#chocsra

"man, i don't know."

your eyes roll at the guy beside you, sweating in his basketball uniform and adjusting his sports headband as you two sat at the foot of the bleachers. "very helpful, chuuya."

he was wearing red.

his uniform was red, his hair a colour of copper—but in sunlight he could be mistaken for ginger. and he had this look in his eyes, a look you can't but admire. it was full of passion, but he always suppressed his emotions. chuuya never expressed his emotions well.

and that's how chuuya nakahara was, a complete idiot. you were talked your ear off back then by him geeking out over a girl he likes but can't seem to express it well. though you get teased by him for keeping your head deep in the books when it comes to romance, you found yourself comforting him at 3am when he can't get his mind off another girl, who probably broke his heart.

that was the past when you were both new to highschool, of course he wanted a girlfriend. which was especially difficult since he was best friends with the basketcase of the school—dazai osamu. well, even he had girls liking him, which was surprising since he's not exactly friends with this thing called deodorant.

"well, why would you see flaws in somebody you love and think it's something to be changed?" the boy inquires, chugging his waterbottle. "when you don't love them, flaws shouldn't matter, and when you do love them, their flaws should be part of the reason you do."

cute, you thought.

"that's how it should be!" — you pause, waving your hands all over the place trying to express yourself, "but not everyone thinks like that, y'know?"

he chuckles, "well, unlucky for you, some people's flaws can be unbearable." you shoot a glare at your friend, "the hell is 'unlucky for you' supposed to mean?"

chuuya snickers, "nothing." he looks up at the gym's ceiling, eyebrows scrunching when he sees the numerous dodgeballs stuck up there. how did that get up there? he thinks for a second. you wrinkle your nose in distaste, "—asshole." he quickly averts his gaze from the ceiling, to your scrunched up face.

"hey!"

after settling down from trying to flick each other's foreheads for an extended period of time, you squish your cheek onto your palm. "since we were on the topic of relationships, what is your type in a girl?" you ask casually, the usual hustle and bustle of basketball boys and their friends watching screaming in the gym. "my type in a girl?.."

he thinks for a second, finger tapping on his chin.

"i like elegant girls, girls who are super classy." he smirks, closing his eyes with confidence in his answer.

your eyes widen a bit,

—you were nothing like any of those things.

"well, my type is tall guys." you quickly retort, the redhead almost pouts, before refraining it to a scoff.

"chuuya, we need you on the court, man!" a firm call back runs from one of his teammates, "oh shit," the redhead quickly gets up, setting his waterbottle.

"see ya later, idiot." his lips curve up in a slight smile, ruffling your hair gently before returning to court.

this day sucked already.

"i've been good today.. i burnt 15 ants instead of the usual 30."

chuuya felt is eye twitch, standing near the incinerator with his childhood friend, dazai osamu. "i really fuckin' wish we weren't neighbours."

he remembers back then when his mother would tell the boy to play with his neighbour, dazai. unfortunately, he managed to stick with him forever and ever.

the brunette ruffles his wavy brown hair, crouching down to fiddle with a few new ants. "so what's new, midget?" chuuya almost swears he throws his lit lighter onto the kid right there, before scoffing, "don't call me that, bastard." the bandaged student looks at him blankly, as if he knew the redhead was bothered.

chuuya sighs, "okay, well, [y/n]'s been kinda off lately, and she won't tell me why."

dazai sighs, letting go of the ant he's been holding. "what did you do this time? if a woman is acting off, it's 100% your fault." the ginger scoffs in response, "well, our last conversation was at the bleachers. she asked me what my type was and i responded with elegant and classy girls, and she hasn't been the same since. she even said after her type was tall guys!"

the brunette smirks again, snickering devilshly for a good hot minute. "what the hell? cut it out, man. you're scarin' me!" chuuya protests, before dazai asks him:"you told [y/n] that you like elegant girls, and you have a crush on her?"

the redhead pauses and thinks about that statement for a while, "yeah, what's wrong with that?" he tilts his head in confusion. "you're so inconsiderate, chuuya." dazai hums, "[y/n]'s the polar opposite of elegant and classy."

it suddenly hits chuuya like a brick — but he still rummages to work against that statement.

"dude, you're wrong! she's got a super classy smile, and really elegant hands. even the way she moves is elegant. and—" dazai shoves a bandaged hand in his face, "please, i don't wanna hear it."

"if you want her to actually like you back, tell her that she's your type, and whatever you just said right now." dazai gets up, patting the dirt off his ass. "or, be like me, and invite her to a double suicide date."

chuuya closes his eyes in disdain, "kill yourself." the teenager smirks, "you don't have to tell me twice, slug."

