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If one were to describe Chuuya Nakahara in a single word, many people who only knew him superficially would likely say that he was a confident man—that they found this confidence attractive. The way he presented himself to the world, how he always rolled his shoulders back and kept his gaze firmly forward—there was a reason why Chuuya had risen so quickly within the Mafia.
Even those who knew him better thought he was self-assured, but they wouldn't say that confidence was his defining trait. They might instead say that he was loyal. That he cared for his friends and family and would sacrifice himself for them—without even blinking—if it came down to it.
But in reality, it was likely only Chuuya himself who knew that this confidence was just a façade.
Whenever his gaze met the mirror while he was in the shower, he turned the water hotter so the steam would blur the glass and make his reflection unrecognizable. Before pulling on his pants or shirts in the morning, the gloves always came first—covering the scars so he wouldn't have to look at them. Whenever things between him and Dazai turned more intimate, he always jumped up and turned off the lights before things escalated and Dazai could catch a better glimpse of his exposed skin.
When asked why he always did that, he would grin teasingly and say, "Don't you like it? I think it’s sexy," before kissing the brunette until he forgot the question altogether.
All in all, though, Chuuya was fine. Really.
As long as he stuck to his learned routines—regular exercise and only allowing himself proper meals every now and then—he had control over himself. Corruption often made him feel like he wasn’t the one in control over his mind. But his body—he could shape his body, he could paint it, and erase the details he didn’t like. He was a canvas, and he was his own artist.
And so, his whole life, he had held onto the brush tightly, doing everything in his power to ensure the outside world never saw the body beneath the layers of paint. What an ordinary artist might describe as "fiery red" was, for Chuuya, his hair—letting it grow at will and spending hours styling it so it framed his face with elegance. The blue tones of a color palette swam in his eyes, which he rarely left unlined without Makeup, since dark circles and tired features didn’t exude the confidence he needed. Yellow splashes of color were his daily hours at the gym, and purple strokes came through his carefully selected diet. His sense of fashion, developed over the years until he was satisfied with himself, was the finishing touch. At the start of his Mafia career, he had only worn monotonous black suits, but now he had a refined style—he liked to reflect his soul through his clothing.
All in all, truly—Chuuya was fine.
Or at least, everything was fine until one seemingly normal morning when his partner, still half-asleep, wrapped an arm around Chuuya’s waist and refused to let go, even as the alarm clock blared.
Chuuya had always liked Dazai’s hands. They were large and could almost encompass his waist. His fingers had a certain tenderness when they traced over Chuuya’s skin and pulled him close. Even though they were often cold, it was refreshing—a pleasant contrast to Chuuya’s natural warmth.
Exhaling deeply, Chuuya enjoyed the last few moments in his partner’s arms before having to face reality again, focusing on every spot Dazai touched as the brunette mumbled incomprehensible things—probably complaints about still being tired.
"Hey, sleepyhead," Chuuya nudged Dazai’s nose lightly and blinked down at him, his gaze resting on his partner’s furrowed brows. "We need to get up, so stop clinging to me like a human leech."
"Mhh," Dazai groaned, burying his face into Chuuya’s chest. "Go back to sleep. The Mafia burned down."
Chuuya snorted at that and buried his hands in Dazai’s soft locks. "You are so stupid."
A few seconds passed before Chuuya shook Dazai’s shoulders again. "But seriously, we need to get up."
And then—it happened.
Chuuya felt Dazai’s fingertips pressing into his stomach. At first, he didn’t register it; it was a soft touch. It didn’t bother him, he barely noticed it.
But then, Dazai murmured sleepily against his chest, "I can finally grab onto your stomach. You don’t have that rock-hard torso anymore."
And Chuuya froze.
Because Dazai’s fingers had curled around love handles.
His body wasn’t defined.
There was skin that shouldn’t be there.
Fat that should’ve been burned off long ago and shouldn’t have formed in the first place.
Suddenly, Chuuya felt like his body was swelling, like his entire canvas was melting away, revealing the ugly pencil sketch underneath—one that Chuuya hadn’t even drawn himself. Dazai’s fingers felt like claws, digging into his lifeless body like a vulture holding him in place, ready to consume him.
With a sharp movement, Chuuya pushed away from him and, with a rapidly beating heart, got out of bed. "Come on. We don’t have much time left."
