Work Text
“THE PRIME MINISTER OF FRANCE MICHELLE DUPONT FOUND MURDERED IN HER APARTMENT„
Oh, poor thing. As if he could care any less.With his sight immediately leaving the daily newspaper lines, Dazai headed towards another aisle, searching for food for his dearest Kohaku. After scanning the shelves for a while, he finally found two packs of her favourite treat. His pace was unsteady as he put two bottles of the cheapest whiskey into the basket, deciding on the spot he was fine with staying hungry for another two days if it meant he could indulge for tonight. He could even start eating Kohaku’s food at some point. Money was not something he got enough of lately: he remembered with regret when two years ago his novel was labeled as a bestseller, leading to him earning a huge fortune. But money was easily gone, the most of it was spent on alcohol, women and arranging financial problems that his family had charged him with. However, he wrote again: but his new novels hadn't gained any popularity. They were either ignored, or negatively criticised for being “too philosophical, discussing an inexistent issue the reader is eager, but incapable to grasp”. Depression took over him in no time, as Dazai slowly but steadily grew worn out, exhausted, procrastinating, living with what little was left from his early earnings and help from his only friend Sakunosuke Oda. A fat man before him was holding a lewd manga in his sweaty hands when Dazai waited in line to pay for the purchase. Dazai turned away in disgust. As he got out of the convenience store, he couldn't suppress a violent shudder. The snowfall these days was strong and it made it hard to see the way. Dazai wrapped his jacket around himself, hiding his nose into a wooden scarf from the pinching cold. Although the New Year was far behind, the weather appeared unwilling to settle down. The snow cracked audibly as he stepped upon it, disturbing its white perfection and smoothness. It took less than ten minutes to get back to his apartment despite the wind that Dazai felt would blow him away at any moment. He was never much of an eater, but lately his diet only consisted of great portions of caffeine, alcohol and cheap noodles. His apartment greeted him with familiar warmth and a happy “meow” from Kohaku, who hurried towards him to give him that needy stare of hers. She purred, in anticipation to discover what was inside the big bag that he brought — of course the only thing she was truly interested in was whether it contained food or not — so she followed him to the kitchen, swinging her long tail from side to side. The hall on their way to the kitchen — or, to put be clear, the entirety of the apartment floor was flooded with garbage, used bandages, tissues, dirty clothes and dishes Dazai never planned to wash or reuse. He never had guests, Kohaku didn't seem to mind the mess — so what was the point of cleaning then? If he needed a woman, he'd just go to her place or make her pay for a night in the hotel. One-night relationships were the only kind of relationship he'd ever experienced. Women were easy to seduce: at least that's what he thought, and that's how it has always been for him. He knew he had handsomes looks, even without much self-care, and he decided he had the right to use this advantage as he pleases. It's not like there was anyone to stop him anyway. He's twenty five now, an adult, single, broken, jobless, but with a decent appearance. Kohaku meowed loudly to get back his attention.“Wait a second”, Dazai uttered, opening the package of stinky cat food. He didn't bother to get a bowl for her, so instead he just poured the sticky insides of the package straight to the floor. Kohaku rushed to the spot, devouring her food as if she'd been starving for a few months. Dazai sat on a chair next to the window, looking at his cat and wondering once again about what kind of mysteries must circle around in that little head led by survival instincts Kohaku was named “amber” because her eyes always lit up with a strange glow, reminiscent of that of a tree resin. Her fur was white, with a few coffee-coloured patches. All in all, she was a very beautiful, but eccentric and capricious cat. He definitely couldn't have handled her if she was a human girl. The brunette took out the new bottle of whiskey, poured it into a glass he found among the scattered dishes, then brought his laptop to the kitchen and turned it on. First thing that popped out was his email: nothing new, girls' compliments, one word about his books and a thousand about his looks. He couldn't even say what he found more offensive: professional criticism from serious readers or these emails with flirting and relationship proposals from teenage fangirls that he of course had absolutely no interest in. Not bothering to open any of them he clicked on the new document icon and stared at the blank page for a while.Nothing came to his mind. As usual.He took a sip from his whiskey and looked out of the window, as if there was something there that could whisper him a hint. But there was no living soul outside. Hours passed by as he looked at the white screen, trying to get some words out of his mind.He felt there were some gears turning and working deep inside of him. A complicated, but well-tuned mechanism functioning nonstop to serve some purpose yet unknown to him. The thoughts were there, but they slipped away every time he tried to capture one. Like lizards, they left him with a useless tail in his hands. The thought came to him that his mind was a projection of what was going on outside: blizzard, blurry vision, whiteout. There was nothing to be seen, myriads of tiny particles blocked the view, so thick he was unable to see the horizon. Maybe within those tiny particles precisely was hidden the issue, the essence? Maybe nothing existed beyond.He accidentally clicked at the bottom of the screen, making the news appear.