"you don't understaaannndddd!!" you whine, playing the flute despondently at band practice. the girl beside you purses her lips, before writing in her pocket notebook — it's just his type. and i think you're elegant in your own way.

you pout at reading that, before sluggishly getting up. "thanks, gin..." you thank, before another redhead flashily enters band practice. "sorry for being late, mr. hirotsu, somethin' came up." your band teacher nods, before tachihara, an outspoken second year, strides up to you and gin.

"what's up with her?" the boy asks, before sitting down and fiddling with his trumphet. gin writes down — [y/n] found out chuuya's type was the complete opposite of her. tachihara looks for a moment, before laughing: "pfft.."

gin, a super pretty but androgynous second year then tells him to shut up by smacking his shoulder, earning a yelp from tachihara. "eek! well, listen, that guy is total shit anyway.. besides his super cool motorcycle, and killer smile, and his super cool motorcycle.. damn, wish i could get somethin' like that."

"shut up, tachihara." you mumble, as he scoffs dramatically, adjusting the bandage on his nose. "shouldn't you just continue talking to him? him having a type doesn't mean he doesn't like you." the redhead reasons, before reading the sheet music. "yeah but, now i think of all the girls he used to like.. and i'm nothing like them." you frown, slumping again onto the desk.

"y'know what they say.. the past is past, like how i thought gin was a boy." tachihara shrugs, frowning when he sees the middle finger she shoots at him, "i'm telling your brother you did that to me." he quips, before gin clears her throat, her silky raven hair tied back in a ponytail. "he'll beat your sorry ass." she says in the girliest voice possible.

tachihara yelps before your band teacher, mr. hirotsu reprimands you three for slacking off, frowning as you guys apologize, tachihara whispers: "point is, just talk to him." the boy says, as gin nods. "—unless you told him that you liked tall guys after, that would send him into cardiac arrest." he concluded, you gulped in slight guilt.

gin whispered in a gentle tone, "did you actually?.." you don't respond and frown even more.

"damn, you suck." tachihara finishes, yelping as the teacher yells at him again. "sorry, sir!"

it was another day, well, end of the day.

most students already went home, but you decided to stay at school to study for a bit. unbeknownst to your knowledge, it was raining heavily, and luckily for you, you had no umbrella. you sigh, jamming your earbuds in before walking out of the roof you covered yourself in.

except, upon your first step outside, you still felt no rain.

then, you saw chuuya's umbrella covering you. "hm?" you turn to him, surprised. "hey, you shouldn't get sick before my game, idiot." he chuckles as you two walked in the rain, under the same umbrella. "no way!" you smile.

an awkward silence came over you two. "uhm, about the other day," the boy starts off as you immediately flush — of course he noticed that you were upset. "hey! it's nothing serious, i—" chuuya shushes you by successfully flicking your head. you yelp, "ow.." rubbing your forehead. the boy swallows thickly, "i wanted to correct myself, actually."

raindrops. they moved at a steady pace, falling onto his black umbrella above you two, onto the pavement, and onto the cars passing by. you looked over at chuuya, who never followed dress-code, who had his button-up and tie neatly ironed. he strangely followed the dress-code perfectly today. "elegant and classy's not my type, actually."

you pause, thinking for a second. "then what is?"

"good question, actually." chuuya quips, adjusting his tie. he was completely confident when speaking, but you couldn't help but stare at the nervous quivering of his slender hands. "y'know that question you asked about flaws? it made me think that somewhere out there, every person is who someone has been exactly looking for. everyone in the world is someone's ideal type." he explained, inhaling sharply.

"—and i, uh," chuuya's words strained his throat, his cheeks are blazing and he has an odd coordination when walking. "you're my— ugh,"

cute, you thought, before internally slapping yourself.

"you're my kind of, mm, seriously?" the redhead stutters, rubbing two fingers against his temple, exhaling sharply. "you're my kind of girl, and—"

you felt a raindrop hit your cheek, it was cold and quick. but this feeling, it was slow and cherishing. warm, like a sunny day in a field of flowers, or another resting day of keeping your head in the books. after moping around for days, maybe tachihara was right. the whole ordeal was stupid, just like chuuya.

"—i like you too." you cut him off.

chuuya almost drops his umbrella in shock, as an abundance of rain water splashes onto you two. "shit!" he curses, feeling shitty for ruining the moment, but you laugh, extending out your hand to his, smiling brightly.

his lips curve into a smile, "okay, maybe this isn't that bad." chuuya quips, intertwining your fingers into his, before pressing a gentle kiss to the spot on your forehead he flicked earlier.

today, it felt like running through a field of flowers on a sunny day, even though it was raining and you got sick the next day. but it only felt that way because you had him next to you the entire time.

—in truth, he was your type too, and no, tall men were never your type.

Similar to the freezing snow cooling down your neck into your back during Japanese winters. Catching snowflakes in the heat of your palm did not melt the bitter cold engulfing your being. Lukewarm was your companion throughout the tedious years of this beautiful thing we call 'living'. Lukewarm is the only comfort you know of.

