Archive of Our Own

Chuuya understood divorce intimately.

Not because his parents separated when he was young or because he had been married, but because he is forced to coexist with a man he loathes—a man he somehow loved—his ex boyfriend. This must be how divorced couples feel when their children demand to see daddy on the weekend. Except the visit with daddy takes weeks and the kids eventually leave and you’re back to sleeping with a man you claim to hate.

He does not remember when Dazai moved in. Only that one day he came over and one day his things followed.

The two of them dated during Chuuya’s first year of college, when he decided to drop out. Dazai, despite all the intelligence supposedly in his head, dropped out two months later.

Funnily enough, they met outside of school. With cigarette prices soaring to unreachable heights for a nineteen year old with pennies to his name, Chuuya slipped a pack into his trousers and tried his luck elsewhere.

“Playing to win?” A dark eyed beauty asked him in front of the lottery machine.

Hunched over with one number slot left, he mumbled through the cherry lollipop in his mouth, “Who plays to lose?”

The stranger didn’t know personal space since he leaned into Chuuya’s, “You’re too young to understand gambling.”

Chuuya scoffed, “I doubt you’re older than me.”

“Nineteen.”

“Same as you, jerk.”

“It’s hard to tell since you look ninety pounds soaking wet and still able to see a pediatrician.”

He bumped him with his hip, telling him to buzz off without the asking part.

“Care to share your numbers?”

“I could win a million dollars. You’re not getting half of that.”

Chuuya punched his ticket it into the machine. Almost immediately, it lost.

“Looks like you lost.”

“I can see that, dipshit.”

“The name’s Dazai.”

“Sounds about the same.”

“About those numbers…”

“You still want my losing numbers?” Chuuya shifted the sucker to the corner of his mouth, tongue stained red.

“No, I suppose I’ll share mine.” Dazai plucked his crumpled ticket from his hand and scribbled a phone number on it, sliding it to him with a satisfied smirk, “These numbers are luckier.”

They clicked like a cheap gas station locket kids buy for their best friend.

If you lived under a rock, chance was you had still heard of Dazai and Chuuya; be it their arguments in the hallways or the debates they led in a moral philosophy lecture. Though, some accurately predicted that Dazai was the instigator in the relationship for the sole purpose of enjoyment.

Surprisingly, they did not part due to an argument. It had been relatively tame for the circumstances.

Death put a wedge between them.

Chuuya’s adoptive father died on a warm spring day in late April. He managed to settle with his older foster brother for a month before the world tumbled down. Coincidentally, they wanted to kill each other. At least, that is what rumor says. Rather than live with Verlaine, he packed his belongings in two suitcases and sent in his letter of withdraw. His swollen heart had no room for Dazai.

On his birthday, he paid a visit to his underwear-clad, bandage-ridden, stupidly good-looking boyfriend.

“I’m breaking up with you.” Chuuya stood with his hands in his pockets outside of his dorm room. No doubt, everyone in the hall was listening, “You’re an asshole. I hate your stupid face and I never want to see you again.”

One may have expected Dazai to express some shock. It never came.

“Thank God, I was tired of listening to your dribble day in and out. Now I won’t have to deal with your shower singing.”

“At least I won’t have clean your blood off the razors in my bathroom.”

“Chuuya, do me a favor and lay in the street.”

“You first.”

“You’re already wearing roadkill, shorty.” He gestured to the faux snake skin of Chuuya’s boots, “There’s no harm in completing the outfit.”

Chuuya shoved him into his dorm and slammed the door.

To save on the water bill, they bathe together.

When Dazai first suggested the task, he looked at him and laughed. The kind of chortle that echoes on laminated walls of a crappily renovated bathroom their landlord cared too little about. The water is never hot, only lukewarm. During long winter nights, Chuuya’s least favorite season and Dazai’s preferred, the kettle whistles with boiling water poured into the bath for approximately two minutes of pure heat.

Tonight, he returned from his shift at the bar to find Dazai chit-chatting with an older woman in a sex chatroom, smoking menthol that stinks up the couch. Chuuya boils the water in the kettle for his shitty bath, goes to find his leopard print robe, and when he returns, his fucking roommate is already soaking up his semi-warm water.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Thanks for running it.”

Chuuya doesn’t have the energy to drag him out by his hair so he strips, glaring daggers at him until he tires of it.

Goose-flesh runs up their skin as the transistor radio belts tunes to drown the melody Dazai hums. If Chuuya thought he had a smoking issue, Dazai could be hired as a smokestack. Their laundry hangs in the window beside the tub.

It’s a shit place.

Dazai makes it shittier. Too bad they can’t afford anything more than this shoe-box with a creepy neighbor on the right and a sick old lady on the left. They’re not terrible. Jobs are hard to come by, and no other apartment is willing to trust the word of two felons who make less than rent already.

How did he get back in this situation?

Why did this cockroach have to inch back into his life when it was fine? He didn’t care if it was a shitty place or that he had to sell his mattress or sleep on a futon. Chuuya could be independent. It was fine. Just fine.

Smoke mixes with steam.

“You smoke too much.” His foot slides next to Dazai’s torso on the opposite side of the tub.

He offers up the cigarette, “At least I share.”

Ash falls into the cooling water. His index finger holds steady for his lips to wrap around the girth of their mutual vice. They share a minty fresh kiss through a medium of paper and tobacco, never moving. The radio drowns them out, but the shiny white floor bears the weight of sloshing water.

Dazai is as much of a cockroach as he is a stinking fish.

Is there ever a reason why Chuuya should be smiling at his phone?

"No," Dazai thinks,"there shouldn’t be."

Chuuya smokes out the kitchen window despite the landlord’s policy in place. His tank is too short and his belt too low. Dazai enjoys the view of his pierced naval but wonders how a reputable business could hire a man who dresses the part of a skank, “Off to work?”

“One of us needs to pay rent.”

“I pay my fair share.”

“In spurts.”

“You enjoyed the last spurts I gave you.”

A glass bottle clinks, empty. If he decides to smash it over Dazai’s head, he wouldn’t lose any of his precious sparkling grape juice. He thinks it balances the free liquor he consumes when he works his shift bar-tending, “Also, I have a date after I get off my shift tonight, don’t act like a fucking freak.”

“I would not do anything to deter you from your little boyfriends, Chuuya.”

“Yet they’re always creeped out by you.”