“MICHELLE DUPONT SHOT IN HER APARTMENT"
Dazai’s mind darted back to that newspaper he'd seen at the store. The title was similar to this one. Some important French woman got killed in Paris yesterday night. He looked at her photo: young, fresh, wealthy, so alive that it was hard to believe that this person no longer belonged to this world. Kohaku finished her meal and climbed on the table before him, licking her fur clean with aristocratic grace. After a few more hours of typing a pair of meaningless words, erasing them, zoning out, and zoning in again Dazai got tired and dialed his friend's number. Oda was always busy but never too busy to not respond to Dazai's call.“Odasaku!” Dazai said, feigning enthusiasm when the other accepted the call. “Odasaku” was a nickname that Dazai had given Oda Sakunosuke because the latter was «too great to be called by the first name, but his last name was not long enough»“Hello Dazai.” Oda replied in his usual horse voice.“Hi, it's so cold today, I wondered if you're really fine with working in such conditions.” Sakunosuke worked as a mailman in addition to writing novels. In comparison to Dazai, he had never received any literature reward, but instead his books were frequently sold and lightly criticised.“In fact, I was given a chance to stay home for today, but I decided I had to go anyway. I'm expecting a raise this year.”“Working so hard. Impressive.” Dazai chuckled, “Isn't it because of me? I promise that was the last time I ask you for money.” an obvious lie.„I don't mind spending my money on you while you're working on your next novel. I understand how hard it may get sometimes. How's it going, by the way?"“Oh, the novel?” Dazai gave a side eye to the empty document. “Not bad.”“You're not writing anything, right?” sighed Oda.Oh.His friend knew him a little too well.“What?! No! I'm working on it, it's true that it takes time… it's not like I have no particular idea about what I'm going to write about next.”“Yeah, so you really have NO idea about what you're going to write.” Concluded Oda, and he wasn't wrong.Dazai hid his face with his free palm, as if Oda was staring at him right now, blaming him for procrastinating. As if he could hide his shame. He reached out for the glass and brought it to his lips, hurrying to drink all the emotions along with the whiskey.“Are you drinking again?” Dazai froze for a quick moment.“Have you set a camera in my kitchen? “ he asked with indignation.“One doesn't have to be a stalker to know this. You're either drinking at home, drinking at the bar, or trying to write while drinking. How much have you spent on alcohol this month?”Dazai's eyes went wide after he calculated the approximate amount in his head.“Do you really want to know?…” he whispered."No, personally I don't. I want you to realise how much you waste, though.”It's not like he had never realized that his life was rolling downhill. But there also wasn't much he could do to help it.Dazai laid back in his bed, eyes pressed to the pitch darkness where the ceiling was supposed to be. Although the short talk with his friend brought him little relief, it dissipated his permanent loneliness. The cat came to lay by his side, satisfied. She meowed into the night.Sakunosuke Oda was the only one of his friends who'd stayed with him since high school after Sakaguchi Ango’s betrayal. Despite his fame back then, he had always been cautious so as not to let anybody too close. His high school years were mostly marked by his rivalry with one particular person. Problematic and low-tempered, that person caused him quite a lot of trouble back then. Until that one incident happened. Osamu closes his eyes and sees as his rival, with a victorious smirk on his face, points a gun at him. The muzzle is gaping like an abyss, ready to swallow him at any moment. The students gather all around under the clear blue sky of an ordinary weekday afternoon, to witness the murder of the famous model student. Everyone present, teachers, parts of the school administration that lately had been throwing threats at the criminal but now, unable to utter a word, forgot how to breathe as they watched the scene. The enemy's finger on the trigger curls, and a deafening sound cuts the silence hanging in the air like a sharp blame. His expression is undecipherable, but his knees tremble in fear. He inhales — A lifeless body drops to the ground. Dazai exhales. He blinks and hears a police siren somewhere far away. His gaze returns to his rival, now holding an empty gun and staring at him in pure disbelief. The brunette looks down at the ground again: the girl's eyes are closed, fists clenched firmly. He thinks that she might be one of his numerous admirers from the school, but he doesn't recognise her. He kneels to look into her face and check if she still breathes. Maybe she's still alive, maybe it's not too late to get her to the hospital. She opens her eyes. He's met with a bright amber crawling within, blinding, reflecting the sun's rays. She grabs his hand and squeezes, as if trying to take him to the grave with her. Dazai woke up in cold sweat. Kohaku was resting on his chest, obviously sleeping. It had been a long time since he last had a nightmare about the stranger who'd sacrificed herself for his sake. No one in the school knew the girl, no one could guess where she suddenly appeared from. She was wearing a uniform, but the director confirmed to have never met her before. The fact that the murderer happened in the walls of their high school alone was something to discuss already, so the mystery concerning the identity of the girl was very soon forgotten.When he came back to his senses, the murderer was already nowhere to be seen. Nobody knew his whereabouts since then. Since then Dazai had led an empty, meaningless life. Like something inside him wasn't saved. Dazai sighed and shut his eyes once again, waiting for the sleep to take him.
