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The shrill sound of the zippers on his suitcase announces the kind of finality he does not want to face. The travel bags he bought to this city are back to their original condition – packed and ready to be loaded onto the plane tonight.
Dazai Osamu has always been a planner. From a young age, he was trained to think ten steps ahead of him, to plan out his future and prepare for everything that will come his way in life. Study in a prestigious school and graduate with top grades, follow in his father’s path and inherit his business. If you asked him what his plans were for this year, his reply would be the same practiced, overused line “I’m preparing to take over my father’s company”.
A spontaneous trip to France was not in his plan.
Yet here he is.
Grabbing his wallet, phone, and tote bag, he heads out of his hotel room and takes the elevator down to the lobby. His hands rummage through his bag out of habit, checking for his camera and water bottle when he reaches the revolving door at the entrance.
As expected, a Red Citroen is parked across the street from his hotel. A smile tugs the corner of the brunet’s lips as he makes his way to the car. He tries to open the passenger seat’s door but finds it to be locked. He gives it a few more tries, trying to signal to the driver that the door is locked. When there’s no response from inside, he knocks on the tinted glass window.
The window rolls down to reveal warm blue eyes, a mop of fiery orange hair, and a freckle-dusted face smirking right at him. “Puis-je vous aider?” (can I help you?)
For a split second, Dazai feels taken aback. But then his face mirrors the other’s mischievous smile as he replies, “Ah, oui. Avez-vous vu mon chauffeur?” (Ah, yes. Have you seen my driver?)
“Votre chauffeur? Je ne crois pas l'avoir vu. À quoi ressemble-t-il?” (Your driver? I don’t think I’ve seen him. What does he look like?)
“En fait, il vous ressemble. Beau visage, chapeau de pacotille...” (Actually, he looks just like you. Handsome face, tacky hat…)
“Chapeau de pacotille? Sérieusement?” (Tacky hat? Seriously?)
“God, just open the door, Chuuya. It’s rude to leave your customer standing on the sidewalk like this, don’t you know?”
The ginger lets out a hearty laugh as he unlocks the door and says “Is that so? And since when was I getting paid for driving your annoying ass around the city?”
Dazai shoves his tote bag in the backseat of the car and settles into the passenger seat. “You’re not- in fact, you offered to show me around the city. I was completely fine in my own company till you came along.” He answers as he buckles his seatbelt.
Chuuya snickers, “Yeah, sure. And I think I’m starting to regret it now.”
“Now? After all, we’ve been through Chuuya? For the past whole month? Oh, you wound me-”
“Oh, shut up, you’re one to talk! Let’s just get started with the day, we’ve wasted enough time as it is,” he mutters with a sigh as he starts the car and drives away from the hotel.
“That would be Chuuya’s fault. Who told you to make me wait outside the car for five minutes for your silly prank? I was on time too this morning!” The brunet complains, flailing his hands around in dramatic motions.
“That you were. Good job on finally being on time for the first time in your life I guess-”
“Rude! I’ll have you know I have always been a punctual child. Always on time for all my classes. Never had a late remark, even for assignments.” Dazai turns his nose up in the air, earning a scoff and smile from Chuuya.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah! You don’t believe me? My father-” He stops talking abruptly, gaining the ginger’s attention, who spares him a quick, confused glance before turning his eyes back to the road.
“Your father?”
Dazai bites his tongue. “Never mind, you’ll just have to trust my word for it.”
A moment of awkward silence passes, unspoken words lingering in the space between them. The tension builds into a game of who will break the unwelcome silence first, and the winner ends up being Chuuya’s stomach protesting in hunger.
“Well, guess it’s time to feed my dog-” Dazai comments with a mirthful smirk.
“-I’m going to drive us into the Seine River if you call me that again-”
And for the moment, Dazai pretends to forget everything wrong in his life, laughing like it’s his last day on earth.
The familiar scent of freshly baked bread, coffee, and chocolate hangs heavy in the air as they enter Le Café D'Ella. The barista with blonde streaks in her hair smiles at them as they enter, then returns to her latte artwork. A trio of friends sit at their usual table near the door, scattered notes and warm mugs of hot chocolate placed next to their laptops as they revise for their semester-end exams. Like clockwork, the businessman waiting at the counter grabs his coffee to-go along with a small brown packet of food before heading to his office across the street.
