non video te amplius

Someone’s knocking persistently on the front door again. A stranger’s voice on the other side blends with the ringing in his head, the same relentless screech that’s been weighing on his mind for far too long. Another angry kick. Still, no one’s in a hurry to open the door. The man inside the apartment isn’t capable of something as simple as unlocking the damn lock.

***

Once again, Yosano finds herself explaining the same thing to Ogai, just like she did last time. And the time before that. And the half a dozen times before that, after returning from yet another fruitless visit to Nakahara’s apartment. Mori only rubs the bridge of his nose, mutters something under his breath, then dismisses the medic to her office. Three weeks. Twenty-one days — that’s how long Dazai’s been lounging in his partner’s apartment. He sleeps in his bed, uses his bathroom and all the amenities; even the luxurious and varied home bar is not off limits. The owner of the home didn’t mind. Never once expressed even a sliver of displeasure. Didn’t throw sharp remarks — the kind they both were used to — nothing. It was as if he didn’t care. As if he accepted the stranger’s presence on his territory as a given. Dazai hadn’t even gotten scolded once — not for breaking several expensive statuettes, not for tearing through the redhead’s wardrobe. Hell, not even for staining the tile with blood or cracking the mirror. No growling, no dramatic threats. Dazai had made himself at home so thoroughly that he even stopped wearing his signature bandages. Well — that wasn’t exactly by choice. He didn’t need them anymore. Chuuya had never been ashamed of his body. He knew exactly what lay beneath the bandages. He had, after all, dressed Osamu’s wounds dozens — if not hundreds — of times after missions or relapses. Dazai remembered that with a strange ache. Maybe sorrow. Maybe reverence. But the firm, precise movements of Chuuya’s hands on his arms — he hadn’t felt that in a long time. Then again, there was no need. Chuuya always used to echo Dazai’s own words: wounds shouldn’t fester. Don’t let them rot. Perhaps the strangest thing about living in someone else’s home was that Dazai had never once heard a complaint about the way he spent hours kneading the dark hat with the Havana ribbon — the one that had become a permanent part of the redhead’s look over the years. Nakahara had always been extremely annoyed when Dazai managed to snatch it from him.

***

Lately, waking up had become a struggle. As soon as he opened his eyes, the room would start to spin and a high-pitched ringing would pierce his ears. Nausea came in sickening waves, and he often felt like snapping his own neck just to end it. Still, Dazai stayed in bed, rolling to his other side and draping a leg over the cocoon of blankets. The past few days were all a blur, events slipping out of order or being forgotten entirely. He thinks he opened a bottle of collectible wine yesterday. Hell, maybe Chuuya had yelled at him — that would explain the headache. Dazai couldn’t even manage a smirk, but he did twitch the corner of his mouth at the thought. But Chuuya wasn’t there. Again. Left before Dazai woke up. Workaholic bastard. Dazai finds it strange how rarely he sees his partner these days. And yet — they live under the same roof.

***

The bedroom reeked of Golden Bat tobacco smoke, through and through. Dazai had never liked the smell of cigarettes, but the blue-eyed man didn’t care the slightest. Since the age of fifteen and up to twenty-two, Chuuya had thoroughly enjoyed exhaling smoke straight into the brunette’s face, chuckling as the latter tried his best not to cough. Years passed, but the mischief remained the same. This time, Osamu took a drag himself and didn’t exhale for a long while. He let the nicotine in and felt absolutely nothing. Shit—last pack. Chuuya’s going to be furious.

***

Another broken mirror, this time in the bedroom. And the soles of his feet stung unpleasantly from the countless tiny shards embedded in the skin. Still, Nakahara wasn’t going to get mad at the hopeless Osamu. Dazai dropped to his knees, clutching another cotton shirt that didn’t belong to him. Except now, it was no longer white — the brunette had soiled it unintentionally with a dirty crimson shade. His hands just wouldn’t heal. Every cut oozed blood and plasma. But Osamu didn’t bother wrapping the wounds in bandages — he remembered what his partner once said. Chuuya would definitely feel flattered. Osamu rarely listened to anyone. The mafioso dragged the garment back to bed again. Fumbling at the collar with fingers trembling from nerves, pressing it close to his chest, burying his face in it, breathing in the scent of the one it belonged to. Only now, it was getting harder to catch those warm citrusy notes laced with cinnamon.

