Chapter 13: The Double Black
To understand why Chuuya ended up at the beach and ended up picking up that bastard, we have to go back to the mission a few days earlier.
It was a dangerous operation that could have killed an ordinary member of the guild ten times over. Although he and Dazai Osamu successfully broke through the enemy's defenses and achieved their objective, the price was that both of them were injured. Nakahara Chuuya had two broken ribs, and Dazai's right arm was almost crippled. The two of them, wrapped in blood-soaked bandages and reeking of gunpowder and blood, looked like demons who had just crawled back from hell when they stood in front of Mori Ōgai to report.
Perhaps to appease his capable subordinates, or perhaps simply to avoid seeing his precious diamonds wear out prematurely, Mr. Mori was unusually generous, granting them a full week of paid leave and ordering them to "adjust their condition and not die during their recovery period."
Chuuya immediately thought of the small villa he had bought at the end of Yokohama Bay. Facing the sea and far from the hustle and bustle, it was a rare place of tranquility for him, but unfortunately, he was always busy with missions and rarely had the opportunity to set foot there. This time, he happened to have some free time, so he planned to spend his vacation there and enjoy life to the fullest.
The day before the holiday, Dazai Osamu predictably disappeared again. Nakahara Chuuya didn't care at all; that bastard's whereabouts were always like Schrödinger's cat, mysterious and annoying. Too lazy to bother looking for him, he packed his simple luggage, hopped on his beloved motorcycle, and roared off towards his resting place.
The next few days were exactly the perfect vacation Chuuya had always dreamed of.
During the day, he would lie on the beach, the warm sunshine enveloping his body, his sunglasses shielding him from the glare, only the salty sea breeze brushing against his cheeks. When the mood struck him, he would grab his surfboard and challenge the surging waves, or play a few rounds with friends in the villa's private billiards room.
At night, he would sit on the spacious terrace of the villa, watching the tides crash against the rocks below and the star-studded night sky above. He would open a bottle of his treasured, top-quality Petrus, its rich aroma filling the cool sea breeze. He could think of nothing, simply listening to the sound of the waves and savoring the rare tranquility.
These leisurely days, away from tasks, away from [unspecified], away from that bastard mackerel, continued peacefully for several days. Chu was almost intoxicated by this freedom of solitude.
Until that damned dusk.
As usual, he wore sunglasses and sat casually on a large, wave-smoothed rock, letting the sea breeze tousle his ochre hair. His gaze drifted aimlessly across the shimmering sea, the golden rays of the setting sun dancing on the waves. Suddenly, his gaze stopped—not far from the shore, a blurry, black object was bobbing up and down with the waves, pushed and shoved by the force of the tide, slowly drifting towards the beach.
What was that? Was it stranded trash, or an injured seal? Chuuya's curiosity was piqued. He deftly removed his sunglasses, leaped off the rocks, and ran across the soft sand to the waterline, squinting his cobalt blue eyes as he tried to make out the unidentified object.
The waves washed the unidentified object onto the beach, and upon closer inspection, he realized it was Dazai.
Zhong was completely dumbfounded at the time.
He first observed the Dazai lying on the sand pile, confirming that his clothes and appearance were the same, and that he disappeared the moment gravity touched his skin, so it seemed to be him.
The man's eyes were closed, his lips were a bluish-purple from blood loss, and his wet black hair clung to his equally cold skin. The rise and fall of his chest was so faint as to be almost imperceptible, and his breathing was as shallow as a whisper. If Chuuya's fingers hadn't been able to barely detect a trace of life, so faint it seemed it might end at any moment, he would have thought the man was truly dead.
"Hey, Dazai, wake up."
He knelt on one knee beside Dazai, calling his name several times with a urgency he himself didn't realize. At the same time, he slapped Dazai's cold cheek forcefully, trying to wake him, but Dazai showed no signs of waking up.
Chuuya pursed his lips and suddenly noticed that Dazai was soaking wet, and his skin had an unhealthy paleness and wrinkles from being soaked for a long time. It was obvious that this guy had been soaking in the water for quite some time.
Frowning, the Lieutenant General brought his mouth close to Dazai's ear and called out a few more times. Seeing that the man still didn't respond, he couldn't help but place his hand on the other man's forehead, and was startled by the icy touch.
It was only after a moment that Chuuya Nakahara belatedly realized what was happening. He couldn't help but grit his teeth and say, "Damn it, don't die!" Before he finished speaking, he suddenly bent down, put his arms under Dazai's armpits and knees, and with a forceful movement, picked him up in a princess carry and ran towards the motorcycle.
He then placed the unconscious Dazai on the back of the motorcycle, secured him as quickly as possible, and sped off towards the most secretive and well-equipped hospital under the Port Mafia.
In fact, after the initial shock and the impulse to rush to the rescue subsided, while waiting in the hospital corridor filled with the smell of disinfectant, a strong, offended anger burned fiercely in Nakahara Chuuya's heart.
That damned Dazai Osamu! That damned holiday wrecker!
If this guy hadn't been washed ashore like trash, he would be enjoying his remaining vacation on the terrace, sipping red wine, listening to the waves, instead of being a fool, soaking wet, waiting to be rescued from a bastard whose mind is only on suicide!
He should have been happy to see Dazai Osamu in such a wretched and dying state. Wasn't this exactly the scene he had fantasized about countless times in his rage?
But...why?
Why, when he looked at that bloodless face, and watched the doctors and nurses anxiously wheel him into the emergency room, did he feel a surge of emotions beyond anger, along with so many other chaotic and unsettling feelings? Like a spilled palette, mixed with anxiety, lingering fear, and even a hint of... absurd relief?
He didn't know how to describe this complex feeling. It was a hundred times more painful than being teased by Dazai.
Seeing Dazai in such a sorry state, he should have been happy.
But... he just couldn't feel happy.
When the emergency room door finally opened and the doctor in the white coat came out, Chuuya, who had been leaning agitated against the wall with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, immediately stood up straight. He quickly took the cigarette away and subconsciously pressed down on the brim of his hat with his free hand, as if trying to suppress his turbulent emotions, before asking in a deep voice, "How is he?"
"There is no immediate danger to his life." The doctor adjusted his glasses, his tone professional and calm, "but he is extremely weak, has a low body temperature, multiple soft tissue contusions and minor bone fractures, and a small amount of fluid in his lungs causing inflammation. He needs to be hospitalized for observation and treatment for a period of time."
For some reason, he felt a sense of relief after receiving this answer.
Then he thought viciously that if he were to encounter Dazai in such a sorry state again, he would not care whether he lived or died, but would turn around and leave Dazai to fend for himself in some corner!
He then walked into the ward, finally stopping at the bedside.
On the hospital bed, Dazai Osamu lay quietly, his face still frighteningly pale. Various monitoring instruments were connected to his body. His usual annoying energy and scheming had vanished without a trace, leaving only a fragile and unsettling silence.
Chuuya Nakahara stood by the bed, silently gazing at the lifeless face. The only sounds besides breathing were the rhythmic beeping of the medical equipment. He unconsciously twirled the cigarette between his fingers, feeling his craving return, but restrained himself due to the situation. He felt an inexplicable anger burning within him, a restlessness that threatened to explode.
A note from the author:
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Edited
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