kitty themed manicures and bright eyes, but his nails were bitten to the quick, and his eyes stung. Between upholding the image of office jester and the promise to save people, there was no room for failure. Dazai had to be in control of everyone and everything, completely and continuously. He lived the life of a surveillance system, but was that really who he was, or was it who he was made to be?—an extraordinary machine, all bugs, no features.Wine sloshed inside him. Any second now, it was going to soak through him like he was just a flimsy dishrag. He imagined wringing himself, emptying his stomach. In a room so red that even wine-vomit wouldn’t leave a stain, Dazai told himself that he was safe to bleed out. He could spill his guts and get away with it. “You think you have me all figured out. That I have this… this secret @n@l-retentive streak? That I’m so afraid of the world that I can’t cope with it unless I—”“Get to play god? Yes.” “You make it sound like I’m so afraid of myself that I—it doesn’t matter what you think, actually. You can’t know me because no one—” Dazai waved a hand and knocked over the bottle of wine. Smash, splash, and then shards of glass covered the floor. “Oopsie?”All according to plan. “Oh no, look what a mess you made, Dazai-kun,” Dostoevsky tsked. “You’re entertaining when you get all gesticulated, but I’ve already gotten what I wanted from you, so you’re free to leave now.”“Well, if I have your permission…” Dazai produced a smile, and Dostoevsky returned the sentiment with an equally unpleasant grimace. It was a mutual checkmate. Dazai left without a formal goodbye. He stumbled into the nearest taxi, and before he could think better of it, he rattled off a familiar address. Not the one for his dorm, but the one that felt more like home.  This was decidedly not according to plan.It was supposed to go like this: Dazai went back to his own place to lock himself in until the alcohol left his bloodstream. It went like this: The car took off down the street towards Chuuya’s place.— — — He made it to his destination. Knocking on the door. Leaning on the door. Falling through the door when it was suddenly yanked open.“What the f@ck?” Chuuya growled at the heap of Dazai in his arms. “Happy to see me as always, I see,” Dazai spoke into Chuuya’s chest. It was a nice chest. A good mix of firm and soft. He took a second to appreciate it before extricating himself. “Surprised to see you. You said you weren’t coming tonight.”“Changed my mind. That’s a thing I do sometimes,” Dazai said, feeling powerful like a magician revealing his own trick while still managing to impress the audience. Just as he was about to make his way into Chuuya’s apartment proper, he felt arms wrapping around his waist. It was too late to course correct. He tumbled to the floor with a solid brick of muscle landing on top of him. “No, you won’t,” Chuuya groaned. He was so close that his breath rustled Dazai’s hair. “What?” Dazai stretched his limbs, checking for damage and finding none. As much as he hated pain, he felt robbed of the opportunity to whine. “Don’t f@ck@ng enter my home with your shoes on.”“Ah.” Dazai nimbly rolled around and slid out from under Chuuya. Legs stretching out in front of him, he wiggled a foot in front of Chuuya’s face. “Well, then. Attend me.”“I’m not your servant. You can take off your own dirty 100-yen shop shoes,” Chuuya gritted through his teeth, but his actions were faster than his words and far more attuned. He was already undoing the laces, scooping the shoe off with one hand while holding Dazai’s ankle like it was made of glass with the other. Dazai wore socks with a pattern of smiling crabs. When Chuuya noticed, he smiled  that  smile. Maybe it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to Dazai. Maybe it was the wine. Everything was soft around the edges. Blurry and pleasant, until it wasn’t—until Chuuya’s eyes narrowed. “Have you… been drinking?”“No,” Dazai answered in a bid to avoid having to explain himself. He had no script for this conversation. No face for it either. “No,” Dazai said again because he could tell Chuuya was about to say something true. “No?” Chuuya leaned in. Eyes dropping, lips parting. It was an open invitation, and Dazai accepted. Chuuya held the title of best martial artist in the Port Mafia, and he kissed like he fought. Precisely, expertly, passionately. He crowded Dazai, lips pried open by a little nibble of teeth. It was over too soon, Chuuya licking into Dazai’s mouth before breaking away with a dangerously triumphant gleam in his eyes. “You  have been drinking, you lying b@st@rd. I can taste it. Domaine de la Romanée-Conti,” he said, smacking his lips a few times, “circa 89, I reckon? Excellent choice.”Dazai had seen this coming from a mile away, but instead of averting it, he had chained himself to the tracks and waited for it to run him over. “What I want to know,” Chuuya said, “is what the hell is going on?”Unfortunately, Dazai didn’t know what the hell was going on. Ignorance was not bliss, it was fuel to the emptiness inside of him. If he didn’t have answers, he had nothing. All he could think was  I can’t think,  and that was a contradiction with teeth. His brain was trying to eat itself. Gracefully sidestepping the question and a confused-looking Chuuya, he wandered off, found his way into the lounge and dropped himself onto a couch, face first. He groaned into a pillow, then he drooled into a pillow. Marking his territory.