***

Dazai kept texting Nakahara, begging him to come home soon. What a bastard — not only did he ignore the messages, he didn’t even read them. Fine. Osamu will wait — he has no other choice.

***

At night, his body was racked with chills. So cold for some reason… Fuck—sheets are soaked. Osamu was burning up, drenched in sweat for hours. Or was it days already? Usually, whenever he got sick, his partner would be the one to care for him: brewing herbal teas, keeping him entertained, and — when necessary — forcing bitter but effective meds down his throat, grumbling how dying from the flu wasn’t the most glamorous way to go. Dazai wondered where that stern mother hen had gone off to when he needed him the most.

***

He squirmed in the bed, his stale body unable to find a comfortable position. Still felt like absolute shit. His eyes burned like they were filled with sand, and his throat was painfully dry. The blanket had slipped to the floor, but the brunette had no intention of picking it up. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his frail arms around his too-thin body. He needed warmth, but the only person capable of giving it to him wasn’t here — and who knew when that redheaded bastard would finally come back. Dazai was furious with Nakahara. He’d definitely think of a way to get back at him — something petty and painful, something that would twist Chuuya’s face in irritation the second he walked through the door. He’d definitely come up with something. Just… not now. Not until he had at least a sliver of strength.

***

Damn. Osamu missed him again. The brunette had always been amazed at how Chuuya could move around so silently and quickly that even his light sleep remained undisturbed. He had definitely been here. The closet was open, and his white shirts were messily scattered across the floor. Probably Osamu’s fault — he’d stained them all. No wonder Chuuya snapped. Was he mad at Dazai? ...Didn’t matter. He deserved it. He’d been wandering God-knows-where while Osamu was suffering. And he could’ve stayed. He knew how vulnerable the brunette became when he got sick. Dazai struggled to sit up and glanced around the bedroom. What a mess. Chuuya would probably make him clean up. Well… so be it.

***

His frail body slid into a filled bathtub with a faint splash. Osamu decided hot water might ease the sickness, remembering how after long missions, he and Nakahara would often soak in near-boiling water together. The water turned cloudy, the unhealed cuts stinging — but it was tolerable. Steam filled the room, making the air thick and suffocating. Water still ran from the faucet, threatening to spill over the edge — not that Osamu cared. Let the soaked floor be the mess he left just to spite the little mafioso.

***

The sharp tapping of heels echoed off the parquet as Yosano made her way to Mori Ougai’s office. The guard nodded and opened the door for her. Ougai met her with a tired look — a look she’d grown used to lately. — “Go ahead, my dear Akiko. Speak the news you’ve come to bring,” he said monotonously, barely above a whisper. The woman bit her lip before replying in a sharp tone. — “If you’d let us break the damn lock, you wouldn’t be burying your second Executive right now,” Yosano snapped. Mori sighed heavily, eyeing the brunette who stood a few meters away. — “I once said,” he began, “only a diamond can polish another diamond.” Yosano narrowed her eyes, not breaking eye contact. — “Losing Nakahara meant losing Dazai too. His death was only a matter of time — and you know it, don’t you?” It was rhetorical. After a long pause, Yosano finally muttered: — “It’ll take a lot of time to shape another duo like that. Ryuunosuke and Atsushi are… different.” — “That’s not your concern. You’re dismissed.” She turned sharply and strode out of the office.

***

Akiko stood before two stone slabs. Her expression was unreadable, though her heart skipped a beat as she crouched down and placed a hat on one of the gravestones. Then, she left a roll of bandages at the foot of the second. Yosano lowered her gaze between the graves, then bowed her head and pressed her painted lips together tightly. The engravings on the stones read: Here lie Nakahara Chuuya and Dazai Osamu. Executives and members of the Port Mafia’s Special Division. Partners and eternal rivals. Lovers, whose fate was sealed the moment they stepped through the gates of the Port.