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Shit.
How did this happen?
One moment, Chuuya was chasing a jewel thief down at the docks. It should have been routine. With his gravity manipulation, he could handle almost any ability user.
He followed her to a shabby little hut that looked like it could collapse at any moment. She was cornered now, no way out. Stealing from the Port Mafia was unforgivable, and Chuuya had to make that clear.
He broke the door down without effort. Inside, he found her. But she wasn’t alone.
On a worn out bed lay a man with stone-grey eyes. The thief was at his side, no longer panicked. She even had the audacity to smile.
Chuuya opened his mouth, ready to throw out something sharp and cool. But no words came. His body trembled. The world blurred. He collapsed, unable to summon Tainted Sorrow.
When he opened his eyes again, the hut was empty. Both of them were gone. He tried to stand, but something was wrong.
No - everything was wrong. Panic crawled up his throat.
He looked down. His gloved hands were gone. In their place were two tiny orange paws, covered in fur. His eyes were barely twenty centimeters above the ground. And worst of all, he had a tail.
The man in the bed had been an ability user.
Chuuya forced himself to take a few steps on four legs. Instincts guided him, making it easier than it should have been. He tried to speak, but what came out was a sound so small and adorable that humiliation burned in his chest.
His clothes were pooled on the floor, his hat lying among them. The collar around his neck hung loose on his smaller body. Reluctantly, he turned to leave but after only a few steps, he stopped, glanced back, and returned to the hut. Shoving his hat into place, he balanced it awkwardly on his head. Inconvenient or not, he wasn’t leaving it behind.
Growling, he tried calling on Tainted Sorrow again. Nothing answered. He had no choice but to walk the long road back on short legs. Whereto, he didn‘t know yet.
Who could he even approach like this? Who would recognize him? How could he get inside the Mafia headquarters as a fucking cat? Thought after thought piled up until the answer he didn’t want to admit became unavoidable.
Chuuya huffed in frustration, his oversized hat tipping forward by the movement.
There was only one option. One person infuriating enough to make this even worse, but clever enough to help him.
Which is why, at 2:30 in the morning, he ended up in front of Dazai’s apartment.
The walk there was a nightmare.
Every step felt twice as long with his ridiculously short legs. He had to sneak through narrow alleys to avoid drawing attention, because an orange cat wearing a hat would attract stares. The last thing he needed was some idiot scooping him up and dumping him in an animal shelter.
That was how he ended up in a fight with a stray dog.
The thing was big, ugly, and loud, all snarls and snapping teeth. Chuuya was certain it wanted him for dinner. He braced himself, claws out, but before he could leap, another cat exploded into the fight.
It was a skinny black stray, nothing but bones and fury, but it attacked with wild precision, claws raking, teeth sinking into the mutt’s ear. The dog yelped and bolted down the street, tail between its legs.
The black cat stopped, licked its paw with deliberate calm, and walked off without sparing Chuuya a glance.
Stunned, Chuuya stood there in silence. What was the proper cat etiquette in a situation like this? Was he supposed to thank it somehow?
He had no idea. So, with his pride in shreds and his hat still wobbling on his head, he turned back toward his goal.
By the time he reached Dazai’s apartment, he was worn out, hungry, and seething. He stared down at one of his paws, flexed his claws, and scratched at the wood of the door. When nothing happened, he rose onto his hind legs and clawed harder, desperate enough that meowing actually crossed his mind.
At last, the door creaked open a sliver.
A familiar face appeared in the gap, scanning the hallway for the source of the noise.
Chuuya tilted his head back (even farther than usual) and nudged his hat up just enough to reveal his eyes.
Dazai’s gaze landed on him.
And for once, the man’s usually unreadable expression cracked. In the span of a heartbeat, it shifted from surprise, to confusion, to recognition, to revelation and, finally, into pure amusement.
Mischief glittered in his eyes. He pulled the door wide open, inviting Chuuya inside without a word.
Chuuya stepped over the threshold and immediately regretted every choice that had led him here.
The bastard hadn’t even been asleep. Still fully dressed, he stepped aside to let Chuuya in. Books and half-empty sake bottles littered the floor, though the place was surprisingly tidy otherwise.
The orange cat strutted across the room with as much dignity as he could muster under the weight of a too-large hat. Crawling out from beneath it, he sat beside the low table, his collar drooping around his neck as he fixed Dazai with a pointed stare.
