Ever since Dazai met Chuuya, it was like flipping a switch. Of course, he wasn’t instantly healed, that’s not how life works.

He still relapsed and drank himself stupid, but Chuuya was always there now.

Dazai was lying on his poor excuse of a bed (a dirty, old mattress on the floor of the shipping container he called home), humming to himself as he waited for Chuuya.

Hours ticked by. Where was he? Dazai was getting impatient and, as much as he hates to admit, slightly worried.