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'mere."

That pretentious, red velvet arm chair Chuuya insists on keeping only makes him out to be smaller than he already is, the large back stretching far above his head.

His work attire is hazardous; shirt untucked and loose, first few buttons undone to show off his collar, vest suprisingly still tightened and ginger curls falling from their day to day ponytail in a very messy, intoxicating way.

"Such a messy dog," Dazai tuts and titters, easily whisking away the whisky and Chuuya's fancy little special cup, placing it on the furthest counter. Away from drunken grasps.

Chuuya whines loudly, making petty grabby and beckoning hands at Dazai, crying out in an ear piercing way, "'Zai!"

Dazai groans to himself; he'll wither so easily to Chuuya's whines and whimpers. Even if his options are, don't go to Chuuya and risk him coming over here and do go to Chuuya, just to be belittled or sobbed on.

He walks over to Chuuya, crouching beside the chair Chuuya curls in.

"Remember— remember when you left the PM?"

Dazai internally screams, not this, anything but this. Chuuya wears mascara and mascara tear stains will stain semi-permanently.

"I lied— I didn't celebrate!" Chuuya says stoutly, looking almost forlorn, "I ended up almost dying though. Don't remember much."

Something inside Dazai burns with a great fire, alight by the prospect of not standing in Chuuya's apartment, by the prospect of not hearing Chuuya's angry monologues, not teasing him, not sparring him. . .

Dazai falls to his knees beside Chuuya's armchair, which may as well be the seat of God to Dazai. A great agony washes him, but his face remains numb and blank.

"Took too many drugs and drinks, got in too many fights. Ended up getting shot; by myself or someone else, is still not known," Chuuya whispers, reaching tentatively out to cup Dazai's face.

"I'm talking a lot, I know, but there's a lot to talk about," He promises softly, ungloved hands running gently over Dazai's smooth cheek, "I was in a state when I was found. Some dingy pleasure house, too deep in shock to even speak."

Dazai moves around so he is now kneeling at Chuuya's crossed feet. A silent sob rips from his throat, choking in his regret as Chuuya cradles him from his post.

"Chuuya," Dazai groans, voice weak and fugitive as he grasps around Chuuya's waist for something outlining their connection.

"I'd find myself talking more to men who looked like you, or spoke like you," Chuuya presses Dazai's head to his chest, "I missed you inexplicably, irrevocably, constantly and reverently."

Dazai trembles in Chuuya's grasp. He can't bear to let go— not now, maybe not ever.

"The point is, Dazai Osamu, I'm a fool. A fool who yearns pointlessly for something devoted to a bigger cause than love," Chuuya oresses their foreheads together and Dazai is acutely reminded of the smell of whisky, mints and cigarettes on Chuuya's breath, "In your arms, I found my home."