“Oi, oi.” Chuuya tapped Dazai’s side, waiting for him to straighten back up before joining him. Chuuya spread his arms over the backrest, spread his legs too, showing his crotch to the world. Chuuya was like that. It would be impressive, if it wasn’t so annoying, that he managed to infuse an action as simple as sitting with such regal arrogance. There was a bottle of wine on the table, mocking Dazai’s nausea. As far as Dazai could eye-ball it, Chuuya was two glasses in, and yet he seemed completely untouched by the effects of alcohol. “Come on, talk to me,” Chuuya prompted in a voice Dazai had heard him use on stray kittens. “What’s all this? You don’t drink.”A pang in Dazai’s chest reminded him of a time when he did have a drink every now and then, but old habits died like old friends. He wasn’t going to let his mind dwell. “Yeah, I do. All the time. Minimum 8 glasses of water every day.” He was clever and good at pattern recognition—he discovered a long time ago that there was a tight correlation between dehydration and headaches. “Fine, Mr. Literal. You don’t drink  wine.”“Now I do,” Dazai said, “I like to keep you on your toes. You think you know me? Wrong. Today I drink wine, tomorrow who knows? Maybe I'll adopt a dog. Oh. Oh wait—” he shook his head and tapped his temple to mime a loose screw. “Silly me. I don’t need a dog when I have you.”It was a bad joke, the whole dog thing, but it was their joke. Chuuya was the butt of it, and Dazai was the tragedy of it because, to him, it wasn’t a joke at all. It was the epiphany that ‘dog’ was ‘god’ spelt backwards and that this was more than just a linguistic coincidence. It was a calling to tame and to revere. He liked Chuuya. Maybe, if he dared think himself capable of love, he even loved Chuuya. The indecency of Dazai’s feelings towards Chuuya required constant suppression. People like them—people who kept their enemies close—could have each other like bed bug infestations but not like lovers.This was the endless push and pull. Dazai couldn’t have Chuuya because he couldn’t lose Chuuya. “You and your witty commentary. You think you’re so clever.” Chuuya rolled his eyes.There it was, the broken heart of the matter. “I am,” Dazai said morosely. “You don’t know what a burden it is… with your small brain.”Chuuya made a noise. It was one of those half-angry, half-exhausted noises that he resorted to when he lacked the energy to come up with a creative comeback. Silence descended, and Dazai’s head started screaming. Fragments of the evening looped in his mind like a reel of film getting stuck in a projector. “If you must know, Chuuya, I had a little meet-up with Fyodor Dostoevsky before coming here,” he said. He didn’t particularly want to talk about it, but talking was preferable to spiralling. “So you cancelled your plans with me to hang out with that anaemic son of a b@tch? Noted.” Chuuya curled a hand into a fist. He looked one second away from banging it into the table, but then he lifted it and coughed into it instead. “Big fat whatever. It’s fine.”It wasn’t fine. Dazai’s smooth routine of coming and leaving mattered enough to Chuuya for him to pretend it didn’t matter. Meanwhile, Dazai forgot about his own existence so routinely that it was hard for him to fathom that anyone even noticed his absence. Like, good grief, even the concept of anyone wanting him around made him want to leave. Years had passed since the first blow, but it still hit Dazai again and again. Chuuya likes me. “I just mean, like.” Chuuya waved a hand. “What were you even doing with him?”“Exchanging information over a game of chess and a glass of wine.”“Sounds perfectly f@ck@ng civil… Doesn’t sound like you.” “I wanted the name of a Russian spy. Fyodor wanted to get me under the influence for his own entertainment. We both got what we wanted.”“That’s so f@ck@d up,” Chuuya said. He had a very efficient way of summarising things.“I made a gambit. I saw Fyodor’s ploy coming from a mile away, and I decided to go along with it. I was prepared. At least I thought I was, but I couldn't possibly have prepared for that disgusting plonk—”“Hey, that’s Romanée you’re talking about.”“—to have such a terrible effect on me and my delicate sensibilities. I feel sick and I feel stupid,” Dazai lamented. He had a rule against self-pity. Wine made him want to break the rules, made his suffering feel exquisite. He could be the perfect victim if he allowed himself to. Who was going to stop him? Odasaku’s ghost?“Aw, poor baby.”“Maybe all my years of abstinence were a mistake. If only I had built up more of a tolerance.”Chuuya barked a single, “Hah.”