‘I want to disappear.’
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
As he stepped out of the airport and left the transparent automatic door behind, a light rucksack on his shoulder and a suitcase in his right hand, sore from pulling it for a long time, he still couldn't believe he was finally “home”. Every road sign, every street name was written in his native Japanese language. Chuuya remembered the first time he came to this same place to escape the country five years ago: so many things had changed since then, the city of Yokohama had become more crowded, overcharged with vehicles and people. Although he was no doubt delighted, excited to dive into childhood nostalgia, he felt there was something important that was missing. His first disappointment was the wrong number on his apartment door. He knew that maybe it was just another one of his brother's useless precautions, but it just felt too much off. The door on the right read 118, the one on the left — 119. His apartment’s number was 134. He wondered if there was another number 134 in this building. The apartment was new, untouched, refined and luxurious. He counted two vast bedrooms and a living room with panoramic windows overlooking the busy center of Yokohama. Albatross said it was easier to get lost in a big city, but in fact his friend just knew Chuuya would die from loneliness in a distant area. And lonely he felt, actually. Nakahara chose one of the bedrooms as his, put his luggage aside and stretched on the clean, fresh sheets of a queen sided bed. At a time like this he would scroll on his phone or text one of his friends, but since he had just thrown his phone away, he needed to buy a new one as soon as possible. Get a new number, but never contact anyone whom he'd left behind in France. Maybe not even after five years. This realization made him feel all alone in the world. It was true that Yokohama was familiar, but the thing that had changed was that now, there was no one who waited for him here. It was worth it, though. Chuuya saved his older brother by killing an important person that menaced the latter, that was what mattered to him the most. He sacrificed his identity, his not so very peaceful, but thrilling life in Paris, to escape as he had already done before. Lost in thought, Chuuya gradually fell asleep. When he woke up, it was dark already. His watch indicated 9pm. With tiredness and clumsiness uncharacteristic of him, he got up to investigate the house: the bedroom he picked was modern, simply designed, with no special details. There was a wooden desk and a dressing room separated by a thin wall. The bathroom was equipped with different types of shampoo, bath gels, packs of toilet paper and toothbrushes. He was still exhausted and had nothing to do. With no access to the internet, alone in an empty apartment. Nakahara decided to change his clothes and watch TV for a while. He had to stay awake until 3am, as Paul had instructed. At that precise hour Nakahara heard a knock. He immediately rushed into the hall to open the front door: a man in a black medical mask handed him a thick envelope and went away without a word. Chuuya locked the door and returned to the living room to see what was inside. Some cash, a credit card, and a fake passport. Although it was nearly impossible to tell that it was fake, Chuuya frowned as he saw the last name: Kashimura. The photo attached was unmistakably his. All the other information besides his name were slightly changed. It was not like he could complain. He had refused a plastic surgery to change his face completely, thus turning unrecognisable, when this possibility was offered. He would accept to lose anything but the features of his mother that was deceased a long ago, since there was no photo of her left. They never had a family album, anyway. It was when he stared at his own photo, admiring his own features that he could be robbed of, when he suddenly remembered a certain person who also had a big resemblance to him. The only person remaining in Yokohama who knew him personally. Ozaki. His aunt. Chuuya sighed at the thought of being obliged to contact her. He loved his aunt, but would she accept him after all that had happened five years ago? That was really unlikely. The redhead decided to go to bed for now. Maybe in the morning he'd figure out what to do next. Yeah, he doubted she would forgive him that easily for everything he'd done. For all the trouble he'd caused her during his teenage years. Endless fights, staying out all night long, coming home drunk and injured, and as Ozaki said everything was because of his older brother's bad impact. Chuuya and Paul were born from different fathers: Paul’s father was their mother's husband, a rich French man who once owned big projects in Japan. Whereas Chuuya had never seen his biological father's face: he later knew that his birth was the result of an affair. After Paul's father was accused of corruption, his business failed and the French mysteriously disappeared. Their mother worked herself to death to provide her children all they needed, pulled down by exhaustion closer and closer, then deeper and deeper into the ground. Then there was Ozaki who helped them get through adolescence without getting arrested and going