Dazai crouched down, studying him with an intensity that made Chuuya’s fur prickle. Wheels were clearly turning behind those sharp eyes. Any second now, the insults would begin.
Instead, Dazai frowned. “You’re hurt.”
Chuuya blinked, then glanced down at his right paw. A small cut ran across it, blood smeared into his fur. He must have stepped on glass on the way, but he hadn’t thought much of it. Normally, wounds like this healed fast.
“I’ll be right back,” Dazai said, unusually serious.
When he returned, he was carrying antiseptic, gauze, and other supplies. He sat down crosslegged on the floor and held out a hand. “Paw.”
Chuuya growled, not very intimidating in this form, but he reluctantly placed his paw in Dazai’s hand.
“Finally, my dog learned some tricks,” Dazai sighed dramatically, “but now he isn’t even a dog anymore.”
He worked quickly and carefully, cleaning the wound and wrapping it with practiced ease. Chuuya tried not to flinch. For one wild moment, he thought maybe Dazai’s touch would nullify the ability and change him back, but nothing happened. The hope had been foolish to begin with.
When the bandaging was done, Dazai carried the supplies back to the bathroom. His voice drifted out from behind the door.
“Don’t lick it!”
Chuuya froze. His paw was already halfway to his mouth. Scowling, he dropped it.
Dazai returned, amusement tugging at his lips. “Aaah, Chuuya… this puts me in a real predicament. I can’t call you my dog anymore. But then again, I’m very fond of cats. Should I be sad… or delighted?”
The murderous look Chuuya shot him should not have been possible for a creature this small.
Unbothered, Dazai leaned down and patted his head. “You’re cute, though.”
That earned him a hiss and two sharp scratches across the back of his hand.
“Ai-tata-tata… bad cat, Chuuya!” Dazai yelped, jerking his hand back. “Seems like someone needs a nap to get his temper under control.”
Chuuya was exhausted, yes. But more importantly, he was starving. Communication wasn’t easy in this form, so he had to improvise. With a leap, he landed on the kitchen counter.
“Hey, get down from there! That’s unhygienic,” Dazai scolded, sounding scandalized.
Chuuya ignored him and walked straight toward the stove, lifting his bandaged paw to point. Humiliation burned at the back of his throat. Reduced to begging for food from his worst enemy; how low had he sunk?
Realization flickered across Dazai’s face. “Ohhh. The little kitten’s hungry.”
He rummaged through cabinets, muttering to himself. The fridge was nearly empty, the cupboards worse. At last he found something in a drawer and frowned.
“Looks like I’ll have to share my emergency ration with you.”
He pulled out a can of crab, opened it, and placed it on a small plate. He also filled a bowl with water and set both on the low table. Sitting down beside it, he watched as Chuuya hopped down, sniffed the plate suspiciously, then gave in to his hunger.
The canned crab smelled heavenly. Dazai’s terrible taste for preserved food had always baffled Chuuya, but right now, it was a feast. He braced on his front paws and dug in, devouring every bite.
When he was done, instinct took over and he began grooming himself with small, rough licks of his tongue. He froze only when he realized Dazai was staring at him, wonder in his eyes.
“Fuck off,” Chuuya tried to snarl. All that came out was a soft meow.
Dazai’s grin widened. He laughed, delighted. “This really is the best day ever.”
„Alright, time for bed. I‘ll bring you something to sleep on.“
When Dazai returned, he carried an armful of blankets. He arranged them on the floor in a heap, shaping a makeshift bed.
“Here you go,” he said. “Your royal accommodations.”
Chuuya eyed it suspiciously, but he was too drained to complain. The trek from the docks had worn him out, and his eyelids were already heavy. He curled into the pile, grateful for the soft resting place, though his pride stung.
Dazai gave a small nod, then disappeared into his own bedroom. He left the door open a crack, and soon the sound of him shifting restlessly in his futon reached Chuuya’s sensitive ears. Some things never changed. Dazai had always been a terrible sleeper.
Chuuya tried to drift off, but it wasn’t easy. The apartment was cold, and with his sharpened senses, every car that passed outside sounded like it was roaring through the living room. The steady patter of rain against the windows didn’t help.
His thoughts spiraled.
What if there was no way to undo this? What if he stayed like this forever? And why did Dazai care so much?