“Taking pleasure in my misery, I see.”Evilly, Chuuya laughed again. “Oh yes, absolutely.” “You’re actually not a good person at all, you do realise that, right?” “Sure,” Chuuya agreed shamelessly. He picked up his glass of wine, swirling it as he sat back, swinging one ankle over the other knee. Head high, guard down.He looked at ease, which was anything but easy. Dazai saw it for what it was—a hard-earned skill refined over years of continuous trauma. The life that broke Dazai had taught Chuuya how to patch himself together. That was the difference between them. Where Dazai was clever, Chuuya was wise. The moral code Chuuya lived by followed the logic of a knife. It was cutting, and it didn’t shy away from violence, but it aimed to protect the people he cared about. It wasn’t the side that saved people, but it was, Dazai thought, just as noble. Chuuya wasn’t a good person, but he was the best person Dazai knew. “This wasn’t part of the plan,” Dazai said. “Coming here.”“Well, I’m glad you did.” “So you can make fun of me, I presume.”“Yeah, but also so I can make sure you’re safe.” Chuuya could get away with sincerity. He had a big ego to match his big feelings and his big questions. “So, like, why did you come here?”Everything Dazai said would sound like a cry. He didn’t want to lie, so he didn’t want to speak at all. He huffed and turned his head to look into the nearest wall, where a row of paintings stared back at him. To his eyes, they looked like blocks of paint on canvas, but on previous occasion, Chuuya had informed him that they were ‘Rothkos’ in a voice that suggested Dazai was supposed to be impressed by that. The most impressive thing about the Rothkos, in Dazai’s opinion, was their inflated price point. Chuuya liked expensive things. One of these days, he was going to realise that liking Dazai was the relational equivalent of bankruptcy. “Oh, you know…”“I don’t. You’re gonna have to spell it out for me.”All of the prodding made Dazai’s ribcage cave. He was one gentle nudge from falling apart. “Just wanted…” What he would give to go back to regular scheduled programming. Just a normal Tuesday night at Chuuya’s, some conversation and some s@x. “Just wanted…” Dazai repeated, and a parade of thoughts filled in the blank as he looked at Chuuya, who looked back at him like a dog waiting for a treat.  Just wanted to see you. Just wanted to be around you. Just wanted to tell you that I’m probably irrevocably in love with you. “...To get laid?” This was a clever tactic, he decided. S@x required little of him. He could fall into silence, he could keep his secrets. When Chuuya, very uncharacteristically, didn’t immediately jump at the chance to get his d@ck wet, Dazai pushed it a little more. He inched closer and trailed a finger up Chuuya’s arm. “Come on, don’t you want me?”Watching Chuuya twitch was very gratifying. Being given a cold shoulder was less gratifying. “No,” he said, “you’ve been drinking.” When had he developed such impulse control? “So have you.”“Yeah, but that’s not— it’s just not right,” he said, while his eyes raked over Dazai like nails down a chalkboard. Rejection stung. It made Dazai stick out his bottom lip and plead. S@x was just a strategy until he couldn’t have it, then it was a basic need. It was physical proof that he was god for something. He longed to be coveted for his body and not his mind for once. “Okay, I see how it is. You don’t want me. I’ve been spurned. I’m nothing to you. I’m just a pile of—”“Why are you being so dramatic about this?”“Oh, I don’t know why I’d care what you think of me. it’s almost like I'm in love with you or something.” It slipped out of Dazai’s mouth.Chuuya looked like he had been slapped. It seemed about right. Love, coming from Dazai, was a violent thing.“Don’t say that.” Chuuya’s voice wobbled as if it was about to break. Of all the things Dazai had said—all the things he had done—this was the thing that threw Chuuya off. ”Don’t f@ck@ng say that when I—” he cut himself off like an angry dog who had run full tilt to the end of its leash. “What? You think I’d fake my feelings just to get you to f@ck me?”“I wouldn’t put it past you.” Dazai gasped, and it wasn’t entirely affected. His eyes prickled.  “Wait. Are you… crying? Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.” There was panic in Chuuya’s voice. He gave Dazai one of those awkward there-there claps on the back. It probably wasn’t the tears that shocked him as much as the fact that Dazai was the one producing them. “This is, wow, are you okay? Can I take a picture? I won’t use it as blackmail material, probably, I just need to commemorate this.”Dazai didn’t answer. “No pictures, fine. I hear you.”Dazai blinked furiously to make his vision less wet. “I think I'm allergic to wine.” “Is that a thing? I don’t think that’s a thing.” “Okay, so what if I am crying? Is that part of a manipulation tactic too? Do you take me for some kind of crocodile?” Dazai was painfully aware of the irony. All this time he had spent guarding his secret, and then, when he finally told it, Chuuya didn’t believe him. “Alright, alright, I get it. I was out of line. Can we just—”“You want to f@ck me,” Dazai insisted. He was aware the argument was dead. He just needed the last word, the nail in the coffin.Chuuya sighed. It was a heavy sigh. “I want to take you to bed,” he admitted.