—trying to not get angry all over again when he remembers the first thing that stuck out in his mind about Chuuya. He’s /loyal./ The sort of person who, even in the face of /severe/ retaliation, put himself in the position of killing his mother to spare her from the pain.

He wonders, now, just how many people have taken advantage of that for their own gain. If /he/ would have done the same thing, if Chuuya meant less to him. And that forces him to confront the fact that Chuuya means /more/ to him. A /lot/ more. And, for the first time—

—he finds himself legitimately trying to imagine a scenario where this could /work./ He only comes up with two. One: they both leave. It’s inherently appealing to Dazai. He’s always loved his family, but he’s never been particularly interested in power. He’s always had it.

The idea of never seeing his uncle again, seeing what Chuuya’s face might look like when he /isn’t/ terrified of the future—it’s /nice./ Dazai could show him Milan—or Chuuya could show him Paris. Dazai thinks they would both /like/ that. And in that scenario, Chuuya—

—wouldn’t /need/ to look at anyone else, and Dazai wouldn’t have to attempt to pretend not to care. Maybe he wouldn’t /need/ Tainted Sorrow, and Dazai could hold onto him a little while longer. But it’s painful to consider, because Dazai knows— Chuuya would never leave.

Chuuya mentioned it earlier, to Ace— The time he ‘fell’ into a lake, and he made himself /sink./ He didn’t have to finish the story for Dazai to understand why Chuuya is still here. Becuase he’s more devoted to his family than anything else. And that devotion saves him as—

—much as it traps him. Then, there’s the second scenario. One where Mori is no longer alive, and Dazai is the head of the Port Mafia. Politically, it would be advantageous for him—officially bringing the Nakaharas into the fold. But it would be a /disaster/ for Chuuya.

It would come off in one of two ways: Him being forced into a political marriage Dazai in order to make his family subservient—which would undermine him. Or, that Chuuya /willingly/ chose to be by Dazai’s side, which would be seen as a /betrayal/ by many of his loved ones.

So— // “Under different circumstances, we would be together.” // There isn’t a scenario in which Chuuya can be with Dazai without compromising himself, his family, or /both./ Dazai’s arms tighten around him, his face pressing into Chuuya’s hair. It’s /maddeningly/ unfair.

At one point in the night, when Chuuya is completely limp and lost to his dreams, Dazai slips away from him—so careful as he moves that it takes him nearly a minute to get out of bed. His feet pad almost silently against the carpet as he slips out onto the hotel balcony, easing—

—the door shut behind him. The air is stiff, even though winter has been easing into spring. Dazai leans against the railing, staring over the city lights, cars sluggishly passing below, watching his breath drift away from him in a small puff of fog. He finds himself staring—

—at the bandages on his wrist, where they loosened under Chuuya’s grip during the night. Just a hint of the skull lying underneath pokes through, the sight of it making his lips turn down at the corners. Dazai wonders now, more often than not, of he’s the one that is beginning—

—to thaw. And that— Would be a /death wish./ But he left Chuuya’s arms to do more than just contemplate his own impending demise. Her voice is groggy when she answers the phone, “Do you have /any/ idea what time it is?” “...A bad one,” Dazai admits. “But I didn’t know who—“

“—else to call.” Suddenly, all irritation in her tone disappears. “Are you alright?” “...I’ve encountered a problem I don’t know how to deal with on my own.” Dazai admits, and he can /hear/ her surprise. “I never thought I would hear you admit that.” “...It’s not about me.”

Chuuya sleeps in later than what he’s used to, Dazai’s shirt slipping off of one shoulder as he hugs his entire body around one of the hotel pillows. He blinks sluggishly, his eyes adjusting to the sunlight streaming in through the window. When he sits up, rubbing his eyes—

—blearily with the back of his hand, the first thing he notices is that he’s alone, with the spot next to him empty. His first instinct—and he isn’t proud of it—is panic. But before it can truly settle in, a voice calls over, “I sent him to get you some breakfast.”

Chuuya’s eyes flicker over to the woman in the corner, who seems to be more busy reading a magazine than paying attention to him. She’s tall, slender, sitting in the armchair in the corner with her legs crossed, snake skin boots reaching over mid-thigh. “...You’re Mary Shelley.”