A thunderclap cracked the sky open. Light flared through the windows, followed by a deafening boom.
Chuuya’s fur shot up. His body reacted before his brain did. In the blink of an eye, he bolted down the hall and into Dazai’s bedroom.
Another thunderclap hit, closer this time. Chuuya scrambled onto the futon and curled into a tight ball near Dazai’s legs.
Ridiculous. Absolutely humiliating. He was Nakahara Chuuya, the Port Mafia’s strongest fighter, the vessel of a literal god of calamity. He was not afraid of thunderstorms.
…And yet, here he was, trembling beside Dazai’s knees.
The storm eventually drifted into a low rumble, leaving only the soft hiss of rain. Exhaustion finally claimed him, and he slipped into sleep, his body pressed tight against warmth.
Dazai woke to the pale light of morning. The first thing he saw was a small orange bundle curled against the back of his knees.
For a long moment, he simply watched. Then, gently, he reached down and scratched behind its ears.
The cat stretched, let out a tiny sigh, and began to purr.
Dazai’s heart gave a dangerous lurch at the sound. The cuteness was almost unbearable. He had to remind himself: This was Chuuya. His old partner, his rival, his sworn enemy.
Even so, the sight made his lips curl into a smile before he forced himself to get up.
When Dazai returned later that day, he froze in the doorway.
His apartment looked like a battlefield.
Books were scattered across the floor in haphazard piles, the carefully balanced stacks he’d built toppled without mercy. Several sake bottles lay shattered in sticky puddles. The curtains hung in torn strips, and one of the cushions had been ripped apart, cotton spilling out like snow.
Two bright blue eyes pierced at him from top of the fridge, almost apologetically.
“…Did you get the zoomies while I was gone?” Dazai asked slowly. His voice was equal parts disbelief and amusement. “Chuuuyaaa… my stuff…”
The orange cat leapt down, landing with feline grace and stalking toward him like he owned the place.
“Wait!” Dazai’s voice sharpened. “Stay up there! There are glass shards everywhere.”
Chuuya froze. For a moment, he thought he’d misheard. Dazai’s tone wasn’t mocking, but genuinely worried.
Again.
Chuuya shook himself and padded forward anyway, refusing to acknowledge the warmth curling in his chest.
Dazai sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Alright, I’ll clean this up. Then we’ll have a talk. Well, I’ll talk, and you’ll listen. Like old times.”
Once he’d swept and scrubbed the place back into order, the apartment looked cleaner than it had in months. But Dazai had gone completely overboard.
New toys dangled from strings near the bookshelves. A scratching post leaned against the wall. A pet bed that could only be described as luxurious was arranged in the corner.
“I’ll leave the window cracked so you can come and go,” Dazai said matter-of-factly. “Because I’m not cleaning a litter box for you. But don’t get into trouble. And don’t…” his eyes gleamed with mischief “…don’t go knocking up any lady cats, or we’ll have to make a trip to the vet.”
Chuuya swiped a paw at the counter, knocking over a half-finished mug of coffee. It hit the floor with a sharp crack.
“Dammit, Chuuya!” Dazai exclaimed, crouching to salvage the shards. “That was my favorite mug.”
The little cat sat back, a fang just barely peeking past his lip in what clearly resembled a smirk.
After they had settled down at the low dining table, Dazai reported what he had found out on his outing.
“So. I did some digging. By which I mean… hacking into the Port Mafia network.”
Chuuya let out an enraged hiss, fur bristling. He made a mental note to have someone fortify the Mafia’s firewall the moment he got back, probably involving some yelling at their tech division.
“…and I found an ability user who can turn people into animals. Did they look something like this?”
Dazai slid a photo from a thin folder onto the table. The man in it looked younger than Chuuya remembered, but the peculiar color of his eyes gave him away immediately.
Chuuya gave the tiniest nod.
“Great. That means we have a trace.”
And by “trace,” Dazai clearly meant a full-blown plan with at least twenty-five contingencies, each branching into another hundred and fifty scenarios. A simple brain teaser before noon.
He tapped the file. “His name is George Orwell. Last known whereabouts already checked. I even picked up your clothes while I was there.”
Chuuya blinked, surprised.
“There are also clues about his accomplice,” Dazai continued. “Apparently, she’s his daughter. Trying to scrape together money for his medical treatments. With her ties to the Mafia, it turned into a crime of convenience.”