“I knew it—”“And wrap you in a blanket and force you to sleep for eight hours. I think you need that.”“Fine,” Dazai said. It left him with the aftertaste of sour grapes on his tongue. It was the wine’s fault. Presently, he was ready to blame all the world’s ills on wine. “I don't even like s@x that much.” “You don’t…?” Too late, Dazai realised he had said too much. “It’s not important.”“It’s important to me. Not everyone moves on as easily as you do.”“What is that supposed to mean?” Dazai asked, although he knew exactly what it meant. He wanted to say that he had never gotten over anything in all his life. In that way, he and Chuuya were two mirrors looking at one another, nothing between them. “We’re f@ck@ng on the regular, and now you’re telling me you’re not into it?”This—the talking, the purge—was exactly what Dazai had tried to avoid. Nerves twitching, he contemplated the benefit of reaching for the nearest sharp object and cutting out his tongue. He could practically taste the blood in his mouth when he spoke, “I’m not not into it if that makes you feel better?” Sometimes the most positive thing he had to offer was a double negative. Chuuya gnawed at his lip, the way he did when he craved a cigarette or ten. “Only marginally.”“Relax. You’re great. Your d@ck is great. No complaints.”“But?”The usual underhanded skullduggery wouldn’t do. Through the mire of his mind, Dazai reached for a better strategy and came up with something dirty. Honesty. “Look, I like s@x, at least if it’s with you. It’s just… it’s a taxing activity, isn’t it? Very strenuous, obviously—”Chuuya cleared his throat. It wasn’t subtle, nothing he did ever was. “I’d argue that I'm the one doing most of the work.”“Well, I’m doing a lot of mental work. I never stop thinking.” Dazai hated these thoughts of his, the running commentary, the incessant analysis, the maw. This world was always hungry. For every bite it took of Dazai, it let him know that he was unsuitable for consumption. He had to curate character traits to make himself more palpable, and this was as intellectual a pursuit as it was practical. His mental margins were crammed. He watched and addressed himself from a cool distance, second or third person. It was always 'what the world needs from Dazai is what it gets'.  It was always 'you could do better'.  It was never quiet. He lost himself in the noise of choreography and con-crit. “Every day, I’m acting in my own 24-hour play.” There was no applause at the curtain call, only confusion. “I don’t understand,” Chuuya said. “When we—”“Yes.”“And you’re all s@xed out and gooey—”“Yes.” “You’re just pretending?”“Yes. Sounds like you do understand.” Dazai said. “It’s normal.” Normal was the last word anyone of sound mind would use to describe him, he was aware, but he wasn’t of sound mind, he was desperate. “Lots of people put on a show during s@x.”“I don’t care about normal,” Chuuya snapped. “Why are you doing this?”“Because,” Dazai said, he wished that was enough. “Because what? Do you think that’s what I want from you?” Chuuya sounded angry but not angrier than when he complained about a barista getting his coffee order wrong. (It usually went something like this: “They put milk in my coffee? What kind of nonsense? Do I look like the kind of guy who takes his coffee with milk?” “I like milky coffee,” Dazai would reply, “and if you don’t like it, you can just ask them to make you another one.” “Oh no, can’t do that. No need, ” Chuuya always insisted, “I’m not the kind of guy who drinks milky coffee, but I’m super not the kind of guy who makes a big deal about It. It’s just coffee.” Dazai would nod and wish that he had as strong a concept of what kind of guy he was as Chuuya). “It’s not just coffee,” Dazai said, gesturing at a nameless concept. This explanation didn’t land. He felt the cut-wrist slash of Chuuya’s gaze reaching for his innards. Sometimes, the boundary of his body dissolved. Sometimes, he wondered who he was—if anyone at all—when no one was looking. All he had was his intelligence, and even that, he doubted. Back in the bad old days, Mori had pumped his head full of it.  ‘Such a clever boy’. In hindsight, it had done him more harm than good. To this day, praise reminded him of standards he couldn't live up to, and made his spine shrink. If he was so smart, why did he repeat the same mistakes again and again? There was irony in that, in a razorblade pressed against a bulging vein, the same fears recycled since he was 14. Still not human. “I’m trying to justify my own existence,” he said tentatively, taste-testing the truth value against a sulk. The instinct to run or to hide or to jump off a tall building rattled inside him. “You don’t have to do that with me.” Chuuya smiled now. The wet kind of smile he put on when he was caught crying. “You know that.”Dazai did know, but he had so much knowledge in his head that he couldn’t possibly act on all of it. He felt paralysed, cowering under the weight of his own genius. “It’s not just something I do for you, it’s for me as well. I don’t know how to act when there are no expectations of me.” He tried to say it without any drama but it inevitably sounded dramatic when he, Dazai Osamu, said something real. “I prefer sticking to a script, and the one where you f@ck me stupid is a good one. It’s what I thought you wanted, and it was what I thought I wanted, but now I’m not so sure.” Chuuya was quiet. He was, presumably, waiting for Dazai to say something. Dazai was waiting for Dazai to say something as well. His reaction-time dragged like a trail of slime behind a slug. He wanted to be held by Chuuya and he wanted to slip through the slits of Chuuya’s fingers. “Wine makes me feel stupid and I don’t like it. It’s not everything I ever wanted it to be.”That’s when Chuuya called a time out. “Bedtime,” he said. Dazai could only hope that he would die in his sleep.Being tucked into bed by Chuuya was like being crushed by gravity. Buried under heaps of blankets, Dazai lay perfectly still, perfectly quiet while his head screamed at him. “Psst.” When Chuuya snored, he produced the sound of a rusty saw cutting through wood. He got stuck midway on a big log, grunting, “Huh? Yeah?” “You asked why I came here.” It was easier to admit things in the dark, in a whisper. It was easier, Dazai found, to admit things to Chuuya than to himself. “It’s because I didn’t want to be alone.”Dazai wasn’t afraid of anything he could restrain. As long as he wore a mental straitjacket, he didn’t have to fear demons and clowns and himself. Wine loosened the fastenings on his self-possession, and unseemly versions of Dazai peeked through the seams. He didn’t think he would survive being left alone with his own creations.‘It’s the fear of losing control’ Dostoevsky had said, but that was only half of it. The fear of having control was the other half—what Dazai could do with it and what he could be with it. He was a whole mess, but somehow that didn’t scare Chuuya off. — — — In the morning, Chuuya put on a pink silk robe, lounging around. He was a proper robe person. Dazai was not a robe person; his mind held his body like spandex.Breakfast was a French affair because Chuuya just couldn't help himself. He was a francophile who had grown up never knowing where his next meal would come from, fated to develop an obsession with croissants.Dazai broke his pastry into tiny pieces instead of eating it. He had no appetite. Even butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.Chuuya never had the patience to wait for his coffee to cool off, so he did this disgraceful thing where he blew and slurped and ended up spitting it back into the cup. Dazai had seen it happen many times, but it never lost its entertainment value. He wouldn't mind spending the rest of his mornings with Chuuya’s burned tongue. Wouldn't mind kissing it better. “Never change.” “Shut up,” Chuuya answered in a tone more suited for pillow talk. The nerve to flirt so casually after the dramatics of the previous night was what finally broke Dazai. For so long, he had kept it cool. Small cracks in the ice, steadily growing bigger until its entire surface was a weak spot, and all it took was one misstep for it all to rupture.  Maybe he still had some leftover wine in his system. Some bodies took longer to break down toxins than others, and Dazai was still recovering from the poison of his childhood, of the mafia, of the ADA. Time didn’t heal, time was an illusion. Everything that had ever happened to Dazai was happening to him right now. How long could Dazai preserve his secrets before they turned sour? “I know you’re in love with me,” he said and watched Chuuya’s jaw drop, then clench. “Is that a problem?” Clearly, this was something Chuuya was willing to fight for. It was the first time Dazai had ever seen him look anything but excited about the prospect of a fight.“I think it is because I meant what I said yesterday.” Dazai, who rarely meant anything he said, knew that his sincerity was a hard sell. He tried to sweeten the deal, reaching out across the breakfast table to pick up a sugar cube and dump it in Chuuya’s cup.“You’re defiling my coffee,” Chuuya said, but that didn’t stop him from taking a large gulp. This time, he kept it in his mouth, swallowed. “And you…” When he put the cup down, the table shook along with Dazai’s foundations. “It’s dreadful, I know,” Dazai lamented. “Just say it,” Chuuya said, like it was just a matter of ripping off a bandaid. He didn't get it because he had never thought ahead in his life. He had never had a reason to. The future didn’t scare him. “To the extent that I’m capable of experiencing human emotions and forming meaningful connections, I return your wretched feelings. There you have it.” This was a conversation where everything Dazai said sounded broken, and everything Chuuya said sounded healing. It could only go one way. In the end, Dazai’s, “But it’s never going to work,” was refuted by Chuuya’s, “I like you, and you like me, what the f@ck is the problem?” Then, Dazai was crawling on the table, sweeping plates out of the way to serve himself to Chuuya. They kissed, and there was no problem. No problem at all.