antigoner
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Chuuya tries not to wonder how he did it. It’s hard not to. Half a year of searching and not a trace. No trail, no body, no note. The official report says something about a suspected drowning the middle of ocean. Sometimes he’ll hold his head under in the tub and try to imagine how it’d feel; whether it’d hurt. He comes up, nose burning, and coughs until his chest aches.
Chuuya deals with Dazai's presumed suicide and, subsequently, his actual defection.
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“‘Just alcohol?’ One of his hands is still pressed in Dazai’s vest and he gives Dazai a little shake with them to emphasize the question.
‘Just alcohol,’ Dazai dutifully repeats with another smile.
“You’re not usually like this,” Chuuya mutters skeptically.
‘Like what?’ He flutters his eyelashes as innocently as he can muster. ‘Like what, like what?’
‘All giggly and clingy and shit. You’re acting like some lovesick teenage girl during her first night out on the town or something.’
Is he?”
Dazai steals a bottle of bourbon from Chuuya’s collection.