Creeped out was an understatement. Dazai had a mission to keep anyone remotely romantic away from Chuuya, both out of greed and ill-intention. The last man to visit their apartment had no backbone. It was hard to believe he agreed to go on a date with Chuuya given his history. The night was going well, hands were roaming and words of ardor said. They almost kissed—almost because Dazai downed enough rubbing alcohol that his insides forfeited function. First, he vomited in the strangers shoes. Then, he had Chuuya escort him to the emergency room for a stomach pump. Being carried by him was a romantic way to end the night. Dazai was sure his date was envious since he never returned.

Then there was the big guy, though not big enough to withstand having his motorcycle stolen. Dazai had it listed as free on Craigslist. Another time, he stalked a man to madness. Chuuya needs to be with someone with a strong mental fortitude.

“Creeped out? Weird.”

Chuuya believed in balance.

That is why every Sunday morning, after a night spent on drinks, he’d do a very meticulous yoga routine. Dazai considers this as morning entertainment where he otherwise plays chatroom poker with men twice his age. It is one of the few times he keeps his mouth shut around him. If Chuuya isn’t home, he’ll play Sex and the City since Samantha’s attitude placates his excitement.

A kind lady on the floor below gifted Chuuya the tape and matching audio recording last spring. Her son had ran off, nearly tumbled into the street, when Chuuya caught him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back to his mother. She was a former instructor, she told him, but had no use for the tape because her body did not move the way it used to.

“This is all I can offer. All of my money goes to bills. You need it more than me.” She yanked her son toward their flat. “It’ll help with the smoking.”

“I don’t smoke that much.” Chuuya said aloud. Though, found himself learning the stretches when a customer later commented on how stiff his shoulders were.

The routine stuck.

“Ladies, ladies! Keep your eyes up, hands flat!” The instructor beckons from the television. She wears a bright pink leotard. Chuuya is more familiar with her than his landlord at this point. “This stretch is going to release alllll the tension held in your body. By balancing on your hands, you’ll use the wall or another sturdy object to stabilize your weight. Now, you know what it truly feels like to hold yourself up, how your body feels all the time when you do bad things to it. Drinking, cursing, chasing perfection. We need to apologize to our body.”

Chuuya blows smoke out of his nose. He has one other cigarette left, if he doesn’t smoke immediately Dazai will steal it. It’ll be the last one of the day, he promises. His legs stretch out in an upside down split, balancing the pad of his toes on the wall to keep the stretch stable. Hands flat, jaw set. Loose hairs from his bun tickle his neck as he releases a long breath from deep within.

“I’m sorry body.” He relents.

“I’m sorry body, for the expectation of perfection. I’m sorry body, for harming you.” The words bleed into his clunky headphones.

“I’m sorry body. Sorry for getting sloshed after my shift.” His eyes shut as if that will make it more peaceful. “I’m sorry for smoking a pack in one night...and blowing my ex on the floor when he asked if I wanted a midnight snack.”

“Let your body feel the shame!”

A door closes and the sensation of being watched sends goosebumps down his flesh. The scent of coffee and his own vanilla body-wash fill his nose. Socked feet with a rip in the heel idle beside him. The gray ends of Dazai’s loose fitting sweats obscure forty-five degrees of his vision.

Chuuya being a failed gymnast comes in handy when Dazai’s imagination proves lazy, such as now, when his ass is in suspended midair. The one time he visited Chuuya’s old home when they were still dating and everyone was alive, he noticed medals pinned to the walls. The trophies he brought home were the pride of his adoptive father. However, when he turned fifteen, he tore a ligament in his knee during a failed landing. Recovery was attempted but he never showed his face to his old teammates again. Shame was intense for a child who deemed himself good at only one thing, even if he was loved.

Dazai can still be grateful for it; he’s never seen someone so flexible.

“Now, forgive yourself and return to position. For our next exercise...”

“Repenting for your sins?” Dazai ogles him one last time before Chuuya effortlessly cartwheels back to his feet.

He’s met with a thief, “Is that my last smoke?”

“What?” He holds it higher now, “No.”

“You fucking bitch. I was saving that! I’m too broke to get another pack until Thursday!”

Kunikida does not like the neighbors. 

As part of his student teaching stipend, he’s been given an apartment near the train station

where he can commute from the school to the night classes he teaches on calculus. Coming home is exhausting; often past dinner, which he meticulously had to reschedule, and once cutting into his allotted shower time.

Tonight, he returns at seven in the dot. He places his shoes by the door, hangs his coat, and sanitizes his hands. 

Bang. Bang. 

The sound of thudding against a wall draws his attention. This needs to be quick, he has fifteen minutes until dinner. 

Slam.

“I’m going to fucking kill you!” He hears a shrill from adjacent wall. “Fucking, kill you. You wanna test me?”

Kunikida has half the mind to barge into the apartment. After all, he is a mandated reporter under the law. 

“Oh really?” The other male voice says, slightly strained. 

He presses his ear against the wall. One of them must be pinned. The bleached scent of cleaner lingers near his nose. The man who called this place home prior to him had a share of grotesque habits. Kunikida scrubbed them away to the best of his ability. 

“You murdered her!” 

“Guilty as charged.” 

Kunikida withheld a gasp, grabbing his notebook to write the details for the officer. 

Slam.

“I’ll should tear you to pieces just like you did her, you bastard.” The raspier voice is ten times as loud as the one being strangled. 

“Going to strangle me to death or stomp me with your six inch heels?”

A head-shaped object bounces off the semi-hollow wall, “How would you prefer?”

That’s it. Kunikida cannot in good mind sit in his apartment as his neighbors murder each other. Sure, it’s noisy when the one who owns steel-toed boots returns at twilight. Sure, their unpaid bills are delivered to his mailbox for an unknown reason. Sure, it stinks like weed at hours of the day when one should be at work. But, Kunikida is a good man, dammit. 

Thankfully, their front door is unlocked otherwise he would have broken the hinge off the door with his kick. He surveys the small living room to find a sparsely furnished space home to a couch he was sure he saw sitting on the street corner a week ago. 

The redhead has both hands flat against the wall, struggling on his tip-toes to battle tongues with the much taller raven who is forced to squat to continue their ministrations. Red’s low-rise jeans embrace his ass not nearly as tight as the bandaged freak’s hand. Kunikida met the ladder when he moved in. It was customary to give your neighbors a gift. After introducing himself to Dazai, he learned that the man lived with his ‘small dog’. So, he brought him a marrow bone to give to the tiny thing. All Kunikida received was a snide chortle, not even a thank you. 

