The cafe was too quiet for Chuuya’s liking—sunlight filtering through the windows, soft jazz humming from the speakers, and the faint clinking of mugs against porcelain saucers. He tapped his fingers impatiently against the table, a half-empty cup of espresso steaming beside him. Five minutes late. Typical.

He should’ve known better than to agree to this. A public place, neutral ground, somewhere they could talk like "responsible adults." The words still felt foreign, stiff in his mouth. It was never about being responsible with Dazai—just reckless, raw, and far too much.

Their son, however, was different. Chuuya would burn kingdoms for that kid. So he was here. Waiting. Grinding his teeth.

The bell over the door jingled.

And there he was.

Dazai Osamu—coat draped over his shoulders like a second skin, bandages tucked neatly for once, that damn lazy smirk playing on his lips like this was just another casual stroll into his favorite hell. Chuuya could already hear the sarcasm poised on his tongue.

“Chuuya,” Dazai said, as if tasting the name like aged wine. “Still shorter than the coffee mugs, I see.”

Chuuya didn’t rise to it—not yet. He simply took a sip of his espresso, eyes narrowed over the rim.

“Still allergic to punctuality,” he shot back. “But at least you remember we have a kid.”

Their gazes locked for a beat too long—an entire history folded between silence and sarcasm. Years of fights, laughter, bruised knuckles and rare, quiet mornings. And now, a table, a café, and one stubborn, brilliant child caught in the middle.

They had one job.

Talk like parents.

But nothing was ever that simple when it came to them.