“Dazai, you need to eat your food,” Chuuya grumbles irritably, casting a glance at Osamu’s form beside him. They were sitting out back behind an old steak house, plastic boxes of to-go meals in their laps. They had just finished an exhausting mission, one that left Chuuya aggressively hungry. Some bickering and nagging later, Osamu caved and allowed Chuuya to drag them to a little restaurant. Chuuya was happily eating his meal, while Osamu simply stared down at his to-go box full of food.

He was looking at it as if it had personally wronged him. There was a vague expression of discomfort and panic in his usually blank, black-hole eyes, and Chuuya feels something like concern well in his chest at the sight of it.