An easy smile takes its place on Dazai’s lips as he breathes in the warm aromas, his feet carrying him towards a table against the left wall of the café, nestled away from the entrance while Chuuya walks up to the counter to place their regular breakfast orders. He returns with a tray that consists of two steaming mugs of Café au lait, two chocolate croissants, a small serving of strawberry jam, and two plates of scrambled eggs on sliced baguette. He sets it on the table and the two immediately dig into the food.
Nostalgia washes over the brunet as he pulls his serving of croissants towards him, reminiscing his first time at Le Café D’Ella during his second week in the city. The memory of Chuuya’s warm hand on his wrist feels like a phantom weight, as if it was just yesterday that the ginger dragged him to this café. It instantly became a routine since then for them to have breakfast here every morning before heading out for whatever adventure Chuuya had planned for the day.
Dazai’s eyes wander around the shop, gazing at the pastel-green walls, polished round wooden tables, small plants hanging from the ceiling, and the faces of frequenting customers he has acquainted himself with in the last month. He imprints this image to his memory, before starting on his food.
“So…”
“So…”
“What’s today’s plan, Mr. Tour guide?”
“Today’s plan,” Chuuya sighs, reaching for his car keys in his denim pocket, “is to visit someone’s house,”
Dazai halts in his tracks, turning slowly towards Chuuya as they stand on the sidewalk next to their parked Citroen. “My, my, Chuuya, already? It’s only been a month and you want me to meet your paren-”
“-I should’ve known you were going to say something annoying” the shorter male groans, walking past him and around the front of the car to climb into the driver’s seat, ignoring Dazai’s fit of teasing laughter.
“Get in you bandaged mummy,” he calls after the brunet as he shuts the doors.
“Le Musée De Montmartre,”
“Oui. House to many talented artists, like Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Émile Bernard, Suzanne Valadon, Maurice Utrillo. We had a day trip here once, during my second year of art school. Quite a lovely place, isn’t it?” Chuuya muses.
Lush, green gardens bathing in golden sunlight surround them. The three-storey building draped in cool white, with open doors and windows welcomes all the visitors of the day. They walk under an arch of overgrown vines dotted with pink roses and finally reach the door where the museum starts. Dazai looks at Chuuya and is momentarily struck by his dazzling smile. Locks of orange hair come ablaze like a fiery crown, soft wind fluttering them playfully. Sapphire orbs turn to look at him with so much warmth and life – Dazai feels his throat go dry.
He responds with a nod to the unanswered question, eyes sparkling as he tries and fails to mirror the other’s mesmerizing smile. Chuuya takes the first steps into the house, and as if tethered to the shorter male, stuck in his orbit by inescapable gravity, Dazai follows.
They take to exploring the museum at their own paces – while Dazai moves on quickly from one painting to another, Chuuya seems to linger longer, analyzing the art like a true art student. The brunet passes a comment at one point, when he realizes that they’re the only people on this floor, saying he doesn’t see what Chuuya seems to see in the paintings.
“You sure it was a good idea to bring me here?” he continues, tone imitating a complaining, petulant child after only fifteen minutes of staring at colors on paper.
Chuuya, to his credit, reacts much more calmly than Dazai had expected. “Well, you’ve liked all the places we’ve visited so far, be they famous tourist spots or not. I must say, I’ve never been through Louvre that fast in my entire life,” he smirks, sparing Dazai a glance, who chuckles at the snarky remark. “But it’s not like you had anywhere you wanted to go in mind, did you? Plus, I personally like this museum better anyway, it’s very relaxing here. Tucked away in the heart of the city, surrounded by the Renoir gardens and vineyards-”
“There’s a vineyard?”
“Yes-”
“-So Chuuya just came here for the wine-”
“-No,” Chuuya instantly cuts him off as if he had seen it coming, laughing under his breath.
The conversation naturally ends there, and soon they’re moving to the next room and then the next floor. Dazai keeps turning to make sure Chuuya’s not too far behind and tries his best to take more time to appreciate the art here than he did at the Louvre. The more he stares, the more he can’t understand. He sees these characters, these sceneries, but his heart fails to understand what emotions the colors are supposed to evoke.
You… me… we’re different from other people.
A voice whispers in the back of his mind.
Goosebumps break out on his skin as he stares at the canvas without seeing.
“Dazai, come here,” Chuuya waves him over, pulling him out of his black hole mind.