to jail. Verlaine, as she used to say, “followed the steps of his good-for-nothing father”, and guided Chuuya along the same path. Chuuya knew their aunt loved him much more than Paul, and protected him with all her might even after losing any hope in educating Verlaine. Then a certain incident led to Paul's immediate escape from the country. Nakahara was never told what happened exactly, but after two years or so, when he heard that Verlaine was now occupying a high post at one of the French mafia, he decided to join him. This, without informing Ozaki of anything, without thinking about the consequences, he left her alone. He hadn't thought of her even once until now, he had never realised how abandoned she must have felt. A painful pang reverberated through his chest. Next morning, Chuuya went out. His first intention was to buy a phone. But as soon as he found himself standing on one of the crowded streets of Yokohama, so familiar, like a blank sheet spread before him. A brand new paper where he was going to rewrite his story, at the same place when it had once started. And that was where he headed, unconscious of himself. The snow covered everything, thank God he brought warm clothes with him. He couldn't bring much, though: thick sweaters and jackets were hard to stuff in a suitcase of medium size. He wondered, observing the stores decorated with hearts and artificial flowers for the upcoming Valentine's Day, just how easy it was for a criminal, a runaway, a former killer to walk around calmly. People around him: hurrying adults, bunches of kids singing happily, could never know such a person was right there, standing nearby and staring at the falling snowflakes and studying their unique patterns. As he absorbed the long forgotten atmosphere of Japan in winter, his gaze stopped at neon lights reading: Library. Just as simple as that. A library? Chuuya could barely remember when was the last time he had been at one. He looked to read when he was a child. Mostly poems, but also some novels. He even enjoyed reading sometimes. Without a second thought he climbed the stairs. The place was quiet, as it had to be. An old woman was sitting on a spinning chair behind the counter, not paying attention to the customer whatsoever. The nearest books to the entry were bestsellers with creatively designed covers and loud titles. Nakahara examined the shelves, then continued further into the depths of the library. He wasn't interested in classics. Romance was just not something he could read with a serious face. Horror was boring. Action is a movie genre, how can one read an action book? Does it make sense? He was about to leave when he saw a book with a white cover.“White reality” by Osamu Dazai. Under the title was drawn a man turned away from the reader. He was looking into the white distance. The silhouette of the person was blurry, and that made it look as if he was gradually disappearing. The back was simple, with some information about the plot of the book and its author. From the description Chuuya could say the book was trying to answer a certain philosophical problem. But the author, much to his surprise, was not some bored old man who began questioning his life right after living the entirety of it, but a young person around his age. He was the author who had gained a great reward two years ago for writing some book other than “White reality” that Chuuya was holding in his hands. Dazai was sitting on an armchair next to an open window. He looked at the camera with a sad smile. Chuuya could just feel that smile was sad, without any apparent reason. The man's arms and neck were wrapped in bandages. Maybe he was a victim of a serious accident. The clothes he was wearing in the photo were elegant, and all in all, the man appeared handsome and attractive, posing for the picture confidently.Chuuya bought the book that happened to be surprisingly cheap with the cash he got yesterday. Once outside again, the had completely forgotten about the purchase of a phone, driven instead by a sudden urge to visit a certain place. Actually it was the only place he could think of ever since he got out. Nakahara still remembered the sakura trees right in front of his aunt's house. The trees stood graceful and elegant, radiating a pink hue in spring. They had so much in common with Ozaki. Now, however, their branches were bare and covered in snow. Chuuya felt somewhat upset, like it was not because of the cold season that they lost their colour, but because of the time that had passed since he had last been there. As if the time had to stop where he'd left him, but it didn't. The concrete under his soles was shattered and dirty. The parked cars, the front door, everything looked melancholic and boring compared to his vivid childhood memories. Chuuya waited for a short moment for someone to get out so he could enter the building. Soon, the door cracked and an old lady appeared. Chuuya acted as if he held the door to help her and, as soon as she was out, sneaked into the building. How would Ozaki look now, he wondered? The stairs were damp and filthy. Second floor. He knocked at the door and listened. What if Kouyou wasn't living there anymore? He knocked again, more insistent. Still, no response. Is she even alive? The doorknob turned, and he saw a familiar shadow behind.