Dazai stepped into the bar and let his gaze sweep across the dimly lit room. It didn’t take long—his eyes landed on the familiar figure seated at the counter, and a slow, almost involuntary smile curled on his lips. His heart skipped a beat, traitorous and loud in his chest. He could command every muscle in his body to stillness, every breath to quiet... but not that. Never that, not with Chuuya.

He was hardly ever in control where Chuuya Nakahara was concerned, though he wore the mask of it well.

He looked the same. No, not quite. Still short, not a centimeter taller—Dazai would have bet his life on that. The fiery red hair was a little longer now, brushing past his shoulders in soft waves, though still defiantly untamed. That ridiculous hat still perched on his head, stubbornly present. And Dazai knew—knew with a strange ache—that if Chuuya turned, he’d meet those mismatched eyes. One deep brown, the other a piercing shade of blue. A contradiction Dazai had never been able to stop looking at.

He moved silently, footsteps swallowed by the murmur of the bar, until he reached the empty stool beside him. Only when he sat down did Chuuya notice him.

Dazai leaned his elbow on the counter, voice as smooth and familiar as ever. “Getting drunk alone, Chibi? How classless.”