“So, are you like,” Chuuya said into Dazai’s mouth, “performing right now, or how does that sh@t work?”Dazai grazed his teeth against Chuuya’s lower lip as a warning not to ask uns@xy questions .  Unfortunately, Chuuya wasn’t the type to heed a warning. “Okay, that’s hot, but can we be serious for a sec?”What a way to murder the mood. Dazai’s self-awareness was a constant spotlight beating down on him. When he was blinded, he lost sight of himself. “I’m always kind of, you know…” he shrugged. “Just let go,” Chuuya said. It was the worst advice anyone had ever given. Dazai had heard motivational speakers less vapid. “Would if I could.” “Right, okay, yeah. I get it.” Chuuya nodded. He couldn’t possibly comprehend the twisted nature of Dazai’s fakery, but it was sweet that he thought he did.  “It’s not a turn-off, I hope?” Dazai asked. He slid off the table and down to his knees, fitting himself between Chuuya’s legs. Man-to-man, eye-to-crotch. “No,” Chuuya answered on behalf of himself and his d@ck. “There’s nothing you could do that would make me want you less, it’s just... want you to be comfortable. Want you to be able to relax.”It would be cruel to point out to Chuuya that he couldn’t always have what he wanted. Dazai found that he had exhausted his cruelty. Saying nothing was a statement too. He lowered his head slightly so his hair covered his eyes. “Have you tried the good old fake it till you make it approach?” Chuuya suggested. He got all handsy, combing his fingers through Dazai’s bangs and pushing them aside like he was drawing a curtain.“Yes, it’s my full-time job,” Dazai answered. “No, I mean, like, if you’re always performing, then perform. If you can’t drop the control, then be in control. Put your big brain to it. Own it.”Maybe this could be Dazai’s roundabout route to self-acceptance. If he could be the cold-blooded demon the mafia raised him to be, if he could be the good boy the ADA wanted him to be, he could be anyone and anything. “I can do that.”“Yeah?” Chuuya flashed a thumbs-up. He did that sometimes, and he even got away with it for the most part, but only because he was hot. “Alright then. You call the tune, babe. Order me around if you want. That’d be pretty hot.”Dazai could make it pretty hot if he put his mind to it. In another life, he could have been a writer, coming up with elaborate storylines and stringing each character along in its service. He offered his patience, took his time. Chuuya’s pleasure was the most devastating thing he had ever been in charge of. It was like being handed the codes to the nukes. All that power in his hands, but what followed was barely a touch. Through-fabric groping, toying with belt loops, practically demure. Dazai leaned his head against Chuuya’s thigh. It was rock-hard, was pure muscle. It was also Dazai’s favourite pillow. Of course, Chuuya took everything he was given. He flustered and groaned and screwed his eyes shut, but he didn’t break. Not under torture and not under pleasure.Dazai knew what he was doing, he always did. He wrestled with fate, he won, then he realised that everything that happened was always going to happen and there was nothing he could do. All the time he had spent denying himself, he was absolutely helpless to do anything but fall in love with Chuuya. Dazai slipped a hand under Chuuya’s shirt to feel him up. Warm skin, solid abs. A body that begged to be worshipped. Second base, second act, progressing to the third. Setting: Bedroom. This was Chuuya’s treasure chest of clutter. Crashed paper planes, guitar picks, hand weights used as bookends, and—Dazai took particular notice of this—a tie, curled up on the floor like a snake ready to pounce. “I think a costume change is in order,“ Dazai said. He stripped Chuuya, who got more confident, more beautiful, with each fallen layer.  To the creatively minded, anything could function as a sex toy. Dazai picked up the tie.Zero hesitation, Chuuya tilted his chin and stretched his neck, pulling the kind of move that could get him killed. The instinct to seek support in servility came naturally to him. He was so strong, he had nothing to fear but responsibility. This was a burden Dazai could relieve him of. If Dazai called the shots, Chuuya didn’t have to think twice about shooting. “So this is a suit and tie kind of event,” Chuuya said, and then he chuckled at his own joke. “Just the tie, just for you,” Dazai corrected, “and only because I don't have a leash on me.” He was a bit of a tie wrangler, perfecting a Windsor knot and tightening it sweetly against Chuuya’s throat. “It’s just to make sure you do as I tell you,” he said. This was familiar to the point of nostalgia. When Dazai was in the mafia, he was the youngest executive, and he made it to the top by bulldozing everything in his path. Scorched