“I said don't come to my place anymore. I don't want to see you.” She said, irritated, without even looking at him. She must have thought it was someone else knocking.“Ozaki…” Chuuya utters, holding the door so she can't shut it on him. The next second the door opens completely, and the woman with fiery hair and pale skin stares at him in shock.“Chuuya?!” Ozaki looked back at him in pure disbelief. He's changed for sure, but she recognised his voice, she could never mistake her nephew for someone else. “What are your doing here?”Much to Nakahara’s disappointment, her expression darkens. Those are not exactly the words he'd want to hear from the only member of his family existing in the country he was now in, especially when he's not seen her in five years.“I came back.” The redhead states the obvious.“What for? To annoy me? I've got enough of you, go back to wherever you're coming from.” She tried to close the door again, but the man's hold was stronger.“I'm not going back. I can't. Or else they'd arrest me.”“It wouldn't be the first time you get arrested, right? Should've grown used to it.”“This time it's serious. Let me explain. Please let me in.” Ozaki frowned, then took a step back to let him follow her in.Her apartment was considerably smaller than his new one, but much cozier. The interior was nicely decorated with traditional Japanese drawings. He sat on a cushion in the living room and studied the newly bought book while the lonely woman was preparing tea for both of them. When she came to sit in front of him, holding two cups in her hands, she noticed the item in his hands.“A book? You started to read?” she asked sceptically.“I'm about to start.” Chuuya replied and took a sip from his drink.“So? I'm waiting for the explanation.”Chuuya put the book aside.“I’ve killed an important person. A certain politician who was aiming at ruining Paul's organisation. So they helped me to escape, but now I wouldn't be able to go back. I'm stuck here for at least five more years.” Kouyou stared at him, emotionless. “Her name was Michelle Dupont. I shot her.” Kouyou didn't move. “Yeah, I was kind of a killer in our organisation. I eliminated people who blocked our way, that's it. You already know I've never been a good person.” Silence. “I have an apartment here, and all the other things I'd need. I came here because…” Chuuya thought about it. Why did he come here in the first place? “I felt that that was what I had to do.”“I still haven't got a proper explanation.”Chuuya froze. What did he forget to mention?“I still don't understand why you've left.Are you really egoistic to that point?” She narrowed her eyes.“I…”Yes, he was egoistic. That was the only reason that let him take the decision so easily. Was it even a decision when he didn't think about it two times?“Paul left, so I…”“So you couldn't live without your dear brother, right? The brother who ruined my life, your mother's and yours. The brother who only cares about himself and his own good. And of course, about money. So he turned you into a heinous villain like him. Do you like yourself now? Your hands tainted with blood, your eyes lost their glow, who are you now? Who are you?”Who was he now? In a country where nobody has heard of him, where those whom he'd once known have forgotten him, where he doesn't have a job, doesn't have a family. He doesn't have anything.“It's all Verlaine's fault. He turned you into this lifeless shell.” Ozaki got up, leaving Chuuya to his buzzing thoughts. When she was back, she handed him a strange object. “It's yours. It was the only thing left of you here.” It was a kaleidoscope. A toy he used to play with when he was a child. He liked watching the changing patterns for hours. “Now I want you to take this and leave. No need to come back this time.”“But…”Chuuya wanted to protest, but was stopped by a loud thud. Kouyou hit the table surface brutally to shut him up.“You don't even apologize. I hate you. Leave.” She said, hiding her face from him. Chuuya got up, trying to step closer to her and comfort her as he saw tears crossing both of her pale cheeks.“Leave!” She yelled, turning her back to him.Chuuya obeyed this time.All the process of buying the phone, memories of going “home”, turning on the lights, taking a long shower, and watching patterns inside of the kaleidoscope while laying in bed were a haze. Even with a phone now, Chuuya didn't have anyone he could text. Texting his friends, obviously, could be called a suicide. Whilst it wasn't the last option, taking his best friends to the grave definitely wasn't one. The following week passed slowly, Chuuya ate, slept, showered, went out for groceries, and read “White reality”. Despite how empty the title felt, the more he read, the more colourful the world around him seemed. The kaleidoscope showed more complicated patterns, the snow on the street glistened freshly, and in the whiteout, someone's shape started forming. The general concept of the book moved something deep inside him. The writing was easy and captivating, the plot was complicated but interesting to figure out. The philosophical point was impossible to miss. If the author of this masterpiece was somewhere around…
“I need to meet that writer.”