He turns, unsure of what expression he wears on his face, but finds himself to be lucky as Chuuya’s eyes are still trained on the painting in front of him. He walks over, trying once again to make some sense of the blues and yellows and people parading.
“Parce Domine,” Chuuya provides, making the brunet flit his eyes to the nameplate under the painting. Adolphe Willette.
“Spare, Lord?”
“Spare, Lord, spare your people: Be not angry with us forever. That’s the full quote.” Chuuya finally turns to him with a smirk that looks smug, and Dazai preens at getting the translation right. “What do you see in the painting, Dazai?”
The taller male sighs involuntarily, earning a hushed chuckle from the ginger. His brown eyes take in the figures dancing around, the crease in his brows deepening with every shape his mind registers, and he hears Chuuya laugh under his breath again.
“Stop trying to make sense of it, just, tell me objectively what you see.” He aids, and Dazai obliges.
He looks at the figure in the center, white wings spreading under her arched back. “Is that an angel?”
“Good eye, yes, it is an angel. Do you know who the person dancing with her is?”
“Looks like a mime,” Dazai jokes.
“Correct, it is a famous clown named Pierrot. Look through the painting. Do you see him anywhere else?”
Dazai spares Chuuya a questioning look before turning to the painting, and within seconds, realization washes over him. “Why’s he drawn in three different places?” he asks instead.
“Well, he’s in more than three places, because Willette chose him as the main character of his painting. Look here, what do you see him doing?” Chuuya says, pointing to a figure at the right. Dazai can somewhat make out the Pierrot’s features.
“Is that a bag of money? He’s throwing it away…”
“And here,” Chuuya points at another figure of the Pierrot.
“He’s… picking up the girl playing some instrument. And here he’s dancing with the angel,” he finds it easier to spot the mime now, and something about the series of events in the painting feels familiar. “And here he’s turning out empty pockets?”
Chuuya lets Dazai sit with the information he himself unfolded, smiling.
“So, the clown had money, he spent it on women and frivolous things and then ended up poor?”
“Something like that. He represents the common man doomed by his human flaws. Frolicking around town, wooing women, getting drunk, making bad decisions, going broke.” Chuuya folds his arms over his chest, lost in the story he sees portrayed in front of him.
Dazai, on the other hand, feels like a fish out of water.
We both know that you’ve made some bad decisions.
They’ll never accept you; you already know that.
The voice speaks to him again, and he feels frozen in time.
His eyes settle on the Pierrot at the front of the parade, holding a gun with a black winged figure behind him. “What’s this supposed to mean,” he asks in a voice too fragile for his liking.
“Why don’t you tell me what you see?” Chuuya asks inquisitively.
“He…” brown orbs flicker between the mime and the angel, taking in their actions. The angel is leaning over the Pierrot’s back, holding his chin as the Mime holds the gun in his hand.
“She seems to be whispering something in his ear,” he starts, dread slowly creeping up his spine. “And he looks… scared?”
Chuuya waits patiently, but Dazai worries himself over finishing his thoughts.
“There’s smoke coming from the gun,” he concludes, unwilling to give a medium to his interpretation. Saying it out loud would make it real.
The silence that follows feels deafening to Dazai.
You hate it here, don’t you?
You don’t want to follow in your dad’s footsteps. You don’t want to marry me either.
Let’s end our miseries. Let’s leave this world together, Osamu.
Pull the trigger, Osamu.
Do it.
Do it, Dazai.
DO IT DAZAI-
“Dazai?” Chuuya shakes him out of his stupor, and Dazai comes back to his senses with a shivering exhale.
“Huh? What?”
Chuuya stares at him for a minute, as if he could hear her voice in Dazai’s mind too. The brunet feels too naked, like a bug scrutinized under a microscope.
“How do you know so much about this painting?”
If Chuuya understands that it’s a distraction, he doesn’t say anything about it.
They breeze through the rest of the displayed artwork, neither of them lingering too long at any of them. The air between them feels charged with unspoken words. The rooms start feeling suffocating, but soon, it’s time for lunch, and they’re finally out of the main house, sitting in the Renoir Café, surrounded by the fresh air of the gardens once again.
The next stops for the day are nothing special: they tour the Montmartre market – Chuuya urges him to buy some souvenirs to take home, and for a single moment Dazai feels crazed enough to announce that there is no home for him to go back to, only mind-numbing darkness – and visit the Eiffel Tower again, heading to one of their favorite restaurants for dinner at the end of the day. The brunet’s tormented emotions simmer down to their passive gloomy state at the realization that this will be his last time eating at this restaurant with Chuuya.