Chuuya’s chest tightened. He knew how it was. On paper, Japan’s universal healthcare looked flawless. But after the war, the system was a wreck. Too many gaps, too many people slipping through - and ability users were never the priority.
“Now, as for their current location…” Dazai frowned, steepling his fingers.
Chuuya leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
“I have a theory. But if we spook them, they might vanish for good.” Dazai’s tone was light, but the unspoken consequences weighed heavy. Chuuya’s stomach dropped.
“I tried to call Ranpo to keep it airtight,” Dazai went on, “but he never picks up on weekends. So… we wait until Monday.”
Two more days. Chuuya exhaled through his nose. He could survive that. Probably. It wasn’t so bad; humiliating, yes; but in a strange way it felt like a vacation. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had one of those.
Dazai leaned back, grin returning. “Soooo… wanna try the laser pointer in the meantime? Oh! And I need to test whether cats are really afraid of cucumbers.”
Chuuya’s fur puffed in outrage. Two days. He had no idea how he was going to survive two whole days of this without ripping Dazai to shreds.
The freaking laser pointer turned out to be… fun.
At first, Chuuya refused to even glance at it. But what Dazai lacked in work ethic, he more than made up for in mischievous energy. Again and again, the little red dot slipped into Chuuya’s line of sight, darting across the floor, vanishing, reappearing, teasing him until his instincts finally won out.
He bolted after it, a streak of orange across the living room. He didn’t need Tainted Sorrow to bounce off walls and leap from furniture to furniture. It felt good (too good too admit) to let all that restless energy out.
When Dazai was done giggling at his expense, Chuuya stomped into an empty cardboard box from one of the scratching posts and curled up inside. That was enough indignity for the day.
Sleep stole over him before he realized it.
When he woke, his hat was draped across him like a blanket. Peeking out, the first thing he saw was Dazai’s degrading grin. And his phone.
Bastard.
Chuuya shot out of the box, hat tumbling off, and sank claws and teeth into Dazai’s forearm. His fangs scraped uselessly against the thick bandages. Dazai only burst into laughter.
Furious, Chuuya let go and stormed off, slipping through the open window onto the fire escape. He climbed the ladder and settled on the roof. From there, the city spread beneath him, bathed in the red glow of sunset.
He thought about revenge. He also thought about gratitude, despite himself, and wondered how he could ever repay both.
A familiar beige trench coat appeared at his side. Dazai sat down beside him, quiet for once.
“Sorry,” he said. “I just wanted proof this really happened. No one will believe me anyway. I can delete them if you want…”
Chuuya huffed. It didn’t matter. What unsettled him was the tone, the honesty that kept catching him off guard.
He stole a glance at Dazai. The man’s profile was outlined in evening light, eyes reflecting the sky. They seemed… sad. Softer than Chuuya remembered from their Mafia days. To anyone else, Dazai might look unreadable, but Chuuya had known him too long. He saw every flicker, every mask. Right now, Dazai was an open book, and that book screamed loneliness.
“Don’t worry, Chuuya,” Dazai murmured. “We’ll find them. And if they won’t turn you back voluntarily… I’ll make them.”
For a heartbeat, his eyes darkened, a flash of the old demon prodigy breaking through. Chuuya’s chest tightened. He didn’t like it.
Before he could second-guess himself, he nudged Dazai’s arm with his head.
Surprise cracked across Dazai’s face, quickly replaced with joy. Hesitantly, he lifted a hand and scratched Chuuya between the ears.
The rest of the weekend passed much more peacefully.
Monday came, and Dazai left for the Agency, glancing back reluctantly.
“I’ll be back before you know it. Just leave it to me and Ranpo,” he mumbled as he slipped out the door.
Chuuya only sat there, glaring, and watched him go.
As expected, it took Ranpo barely two minutes to pinpoint the exact location of the ability user and his daughter. The real challenge was persuading him to actually take on the task. Ranpo had no interest in boring work, and Dazai had to promise to accompany him to ISM Japan (some massive sweets and snack expo in Tokyo in spring) and handle all the travel logistics in exchange.
It was a small price to pay. Ranpo either already knew why Dazai was asking… or didn’t care.
Later, they sat together in the Agency’s meeting room, safely shielded from curious ears. The plan had to be airtight.