There was a cut that always bled, never fully healed, the scab that you reckon to always pick off. Lukewarm water would wash over your scabbed wounds, into your eyes, and swallow you whole. You'd watch your loved ones become engulfed in a scorching heat, the bubbling fire scraping and tearing over old, bitter skin.

You'd run your fingers over the freshly new skin and everlastingly massaged joints. You never became old. You never felt hurt. You never were hurt—for long of course. For healing was your salvation, your ability, your gift—your curse.

"Winter is over soon,"

you muttered softly, the melancholic rebirth of nature prospecting over the misty blankets of snow surrounding you. Spring. The season when flower seedlings, trapped beneath infertile soil, reawaken and sprout; revelling in rich petals and leaves, calmly drifting in the cool breeze. You've seen it one too many times; 134—to be exact.

"And that's your reason?"

Your eyelids never falter your solemn, sad look. Continue to stuff your hands deep in your pockets to escape the cooling air, huffing out as you also fidget with the origami you've been toying with. "I'm not sure what you mean," you reply, eyes gazing over to the melting body of water, a local river as you stand over its bridge. For it was a beautiful sight, nature did this annual thing called grow—rebirth, if you may. And as many others hated the cold breeze that nature gifted, somehow, you basked in it. —"You want me to kill you because winter's over soon."

...

Right, you forgot the predicament you were in. Merciful. Yearning. Bright. Though the man beside you excluded the exact opposite of those adjectives, you cannot help but feel this funny thing called desperation—besides, you've heard it all, no 'youngest mafia executive' is truly evil. To you, he is only just a boy, a foolish boy. "I have lots of riches. You can even take my house, it's not dirty money."

"I see,"

A harsh breeze of wind swiftly picked up the origami that you were crafting from your hands, reaching out to grab the piece—a cold hand catches it and holds the folded paper in front of you, extending his hand. "you forget that you can't approach mafiosos on the street pleading for suicide, y'know? That sort of desperation is seen as dirty."

On the surface level, his words seemed like an insult; it was utterly offensive to refer to a person's actions as filthy. However, there wasn't any hint of insult in his voice—he even seemed amused. He, was a young man wrapped around in a beige scarf and black trenchcoat engulfing his entire body; he, was practically swimming in it. He, had brown wavy locks that framed his face. He, for some odd reason, was covered in bandages. —not the gauze you'd find wrapping around wounds, one similar to a mummy. And he, who looked like he lacked self-care, though you would be able to take in his pleasant features.

"Am I pleading?—" You snatch the origami away from his hand, "It's more like a deal. Consider it a paid assassination." the brunette merely scoffs, light air huffing out of his lips as he stuffs his hand back into his pocket. "Our conduct doesn't consist of mercy killing or assisted suicide," the man chuckles, peering along the barely frozen body of water. "nor unarranged business deals. But I'd like to know one thing,"

You lift your gaze meeting his in curiosity, taking in the soft features of his face, yet he brimmed with impurity. The slopes of his cheeks were so slim, and that followed through his lanky frame - a face that didn't seem boyish at all. Merciful. Yearning. Bright. He screamed an antonym of those words —Cruel. Repulsed. Dark.

"Why is it you want to die?" he asks, watching intricately as you brush your thumb continually over the origami you were making: a crafted swan. The brunette seemed rather impressed, watching - your skills seem exactly like traditional art of origamis: something he'd see in an old painting or lost crafts book. Swans - which symbolised eternal love, you seemed anything but loving. Maybe, it had just been eternal. An eternity without love.

"My journey started with helping others live. But once you start taking the breath of living for granted, it becomes the very reason you wish to die. I. suppose I've met my limit with that. With living." you reminisce the past, the melancholic nights under blankets under the same winter—the spring, autumn, or summer. In the blessing of longevity, there was a problem; for what you've gained, there was also lost. Death of others—an eternity without love was your reality. Your resentful condemnation.

"I understand."

At this moment, the mafioso didn't seem so cruel; it was almost sympathetic, you'd think as he gazes over the river. "I've never understood the purpose of living if that makes you feel any better."

...

"You're not very good at comforting, are you?" an unexpected chuckle escaped his lips, "I'd at least expect an immortal to be a nihilist." you remotely scoff at his revelation. "Stupid. There's a reason why I want to die, I understand the meaning of living." the brunette rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue. "Well, I don't understand the meaning of living hence why I want to die."

You chuckle, "For a mafioso, you are sassy."

"For a beauty, you are quite rude." He smiles indifferently.

It's almost funny, actually. How casual that conversation was.

Engulfed in the flames of this beautiful thing we call living, you finally obtain that sweet release of death the moment you intertwine fingers with a young mafioso—one who reeked of death.