Behind him, Dazai grumbled in disappointment but didn’t seem to notice what Chuuya was going through.
The rest of the morning, Chuuya worked with swift, precise motions. He didn’t allow himself a moment to think—he drowned himself in his routine. No breaks, no thoughts. And then, he would be fine.
Before he had been with Dazai, there had been many days like this—where he fought through the day without leaving himself any time to think about all the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. In the morning and afternoon, the Mafia filled his entire schedule, and he often took missions outside of Yokohama to keep himself distracted with new scenery and countries. But at night, he was left alone with himself, and that was always the hardest part.
There had been a phase where he sought temporary distractions—one-night stands with men or alcohol. But when he realized that lifestyle wasn’t helping either, he tried sports. He tried art. He tried and tried.
Nothing helped against the constant loneliness.
By now, he should have grown past these problems. That’s what he told himself as he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply.
So why did he still feel this way?
Had he not changed at all?
The day passed in a blur, Chuuya on autopilot until he drove home. His hands clenched around the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The passing lights blurred his vision, and he blinked against the brightness with aching eyelids.
As soon as he stepped inside, Dazai came out of the living room, wrapping his arms around Chuuya’s shoulders. "Where have you been? You can’t just leave me alone on a friday like that!"
Chuuya’s body tensed involuntarily, and the normally soothing touches from Dazai sent shivers down his spine. That’s why he slipped out of his grasp and took off his shoes.
“There was a lot to do today. Sorry,” he muttered.
His tone was colder than usual, more distant. Hopefully, Dazai would just think he was tired.
Aside from a noticeably piercing glance, Dazai didn’t let anything show. “Mori is giving you way too much work!” he complained, crossing his arms. “You could just as well be spending that time with your boyfriend!”
“Mhm,” Chuuya responded curtly, shrugging his jacket off his shoulders. A thicker shirt than usual covered his skin. “That’s what happens when you’re an Executive. And I don’t have the luxury of complaining about it.”
Dazai wrinkled his nose and followed Chuuya step by step as he headed toward the living room. “When I was an Executive, I didn’t have to do this much work.”
Chuuya raised an eyebrow. “Guess who had to take on most of your workload back then because you were too lazy.”
Dazai blinked at him innocently, grinning. “And you did it gladly, of course, because you wanted to support your old partner!”
“Oh, absolutely,” Chuuya shot back sarcastically, then glanced at the clock. “It’s already late. We should get some sleep.”
Dazai looked at him, puzzled. “Did your hat eat your brain?” He pointed at the kitchen table, where noodles and chicken sat waiting. “You haven’t eaten yet.”
Chuuya suppressed the disgusted expression that threatened to appear on his face and merely shook his head. “I already ate. Sorry, I should have told you.”
He hadn’t eaten anything today, but he kept that to himself. In the beginning of their relationship, he had often had to force Dazai to eat properly because his mental state sometimes made it difficult for him to consume enough calories. So it wasn’t fair that Chuuya allowed himself to do the same.
“With who?” Dazai whined in outrage, pouting. “You said you were only working!”
“I was hungry and ordered something to my office,” Chuuya clarified, trying to head to the bathroom.
But Dazai stopped him, his gentle fingers holding onto Chuuya’s hips as he leaned in close to his ear. “How about we take a bath? It’s Friday.”
Goosebumps spread across Chuuya’s skin, and with precise movements, he freed himself from Dazai’s arms—perhaps with a bit more force than intended.
“No, I’m tired,” he said tightly, avoiding Dazai’s gaze, which was clearly surprised by his reaction. Dazai’s hands still hovered uncertainly in the air.
“Is everything—” Before Dazai could finish his question, Chuuya cut him off and stepped fully into the bathroom.
“I won’t take long. You can go after me,” he said before locking the door behind him.
Exhaling deeply, he leaned against the sink, rubbing his eyes.
He had no right to be angry at Dazai. The brunet had made his comment without any ill intentions; he wasn’t even aware of what he had triggered. But still, Chuuya’s heart pounded rapidly against his chest, and he clenched his fists. He avoided looking in the mirror.
Unfortunately, his partner wasn’t stupid. And when Chuuya barely ate for several days, when he started wearing a sweater at night—despite always sleeping in lighter clothes because he tended to overheat—and when he noticeably avoided Dazai, Dazai finally grabbed his sleeve before he could slip away from another embrace.
