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Summary
There's a rather fine vintage of red wine already uncorked, aerating next to a pair of pristine wine glasses on the coffee table. Further down the table there's a shape Chuuya vaguely recognizes as a carafe from one of his cabinets, filled with the stems of a bouquet of riotous colors and adding a faint hint of floral to the overall scent profile of the room. The music is easily traceable to the old stereo in the corner that Chuuya couldn't bear to look at for so long yet equally hated the thought of getting rid of. All of this, however, had nothing on the absolute vision that was Dazai Osamu sprawled so casually across his couch, as if he belonged there, as if he had never left.