He doesn’t see a dog or anything to suggest they may own one.

They pay him no heed, devolving into a debaucherous heap on the floor. 

The murdered lay at their feet—Chuuya’s favorite pair of gaudy underwear, ripped straight down the ass. No doubt who the killer was. 

Kunikida hates his neighbors. 

The apartment complex’s air conditioning unit blows mid June. Every window is open, every fan is blowing. 

Dazai sleeps in boxers and Chuuya’s silk mask, stolen for no reason other than to annoy him. The same excuse he had used to borrow and bust the seams of his tiger shirt. 

An incessant tapping wakes him. It is not Chuuya, who sleeps like the dead, but a strong knock that repeats in threes. Anymore would be excessive. 

“Dazai,” Kunikida stands in his usual garb, “I take it you’re not occupied as usual given your employment. Or lack thereof.” 

“Who says I’m unemployed?”

“Why else would you be sleeping so late?”

“What work do you think I do at—” he checks their busted fish-themed clock, “—eleven in the morning? Do you ever sleep in?”

“No. It wastes my day.” 

“It fills mine.” 

“Is that smoke?”

An ashtray stands out among the clutter, “If it was?”

“The policy is no smoking.”

Dazai understands why Kunikida is chronically single. He teaches high school during the day, and bored college students in the evening. He has no time for a woman. Not to mention, he’s a stiff, “How long has it been since you’ve been on a date?”

Kunikida eyeballs behind him, obviously judging the underwear on the counter and the box of condoms on the coffee table, “That’s beside the point. It pains me to do this, but must ask you a favor.” 

He appears more awake, “If there’s anything I can help you with, don’t hesitate, my friend.”

“Dazai, who the hell are you talking to?”Kunikida couldn’t say he ever wanted to see Chuuya strut around in the tightest briefs he’s ever seen, but he is victim to it anyways. He rubs his eyes, approaching the coffee maker. 

“I’m going to lend a hand to our neighbor.” 

Chuuya snorts in confusion, “Okay.” 

Kunikida doesn’t blame him. He would be confused to see Dazai in the daylight rather than slinking around the dark of the city. To be fair, both of them did it. Though, Kunikida is aware of Chuuya’s job. Dazai’s nocturnal habits are by choice. 

“Meet me in my apartment in ten minutes. The heat has the potential to ruin my collection of journals. I need to move them quickly.”

“Say less. I’m somewhat of a journal fanatic as well.” 

He blinks, “Really?”

“No.” 

Kunikida frowns, “Ten minutes.” 

The door shuts. Dazai slinks behind Chuuya wearing a mischievous grin. 

“What’cha plannin’? He sucks the sugar from the coffee spoon. 

“Ever want to find out more about Kunikida?”

Chuuya thinks with his lips curved over the spoon, “No.” 

“What about if I had access to his private journals?”

“It does have a sense of mystery…”

“And,” Dazai wags a finger, “if i read those journals, maybe there will be a hint about how to get him laid. He would stop barging over with noise complaints.” 

They’re not that loud. They fight, they fuck. It’s the circle of life. 

“Getting him laid will get him off our backs? We’re not a matchmaking service.”

“Potentially. The least we get out of it is a reason to laugh at him.” 

Chuuya pours himself a steep cup of coffee, half of the chipped mug full of cream and sugar, “What the hell, sure.”

Dazai wastes no time slipping on the same pants as yesterday. He brushes his teeth, takes a piece of Chuuya’s half burnt bread from toaster, and finally buckles his belt. He smells better now that he’s spared a hint of cologne on his wrists to rub together. By the time he’s out the door, he could be mistaken for leaving for work. 

Kunikida’s apartment is exactly as he had imagined. Prim and proper, organized to a fault. There wasn’t a dish in his sink nor a stain on his counter top—not even a burn mark. 

The view from the window is the same as theirs, the alleyway. 

“Dazai,” his name is called impatiently.

“On my way.”

Unlike their apartment, Kunikida has spare room, specifically enough to use as an office where his journals and books are kept. He’s given directions to take each of them out and check for any sweating. If there is any sign of warping he is to make note on a spreadsheet Kunikida printed out and stuck to a clipboard. 

“I’ll be working with my other collection. Remember, do not miss a page.” 

Dazai salutes him, “I wouldn’t.” 

“I’m serious!” Kunikida uses his teacher voice. Scary. 

The humidity is so high today that Dazai should be miserable stuffed in a room with a box of leather bound books. Craigslist will miss his antics, those he scams may not. Luckily for them, he has just been given an outing to his boredom. 

Sweat beads on his brow as he turns the pages of a gripping read titled ‘Ideals’, “Master Carlyle, have you provided any tips for how to get a man laid?” he flips through pristine papers till he finds what he’s looking for, “Ah, Kunikida, you have outdone yourself.” 

Chuuya is still in the kitchen debating on brunch when Dazai returns whistling. He grabs the oil for an egg, corking the cap, “You seem happy.”

“I know all of his little secrets.”

“You sound like a creep.” 

“I have an eidetic memory, Chuuya. I know all of your secrets too.” Dazai flops into the one chair at the table that isn’t rickety. His memory haunts Chuuya the most. Things that most men would forget simmer in Dazai’s mind for times when blackmail surfaces. 

Chuuya grumbles. He cracks the egg with one hand, the other reaching for his pack of cigarettes, “Whatever, spill or go.”

“You’ll be happy to know I have more to spill than you think.” Dazai lifts his shirt, thick notebook hidden under his belt. “I couldn’t leave it there. It was too tempting.” 

Barely an hour he spent away and he cannot keep himself from stealing. This is why Chuuya threw his journal in a dumpster two miles away. Just to be safe. He lights his cigarette with the same match used for the stove top burner. 

“I think you’ll also find that our prayers have been answered. We know exactly how to get him laid.” 

“What? He wrote a step by step plan for his dream woman?”

Dazai says nothing. 

“You’re kidding me.” Chuuya gawks. 

Reading from the notebook, his voice takes on a pompous tone, “Spouse, page one.”

“Page one?”

“Of eight. There are fifty-eight items total.” 

He flips the egg with a jolt of his wrist, “He’s never getting laid.” 

“Let us begin, Chuuya,” Dazai resumes an accented voice, “Within four years of my employment, we will meet. Courting will be limited to handholding and embraces lasting less than a minute until month six. Within a year, we will share our first kiss.” 