“Chuuya,” he murmured, his hands once again finding Chuuya’s hips even though he had just been pushed away. “What’s wrong with you? You’ve been acting strange lately.”
Even though Chuuya felt uncomfortable—he was afraid that Dazai would once again find something about him to hate—he resisted the urge to escape his grip and merely clenched his teeth briefly. “I’m just stressed from work. Don’t worry about it.”
“No.”
Dazai stiffened at that response, his eyes turning cold. “You can’t lie to me. I see it. Something happened, and I don’t know what.”
Chuuya groaned in frustration, rolling his eyes. “Not everything I do is automatically your business.”
He turned around, and Dazai’s hands fell away from him.
“If you really want to help, then give me some space.”
At first, as Chuuya walked into the kitchen, he thought that was the end of the discussion. But as soon as he entered the room, Dazai followed right after him.
And Chuuya really didn’t want to have this conversation right now.
The lack of food had left him with mood swings, and he just knew that this would escalate into a fight.
“Why are you shutting me out like this?” Dazai crossed his arms, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You always tell me that we’re partners and that I should share all my worries with you.”
He let out a bitter chuckle. “But maybe next time, I should keep my efforts to myself. Since trust doesn’t seem to go both ways.”
“That’s completely different,” Chuuya snapped back, rubbing his temple as his head throbbed with pain. “If you didn’t tell me about your shit, you’d be found dead under a bridge. I just want a little bit of peace from you—is that too much to ask?”
Silence. There was something vulnerable in Dazais eyes.
Then, the brunette sighed.
“Not eating is also a form of self-punishment, Chuuya,” he said, turning toward the coat rack.
Chuuya stood frozen in place in the kitchen, listening as Dazai took his coat off the hanger and laced up his shoes. For some reason, it hit hard for Chuuya to hear the words spoken out loud. That Dazai was aware that Chuuya hadn’t eaten pretty much anything in the last week.
“I’m heading into town for a bit. I need new bandages.”
With that, the front door shut behind him.
Chuuya ran a frustrated hand through his hair, tears welling up in his eyes.
Fuck, he was not okay.
The next few days were… difficult.
Chuuya stuck to his routine, maybe even stricter than before. Food was reduced to the bare minimum, every free minute was spent training.
And Dazai—Dazai, strangely enough, left him alone.
No annoying questions, no sarcastic comments, no attempts to pull him into hugs.
And that almost made Chuuya even angrier.
But then he started noticing the small things.
His favorite meal was always on the table when he came home at night—steaming udon, perfectly seasoned. Dazai would just sit there, acting like it was a coincidence. “I was hungry and made too much,” he’d mumble casually, flipping through a newspaper.
Or the missing weight when Chuuya tried to push himself to exhaustion at the gym—as if someone had secretly swapped out the heavier dumbbells.
“Maybe you should take a break,” Kouyou mentioned one morning when they crossed paths at the Mafia headquarters. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”
He scoffed. “I’m fine.”
“Of course,” she replied dryly, giving him a pointed look before changing the subject.
But it stuck with him.
Not when he found himself in a fight the next day and his movements felt sluggish. Not when Akutagawa frowned at him after it took him a moment too long to get back on his feet.
The following days, they ignored the fight.
Dazai stopped interfering in Chuuya’s life, though he still noticed when Chuuya barely ate or hugged himself at night, avoiding all touch.
But he didn’t say anything anymore.
Instead, they acted neutral towards each other. Pretending everything was fine.
From time to time, Chuuya liked having lunch with Dazai’s colleagues. Even though it had taken some getting used to at first—Chuuya had been bitter for quite some time about Dazai leaving the Mafia—he could now admit that they were good for him and that he cared for them.
As soon as he entered the café—Atsushi was the first to spot him and waved at him cheerfully—he was greeted by a familiar sight. With a groan, he watched as Dazai ran his fingertips over the waitress’s palm, shamelessly flirting with her. He did this all the time, and even though Chuuya knew he only did it for attention, it still made him angry. Especially now, when their relationship was so fragile.
Exhausted, he dropped into the seat next to Atsushi, across from Dazai, who merely grinned at him before turning back to the waitress. Kunikida and Yosano, who were also sitting at the table, looked visibly embarrassed by Dazai’s behavior, and Chuuya could feel their pitying glances on him.
