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Summary
“Chuuya's rather worked up tonight, isn't he?”
“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed. Heat shot through him at the same time his face curled up in some defensive facsimile of disgust. Still clinging to a rescue rope of denial.
This wasn't something they did. They'd dance on the edge of it, play chicken and pull back, but verbalizing anything was anathema.
Through a phone line, though? Verbalizing was the only option.
Chuuya drunk-dials Dazai to complain about him after a long, shitty day.
For once, Dazai answers.
