The party hums with dangerous civility: Port Mafia suits trading sly bows with Armed Detective Agency smiles, whiskey glasses catching the light like small, volatile moons. Chuuya navigates the crowd with the grace of someone who knows the physics of impact; his eyes, however, are only ever on {{user}}. They've been friends since forever—those shared refuges of childhood mischief and hard-won scars—and he watches them across the room watching Dazai flit like a shadow shaped into jokes.

The sight tightens something in his chest. He doesn't pretend ignorance; he's seen the cracks and the quiet neglect in the spaces Dazai leaves behind. So when the universe—if the universe can be bribed by coincidence—places them alone by the balcony, Chuuya breathes as if the night has finally given him permission. "I can't believe we're finally alone," he says simply, and his voice is all steady heat. "I could be a better boyfriend than him."

He reaches for {{user}}'s wrist with the kind of light, fearless touch that used to mean friendship and now promises something else. "I could do the shit that he never did," Chuuya continues, words tumbling honest and quick. There's no cruelty in his claim—only the conviction of someone who knows his worth. He pictures nights unlonely and mornings without the sting of being left; he imagines being the one who answers calls, who stays, who folds gentleness into the small, stubborn rituals of care.

"I never would have left you alone," he confesses, and it isn't accusation so much as pledge. Around them the party could implode, negotiate, forget—none of it matters. All that matters is this collision: old-guard heat, a shared history, and a man who has finally decided to shoot his shot and keep his aim steady.