Normally, Chuuya would have reacted—would have torn his stupid boyfriend apart in front of everyone, giving him the attention he so desperately craved. But he was dizzy. He was tired. He simply didn’t have the energy to put up much of a fight.
Atsushi seemed to notice that something was wrong because as soon as Chuuya sat down, he looked at him shyly. "Nakahara-san, are you okay? You look a little pale."
Chuuya could feel the glance Dazai threw his way at the question, but he skillfully ignored it.
"Call me Chuuya," he repeated for probably the thousandth time, "And yeah, don’t worry about it."
Although Atsushi didn’t seem entirely convinced, he was probably too awkward to press further, so he just nodded with a smile. "Okay."
With that, Kunikida and Yosano resumed their previous conversation, which Chuuya only half-listened to. Instead, his eyes landed on the waitress herself—black hair framing her face, large dark eyes giving her an innocent look. But it wasn’t her face that caught his attention. No, it was her thin wrists, which Dazai’s fingers encircled. Her slender waist and petite frame. It was stupid to be jealous over such details—he was a man, after all. Of course, he had a different body type; his shoulders were broader, his waist less defined.
But when Chuuya saw how Dazai gazed at this woman—whether he was doing it just to provoke Chuuya didn’t matter at that moment—he couldn’t help but compare himself. Couldn’t help but wish he looked like her. That he had never been born with his abilities and had instead lived a simple life as a barista in a café.
An ugly feeling spread through Chuuya’s chest, and he swallowed it down as best as he could. He looked away, refusing to meet his boyfriend’s eyes.
Because Chuuya wasn’t a jealous person.
But in weak moments, he sometimes wished he could be more honest with his feelings.
The moment Dazai saw the dark shadow flicker across Chuuya’s face, he stopped his nonsense and let the waitress disappear into the kitchen. Neither of them exchanged a glance.
When Chuuya came home later that day and went into the bathroom, his gaze inevitably wandered to the mirror. A man stared back at him, his deep eye bags and sunken cheekbones only a few of the signs of his exhaustion. With careful fingers, Chuuya ran his hand through his normally perfectly styled hair, which today looked dry and colorless. Without being able to stop himself, he imagined the waitress by his side and compared her dark eyes with his own blue ones, which appeared washed-out and expressionless. He could almost picture her narrow shoulders and rolled his own a few times, aware that his were much broader and muscular. And then there were his scars, which could never be seen. But he knew they were there. And they always lurked beneath the surface, just waiting to show the world what kind of monster lay behind the facade.
Chuuya tried to suppress these thoughts, started pacing up and down the bathroom, ruffled his hair, and muttered curses under his breath. Everything would get better soon; it was just a phase, just the winter causing his mood swings. But the longer he convinced himself of that, the stronger the pull on his own hair became, until his entire scalp ached, and the less he could believe it himself.
And the next time he passed the mirror like a tiger, he couldn’t hold back anymore. Blue, naive, tired eyes stared back at him.
He swung his fist, and his face shattered into a thousand small fragments, a thousand small eyes staring back at him.
Once his fist collided with the glass, he stumbled back a few steps in shock, and sharp pain shot through his body. Although he still had his black gloves on, a few shards had embedded themselves into his forearm, as he noticed when he felt the blood flowing down his body.
"Fucking shit!" he cursed loudly and held his hand with the other one, stumbling back until he leaned against a wall.
A few seconds later, Dazai rushed into the bathroom – in the last few days, they had barely greeted each other when the other had come home early.
With wild eyes, he scanned the damage, first checking if Chuuya was hurt – Chuuya’s instinctive reaction was to hide his injured hand – and then the ruined mirror, which was completely shattered in the middle.
Only then did he briefly close his eyes in frustration before turning to Chuuya. "Are you hurt? Do you need help bandaging your hand?"
Dazed, Chuuya blinked up at him, saw the concern in his eyes, and suddenly felt terribly embarrassed by it all. So, he just shook his head and looked down at the floor, where many reflections of Chuuya stared back at him in the shards, as if they were deer caught in the headlights of a car: "Don’t worry, it’s all-"
But Dazai cynically interrupted him, snorting in disdain: "Let me guess, it’s all fine?"
