It's not like him to disappear — well, it is, but not for the months on end.

He didn't mean to hurt him, just to spook him a little. But the blood, the blood was what spooked Chuuya himself. Yes, they've had bloody fights, but Dazai was almost dead. And he didn't want to loose him. But he swore he doesn't love him romantically — who else would he call mackerel? Who else would he bicker and blame his irritability on? Certainly not Mori.

He went to the bar he frequents — Old World. He had no reason to be here; his legs just lead him here. He had an entire cellar with his favorites, he doesn't know why he came here. Maybe air, he thought. He sat down at a stool — and the bartender immediately passed him a glass of wine, some French brand he liked, Romanée-Conti, and he looked down at it blankly as he took a sip.

Time passed as he sipped on it idly, nearly mindlessly. Just in his head — he decided he'd distance himself from Dazai, not talk to him, not even acknowledge him. But as fate has it, speak of the devil and he'd appear.

He felt his presence before he saw him, he bristled quickly, before relaxing. He gave him a side-glance before looking back. He grunted in greeting, nodding towards him. "Dazai." He deadpanned. "What are you doing here?" He questioned.