earth in his wake. There was only one way, and it was his. Where he went, Chuuya followed. “And you? You’re not going to take your clothes off?” Chuuya asked. He looked at Dazai, and he looked ravenous. There was an intensity to his gaze as if the ability to see through fabric was just a matter of staring hard enough. “If I feel like it,” Dazai said. S@x required the kind of presence that he found alienating. He couldn’t be naked without exiting his body. His skin was too thin, it bled too easily. He understood pleasure better than he felt it, so he was going to turn it into a theoretical construct and use Chuuya to verify it, to define it, to recognise its reflection. He wanted to be Chuuya's mirror, to confirm that yes, you are hot. Yes, you should flex your muscles for me. “For now, I want to focus on you.”He pushed Chuuya back into the bed. “So be good.” He said it in the way he said most things. The way that could be played off as a joke. The only way he could get to know his feelings was by test-riding them. His desires were worms on a fishing hook. He put them out there and waited for someone to take the bait. If no one did, it was fine. He could reel it right back in, a la, oh you thought it was serious? That’s embarrassing for you. Clearly, I wasn’t serious, the good old sinker. “I’m always good,” Chuuya answered, and in the process, he made an otherwise perfectly arrogant statement sound like a hopeful question. Classic Chuuya. Strange that someone who wore his own skin like a tailored suit, who held himself to such high standards, should be such a groveller for external validation. He looked for it in the filthiest places, went dumpster diving for it, he even asked Dazai for it. Already, Chuuya was half-hard. He was so easy, he was so perfect. It took nothing at all to get him all the way there. Dazai didn’t even have to touch him, didn’t even have to say anything. He could heat Chuuya up with just a glance. ‘Cooked’ was a good look on Chuuya, red a good colour. Cheeks, chest, c@ck, all flushed. “Ding,” Dazai said like a microwave announcing the food was ready. “This is good, that’s for sure.” “Yeah? I haven’t even done anything,” Chuuya preened and fluffed himself. He cared so deeply, he worked so hard. Did he realise that he could do nothing at all and Dazai would still think everything of him?To move the plot along, Dazai had to drop his pants, but he kept his shirt on. A little bit of armour. He did unbutton it down to his navel. Sometimes, a coquette fit was more effective than wearing nothing. “I’ll get myself ready.” He fingered himself, shoved backwards onto his hands for a fast, efficient execution. Declaring himself good to go before Chuuya could even find his voice to grouse about being left out. He swung his legs over Chuuya’s hips, settling into his lap.“Your ass has absolutely no padding. It’s stabbing into my thighs.” “Stop complaining,” Dazai returned, but he wasn’t unsympathetic to the charge. He knew the pain of his bones from the inside. He constantly bumped up against the world, bruised like a peach no one should want to take a bite of. “Yeah, yeah. I'm just playing. I love your flattie,” Chuuya smiled, eating it all up. Dazai reached back for Chuuya’s d@ck and angled it in. At first, it was just a matter of getting used to the stretch. Despite all the times his body had been shaped to fit, it always felt impossible. Too big, too good. He winced on the way down, then he slowly started grinding. “Hope you enjoy the show.”“F@ck yes. What a view.” There wasn’t a single trace of sarcasm in Chuuya’s voice. “Rivals even a billion-dollar masterpiece.” It was embarrassing for everyone involved when he said such things, but Dazai was willing to let it slide.Chuuya cupped Dazai’s ass, giving a squeeze before having his hands slapped away. Then Dazai placed his palms flat on Chuuya’s chest. Those were his unspoken rules; he wanted to touch but not be touched. “Ah, I get it. You need to focus to do your thing.” Chuuya stretched his arms over his head, holding onto his own wrists as if handcuffing himself. “Hey, are you, like, drawing figure-eights? Feels f@ck@ng fantastic.”“I’m not doing maths,” Dazai said, but that was a lie. He was always calculating. Rocking back and forth, his body pulsed and stretched. The emptiness inside of him was hungry or maybe just lonely. He wound Chuuya up, drew him snap-tight.  “Don’t you dare come,” Dazai said, grasping for the tie and giving it a warning tug, “not yet.”“Uh-huh.” A shiver lapped across Chuuya’s stomach, abs clenching. “I’m trying my best here, but you’re making it kind of hard when you do that.”“Do what?” Innocently, Dazai twirled the tie around his fingers. Then he gave it another pull. “This?”