Chuuya’s gaze snapped up, but Dazai was already approaching him, aggressively taking Chuuya’s hand in his and lifting it. Chuuya hissed in pain, and honestly, he was also pissed and wanted to shout at Dazai, but Dazai was quicker, pointing accusingly at the blood that was slowly drying.
"You call this fine? That the blood is even more noticeable on your pale skin because you haven’t put any decent food into this idiot body of yours for weeks?"
Annoyed, Chuuya pulled his hand away and glared venomously at Dazai, who met his gaze challengingly: "Don’t touch me."
A bitter taste rose in his throat, and he smirked coldly. "Shouldn’t you be with the waitress? Why waste your time worrying about me when she wouldn’t stress you out as much?"
Normally, Chuuya would never say something like that out loud—really. And when he was thinking clearly, he wouldn’t even entertain the thought, because he wasn’t a jealous person.
But when Dazai’s eyes widened, and Chuuya himself parted his lips in surprise at his own words, there was no taking them back. No undoing them.
Frustrated, Dazai raked a hand through his hair. "Why are you so damn complicated? Since when do you even care who I flirt with?"
"I don’t care," Chuuya snapped back instantly, arms crossing tightly over his chest. "I just want you to leave me alone."
Dazai’s expression darkened at that. So much so that he looked more sad than angry.
There was so much left unsaid. So much that Chuuya thought about taking his words back, parting his lips to clarify.
But instead, after a long pause, Dazai simply ended the conversation with a hollow finality.
"Then don’t break mirrors."
Dazai left the bathroom again, leaving Chuuya alone, breathing heavily.
The unspoken words—'If you don’t want me interfering, stop hurting yourself'—hung heavily in the air, and Chuuya had to suppress the tears threatening to escape his eyes.
A few days later, it happened.
He was on his way to his office. Strangely, he could barely feel his legs, and the world around him seemed darker than usual. But he did his best to ignore the creeping sense of unease.
Akutagawa passed him, nodding in greeting, but then suddenly hesitated.
The younger man furrowed his brows. "Chuuya, are you okay?"
How Chuuya had grown to hate that question. With blurred vision, he waved it off reluctantly. "Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?"
Wanting to avoid further conversation, he tried to sidestep Akutagawa, but suddenly he stumbled. Black spots danced before his eyes, sharp pain pierced his head, and then—he felt nothing. The last thing he saw was Akutagawa’s concerned face before everything went dark.
As he slept, he remembered when his problems had started.
Back when he was with the Sheep, he had never had enough to eat. Often, he had to go days without food, giving everything he had to the younger members of the group. Back then, he had thought it was his duty as their leader. That was why he knew the cramps in his stomach, the constant dizziness, and the weakness that had to be overcome.
But hunger was a good feeling. It showed him that he was an empathetic person, someone who gave his rations to those who needed them more.
In the Mafia, there was no longer a reason to starve. There was plenty of everything. And it was necessary—he needed the strength to build muscle and become stronger. But whenever he felt bad, he stopped eating for a while. To remind himself of that painfully human feeling from his youth. Before he had sworn loyalty to a corrupt organization.
And then there was Dazai.
Dazai, who had always seen what Chuuya was going through. Who had always seen right through him.
Chuuya had hated that once. He still didn’t like it—because he was afraid that one day, Dazai would realize Chuuya was broken. That he wasn’t beautiful.
That someday, Dazai would wake up and realize why he had never asked Chuuya to leave the mafia with him in the first place.
Chuuya blinked against the blinding light and groaned in exhaustion. Even without looking around, the sterile scent told him he was in the Mafia’s hospital. His headache throbbed behind his temples, and with a hiss, he rubbed at them in an attempt to ease the pain.
Suddenly, a hand appeared, holding a glass of water.
Through half-lidded eyes, he recognized the person as Dazai. He looked exhausted, staring at Chuuya intently. "Drink. It’s painkillers."
Without hesitation, Chuuya took the glass, intending to down it all in one go. But after a few sips, Dazai gently grasped his chin and the glass. "Slowly. You haven’t eaten in a while—you’ll throw up if you drink too fast."
As if the universe was mocking him, Chuuya’s stomach chose that moment to protest, and an uneasy feeling washed over him.
