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Summary
“Perhaps I want you to hurt me. That’s all I know after all,” Dazai tries, finding odd, mournful notes in his voice. It wasn’t supposed to go this way between them. There wasn’t supposed to be a them at all after his defection from the Port Mafia, but old habits die hard. Buried feelings don’t ever meet such an end at all, allowing roots to wrap around the crevices of every scar beneath the bandages. He averts his gaze, betraying himself for Chuuya to see. Flayed, bare. Stripped clean of his pride, Dazai mumbles, “perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, if it’s Chuuya.”