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Tick, tock. Tick, tock…
The grandfather clock is the only sound in the room as Chūya sits in a plush red armchair, waiting for his partner in crime. He lounges sideways in the chair, his body draped over one armrest as if melting into the fabric. His legs hang over the other armrest, swinging slightly as he grows increasingly impatient.
Where the hell is he? Chūya thinks, eyes drifting around the familiar space.
Golden sunlight pours through the tall, glass-paneled windows, casting long, dramatic shadows across the checkered marble floor. There’s a heavy stillness in the air, as if time itself has paused, reluctant to disturb the delicate balance between light and shadow. Smooth mahogany racks line the west wall, while the south wall is covered in cupboards set behind a matching bar-top bench.
It’s become a ritual for them. At the end of a mission, they meet in Mori’s office at sunset and drink to oblivion. It’s unusual for Dazai to be late — he prides himself on finishing the job and getting back to headquarters. Chūya will never let him live this down. Maybe it’ll knock that ego of his down a few pegs.
Chūya shifts in his seat, eyes flicking to the grandfather clock in the corner, its slow tick echoing in the silence. His lips press together in a thin line. It’s been nearly an hour since Dazai was due back.
What the fuck is taking him so long?
He reaches into his coat, pulling out his phone again. No messages. No calls. No smartass excuses. Just a string of silence — as loud as a scream.
The mission had been simple, or so they’d said — a quick infiltration, a quiet extraction. And Dazai had gone alone, insisting he’d “work better in solitude.” Chūya had argued, shouted even, but in the end, he let him go. He trusted him.
Well, I may as well get started, Chūya thinks. He unfolds himself from the chair as if every movement weighs twice as much and strolls across the room to the bar. Casually, he steps behind it, gazing over the shelves lined with vintage bottles. Mori prides himself on his reserve of top-quality wines — probably the only thing Chūya can genuinely appreciate about him.
His eyes flick from label to label until they land on one he knows all too well.
The bottle of Pétrus 1889 stands like a relic from another era — tall, dust-veiled, and regal in its age-worn grace. Its deep green glass is slightly mottled, the curvature hand-blown with faint, graceful imperfections that whisper of 19th-century craftsmanship. A thick, oxidized cork seals the neck, stained dark by time and wine, while traces of wax cling stubbornly to its base. The label, faded and yellowed with age, still bears the noble Pétrus name in weathered ink. Its ornate typography is partially obscured by watermarks and the slow erosion of over a century. The vintage year — 1889 — sits proudly beneath the crest, barely legible but unmistakably etched, like a date carved in stone.
Chūya scoffs at the sight.
Mori must be sucking up after that shit-show of a mission, he thinks, grabbing the bottle and two glasses before returning to the armchair. He places the glasses on the small circular table and slumps back into his seat.
He gazes at the bottle, stunned that he’d never noticed it on the shelf before tonight. The cork crumbles like ash between his fingers. The scent — faint but steady — stops him mid-motion. It’s rich without being loud. Fragile, but intact. Like a note left behind by someone who knew they wouldn’t be coming back.
He pours slowly, reverently, watching the garnet liquid curl into the glasses like spilled ink across silk.
Of course, he pours both glasses. Dazai will be back soon.
Still, Chūya doesn’t wait before taking a sip of his favorite wine.
He doesn’t toast. Doesn’t speak.
Just lifts the glass and brings it to his lips — and for a moment, something inside him pauses.
The wine is soft. Impossibly so. There’s no sharpness, no arrogance. Just layers — aged and ghostlike. Earth. Dried roses. Black cherry. Leather. A hint of tobacco smoke caught in velvet.
It tastes like memory.
Like something rare and sad and beautiful.
Chūya leans back in his chair, eyes half-lidded. He doesn’t smile, but his expression softens in the dim light — like the edge of a blade dulled by time.
Before he notices, he’s pouring another glass.
Another.
Another.
Another.
Until he lifts the bottle with ease, surprised by how light it’s become. He pours the rest into his glass — not even enough to fill it — and finishes it in a single gulp.