Exhaling deeply, he tried to pull himself together. "How long was I out?" His voice was hoarse and rough, so he cleared his throat awkwardly.
"A few hours," Dazai replied, folding his arms. "If you hadn’t conveniently collapsed into Akutagawa’s arms, it would’ve been much longer."
Dazai nodded toward the IV drips beside the bed. "They had to give you artificial nutrition. Because you were practically starving."
Chuuya processed the information, blinking against the pain searing through his body. He had eaten enough, hadn’t he? His body was just used to overconsuming food in the Mafia, so smaller portions probably felt insufficient now. How ungrateful his body had become, he thought bitterly.
"Oh," Chuuya mumbled, ashamed, feeling his face heat up. He had never intended for his problems to become anyone else’s burden. And he didn’t want Dazai to see him so vulnerable. So he lowered his gaze, unable to look up. "I… I’m sorry."
Dazai sighed before carefully taking Chuuya’s hand in his own. "May I?" he asked calmly, and Chuuya just nodded. The feeling of being held was comforting, making him even more emotional.
"Listen," Dazai began, his thumb tracing gentle circles on Chuuya’s palm. "I know you’re going through a lot. But it really hurt me that you shut me out."
Chuuya felt his cheeks prickle and pressed his lips together. "It’s… difficult."
"I know," Dazai replied, then forced Chuuya to meet his gaze. "But you have to try, Chuuya. Talk to me. Tell me what’s bothering you." He exhaled deeply, his fingers tightening slightly. "I don’t want to get another call from the Mafia saying you’re in the hospital."
A shadow flickered over Chuuya’s face. And suddenly, he remembered what it was like when their roles had been reversed—when he had been the one sitting helplessly by a hospital bed, wondering why he had never been enough to be part of Dazai’s worries.
Chuuya’s voice was shaky he gathered himself to respond. "I can't bring myself to eat. I don't think that I deserve to."
The weight of the admission was heavy, but Chuuya tried to ignore the pressure in his chest, clenching his fists. “I... don’t like my body. I never have. And I was…” He trailed off, swallowing bitterly. His vision blurred once more, though this time for a different reason.
After a brief pause, Dazai gently urged him on, “What is it, Chuuya?”
Gasping for air, Chuuya tried to suppress the sob that threatened to escape his throat, but his words still came out wet and vulnerable: “I was so insecure. About what you would think, too. And I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you away, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
The moment the apology left his lips, he could no longer hold back the sobs. Tears spilled from his eyes, and choked noises escaped his mouth.
At first, Dazai was stunned—he had never seen Chuuya cry so openly before. But it took him less than three seconds before he carefully pulled his boyfriend into a tight embrace. Chuuya’s shoulders trembled, and Dazai could feel the wetness of his tears against his neck, but the only thing that mattered in that moment was how tightly Chuuya clung to him—like he would drown if he let go. Running a soothing hand up and down his back and whispering sweet nothings into his ear, Dazai let Chuuya release everything he had been holding in for weeks. And it felt damn good when, little by little, Chuuya finally allowed himself to relax into the touch, his shaking gradually subsiding.
Once Chuuya had calmed down a bit, reduced to only the occasional sniffle, Dazai slowly pulled away from the hug. The sudden loss of warmth left Chuuya feeling cold—until Dazai gently cupped his chin and held his gaze firmly. “You are perfect for me. And no matter what happens, that will never change.”
Chuuya felt the urge to argue, but Dazai didn’t give him the chance. Instead, he traced seemingly random patterns onto Chuuya’s skin with his fingertips.
“To me, you are beautiful when you use Corruption, even as a god tears you apart from the inside. To me, you are beautiful when you are just a normal person—just you, Chuuya. You will always be enough for me.”
Dazai smiled softly, his eyes glistening. “So please, let me help you when you’re struggling. You don’t have to go through everything alone—you have me, too.”
“Trust me.”
Later, Chuuya made Dazai swear a blood oath that the moment he broke down crying a second time would remain between them, taken to the grave, because his reputation simply wouldn’t survive it. But for the first time in a long while, he felt both understood and loved.
Because Dazai knew every sharp edge of him. He saw every imperfection and loved him anyway.
Step by step, things slowly got better. Of course, there would still be bad days—there always would be. But that was part of being human.
And with Dazai by his side, he could get through them.
The reflection in the mirror became easier to look at again.