Reading it is as painful as listening to it. Chuuya wouldn’t know how to respond to a guy who refuses to kiss him for a year. 

“Marriage will come at the six year mark. My proposal will be intimate so as to not attractive any attention. The venue will be indoors to ensure no interruptions from weather. She will wear my late mother’s veil.” 

“Six fucking years?” 

“That’s how long we’ve been messing around.” 

“We’re not married.”

“Definitely not. You don’t meet thirty one of my requirements for a wife, Chuuya.” 

When they reach number forty-seven, their stuck up neighbor has suddenly become less enigmatic and more of a loser. Chuuya thinks he must have been bullied as a child. Dazai wants to pick on him more. 

“…must not consume products containing palm oil or synthetic dyes. Very picky.” Dazai chides, “2/10.”

“I get the palm oil, but how’s he gonna know if she’s eating them? Five.” 

“How will his imaginary black-haired beauty stick to such a rigid schedule if not by being stuck a stick in the mud as well?”

Chuuya rolls his shoulders, “Hmph.”

“Forty eight. Under no circumstances, for any reason at all, is tardy. She must be punctual.” 

Still at the stove, now making Dazai’s lunch, he waves the spatula, “I actually agree with this one. I hate when you’re late.” 

“Punctuality isn’t a strong suit of mine.” 

“Where is it?!” Kunikida bursts in the door, “Where is my notebook?”

“You couldn’t knock? What if Chuuya and I were having dirty sex on the counter?”

“I..apologize for that.”

Chuuya hits him with the ‘where’s your backbone?’ look and Kunikida straightens, “I should have known you’d steal from me!”

“I’d hardly call it stealing!” Dazai weakly defends. “I mean, at least I took this and not your porno magazines.” 

His face wells with pink, “You are insufferable.”

“Could have saved you some grief with that one.” Chuuya snickers.

“And you too! You’re just as guilty!”

“Me?!” The redhead points to himself with the spatula, then jabs it towards the blonde, “You best watch your mouth standing in my kitchen.” 

Dazai watches the exchange. Kunikida is not shabby in the height department. If a high school math teacher can give Chuuya a chance to expend some rage, he’d like to see it. 

Kunikida scrunches his lips up to his teeth and the crease between his eyebrows might leave a permanent wrinkle from how hard he scowls, “You’re just as bad! You make just as much noise as he does, if not louder! You stomp up the stairs every morning ten minutes before I am to wake. It ruins my schedule. You flaunt your body for all to see, going to the mail room in your unmentionables!” Chuuya was guilty of that last one, but he usually wore a robe, “Not to mention, smoking is prohibited in this building. I could report it.” 

“I almost felt sorry for you, you kiss-less virgin.” 

“Abstinence is not a crime.”

“The way this is going, we’re both going to end up in front of a judge. Won’t be my first time.”

Before Chuuya can throw the cast iron at Kunikida’s head, Dazai interjects, “Halt!” 

Their heads turn, annoyed. 

“Kunikida, my friend, I only took your diary because you were too mysterious. We knew nothing about you, nothing bad at least.” He wags the leather bound object side to side. 

“It’s a journal. A notebook crafted by an arti—”

“Tomato, tomato. I read Chuuya’s diary too, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.” What he really means is there was nothing he himself had to be ashamed of. Chuuya felt positively ashamed. A dumpster two miles away was not safe enough. His grip on the pan handle tightens. 

“This doesn’t make the situation any better. You invaded my privacy! Stole!” Dazai sympathizes with Kunikida’s students. Algebra must be a terrifying subject to experience. 

“That’s why I’m going to make it up to you.” 

“How?”

“I’m going to get you laid.” A pot swerves right for Dazai’s head, but he dodges. Kunikida takes two steps back. 

“Excuse me?”

“Since we’ve caused you so much grief.” Another pot flies toward him. Then the toaster. “We’re going to be your wingmen.” 

“I’m not comprehending.”

“We’re going to take you on a double blind date.” 

Chuuya halts his kitchen-themed assault, “We?”

“Double date?” says Kunikida, “With you two?”

Dazai nods, “It’s the least we can do, really.” 

It is a stupid idea that takes ten minutes of convincing and four more to let Kunikida trust them with finding a woman who meets his taste. “I’ve read your ideals.” Dazai smoothes over, “I completely understand.”

And somehow it works. 

“By the way, Kunikida,” Dazai catches him by the shoulder, “I and every other man can empathize with the desire of a perfect woman.”

Kunikida fixes his glasses, “There is nothing wrong with aiming for the ideal.” 

“Right, right… Still, heed my advice as a man who has loved many a times. Don’t ever show this list to a woman. I can think of no better way to destroy your chances at marriage in six years.” 

Chuuya was wrong to ever consider Dazai as the world’s strangest man—though he is still a contender. He would have never guessed a mathematics teacher to surpass him. 

“Don’t come over dressed, relax, don’t talk about the list.” They told Kunikida a few days prior. “We’ll be there so you can’t fuck it up.” 

Did he listen? 

No. 

Surprisingly, the woman Dazai found fit nearly every one of Kunikida’s ideals. It was actually scary when Chuuya stalked her Facebook and found that she lived just as boring a life as their neighbor, even down to the teaching position; she lectured on ethics and criminology at a local university. 

“Just to let you know, he’s a stiff.” Chuuya flicks his cigarette bud to the ground, crushing it under his boot. Dazai was retrieving Kunikida from his apartment as they waited outside. The double date, despite the two of them not being a couple (no sex did not count), was planned out simply. Lunch and a stroll through the park. Not much can go wrong. 

“That’s subjective.” Sasaki maintains a sweet countenance, both hands holding her purse by the handles. 

Before he can give her any more of a warning, their dates stroll out of the lobby. It took longer than expected. Dazai is more done up than normal, a sight Chuuya can enjoy for what their charade is worth. 

“Miss Sasaki!” He greets, “Looking as ravishing as ever.” His elbows connects with Kunikida. 

“Miss Nobuko, your outfit is very agreeable with your coloring.” Kunikida keeps a distance that reads more as cautious than interested. His use of honorifics do not help his case.

Sasaki addresses him warmly, “Thank you, Kunikida. I try to look my best no matter the occasion.”

Like old men in a business meeting, they shake hands.

“He was dressed to the nines, had a bow tie ready before I stopped him.” Dazai mutters as the new couple trail behind, eyeballing Chuuya’s casual fit lacking print, “Not planning on chasing a gazelle today?”

