Chuuya sighed as he pushed the door to his flat open, the familiar click of the lock sounding louder in the quiet hallway than it probably should have. The place smelled faintly like dust and city rain, the way apartments in Yokohama always did after being empty for too long. He had been gone for three days on a Port Mafia assignment—three days of cramped safehouses, gunfire, and the constant tension that came with missions that Mori called simple but rarely were.

Home should have been quiet.

It never was.

He had barely stepped inside before his eyes drifted automatically to the couch, because of course he already knew what he would find there. The prediction settled in his chest with the same dull inevitability as gravity itself.

Dazai was sprawled across the cushions like he had been dropped there by accident, long limbs draped carelessly over the armrest, coat half slipping off one shoulder. One leg hung over the side, the other bent awkwardly against the back of the couch. His bandaged arms were folded behind his head like he had absolutely no concern for the world around him. If someone had walked in and told him the building was on fire, he probably would have just sighed dramatically and asked them to let him burn.

The bastard looked completely at home.

Chuuya shut the door behind him with a tired thud, rubbing the back of his neck as irritation prickled under his skin in that familiar way it always did when Dazai appeared uninvited in his apartment. He hadn’t even asked for the spare key. Dazai had simply… acquired one at some point. Chuuya still wasn’t entirely sure when.

The worst part was that he had stopped trying to take it back.

"What are you doing here, mackerel?"