“You’ll need to be fast,” Ranpo said between bites of candy. “And maybe use leverage. If he has even a second to act, he could turn into a fly and vanish.”
“Right…” Dazai’s fingers tapped the table. “The question is: can he undo the transformation remotely? Or would my touch be enough to nullify it?”
Ranpo skimmed the documents Dazai had gathered on George Orwell. “There’s no way to predict abilities perfectly. But most likely, your nullification will only stop him from using it in the moment. His ability does work remotely, but the range is unknown. My guess is that lifting the effect should work from anywhere, though.”
And Ranpo’s guesses were never guesses. They were facts.
Satisfied, Dazai slid his chair back and headed for Kunikida’s desk.
“Stop slacking off and go to your own workspace,” Kunikida grumbled without looking up, fingers still flying over the keyboard.
“Sorry to disappoint…”
“You never do anything else.”
“…but I need the rest of the day off. A private matter.”
“You never checked out with me before. Just go and let me do my work in peace.”
Dazai sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. But don’t cry about missing me later.”
He slid off the desk and wandered off, quietly swiping Kunikida’s car keys on his way. His partner didn’t even notice.
A short while later, Dazai merged into traffic, driving in a way that nearly gave several pedestrians heart attacks.
When Dazai reached the abandoned warehouse, he slipped through the dusty halls without a sound. He paused, listening. Faint whispers carried through the silence and he was sure that they belonged to his targets.
Gun in hand, he pressed his ear to the door, mapping the voices, the angles, the likely positions. Then, without hesitation, he kicked the door open.
In a blur, he closed the distance to the man, seizing his frail wrist and cutting off the Gift in an instant. His other hand leveled the gun at the daughter, who froze, eyes wide, hands rising helplessly.
George Orwell was weaker than Dazai expected. Without his ability, he had nothing.
“Afternoon,” Dazai drawled, a sharp smile tugging at his lips. “Pleasure to meet you both. We have a common acquaintance, you see. Short, ginger, fiery temper…” His grin widened. “And that was before you turned him into a cat.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I had to do something! I couldn’t just let him die. No one would help!” the girl stammered, panic in her eyes. She had already realized her father couldn’t protect her this time.
The older man lowered his head in defeat.
“Listen…” Dazai’s tone was almost casual. “I can respect defying the Port Mafia. Really, I can. But you have to be smarter about it.”
He no longer felt any danger from the two of them. Sliding his gun back into his pocket, he reached into his coat instead and produced a plain business card, holding it out between two fingers.
The girl hesitated before taking it. Her wide eyes, the same strange gray as her father’s, flicked up to meet his.
“Call this man. He might be able to help you in more ways than one. I’ll handle the Mafia. They won’t bother you again.” Dazai’s smile sharpened. “But only if you change my partner back. Right now.”
Her father tensed.
“If you don’t…” Dazai tilted his head, studying them with lazy amusement. “Well, you can always try turning yourself and your daughter into flies or something. But I think you’ve realized by now: Your Gift doesn’t work on me.”
His hand slipped back to the gun. A single shot split the silence.
The small lightbulb hanging a good 5 meters above them and well out of sight for Dazai burst apart, showering sparks and glass as half the room fell into shadow.
“…And I’m a pretty good shot.” Dazai’s eyes never left Orwell’s paling face.
The old man swallowed, trembling. “Fine. I’ll cancel Animal Farm.”
Dazai released his grip but didn’t lower the gun. With his free hand, he pulled out his phone and dialed.
It rang three times.
“Slug?”
There was a pause.
Then, on the other end of the line, a familiar voice rasped, “You really did it, you damn mackerel…”
Dazai’s heart stuttered before relief sank into his chest. For once, he was glad to hear his enemy’s voice.
Without another word, he hung up and slid the gun back into his coat for good. A thin smile curled across his lips.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” he said lightly, turning on his heel.
“Wait!” the girl called.
She held up the card, eyes wide. “Who is this? How can we trust him?”
Dazai didn’t turn around.
“He’s good at helping people.”
“But… aren’t we criminals?” she asked hesitantly.
“Technically, stealing something stolen shouldn’t even count as a crime.” His tone was careless, but his eyes were shadowed as he added, “And he’s erased much worse pasts than yours.” For a fleeting moment, his mind flicked back to the way Taneda had scrubbed his own record clean.