Her lips, filled in with black liner and gloss, curl into a smile. “Little lamb told you about me already, did he?” She muses, turning the page to a more interesting byline. “I suppose that means I was right. Chuuya bites back a laugh at the term, ‘little lamb’ in reference to—

—/Dazai/ of all people, but he has to ask. “Right about what?” Her eyes snap up to meet his. They’re a clear, piercing shade of green, like someone bottled the sea during a storm. Instead of answering his question, she shrugs. “He was concerned about how you would react if—“

“—you woke up alone.” She murmurs, her eyes turning back to the pages beneath her fingers. “He’s so much like his father, that way.” Chuuya raises an eyebrow, and she explains— “He overthinks.” /That/ couldn’t be more true, but Chuuya is guilty of it himself. “He didn’t need—“

“—to do that—“ “I told him as much.” Mary agrees, drumming long, black nails against the magazine cover. When Chuuya stares a little closer, he can see it’s a celebrity gossip rag. “I wouldn’t have wanted company either, if I were you.” Chuuya stiffens. “...What did he tell—“

“—you?” “...” She finally closes the magazine, setting it aside on the end table beside her. “He told me you both murdered a Port Mafia executive last night,” her eyes slide to Chuuya’s neck, which he covers self consciously. “But he spared most of the details to protect your—“

“—privacy.” Chuuya is suprised by that—and grateful for it. “But, given the situation, and how well I know Osamu...” she shrugs, resting her hands against her thigh. “I can put quite a lot together through conjecture.” Chuuya can understand that much, even if it makes him feel—

—a little /vulnerable/, for a woman he’s barely even met to know something that personal. “...He was Port Mafia,” Chuuya points out, pulling Dazai‘a shirt higher up on his shoulder. “You gonna tell yourself boss?” Mary’s eyes flash briefly. “The Port Mafia means nothing to me.”

Chuuya stares at her with disbelief—because he’s heard the stories. The Port Mafia’s mistress—the woman who made dead men walk in the streets—was feared until only a few years ago. She smiles—and it isn’t a happy one. “My loyalty went into the ground with Dazai’s father.”

She uncrosses her legs, rising from her chair to walk over to the window, glancing through the curtains. “I only give my commitment to the people who matter to me.” Which in her case, means Dazai. It doesn’t necessarily mean she wouldn’t do him harm—but it makes her better—

—than most of the people Chuuya has dealt with in the last few weeks. So he allows himself to relax. “How did you do it?” She asks quietly, not looking away from the window. “...I had him cut his own heart out,” Chuuya admits, waiting to judgment, surprise, or anything in—

—between. Mary tilts her head to the left, so he can see her face— And there’s something about the warmth and the approval in her smile that makes him /ache/, so much that it’s suddenly hard to breathe. “Well /done/, lad.” “...Thank you?” Chuuya blinks, surprised.

“I wasn’t exactly expecting a pat on the back—“ Mary snorts, pulling the curtains shut. “I’m not much of an advocate for forgiveness, I’m afraid.” She walks over, sitting on the edge of the bed, and despite her close proximity, Chuuya feels... /Comfortable./ “...Then what—“

—would you consider yourself an advocate for, exactly?” “...” Mary eyes him for a moment, contemplatively. “Consequences.” She answers quietly, and something about that word settles down in Chuuya’s chest, untangling a knot he hadn’t realized was there. It’s surprisingly—

—/validating./ She reaches forward, gently taking Chuuya’s hand—and he doesn’t push it away when she lifts it, examining the places where he’s scraped and bruised from using Tainted Sorrow the night before. “Hmm...” she unfolds his fingers, examining his nails. “May I?”

Chuuya nods hesitantly, not sure of what to make of her quite yet, but slowly starting to become trusting. She reaches into her bag, pulling out a nail file as she kicks off her boots, pulling her legs up to sit cross legged on the bed. She takes Chuuya’s wrist, delicately—

—shifting his fingers into place so she can work on the torn edges of his nails. Chuuya finds himself slowly starting to ease into her touch. “Are we having a sleepover or something?” “Nothing bothers me more than a chipped nail,” she shrugs, focusing on her work. “You seem—“

“—like someone that would feel the same way.” Chuuya knows, even when he’s just woken up after a /shitty/ night, that it’s obvious from looking at him that he takes pride in his appearance. So he can’t /blame/ her. And this takes him back—to when he used to do this with, well—

...His own mother. “It might not feel like it right now,” she murmurs, her eyes not lifting from his nails, “but last night—it’ll feel better.” Chuuya is quiet, his eyes flickering away to stare at the empty space on the other side of the bed. “...How do you know?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, carefully buffing Chuuya’s thumbnail until it’s perfectly a rounded. “Because you’re still here, and he isn’t—“ she muses, moving on to his other hand. “Whenever I remember Percy, I think of him in pieces.” “...Did it feel good?” Chuuya murmurs.

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