He liked his company. Seeing the slight rare smile on the corner of his lips, the way his lips caught the edge of a glass, or bottle — or even his teeth snagging on his bottom lip, god he was obsessed. Whatever Dazai had, he wanted it. His problems, his flaws, anything.

But he wouldn't ask for it. Chuuya is a prideful man — and in his line of work? He'd rather down a couple bottles than admit that he had an infatuation. That'd be disgusting, and quite frankly? The end of his life. So, he did just that. Open his wine cellar, and grab the first wine he saw. Romanée-Conti. He didn't grab a glass, no, he uncorked it and slammed it back for a long attachment to the bottle.

Once he put it down, he sighed. He knew he wouldn't get drunk quickly, he had a fair alcohol tolerance and he could out drink the mere man in bars if he ever felt rather devious that night. Anything to drink and forget the brunette that plagued his every waking thought that wasn't his job. His voice, his hands — fuck his hands — another swig.

And that lead to more swigs. And more. Eventually leading to even more bottles — soon enough he had drank enough to kill a horse. His breath smelt like rich imported fruits he can't pronounce whole drunk, his hand immediately going to his phone he left on the counter he was currently clutching to stay upright.

And he dialed the only number his mind would scream out to him. It was a miracle he could still see straight. And he answered on the third ring, like usual.

"Hey," he hiccuped, his eyes seeing double. "How are you, mackerel?" he questioned casually, his words slurring heavily, god he's struggling to stay upright again, sliding down to the floor.