The more the sun sinks down the horizon, the more Dazai feels like he’s running out of time.
“Let’s grab a drink before you head back to your hotel,” Chuuya suggests, and Dazai could never dream of denying him that request.
They drive down to The Black Dog, and Dazai holds his breath as he gets out of the car. The big bright neon sign and charcoal walls had become a constant respite in the past month for him, a place he spent most of his time on this trip. A piece of him breaks when his traitorous thoughts remind him of the inevitable ending of the night, and he shudders an exhale.
Chuuya holds the door open for him and together they enter the bar. Dim yellow lights wash over their figures, the calm ambiance inside contrasting the bustle of the city outside. The smell of tobacco and alcohol lingers in the air, and the pair move to take their seats at the bar counter. The old bartender, with his greying beard and wise wrinkles, smiles at them, a spark of recognition in his eyes as he puts down the glass he was cleaning to prepare their usual drinks.
The ginger turns to him with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “So? How was today?”
Dazai mirrors the smile easily, a practiced air of nonchalance taking over his features. “Oh, you know. Nothing interesting. Just another museum full of pictures and the tall light-up tower.”
“Says the guy who spent the first week sleeping in his hotel or drinking at this bar. Just admit it, you’re glad I showed you around town and made your trip memorable, aren’t you?” The bartender sets down a glass of wine in front of Chuuya, and another of whiskey on ice for Dazai.
The brunet doesn’t grant a response instantly, instead choosing to mull over the events of the past month as he sips on his drink.
It’s already been a month.
He remembers meeting Chuuya at The Black Dog for the first time.
What a wild boy, he had thought, hearing that laugh cut through the room like a strong gust of wind blowing on a hot summer day, bringing relief on scorched sweaty skin. Like patching up bleeding scars. The orange hair stood out instantly, then the dazzling blue eyes and freckles sprinkling his visage. The wide grin as he joked with his friends in a corner booth, reminding Dazai of an excited puppy. He remembers scoffing to himself and downing his third glass, ordering another.
He remembers seeing Chuuya, wine-drunk and cheeks flushed, taking a seat next to him.
“Tu es beau,” he had slurred, and Dazai felt amused that the prettiest man he had ever laid eyes on was telling him that he was handsome.
His memory blurs, and flashes of adventuring the city with this personification of a whirlwind flood his mind. Turning to the person in question, he tries to put on his best, honest smile.
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
The sincerity in his voice makes Chuuya pause, staring at him over the rim of his wine glass, before resuming to take a sip and placing the glass down. He clears his throat, replying with an almost smug, “That’s what I thought.”
His bland reply makes Dazai chuckle under his breath. The red tinge at the tip of Chuuya’s ears doesn’t go unnoticed by the brunet, and they both nurse their drinks in silence.
“Did you finish packing your bags?” Chuuya says after a while, calling on the bartender for a refill for them both.
Dazai almost wants to get angry at him for breaching the subject he wilfully tried to forget about.
“Yes,” he answers simply, tone betraying none of his agonizing feelings.
Quiet envelops them once again, both lost in the worlds made up by their minds.
“I can drop you at the airport-”
“-No,”
The speed with which Dazai rejects Chuuya’s offer sounds offensive, and the effects are immediate as he watches the ginger’s carefully worn somber expression crack at the edges, displaying the hurt and dismal emotions hiding under the mask.
“I mean, I already booked a cab, so you don’t have to inconvenience yourself,” the brunet tries to mend, but Chuuya is already looking away, forcing the corners of his mouth to turn into a smile.
“Yeah, no, it’s okay.” He takes a big gulp of his Pinot Noir, taking out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from his pants. Watching him take a drag from the cigarette, Dazai doesn’t need any other signs to know that it’s not okay.
“Chuuya, back in the museum…” the taller male begins, catching the ginger’s attention, whose brows furrow in question. “Do you think the Pierrot made the right choice? By killing himself?”
He feels grateful knowing his voice didn’t waver, and so, donning a casual, curious expression that hides his real reason for asking the question, he waits for Chuuya to speak.
Brown eyes intently watch the other’s face, noting the slow rise and fall of his chest as he blows smoke through his pink lips, passing the lit cigarette to Dazai.