“Mghh.” Chuuya jerked. It wasn’t a proper answer, but it got the message across. Falling apart was a special kind of talent, and Chuuya had it. He could forget himself, he could surrender to his feelings, he could become one with the moment with the sheets with Dazai. His pleasure was the best thing Dazai had ever been in control of.Dazai kept riding Chuuya until his thighs cramped. He wasn’t built for this kind of physical labour. His body was made to be spoiled, to be taken care of—dirty work that he was completely unwilling to do for himself. “I’m tired.” “Okay, okay,” Chuuya said, taking the hint. “Let me.” The world was upside down, and when Dazai caught up, he was on his back, Chuuya above him. Glittering beads of sweat lined Chuuya’s forehead like some kind of crown. “It’s perfect like this. I can see you.” He drew Dazai’s shirt aside to reveal his collarbone. “I can kiss you.” “Can you?” Dazai asked. He could be a real puppy-hanger, at least that’s how Chuuya looked at him. “Please.” Chuuya’s voice wobbled a little like he might die if the answer was no. Dazai pulled Chuuya down by the scruff of his neck and pressed a thumb against his lips, hocking it into his mouth as it went slack. “Look. My dog doesn’t bite,” he said. And then, “Now, kiss me.”Chuuya did as told, and he did it well. Dazai hooked his legs around Chuuya, ankles crossing to drive him down deeper. The air was crushed between their chests as they rocked together, breathing into each other's mouths. It tingled in the roof of Dazai’s mouth and burned in the pit of his stomach. He felt more sensitive than usual, and his usual was an exposed nerve. When Chuuya kissed his neck and whispered, “Pretty,” it was an emotional third-degree burn. Chuuya seized a hold around Dazai’s knee and pressed it back. The new angle hit deep in between Dazai's lungs and punched the breath out of him. This was a test of his flexibility, of his composure too. He was laid bare and folded in half. “Careful, I’m very delicate.”“Ugh. Sorry, princess.” Chuuya came to a stop. He blinked at Dazai’s state of contortionism, patting his outer thigh. “Are you—”“I’m good. You can keep going.” Dazai squirmed with the little leverage he had. He was still in control, even when he could barely move. “Chop-chop. Less talking, more moving.”Again, Chuuya followed instructions. His thrusting soon became uneven. He came with a slurred rendition of Dazai’s name on his lips. Everyone, even Dazai, who extended indefinitely and touched the whole world with his endless tricks, reached his limit. He imagined his mind as a landscape, his thoughts aesthetically arranged like stones in a zen garden. His body’s ancient instincts alleviated him of the empty feeling. With Chuuya on top of him, inside of him, he stayed grounded. After the sweet nothing, came the sensory realities. When Chuuya rolled over, cold air touched the sticky mess on Dazai’s stomach. Someone should clean that up, but Dazai wasn’t about to volunteer. Chuuya made some unintelligible noise, sounding happy. S@x made him coo like a dove. “I could go for a ciggy.” He made an arrested effort to lift an arm. It didn’t make it further than half across Dazai’s chest before giving up. “Except I can't move.”“Sucks for you.” Dazai offered fake sympathy. He wasn’t sorry that he got to keep Chuuya for himself. Chuuya grunted a reply before propping himself up on an elbow, going for a conspicuous change of topic. “So that was really f@ck@ng hot. I like it when you’re in charge.” He talked about sex the same way he talked about his motorcycle. Like he wanted to pick it apart and admire each shiny bolt, like he wanted to put it back together and hit the road. “Was it good for you?”In Dazai’s opinion, most things were better left unsaid. Words had no direct connection to his feelings. The translational process was a perpetual failure. “Yes,” he said with all his eloquence.“Cool, cool. So were you—you know?” Chuuya was strange. He could talk about sex without his gag reflex rebelling, but he couldn’t admit that Dazai was fake. “I have to pretend to be in control to make up for the fact that I can’t let go of this stupid need to be in control.”“Yeah, okay, wow, that’s some clever person sh@t. The kind of thing you need an IQ above 300 to make sense of, I'm sure, but—” Chuuya sniffed Dazai’s hair, then he blew air out through pursed lips like he blew out the smoke of his cigarettes—“sounds like you’re pretending to be yourself, which, like, if you ask me, I don’t really think that counts as pretending.”“Right,” Dazai said. How was he supposed to communicate the rift between him and himself? He lived in his own shadow. It was an ever-changing shape that he had to contort himself to fit. The possibilities were endless. He had a million thoughts per second, but he couldn’t change his mind without changing who he was. That made the actualities finite; they started and ended at this, “What if it turns out I’m no one.” His face was stuck in a grimace, and at some point, he had stopped worrying about how to get the mask off and started worrying about what was underneath it. “You’re someone special to me,” Chuuya said. Being clever was the closest Dazai came to defining himself, but he had been thoroughly outwitted. “Maybe you know me better than I know myself.”'
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
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