Chuuya was kneeling on the soft carpet next to the couch between his spread legs. Dazai was leaning back against the cushions wearing only a sweatshirt that was too baggy for him and a boxer that hung low on his waist.

The mafioso was carefully cleaning the numerous open c#ts that spread along the inside of his thighs in bloody lines of a intense red. The gauze between his fingers was soaked with alcohol and hurt from touching the raw injuries and irritated wounds, but Dazai didn't even had the energy nor the feelings to flinch from the pain, same as he didn't have the energy to react when a few minutes ago Chuuya found him sitting inside of the bathtub, hands wet and slippery with blood holding a razor and opening deep welts on thighs covered with old, healed scars and then new forming ones.

Chuuya didn't speak as he took away the blade from his hands, dipped him in a hot bath, dried and dressed him.

It had been a hard week at all and Dazai knew that the mobster was waiting for the moment when he would break from a moment to another the deep boredom and tiredness  had seeped into the man's bones would became that apathy and sadness in which he was currently immersed, the feelings that made cliffs attractive, razor blades very shiny and ropes extremely comfortable.