“It’s wash day.” Chuuya’s sunglasses block the harsh sun yet his cheeks are red with warmth, “You don’t look too shabby yourself.”

“I have a date, when do I not look good for the affair?”

On occasion, Dazai took odd jobs. One of them involved selling his services as a rent-a-boyfriend. In the beginning, Chuuya thought it was some joke till he whistled his way out the door in a fancy turtleneck and oxfords. He wasn’t jealous. No, he pitied the woman who had to stoop so low to ask Dazai for his services. He wasn’t a good boyfriend, so he was definitely abusing his attractiveness to lure them in. 

Chuuya has had plenty of boyfriends since they broke up. Half of them have met Dazai. Though, he’s come to realize that when they do return to the apartment with him, they never call back once they leave. Sure, he did bring some of them back to have obnoxiously loud sex to bother his roommate, but he also craved love! Not that any instances have worked out in his favor. At first, he wondered if he was the reason why, then he realized he lived with a creature from hell and decided to keep men away from the apartment until their talking stage was over. Still, the last guy stayed for three months. He visited when Dazai was out of town doing who knows what, and still, a week later they broke up suddenly. 

The remainder of the walk to the restaurant is somewhat quiet for the sole reason of eavesdropping on the other couple. 

Their waitress is a kind young woman who started working at the establishment just under a month ago. She’s the perfect victim for Dazai to sink his claws into. 

“Can I start you lot with some water?” She asks, chipper. 

“Gin cocktail?”

“It’s noon.” Kunikida blurts. 

Dazai smiles blithely, “Thank you, my watch was broken. I’ll just have gin then.”

“Apple martini.” Chuuya raises a finger. 

“Heavy on the apple.”

“Dazai, mind your own.” 

“I can’t have my lovely date falling all over himself.” 

His teeth clench as he nods to the waitress, “Sure. Light.” 

Dazai retrieves a bent cigarette from his pocket, though before he can light it, a menacing grunt interrupts. 

“Sir,” a waitress easily over fifty points to the no-smoking sign.

“Just this once?” He tries with all the charm he can muster smushed into a booth with three others. 

She gives him a once over, clearly appreciating his looks before making her decision, “No.” And she snatches the cigarette to throw away. 

“Wow,” Chuuya withheld his snicker, “you’ve had a fall from grace.”

Dazai shoves him from under the table nearly knocking his ankle boot off. Chuuya doesn’t let this go, smacking his ankle against his calf. They look less like a couple and more like disgruntled frenemies. Their shuffling dissipates when the drinks are sat in front of them. Kunikida and Sasaki sit on the dry side of the table with lemon water. Dazai and Chuuya sip lunch acceptable cocktails. The divide is sharp. 

Salad is delivered with a side of questioning.

“How long have you two been dating?” Sasaki asks the obvious, “You seem very comfortable with one another.”

Chuuya almost inhales the slice of apple, choking it back up. Dazai answers for him, “Three years.”

A hand pinches near his butt. He’s lying, he reveals, likely for Kunikida’s sake. If Sasaki was anything like her date, their status would make her uncomfortable. 

“Oh wow, you’re in the later stages of dating. Have you thought of marriage?”

“Well…those things can’t be admitted.” Dazai hides his words behind a hand, as if Chuuya can’t hear him. 

“You live together?”

Kunikida comes to his aid, “It is unconventional, but they were roommates first. It is an economical approach.” Yet, he continues, “Actually, one of my strongest ideals for a spouse is an agreement to marriage after four years, then share a home.” 

Dazai widens his eyes, gesturing for him to zip it. He doesn’t. Chuuya would kick him under the table, but his legs are too short. 

“Your ideals?” Her dark eyebrows raise.

“He means his morals.”

“No, my ideals. I live by a code.”

“Kunikida, remember what we spoke about?”

In the bag at his feet, a sachet Dazai jokingly called a purse, the same notebook they laughed at over brunch a week prior materializes. 

Chuuya face palms, hopeless. 

“Another ideal I hold myself to is honesty.” 

Sasaki’s blue gaze lingers on the open notebook. Chuuya couldn’t tell if it was curiosity or unease in her unreadable expression.

By the grace of God, their food arrives all at once, interrupting the spiel bound to come out of his mouth. This gives Dazai the chance to knee Kunikida under the table, nearly driving his fork into his leg. The notebook drops to the floor. 

“You—!”

“My bad, Kunikida, the bite I took was spicy!”

The only food on Dazai’s plate was a bowl of soba. 

“As I was saying…” 

Sasaki folds her napkin in her lap, “Before you continue, Kunikida, I have to explain my self for fear it may be misunderstood.” 

Chuuya shares a look with Dazai, mouthing a question he cannot answer. 

“I am familiar with Dazai, that is why he introduced me to you.” 

“I supposed as much. He was the one in charge of arranging this meeting.”

“Yes, however, Dazai and I have known one another outside of this. When I was a junior lecturer, I had an unfortunate experience with a student who found my home address. Dazai was kind enough to allow me to stay in his apartment for the night.” 

Kunikida jumps to the worst conclusion. His hand itches to wring Dazai’s neck, “You lured her to your apartment? That’s immoral!”

“I was living in another precinct at the time and attending the lectures. I owed her a favor. If I had not, I would have flogged myself for allowing such a maiden to suffer.”

The idea of any woman being in an apartment with Dazai, the guy who slept in a futon surrounded by multi-colored bottles of liquor and microwave meals, did not strike Chuuya as a sexy fantasy. Then again, he didn’t remember a time when Dazai lived in another precinct. This must have been before he clawed back into his life. He doesn’t question the timeline of events. 

“Miss Sasaki slept in a separate room.” Dazai clarifies. 

This tempers Kunikida’s rage enough, “I see. Miss Nobuko, please know I would open my home to you if such an issue ever arises again. My motive is nothing sinister, I promise.” 

Her reaction is stereo-typically girlish.  

Each exchange is cute, like a teenager experiencing the sweetness of love for a first. Sickening. Kunikida’s notebook is not near enough payment for this. The demon on his shoulder tells Chuuya to loathe people in a happy relationship; they could never understand what his life is like. 

Kunikida insists on paying the bill so Sasaki accompanies him to the host’s podium.

“What did you say to her to get her to come on this date, Dazai? Were you two…?” Chuuya makes a lewd gesture with his thumb and index finger. 

