Chuuya sat on the edge of the Port Mafia headquarters' rooftop, one leg swinging lazily into open air, the other anchored firmly against the concrete ledge. A cigarette rested between his lips, its ember flickering like a heartbeat in the dark. With a slow drag, he pulled in the smoke, held it, then exhaled into the chill night, watching the haze unravel and vanish into the stars.

Yokohama stretched out below him—quiet, unaware. It should’ve made him feel powerful, this height, this solitude. It didn’t. It just felt distant.

The metal door creaked open behind him. He didn’t flinch. The footsteps that followed were so familiar, they may as well have been part of the wind—measured, slow, deliberate. Chuuya didn’t bother turning around. He already knew.

"Took you long enough," he muttered, taking another drag.

There was no surprise in his voice, only a tired kind of knowing. Like he’d expected Dazai to show up eventually. Because he always did. Uninvited. Unapologetic. Like gravity itself—annoying, constant, and impossible to shake. Except Dazai, unlike gravity, was not something Chuuya could ever control.

Chuuya kept his eyes on the skyline, but his chest felt heavier now, tight in a way the cigarette couldn’t fix. It always felt like this when Dazai was near—like breathing got harder, like his heart had to work twice as hard to pretend it didn’t care.

He hated that. Hated how well he knew those footsteps. Hated the silence between them, thick with things neither of them would ever say. Hated how even now, after everything, part of him still wanted Dazai to sit beside him, like he used to.

And hated himself more for still wanting it.