It had gotten dark hours ago. He lazily glances at the clock for the first time in a while.
Seventeen minutes past five.
Could he be… Chūya’s mind begins to spiral through every worst-case scenario.
No. That’s not possible. It’s bloody Dazai, for goodness’ sa—
Suddenly, a hand touches the doorknob, twisting it slowly.
The soft click breaks the stillness like a pin dropped in a silent room.
Instinctively, Chūya turns — shoulders tensing, heart skipping just once. His eyes flick to the door, breath caught in his throat, waiting to see who it is.
The moment stretches thin, fragile as glass, heavy with the weight of who it might be.
“Chūya, are you in there?” a feminine voice calls out, then steps into the room.
Kōyō? Chūya slumps back into the chair, head spinning from the sudden movement.
Damn… Did I really finish the whole bottle?
Her footsteps fill the space — the loudest sound in over twelve hours.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Kōyō exclaims, crossing the room.
“Watta yooou wann?” Chūya slurs, fingers toying with the stem of the wine glass, turning it slowly, lazily — the kind of motion that only comes when the world’s already tilting.
He laughs — quiet, bitter, slurred.
The glass wobbles in his grip.
Then—
A slip. A stutter of movement.
It falls.
The sound is sharp and sudden: shattering crystal against cold floor.
The wine spreads like spilled blood, creeping into the cracks, staining everything it touches.
For a moment, everything is still — except the trembling in his hands, and the silence that follows, louder than the glass had been.
“Oh, Chūya,” Kōyō sighs as she reaches his side. Her voice isn’t judgmental — only concerned.
“Dazaaaaaaiii is—” he hiccups, “takinnn foreeeeever to get back ‘ere!” His words are collapsing in on themselves, slipping from meaning.
“H—‘sdone it on purpoooooosee…”
Kōyō shakes her head and turns toward the door — where Mori now stands, hands in his pockets, leaning against the frame.
Their eyes meet. No words spoken, none needed. The silence stretches — not empty, but full of everything they can’t bring themselves to say.
With sadness in his eyes, Mori shakes his head.
Dazai was gone.
Their gazes shift. Mori quietly disappears from the doorway, leaving only silence behind.
Kōyō lowers herself with a smooth, deliberate motion, knees bending slightly as she settles to Chūya’s level. Now eye to eye, her expression softens. She says nothing. She doesn’t need to. It’s a quiet effort to see him, to let herself be seen. To meet the moment without pride.
“Let’s get you back to your room and get you cleaned up.”
There’s no fight in him as she gently stands him up and leads him toward the door.
At the threshold, Chūya hesitates. He turns back to glance at the two plush red armchairs, separated by the small circular table.
The empty bottle of Pétrus sits in the middle. Beside the opposite chair, a full wine glass remains untouched.
The chair sat untouched, its surface cold — the kind of cold that clings, slow and creeping, as if the warmth that once lingered there had long since faded. Its cushion, slightly indented, still remembered the shape of someone who hadn’t returned. The silence around it felt heavier somehow, like the chair was waiting. Expectant. Missing a presence that used to fill the room without effort.
It wasn’t just empty — it felt empty.
Like grief dressed in furniture.
Kōyō gently guides him through the quiet halls, toward his room.
As the sun begins to rise, on the shadowed edge of a neighbouring rooftop, Dazai stands — half-hidden behind the grime-frosted glass of an old industrial window.
The city flickers below in tired neon, its hum distant and dull compared to the pounding in his chest.
Through the warped pane, his eyes follow Chūya — just visible through the office window across the alley.
Dazai’s hand rests against the glass, fingers curled slightly, as if they could reach through and stop him. But he doesn’t move.
His reflection stares back, ghostlike. Unreadable.
The silence between them — between what was said and what wasn’t — presses against his ribs like a secret spoken too late.
Guilt curls in his stomach, quiet and sharp.
He could still turn back. Still go to him.
But instead, Dazai steps away from the window, coat brushing against the frame with the faintest whisper, and disappears into the dark — leaving the light behind.
Leaving him behind.