“No, she’s sexy as hell, but I’m not her type. I met her by chance again last week when I remembered what she told me.” 

“Which is?”

“Her type.”

“Of course you’d remember that.”

“It’s a man passionate about his ideals.”

“Definitely not you.” Chuuya couldn’t pinpoint a single time when Dazai made a consistent decision. 

“No, but a certain neurotic neighbor fit the bill.”

For once, Dazai has his wallet. And, for once, he leaves a tip. Where the hell did he get that money? Chuuya should check his wallet, but he’s too busy catching up to his long stride. 

At some point, the double date becomes two separate occasions as Kunikida and Sasaki are absorbed with one another. They become background noise, not being asked a damn thing. Chuuya feels a tiny ounce of pride for Kunikida. Even if he doesn’t hop in bed with her. 

Their mismatched group settles for slightly alcoholic beverages purchased from a stall. They drift through the summer evening in tandem until they’re drawn elsewhere. Sasaki shyly takes Kunikida’s hand and the man’s face explodes with color. 

For a short while, it is only him and Dazai taking unsynchronized steps toward the expansive green. Chuuya doesn’t remember when he laced his wrist around Dazai’s arm. All the faking they’ve done has impeded on his conscious and made him sappy. 

“They’re weirdly made for each other.”

“Any normal woman would have run away.”

“You say that about the women who congregate around me.” He responds.

“Because it’s true. You’re an enemy to all women.”

Dazai’s hair shines like slick oil in the light of the setting sun. Come night, he’ll appear more menacing. Chuuya understands Kunikida’s desire for a dark haired beauty. Eighty percent of the men he dates fit the archetype, “Why do so many woman flock to me then?”

The answer is disgraceful, “I’m not saying that shit aloud.”

A flock of pigeons pecks at crumbs littering the ground near the iron railing. Too far away, neither of them see Kunikida whip out the notebook again. They’re unable to stop the inevitable from occurring until it’s too late. 

“Shit.” 

“Miss Nobuko, you fit within all of my criteria for a potential spouse.” Kunikida flips to the dreaded first page. “Not only are you a physical match, but your intellect is astounding. Speaking to you today made me question my vow to focus on work and not a relationship. I...would like to see you again.” 

Saying this hours after meeting someone takes serious balls. Though, the alcohol may supply the boldness. 

“He showed her the notebook.”

“He beat me to it.”

Chuuya glares at him, “Do you like to ruin everything?”

Dazai shows his teeth, “Sasaki likes him too much, he’s her type. She’s his. You’ve done far worse.” 

If their neighbor, especially someone as thorough as Kunikida, really wanted to, he could get them evicted. Chuuya has seen the amount of effort he put in to grading his students papers, this man is no joke.

“See?”

He missed a conversation while conjuring his inevitable displacement from their peeling-wallpaper apartment. Sasaki bypasses ideals five through ten and embraces four eyes around the shoulders. It’s reciprocated slowly. 

“What do you think she’s whispering?” Chuuya doesn’t hide his gawking. 

“I can read lips.” Dazai sound a pitch higher, “Kunikida, how about we take this somewhere more private? I want your big, manly arms wrapped around me all night long.” 

“She did not say that! Liar!”

It turns out, they are leaving together. The impossible has just occurred. 

Kunikida, albeit buzzed, departs by Sasaki’s side in a taxi. He will not be their neighbor tonight. 

“Think he’ll get laid?”

“They’re both tipsy and touchy. If he comes home a virgin, there’s nothing we can do to help him.” Chuuya stands elbow to elbow, “Might happen.”

“Two people with rigid ideals. A match made in heaven.”

“Willing to bet on that?”

“Oh, Chuuya, don’t bet money you need to use for rent.” 

They take their time getting home. Idle conversations under street lamps and quick breaks for no other reason than to delay arrival. 

Meandering toward the door, it hits him, “For as shitty as it could have been, it went well for them. They had a good time.” 

Everything they coached Kunikida to avoid, he didn’t. Yet, they still ended up stuck to one another. Chuuya jimmies the lock on their door, having become a master at unlocking the tricky son of a bitch sober or downright drunk. 

“For them, I’m sure it was meaningful.”

“Yeah. For them.” 

Undressing is nothing sexual around each other until it is. Chuuya strips off his thrifted tank as the trapped heat in the unairconditioned room collects on his skin, balling it up until he can chuck it toward the hamper. He should yell at the landlord later. 

The evening glow of summer pierces the window pane—the only one they possess which provides a favorable view of the street tree lush with foliage.

It happens wordlessly when Dazai does it, a slow approach Chuuya anticipates by the second. They had touched more than twenty times since lunch; what was so different about another brush of skin?

A gut stirring sensation stings Chuuya’s gut. Both appeal and caution spread thin through his limbs. Spending the day with Dazai had felt good. Chuuya tolerated plenty of time with his roommate, though it was mostly spent perturbed. 

“Gross,” he told himself.

Dazai doesn’t ask permission to set his hands upon his middle, just does how he sees fit. He is too smart not to know what Chuuya is thinking. 

He rests his head on the crown of Chuuya’s head as his trousers shimmy down his thighs, “I’ve a question.” 

“Don’t fall for this again,” his brain warns. 

A ray of amber light so much warmer than Chuuya’s faint brown eyes, connects with his bare skin. 

“Hmm?” His head tilts slightly, ear still unready. 

“Did you feel it today?” 

The world doesn’t crash down but it does shrink, suffocating him as the ocean drowns its victims. Chuuya does the only thing he can to stop from saying something stupid. He draws Dazai closer and closer until the lines of their lips become one.

They never make it to bed. 

“I’d like for you to come to my wedding.”

Chuuya hasn’t spoken to Verlaine much in the years since he climbed out of his bedroom window and ran for the hills. He will always be Verlaine to him because foster siblings aren’t blood no matter how hard he tried to convince Chuuya. It was a heartless act—leaving—but he’d left his heart behind when he ran. Sometimes he wonders if Verlaine had one at all.

Chuuya’s cracked phone screen presses to his red ear, “Okay.”

It is a terribly awkward call that lasts for five minutes too long simply because they have too much and too little to talk about. The date is set for early autumn. Rimbaud wouldn’t allow for any cooler weather, he loathes the snow.

The Sunday before it occurs, Chuuya rolls onto their futon half an hour earlier than expected.

Dazai sleeps.

His inner coward buckles under the weight of his inability to let himself succumb to being pathetic. He whispers, “Will you be my date to my brother’s wedding? God, that sounds stupid even saying it out loud.”

