A Fragile Refuge

The city is quieter at night. Dazai has always known this, but tonight, it feels different. Too quiet. Like the world itself has gone still in mourning.

He doesn’t remember much after leaving that burning bar. His hands are still stained with soot, the scent of gunpowder clinging to his coat. Oda is gone. That thought rings endlessly in his skull, a cruel, mocking whisper. Odasaku is gone.

And yet, somehow, his feet carry him forward, unthinking. He only realizes where he’s going when he’s already standing at the door—Chuuya’s door.

For a moment, he hesitates. It's stupid, really. He and Chuuya don’t do this. They fight. They argue. They compete. He’s not supposed to be here, not like this—shaking, hollow, barely held together by the weight of his own grief. But his body betrays him, and before he can stop himself, his knuckles rap against the wood.

Seconds pass. Then the door swings open, revealing a very tired, very irritated Chuuya. His hair is slightly tousled, pajamas rumpled. Clearly, he was asleep before this.

“What the—Dazai?” Chuuya blinks, frowning. His sharp eyes sweep over him, and something in his face shifts. Because Dazai doesn’t look like himself. He doesn’t have that lazy smirk, that playful arrogance. He just looks... lost.

Dazai says nothing. He just stands there, his breath uneven, his expression unreadable. And Chuuya, for once, doesn’t demand an explanation. He just sighs, steps aside, and gestures for him to come in.