He takes a smoke as Chuuya finally answers. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, I get that horrible things happen in life, but I think everyone deserves a chance at happiness. You just, don’t have to give up on yourself like that.”
But what if you’re the one who did the horrible thing? Dazai doesn’t voice his thoughts, choosing to pass the cigarette back to Chuuya.
He thinks about two guns and a bloody bathroom. A burial meant for two, but only one casket. He considers that somewhere in his mind, he had his funeral that night too.
He plans on finally making it a reality when he goes back to that wretched place.
He lets Chuuya drop him at his hotel, and when it’s time for him to leave, he doesn’t.
Chuuya doesn’t protest.
“What’s the checkout time?”
“Midnight.”
“And the flight?”
“2 AM.”
“I see.”
Dazai clenches his teeth, willing himself to move as he grabs his tote bag and unlocks the door.
His hands freeze on their way to undo his seatbelt. He sees Chuuya’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. He unbuckles the seatbelt, sliding out of his seat.
The thump of the car door shutting seals his fate, and he drags his gaze up to the glass doors of his hotel. His feet feel heavy in his boots, and he takes a steading breath to stop himself from turning around.
One step, and another, then another, and then – “Dazai!”
He hears the car door slam shut and the hurried footsteps behind him. He dares to hold his breath, watching Chuuya walk into his line of view.
Blue eyes look up at him with inexplicable emotions flickering through them, and Dazai’s heart stutters in its beats.
“When you,” he takes a shivering inhale, “When you land in Japan, call me okay?”
Dazai wants to laugh in his face and shake his head in disbelief. A part of him also wants to scream and break down right on the street in front of everyone, in front of this stupidly fancy hotel, in front of this loud, lively stranger who became his only friend in the world within a matter of days.
Your laugh will haunt me in my final moments. He thinks to himself, nodding to Chuuya in response.
One final smile graces Dazai a momentary glimpse into what he could have forever if he changed his mind. “And come back,”
He feels like a bucket of ice water has been dropped over his head. “What?” he mutters, disbelieving, into the space between them, only for two pairs of ears.
“Come back sometime,”
He watches the desperation bleed into Chuuya’s features even though the other tries hard to reign it in, throat bobbing as he gulps an inhale, eyes watching the brunet’s face like a hawk for a single sign. A hundred words left unspoken.
I’ll miss you.
Don’t leave.
One more nod, and Chuuya’s expression morphs into resignation, moving aside to let Dazai walk away. This time, no one calls out his name, and he doesn’t stop walking until he is standing in the elevator. He gasps a breath, feeling a hand clawing at his heart, ripping a hole into it.
The walk back to his room is torture, the void growing bigger and consuming his lungs, and he fears that someone might walk into the corridor and see the darkness spreading through his chest, so he jams the key in and barrels into the room, locking it behind himself.
He doesn’t wait for the final hour to check out, opting to grab his luggage and cancel his cab ride to catch a local taxi instead. The ride to the airport takes an eternity, and Dazai spends it checking his travel documents about a million times or reminding himself of what he has to do once he’s back in Japan – afraid that if he looks outside the window, he’ll catch the sight of orange hair or blue eyes amid the Paris crowd.
They pass the Eiffel Tower, now lit up in golden lights, but all Dazai feels is the bleeding darkness of his heart. He ignores the memory his mind supplies, of selfies taken standing atop the tower, feeling like a bird high in the sky, watching passers-by down below going through the motions of life like little ants. He gulps at the thought of cream and strawberries in the Crepes they shared that day. He returns to checking the documents once again.
His phone is left on silent, and he dares a glance at it as he gets out of the taxi after paying the fare. The factory-set wallpaper that he never changed after buying the new phone on his first day of the trip stares back at him, along with the time on the analog clock.
No calls, no texts.
Good, he thinks to himself, shoving the device into his back pocket and rolling his bags into the airport. Time blurs as he goes through the motions of getting his luggage checked and then himself, mechanically moving through the place as he gets closer to his terminal.
He checks the time on the clock on a blemish-free white wall, noting that he only has to wait another hour before he has to board the plane.
But waiting feels like torment, and Dazai convinces himself that the longer he stays in this city, the longer he makes himself suffer. After all, there is no changing the inevitable, and his fate is set in stone by the black-winged angel in his mind.
When he registers the announcement for his plane ring through the terminal, he jolts back to reality. He looks around himself in a daze, eyes falling onto the newspaper stand next to him, unwillingly following the words of a headline.
