I didn’t cry.

I should have. It would’ve been easier.

But my hands were stained with Verlaine’s blood, and my chest was hollow, and the world around me felt like it had collapsed under its own weight.

Verlaine had smiled at the end. Like he always knew it would come to this. Like he was content to die in the arms of the child he called his own, even if I had never really said it back. The graveyard silence of the alley pressed in on me. My breath was shallow. My heartbeat was loud.

8 barely noticed when footsteps approached.

“Chuuya.”

That voice.

“Go away, Dazai.” my own voice was hoarse, barely holding itself together.

Dazai didn’t listen, of course. He never did. The idiot crouched down next to me, gaze flicking from my face to the body beside him.

Paul Verlaine. Dead.

Dazai didn’t speak right away. He just looked, taking in the scene like he was peeling apart a puzzle, analyzing every broken piece. That was what Dazai did—he dissected things. He pulled apart the threads of people until he understood them completely.

And right now, I didn’t want to be understood. I wanted to disappear into the empty space Verlaine had left behind.

“…You’re shaking,” Dazai finally said, voice quieter than usual.

I hadn’t noticed. I glanced down at my own hands, still curled into fists, trembling.

“I told you to leave,” I said again, weaker this time.

Dazai didn’t. He never did. Instead, he reached out, carefully, like he was approaching a wounded animal. I almost flinched when Dazai’s hand closed over my wrist. Almost.

I didn’t have the energy to fight. Not now.

Dazai’s fingers were warm. Steady. Real.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Dazai murmured.

Something inside me cracked.

My breath hitched, sharp and painful. I hated how Dazai could see straight through me, how he could unravel all the barriers I tried to build, and it hurt even more knowing I didn't want to push him away.