He picks his nail with his thumb, staring at Dazai’s closed eyes, “Wanna go to a party? Free drinks, food. ‘m sure we can take a plate home, my brother wouldn’t mind.” Sounds stupider that way. Chuuya lied on the phone saying he had a date—can’t have Verlaine thinking he was a loser—but he dumped his last fling because he was too sweet. A week before the wedding and he has nobody.

Nobody beside his ex.

“I know we’re not dating anymore but I can’t hold a relationship for shit. Will you pity me and be my date?”

Still murmuring to himself, Chuuya fails to see Dazai’s wide black eyes flutter open. Long, cold fingers weave between his own, twisting them together. He places a lazy kiss on Chuuya’s knuckle, “I haven’t done my community service for the poor and unfortunate yet, this is the perfect opportunity.”

He leaves their fingers intertwined, “I wish you’d choke on your tongue.”

“Who will charm the guests if not me?”

“You couldn’t charm a goose if it was blind, deaf, and dumb.”

A week later, he stands at the venue alone, foot tapping as Dazai is nowhere to be found. He’s done wonders dressing himself to fit the occasion. Though, he made some alterations to the suit he rented. It’s less formal and more punkish with the chain and colored tie. His leopard print scarf adds a final touch of personality Dazai would call a cry for attention. Luckily, Dazai isn’t here. Leave it to Chuuya to count on the guy known for screwing people—especially him—over.

Chuuya stands around aimlessly for five more minutes before finding the bar, “Fucking prick.” He throws back another shot, “I’ll strangle him in his sleep.”

The bartender avoids his gaze. When a well dressed man starts toward the furious redhead, he tries to send him a warning. “Please don’t die in front of me,” he pleads with his eyes.

The handsome man either doesn’t care or doesn’t see his cues. He boldly slips an arm around the shorter’s waist, “Is this seat taken?”

“Huh?” Chuuya’s cheeks are red. His third shot of rum, the one which usually brought out the bulk of his rowdiness, wafts in Dazai’s face.

“You’re already tipsy? Chuuya, you never fail to amaze me.”

Brown-gray eyes glaze over at the sight of him; dark hair slicked back behind his ears and his proportionate forehead in plain view. Chuuya hadn’t realized just how young messy hair could make a man appear until now. His suit is a crisp off-colored chocolate and the under-vest pinstripe green. On the hanger, he would have said it was nothing special. On Dazai, it was divine.

“Why did we break up?” He blurts.

In the foreground, a recently married groom finds himself distressed watching the exchange unfold. What worse sight is there to see on your wedding day than your dear little brother fraternizing with the devil?

“This is worse than I imagined.” Verlaine’s eyes prick with unshed tears. Onlookers think it from joy.

“At least he’s not alone.”

“I’d rather he break his leg than be with that creature.”

Rimbaud elbows him, “Dazai isn’t that bad.”

“Says you.”

“Leave them alone. It’s not like they’ll get married.”

For once, Dazai finds Chuuya in an agreeable inebriated state. More often than not he lashes out, a loud angry drunk whose discrepancies fall with his outlandish ex-boyfriend-roomate-situation-ship. Any therapist or sane person would recommend finding different accommodations.  

“We broke up on mutual terms.” The question had rotted in his mind for years now, asking the same to himself and sabotaging anyone who came between his answer.

“I was stupid for agreeing.” He slurs.

Dazai trips over the words rushing through his mind again and again with no way to catch himself, “You’re stupid all the time.”

He’s knocked off balance once more when Chuuya laughs instead of hitting him.

“Hey,” Chuuya’s attention is elsewhere. Then, he snatches his hand. Music of course. “Dance with me, everyone needs to see this.” 

If he weren’t drunk, it would never be said. 

“You want people to see us dancing together?”

“Why not? You look like hot shit.” Chuuya is not above compliments, however they are sparse, especially for Dazai. At least, outside of bed. “Seriously, where did you get this suit?”

Dazai allows himself to be dragged to the pavilion where couples link up for a gushy, slow song. Someone stares needles into his neck far behind, “I rented it, same as you.” It was a lie, a harmless one. 

“Rent it more often.” He commands, the flat side of his hand tracing up each of Dazai’s buttons, over his beating heart, until it steadies on the junction of his shoulder and neck. 

Dazai’s belly flips, “Is that a request?”

“It’s a fucking order.” The alcohol makes his voice raspier, doing unthinkable things to his once limp loins. 

They fall into a languid pace meshed with hiccups because it is too funny a time not to laugh at Chuuya stepping on his toes. Even when he claims he’s not doing it, he’ll slip up again. Neither of them were this carefree in each other’s presence unless they were both so far gone that Dazai wondered if Chuuya had really forfeited their history for shitty boyfriends who lingered at bars. 

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk.” Chuuya guides Dazai’s hand and slides it to his waist. 

There are children present, but do they really matter when a chance like this may never be offered as it was now. 

“Actually, I’m sober. Hirostu wouldn’t have aided me if I came smelling sour.” 

“Aided you?”

“He and I are old friends. Hirostu has a vast array of knowledge on dressing for formal occasions.” Dazai idles as they shimmy. Chuuya moves sloppily. The sky turns pink and purple. “My family employs him.” 

This makes Chuuya laugh; the sound mimics a hyena and a hissing cat, “So, what is he? A butler?”

“No, he’s apart of a secretarial team.” 

“Oh.”

“Coordination, management.”

“Sounds stressful. Fuck that.”

Dazai imagines Chuuya would shine in any job he was launched into. His penchant for adapting was second to none, “It is. Working with the government always is.”

“The government?”

“Oh, yes, my family is quite high up. Bureaucracy can be lucrative.”

Chuuya’s drunk enough not to connect the dots, “Well the suit looks great. Tell him it got you laid when you give it back.”

Hirostu doesn’t want to hear about it. He’s done enough by hiding his whereabouts from his family for as long as he has. If he spouted off about his sex life the old man might keel over. 

“I will.”

“Attention all in attendance!” A bespectacled man taps the microphone and all heads turn his way. In his hand is a small bundle of one red and white rose. It confused Chuuya upon arrival given the fact that Verlaine had no love for flowers; he loathed fragile things. “Right, the grooms would like to toss their boutonnieres. Congregate near the stage to participate.”

Chuuya releases Dazai’s hand, “Don’t move. I’ve got something to catch.”