“Life After Death Row,” it says in bold, in French.
His hand reaches for the paper out of curiosity. He’ll just glance over the news, he tells himself.
It speaks of the story of a reformed ex-convict. Dazai wants to scoff and throw the paper aside, but a familiar deep voice replays in his mind.
“I think everyone deserves a chance at happiness,”
The announcement repeats, and Dazai has to tear his gaze away from the text to check the time.
There’s no time.
He sighs, placing the newspaper aside, hiking his backpack higher over his back as he gets up.
“You just, don’t have to give up on yourself like that.”
He drags his feet towards the queue getting their tickets checked, feeling a sense of dread overtake him. If he boards the plane tonight, he will never come back.
“Come back sometime,”
He will never be able to hear that boisterous laugh, nor see those captivating ocean-blue eyes again. The memory of soft orange locks slipping through his fingers feels like a fever dream now.
“Call me, okay?”
And in a moment of epiphany, he stands rooted in his place at the end of the line.
Chuuya.
I don’t want to go back.
Someone behind him starts complaining, and so he moves out of their way to leave the terminal instead.
I don’t want to give up yet. I want to drive around the city in your stupid red Citroen and drink whiskey at the Black Dog sitting next to you. I want to take lame selfies on top of the Eiffel Tower and have a picnic at the bank of the Seine. I want to watch the sun kiss your freckled face, and hear you laugh at some corny joke in a movie at the theatres.
Air rushes out of his lungs in labored breaths as he rushes past people, muttering apologies, the darkness in his chest dissipating with his realizations.
I want to eat dinner at the restaurants of your choice and have breakfast every morning at Le Café D’Ella. I want to discuss the stories of paintings I do not care about, in any museum you take me to, only because you love them.
He clenches his fists, brows furrowing under the weight of his afflicted thoughts, crushing the airplane ticket in the process.
I want to hear your voice again.
And just like that, the gravestone with his name and fate carved on it crumbles to pieces.
“Dazai!”
The sound of the voice that has been ringing in his head shocks him into stopping in his tracks, frantically searching the crowd for its source.
And oh, he could never mistake that shade of orange for another.
He watches Chuuya slip between people to make his way to him, forcing Dazai back into motion. He only takes five steps forward before the shorter male’s strong form knocks into him in a tight, bone-crushing hug. For a second, he thinks he’ll lose balance and send them both down to the floor, and almost laughs at how the idea doesn’t faze him.
His arms circle around the other’s shoulders, and in that moment, the darkness fades away to let warmth seep into every fiber of his being.
“What are you doing here? Isn’t it time for your flight-”
“I’m not going. I’m not leaving, Chuuya.” He croaks, neither of them releasing the embrace, afraid that letting go will mean losing the other forever.
Chuuya lifts his head from where it was buried in Dazai’s chest, staring up at the brunet in confusion. “Really?”
Dazai huffs out a laugh, “Yes, Slug. Really.”
Blue eyes stare at him dumbstruck, his hold finally loosening when he realizes that Dazai isn’t going anywhere. “I- I forgot to give you something, and I wanted to say goodbye so I drove here as fast as I could and I thought- I almost thought I was too late but then I saw your lanky bandaged form in the crowd, and I-”
“-Calm down, Chuuya. I’m really not going anywhere. I changed my mind.”
Chuuya listens, taking a deep breath, but his expression doesn’t change. “Why?”
“Why?” Dazai almost laughs in his face, wondering if Chuuya was oblivious, stupid, or both. “I don’t know Chuuya, I think the city has grown on me. I think I’d like to spend another day here.” He smirks, hoping his message gets across.
The blinding smile that pulls at Chuuya’s lips confirms that it did. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, that is so. Now, what did you want to give me?”
Chuuya takes a small step away from him, but his hands remain placed in Dazai’s. “Well, since you’re not leaving anytime soon, it can wait.”
“What? My, Chuuya, were you planning to propose to me in the middle of the airport? How romantic-”
“You wish, Mackerel.” Chuuya laughs, and Dazai feels like he made the right choice by ditching the flight. “Come on, we can go and talk in my apartment. Maybe even watch the sunrise from the rooftop.”
He lets himself be led out of the airport with his hand in Chuuya’s, thinking to himself that he certainly doesn’t mind witnessing one more sunrise in this life.
As long as it’s with you.