The flames that engulfed you were lukewarm, but he was different. He was warm, almost scorching. Scorching an angelic heat that cascaded into the palms of your hand all the way to your shoulders and neck. The feeling was deftly abstract, and you basked in it; the way he'd hold you so close, run bandaged hands over the slope of your cheeks, whisper untangible nothings near the shell of your ear.

"Death is the absence of life, the desire I've been longing to taste since adolescence."

Mist and smoke fill around the room, almost making you feel dizzy. There were a lot of turbulent emotions circulating through your brain. First, you were relieved. You've been insensitive to death for a while, the times you did cry for someone—it was out of relief. The sweet relief that that one person would not have to suffer. You suppose it was the same for yourself. You would meet your demise in the arms of a fallen angel. Fall into the fiery pits of hell, or be welcomed by heaven's gate through a smoky embrace of whiskey and canned crab.

"I'm a bit envious of you, actually," Dazai murmurs, his thumb which was once connected to a trigger, soothingly rubbing your skin. "you'll meet this desire before me." you often wonder, what was the man's infatuation with death? He was in the mafia from a young age, he must've been associated with all forms of death. Ranging from a loved one withering away, to open guts and blood-stained lips. The absence of life can be seen through the empty carcass of one's body, the glint of vitality in their eyes disappearing.

Dazai Osamu was unique. In fact, he never had that glint in his eyes. His carcass was handsome, he was the product of love and passion. However, the eyes—his eyes, which were the window of the soul, were a dark void, abyssal, vantablack. He was unreadable. The brunette's experiences, his beliefs, his spiritual grounding. Dazai Osamu yearned for death, but for what he learned as just a boy, he did not meet death—but became it.

You had a connection. The special origami of a swan—meaning eternal love. He wanted eternal, you wanted love. In the end, none of you were happy. And so, he'll give you peace, and you'll give him understanding. The carcass you're going to become is much different from a being he merely murdered. Dazai moves a hand from interlocking with yours, to cup both of your cheeks. Warm and rosy cheeks.

"I'm sorry,"

He had fluttered his eyes shut and leaned his forehead on your temple. Despite the burning fire ignited by the candle of his flesh alone, his warm and shallow breaths gave you a balmy breather from this feeling called lukewarm.

Crack.

Lukewarm. 

"I see you got what you wanted, huh?"

You stood atop a bridge from frozen water with a black scarf snuggled tightly around your neck.

A brunette man averted his gaze to you with a confused stare. The gape of which was rather familiar, one that excluded a slight glint of vitality, but other than that, abyssal. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

He adjusted the bandage on his finger, in which you assumed he cut his finger on something. "Nope. But I made an extra origami, do you want one?"

Silence. "..Sure."

The mysterious man picked up the crafted paper with suspicion. His gaze softens as he sees a professionally crafted swan. "I feel like we've met before—actually, I'm sure of it."

"Not too sure about that."

"my bandages." dazai fiddles with his fingers almost awkwardly, grazing over the rougher texture of the bandages; a rather different approach compared to his skin. "what about them?" you question, reckoning to leave his turbulent concerns and just bury yourself back into his chest. the young detective huffs out a frustrated sigh; almost childishly, annoyed that you were completely fine with his bandaged limbs and didn't get what he wanted.

"off. i think i wanna take them off." —a phenomenon you would've never thought dazai osamu would ever allow to, especially suggest. you slowly nod, your fingers grazing over his knuckles, "you sure?" dazai liked the texture of bandages, it hid his skin, what laid underneath, and the texture was just.. comforting. a proud pleasure of his the detective never tried to hide; the shielding feeling of bandages. the brunette seemed nervous, almost terrified that he was going to let this go right now. dazai figured that if you were going to be with him, you should be with all of him. "mhm, i.. i wanna feel you forreal."

and so, carefully, he unwrapped the bandages off his fingers, then his arms, then his neck. and soon, the brunette sheepishly bared all of him to you—his version of all of him, at least.

dazai.. no, osamu, took this time to run his bare fingers through your silken hair. lips parting ever so softly as a pink blush tinted his cheeks, unfamiliar to this stricken feeling of just you. the detective giggles softly at your lovestruck smile, admiring such a rare and beautiful sight. osamu reached beneath your shirt, hands ghosting over your waist delicately, pulling you in closer for his fingers to stop and caress your lower back. you happily conceal your face into his bare neck again, intaking the soft scent of alcohol and fresh laundry. when your lips are pressed against his neck, dazai stirs and giggles faintly, moving his arms into encircling your shoulders, pulling you close to just card his fingers through your hair. intake your delightful and familiar scent, and giggle at each other's intimate vulnerability.

during a night such as this, being completely vulnerable to each other was rare, but you'd continue to bask in it for many nights, evenings, and days to come.

w/c: 524