I collapse down onto Chuuya and I’s couch, the cool leather feeling pleasant against my clammy skin. My overcoat was strewn across the floor carelessly, as I couldn’t give two flying fucks if something happened to the thing.

I grunt and kick off one shoe. It lands a few feet away from the couch. I narrow my eyes, tongue peeking out from my lips as I estimate the distance. Then I kick off my left shoe, aiming to knock over the right.

Chuuya walks past the back of the couch, pulling the buttons loose on his vest. “Don’t kick your damn shoes, Dazai,” he says tiredly, his voice soft and raspy with exhaustion as he passes me by. I tilt my head back and watch over my shoulder as he half-stumbles half-shuffles to the bathroom.

“I’m taking a bath,” he tells me, as if I didn’t already know. Chuuya always took post-mission baths, especially after particularly rough ones, like the one we just got back from. Both of us had to take a trip to the infirmary. I with a gunshot wound and Chuuya with the aftermath of Corruption.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” He actually turns to look at me this time, one gloved hand on the doorframe and the other holding his beloved fedora. I grin at him. He sighs and rolls his eyes, and then the door is being shut. I listen to the silence that follows, imagining Chuuya as he undresses. I’ve seen my partner in crime’s naked body many times, both in reality and in my dreams.

The rush of water fills the silence and the porcelain tub where Chuuya would bathe. After about five minutes, it shuts off. The noisy hum of the heater takes its place.

I stretch my body across the couch, reaching for the opposite side of it where the TV remote lay. I click the TV on. Some culinary show was on, probably on a channel Chuuya switched it to the last time it was turned on. I sigh and watch the Americans bake cake.