“He’ll find you a hospital willing to help. Just trust him.”
With that, Dazai walked away, hands in his pockets, already thinking about the slightly scratched-up car he had to return.
It was raining when Dazai left the Agency for home. The sky was as gray as his mood. He dreaded returning to his apartment, dreaded the silence waiting for him there.
Maybe he should go somewhere else.
Where did people go when their own home felt less like a haven and more like a bus stop where nothing ever arrived?
Friends? His colleagues from the Agency would find it highly suspicious if he suddenly called them up to hang out.
A bar? Too many memories.
Movies? He could predict the ending just by looking at the poster.
So he wound up in front of his own door anyway.
With a sigh, he unlocked it and stepped inside. Just as he had suspected, he was greeted with an empty apartment.
He gathered the yarn balls and toys scattered across the floor, tucking them into the cardboard box Chuuya used to hide in when he’d been particularly grumpy. Dazai couldn’t quite bring himself to throw them away. Not yet. He put the leftover cat food (the kind Chuuya had flatly refused to touch, since he’d only eat canned crab and nothing else) into the box as well. Maybe he could donate it to an animal shelter.
Pouring himself a cup of sake, he closed his eyes, waiting for the burn to spread some warmth into his bones. Even in dry clothes, the cold still clung to him.
He slumped onto the narrow couch, pulling the closest book into his hands. The words blurred and drifted through his mind without leaving meaning behind.
One cup became two, and his body sagged toward uneasy sleep when the sharp buzz of the doorbell jolted him awake.
Immediately alert, he slipped his gun from the bedside table and padded silently to the door. He cracked it open just enough to peer out - only to find the hallway empty.
Lowering the gun, though still wary, he scanned for movement. A soft rustle caught his attention. His eyes landed on a cardboard box sitting near the threshold.
Cautiously, he lifted one of the flaps. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to giftwrap him a bomb.
At first, it looked empty. Then a single green eye blinked up at him.
Dazai opened the box fully. Inside was a scrawny black cat, missing one eye.
Slowly, he slipped the gun into his back pocket and lifted the box inside. Puzzle pieces clicked into place in his mind. His hand lingered on the door handle, grounding him, but he didn’t need to turn around to know who was already sitting in his kitchen.
He had always felt Chuuya’s presence long before he saw him.
“Where did you find it?” Dazai asked without looking back.
“In an alley. While I was… you know.” Chuuya’s voice carried the weight of memory. “It helped me fight off a stray dog.”
There was a pause. Dazai let go of the handle, unsure where any of this was leading. For someone who prided himself on being ten steps ahead, that uncertainty was terrifying.
Chuuya sat at the kitchen counter, tilted back in a chair held at a precarious angle by Tainted Sorrow. His hat shadowed his eyes, but Dazai caught the glint of blue beneath it.
“He sort of reminded me of you,” Chuuya added quietly.
Dazai’s gaze drifted to the black cat, now venturing out of its box to sniff at the bookshelves as if it owned the place. He couldn’t deny the resemblance.
“For obvious reasons I can’t keep him myself,” Chuuya went on, his tone sharpening to mask the softness. “But I thought: Here’s a useless mackerel, with a sorry excuse of a job, no hobbies. He should have enough time to look after a cat.”
The creature ignored them both, pawing at the edge of a sake bottle.
Dazai’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.
“Of course I’d have to check in now and then,” Chuuya muttered, still avoiding his eyes. His hand brushed the faint scar on his palm… a reminder of that humiliating week. “Make sure you’re feeding him properly. Since you can’t even do that for yourself.”
Silence stretched, filled only by the sound of rain against the windows.
Dazai pulled a can of crab from the cabinet, Chuuya’s blue eyes glinting under the brim of his hat as he watched. Kneeling, Dazai emptied the contents onto a plate.
Drawn by the smell, the black cat padded over, sniffed, and ate a few bites before leaving most untouched.
Chuuya huffed. “Like owner, like pet.”
“Shut up.” Dazai smirked, tapping a finger against the base of Chuuya’s chair.
“Bastard!” Chuuya yelped as his gravity control faltered and the chair tilted, sending him tumbling to the floor.
Dazai only laughed. Even insults, he thought, were better than silence.
And with Chuuya around more often, silence wouldn‘t be as much of an issue from now on.