“You’re going to fight for it?” 

“Damn straight.”

Dazai feels sorry for the unlucky soul who comes between Chuuya and the tiny superstitious bundle. He may be little, but so are bullets until they hit you. “Break a leg, shorty. Literally.”

Chuuya wears an easy smirk, reddened cheeks compliments his warm palette two fold. The freckle on his upper lip distracts him from the grip on his tie. He stumbles into a kiss, and not a light one, “If you think a broken leg will stop me from ripping your clothes off, you’re dead wrong.” 

Similar to all men easily aroused by redheads, his genius mind goes blank, “Don’t threaten me with good time.”

“That’s not a threat, it’s a promise. We’re not staying for the end of the reception.” 

He’ll need to keep this suit. Perhaps he’ll wear it everyday. No, he’ll never take it off. If this is how Chuuya reacts to him, to his styled hair and ironed suit, Dazai will forgo the tacky bandages in favor of crisp formal attire. Hell, forget pretending to be poor. Chuuya would ride him silly in the penthouse he was intended to live in on the other side of town. Surely more comfortable on his back than their futons. 

As the single and unmarried folk join in an ever growing ball of eager catchers, a woman with burnt red hair straightened down her back straggles back from the excitement. She appears younger than actually she is, inviting no one with the scathing look on her face. Her thigh length dress is befitting of her tall figure. She is alone. 

“Sis,” Dazai waves. 

“Dazai?” A look of ‘how the hell did you get in here?’ is shared than said. 

“It’s good to see you too. You look as bright as the sun, blinding almost.”

“Flattery will get you no where with me.”

“It was worth a shot.” He folds his hands into his pant pockets, “You were invited?”

Kouyou nurses a ruby red drink. It matches her pointed nails, “Verlaine and I are acquaintances.”

The same could not be said for Dazai. 

“And you?”

“I’m here as a plus one.”

“A date?” Her face is wary as if she’s afraid to ask, “Whose date?”

He points to the burgeoning crowd. Chuuya sticks out among the bunch, copper hair as striking as his face. His actions could be reigned in a touch—drifting like a hawk waiting for an easy snack. Kouyou should have known the moment she asked. Dazai would never change enough to be anything to anyone but Chuuya. 

“Mhm,” she deflects, “how’s your family?”

“I haven’t spoken to them in well over a year. Hirostu tells them I’m someone to be proud of, they leave me alone.”

“Then he doesn’t know?”

Dazai studies the contender almost too short to be considered a threat, “You know how slow he is.”

“He’ll figure out one day. And when he does, he will be angry.”

Verlaine has a flare for drama. Why else would the reception be held in the gardens of a world-class hotel? Why would he request a cake he would not eat because he has no desire to stuff his mouth with sugar? Drama, another reason why Chuuya fled home. This competitive edge caused the traditional tossing of the bouquet to become much more difficult—difficult, the term Chuuya used most to describe his brother. Not only is the bundle smaller, but Verlaine has a hell of a throwing arm. A girl named Gin, one of his favorite students, is the target he hopes will catch the boutonnieres.

“That seems like an issue for another day.”

Those not vying for the keepsake count down from five. Chaos explodes. Someone is kicked in the shin, another rips her dress. A solid hand shoots up from the crowd holding twin roses. The surrounding competitors were either in heels or taller, but Chuuya was far more athletic and determined. “I fucking got it! I fucking got it! Move out of the way lady!” He belts out. The liquor should have dampened his natural abilities. Unfortunately for the unmarried souls, Chuuya only suffered a lack of tact. His ability to jump three feet off the ground was not affected. 

He finds Dazai midst the crowd then points to his prize, receiving a thumbs up. Verlaine, who had bore witness to the entire thing, is as pale as a sheet. Half a minute passes before he launches toward Chuuya demanding the bundle back. 

“Give it, Chuuya! It was a mistake!”

“Hell no! I won fair and square. Get off!”

“If you take this, you’ll be stuck with that freak for the rest of your life!” Verlaine wrestles Chuuya to the ground, but Chuuya wrestles back.

“I fucking know that!”

No one bothers to stop them. Attempting to halt their exchange would result in more damage than help. 

“Does this counts as a bad omen? I’ve never seen a groom take back the favor.” Kouyou observes the spectacle. As unlike as they claim to be, they are painstakingly similar. 

“You worry too much, sis. By now, you should know that Chuuya never plays to win.” Dazai flicks his phone out, camera set toward the showboating. Loving someone didn’t mean blackmail became null. A genuine tenderness crosses his face as he hits record, “He learned that when he tested his luck on the lottery years ago.” 

The world is so loud, Chuuya thinks. 

“Dazai.” His head is pounding, thumping, angry from his actions the night before. The hotel staff must think he’s a hooligan. And he is, but at his adoptive brother’s wedding? 

His face is buried in a plush pillow, long legs still tangled between Chuuya’s, “Go back to sleep.”

“Wake up.”

He pretends to sleep.

“Stop acting like you’re dead.”

“With what you took from me last night, I’d be lucky to have any moisture left in my body.” Dazai covers his head with the pillow, blocking out Chuuya’s muffled voice. “You were insatiable.”

“Me? You’re funny.”

Dazai points to the trash can with a shaky finger. Inside is what must be evidence from a porno-shoot. He can’t count how many used condoms are in the bucket because the mess is gargantuan. Shame for the disgusted housekeeper who will see this tightens the tension in his already taut body. His reflection in the window is even worse. He yanks the covers from Dazai who mewls. A doctor could mistake his back for an animal attack and the hickeys on his neck like spider bites. Part of him is proud of himself.

“Holy shit.”

“I said the same,” He yanks the comforter back over his shoulder.

“I didn’t act like that at the reception, right?” Chuuya laughs nervously.

“Oh, you were all over me, don’t you remember?” Dazai must think it too good not to see, lifting his head to reveal a sleepy face and ruffled hair, “You grabbed me by the belt and dragged me up here.”

It’s coming back to him now; the bar, the dance, fighting a thirty-something year old lady for a bouquet he would have no interest in normally. Unconsciously, he licks his lips recalling the suit.

“The suit you rented from...from—”

“Hirostu. I saved it.”

“Good…” Humiliation dissipates quickly when another memory pops inot his head, “Did you say your family works for the government?” Chuuya’s voice raises an octave, “And how did you get this room?!”

Dazai grabs his slacks, “Oh...wow. It’s almost time to check out, we need to go.”