Aka a different version of Dazai's escape from the Port Mafia.

Chuuya hated Dazai. He knew, they knew, everybody knew. The feared Twin Dark, the deadliest force Yokohama and the world had ever seen. A duo only bound by their loyalty to the Port Mafia and themselves, or rather their mutual hatred for each other.

To say that he would celebrate this day years from now was an understatement.

He had always known that he wouldn't like him from the moment that condescending prick had given him that careless expression while asking him to kill him comfortably. An idea that was proven again and again over the following years when they wreaked havoc under the Mafia's name, killing anyone and everyone in their way. Years of teasing and wasting time being stuck with that asshole calling him a kid, shrimp, slug, dog and so much more he'd added on a mental list. He hated Dazai's calm that sent chills down his spine when it clashed with his actions, hated his calculating mind that liked to dehumanize and humiliate him whenever he could, hated how he always seemed to know just what Chuuya was thinking and what he'd do next. He despised Dazai for setting up the Sheep's betrayal and forcing him to join the Mafia to protect them.

Yes, if someone were to ask whom he hated most in the world he wouldn't have to spend a second thinking about it. Chuuya loathed Dazai Osamu with every fiber of his being.

The ginger man threw a short look at his phone as he took a sip, frowning when he read the name Mackerel in his contacts and promptly snapping it shut. His glare briefly fixed on the can in his hand before with a big chug he was emptying and slamming it on the table. A disgusted growl left his throat, he wiped his lips with his sleeve. Dazai had a horrible taste of alcohol, no wonder he was that messed up in his head.

"Do you think I'll die if I drink enough?"
"I'll strangle you, idiot."
"You'll have to reach my neck first."

Chuuya huffed. That suicidal maniac, why was Mori even keeping him around. He didn't know a single thing about how to be a decent human being. And even so he'd accepted his first invitation into the Devil's lair a few months ago. What a messy place to live in, perfectly suitable for a being looking like it had crawled straight from the sewers. The air was heavy with his smell: a mix of cheap aftershave, empty cup noodles standing on the kitchen counter, cans of sake and who-knew-what piled in his fridge, sweat and blood.

"This place reeks."
"A miracle you noticed over your own stench."
"Shut up."
"Make me."

He didn't know how many times he'd kicked down the empty cans stacked on the coffee table just for fun only to find them neatly rearranged whenever he returned. It hissed when he opened a new can and threw the empty one at the pyramid a few meters away. Crash. Cans toppled over, rolled off the table and landed on the carpet floor right in between the pile of used, bloody bandages. Chuuya didn't smirk.

"Stop that."
"Why? It's fun."
"Shorty."
"Idiot."
"Slug."
"Asshole."

He hated Dazai's way of grinning, that smugness written all over his face, pride he wanted to smash whenever he pulled him closer by the collar to strangle him. Next time. How that sly bastard always managed to wake the worst in him would forever remain a mystery. Sometimes he wondered if Dazai corrupted him until he remembered that No longer human did the exact opposite.

"I'm leaving."
"Take the trash out while you go."
"You're too heavy."
"Charmer."
"Fuck you."
"Maybe next time."

Blue eyes wandered from the coffee table to the sofa, then down to the floor and back. There he laid motionlessly in between bandages on the sofa with the stench of alcohol hovering around him, almost enough to cover every other aspect of his penetrating scent. That moron drank too much again, he'd witnessed him like that once on a rainy day. Back then he had dropped a mug of water on him to wake him. Today he would let him sleep. Perhaps tomorrow too. He should check on him in case he was dead.

Running a hand through his sticky red hair he stood up, the can in hand and crossed the three-step distance between table and living room. The evening sun bathed the small apartment in a warm orange light and cast his long shadow against the empty walls as he approached the sofa. There was not a single frame with a picture of family or friends around, not that he was surprised. Who would want to be friends with a heartless person like him who didn't have the slightest idea of remorse.

"Mackerel", he taunted him as he flipped the can in his hand and watched the liquid pour out of it and onto the man laying on the sofa. No reaction, that bastard was as cold as ever. It stirred something within him, anger he concluded when bile rose up to his throat.

"Hey, Dazai!"

Nothing. In his frustration the young man threw the can into the brunette's wet face where it bounced off to land on the floor next to a gun in a pool of dark blood. But the narrow blue eyes didn't stray from the point they'd fixed. A brown eye stared past him,void of the smugness he'd thought he had gotten used to over time to once again be angered by him again whenever he meant to insult him. Chuuya hated Dazai, because even when he wasn't trying he managed to make him furious. Trembling with rage he glared down at his former partner, feeling his teeth gritting to the point where it hurt holding back. That asshole! That stupid, lying, treacherous, cold-blooded, heartless bastard!

"I hate you!", Chuuya snarled, his gloved hands tightly clenched into fists that didn't care he was hurt, "don't you ever come back!"

He wanted to go, never see him again. His breath hitched in his throat when he couldn't draw his blurry eyes away from the face that he so vividly would have to keep imagining to not forget.
Today was the day he would celebrate years from now as the day Dazai Osamu left the Port Mafia once and for all, without telling anyone, without a goodbye. Good riddance.

There you go, Chuuya wiped his face, aware and not caring about the salty taste the words left on his tongue, isn't that what you wanted all along?