Dazai scoffs at him. It's a pathetic noise, full of denial and hypocrisy.
"Don't be stupid," Chuuya flinches just a little at that, "I'm not... like that."
The dawn spills across the horizon, awakening the sleepy residents of Yokohama, and alerting those who haven't slept of their grave mistakes. Dazai is in his bed, shirtless with a furrowed brow and averted eyes. Ashtrays and empty bottles li...
First, a burst of the worst,
Rehearsed and coerced and traversed and unearthed,
Thirst of a cursed sunburst, cloudburst, starburst is immersed,
At the worst, a feetfirst bloodthirst.
Teeth sheathed in a bitter wreath,
Bitter like a quitter, a hitter or a sad little critter,
Ad for an armour-clad notepad,
Not yet unclad from the mad, not yet glad.
Don't fret, don't fright,
No need to sweat at a t...
The dullness of the room weighs heavily against Chuuya's caring hand, partly weighing to a painful press against Dazai and partly pushing Chuuya's muscles for maintenance.
Blood runs hazardously down Dazai's pale arm, dripping onto the pristine white tile as emotion slowly drips back into his eyes. Chuuya dab's carefully at the streams of blood and their sources— long, deep cuts.
"You need to s...
Chuuya's ridiculously drunk again.
It's a shame, he would've liked to say goodbye to his loyal dog, bearing his teeth. But wine has such an influence over the man, it's incredible he stays sober at work.
Dazai's leaving tonight.
Odasaku died two weeks ago, and Dazai can't stop thinking about it, about him, about his words.
Chuuya knows he's been distracted, uncaring and devoted to someone b...
Chuuya's fists pummel into his chest, unrelenting and unresponsively angry.
"Chuuya—" Dazai begins to say, before another fist connects furiously to his jaw, knocking his head hard against the dungeon floor, "I—!"
Chuuya stops beating him, very momentarily, to stare down at him, tears trembling in his eyes as he grips Dazai's shoudler, "I fucking hate you."
The fists begin again. Something crac...
It's 8 am.
It's 8 am on a Friday.
It's 8 am on a Friday and he has a message from Kouyou.
It's 8 am on a Friday and he has a message from Kouyou and Verlaine.
It's 8 am on a Friday, he has messages from Kouyou and Verlaine and he hasn't even showered.
It's 8 am on a Friday and holy fucking shit, he is going to rip off Verlaine’s ass and serve it to him like a steak.
Attempting to force him...
Things move around me outside of this room. Birds are twittering and I smell of smoke. My room is filled with wispy herby smoke and my breath will stink for the rest of the day. Birds yell outside and trees breathe.
Its 5:11am everything's waking from a rest, unless the animal has forgone rest for play and pleasure.
I have taken an opioid but my brain is too dysfunctional to process it.
Tod...
An animal— that's what Chuuya really is. It's in the way he walks, talks, holds himself and interacts with the shifting world around him.
Everything is just slightly unpredictable, like a skittish yet confident cat that sits at the end of the street all day. When he's drunk, it's rough and he's either a puppy separated from its mother or an excitable parrot.
It's hard to describe; animalist...
Most people in their line of work have a statement piece— something uniquely them about their masks.
Dazai has his bandages, mapping across his arms, neck and face. Kouyou has her traditional Japanese kimonos and her flashy lipstick, wrapped beautifully. Mori has that red scarf, passed down through generations of bosses. Hell, even Tachihara has a plaster on his face.
Chuuya has his choker.
It'...
It's one of those nights.
These spoken of nights, being the ones where Dazai breaks into Chuuya's apartment one drink too late, and spends the rest of the evening caring for a little drunken, probably crying, equally angry redhead.
"'Zai. . ." Chuuya slurs, suprisingly not wine-drunk, but whisky drunk. It's strange, whisky has always been Dazai's vice of choice, cigarettes and wine Chuuya's, "C...
