Chuuya’s apartment was a mess of half-empty beer bottles, scattered lyric sheets, and the lingering scent of coffee and cigarette smoke. The speakers hummed softly in the background, playing some indie track that Dazai had probably snuck onto his playlist when he wasn’t looking.

Lounging on Chuuya’s couch like he owned the place, Dazai plucked lazily at an acoustic guitar, fingers idly finding a tune. “You know,” he mused, staring at the ceiling, “for a rockstar, you have a pretty tame living space. No broken guitars, no dramatic posters of yourself?”

Chuuya, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, rolled his eyes. “I like my place being livable, dumbass.” He took a sip of his drink before glancing over at Dazai. “Besides, if you wanted chaos, you should’ve invited yourself to Yuki’s place instead.”

Dazai’s fingers faltered on the strings for just a second before he smoothly transitioned into another chord. “Mm. No thanks,” he said, his voice light but edged with something unreadable. “I’d rather be here.”

Chuuya sighed. He didn’t get it. Ever since he’d started dating Yuki, she and Dazai had been at each other’s throats. He knew Dazai could be a pain in the ass, but Yuki wasn’t exactly innocent either. He had no idea what started their resentment, but he was tired of playing referee.

“Seriously, what’s your problem with her?” Chuuya muttered, rubbing his temples.

Dazai didn’t answer right away. He just kept strumming, eyes half-lidded like he was lost in thought. “Let’s just say I know things you don’t.”

Chuuya groaned. “That’s not an answer, bastard.”

Dazai’s lips twitched into a smirk. “And yet, it’s all you’re getting.”

The tension hung between them, thick and unspoken. Chuuya wanted to push, to demand an actual explanation. But before he could, Dazai’s fingers danced across the guitar strings again, filling the silence with music.

A distraction. A deflection.

And Chuuya let it slide—just like he always did.