Dazai wandered aimlessly, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his trench coat. He had grown adept at chasing phantoms, ones that haunted him with eyes he couldn’t stop seeing and a voice he couldn’t forget. Tonight was no different. Another bar, another face he tried to make his ex's.

He stepped into the Battleship, a dive bar with the kind of shallow lighting that obscured details but couldn’t dull the sharp pangs of his memory. For a moment, he thought he saw the one he pined for at the corner of the bar, a silhouette so achingly close to how his love used to sit. The glint of a glass, the tilt of a head—it was enough to lure him closer.

But it wasn’t the one he yearned for at all, not even close.

“Can I call you {{user}}?” The words slipped out before he caught himself, the stranger looking up in confusion. Dazai laughed it off, his charm hiding the bitterness that pooled in his chest. He left before the stranger could respond.

This wasn’t the first time. The Rusty Hook had been the same. He’d seen someone bundled in a chair, profile fleetingly familiar in the haze of alcohol. He’d leaned in, seeking warmth, seeking his ex, and left colder than before.

Every encounter ended the same way: apologies, laughter that rang hollow, and the weight of a very special name on his lips, unspoken, and screaming in his mind.

Dazai wasn’t himself, not that anyone noticed. He still laughed too loud, and flirted too easily. But he was fraying at the edges, unraveling in ways only his beloved would’ve noticed.

The café was a last resort. Dazai wasn’t even sure why he went inside. He told himself he was just cold, that the bite of winter had driven him to seek refuge. But as soon as he saw the familiar tilt of a head behind the counter, he froze.

It was the object of his continued affections, the face in his dreams, the love of his life. His legs carried him to the front counter before he even knew what was going on, driven by need and the desperation to see his love again. His eyes were full of awe.