Chuuya scoffs but doesn’t pull away. Wary like he suspects a trap, but is too prideful to back down. “What’s there to miss?” He wets his lips though, teeth dragging in his lower lip then releasing it wet and bruised like he’s chasing the kiss. Dazai never told him it’s his poker tell: he’s lying.

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“You missed me,” Dazai croons again, smug and childish and petty and hopeful. Because Chuuya kept this vigil every year since they met. Even when Dazai left, he laid up here listening to the death of a year. Hoping, even when Dazai couldn’t, for better in the next.

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From Chuuya’s perspective, Dazai moved on and found something to live for. People he’ll actually let care about him. And he’s blowing them all off, anyway. Of course he’s pissed on their behalf. Dazai bats Chuuya’s hand away from his face, arms hooking around him in a loose embrace instead.

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They had been mid-argument with Dazai drowning at the bottom of a well of depression. He’d ripped into a weakness he’d know about for years, words barbed as he’d tried to force Chuuya to leave him to die. He hadn’t, of course. He’s too loyal for that. But something died that night anyway.

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Chuuya, on the other hand, clings to hope. Even when betrayed. Even when faced with death after death. Dazai was fairly certain that the only thing he’d stopped hoping for was -this-. Dazai had shut down Chuuya’s unvoiced hopes about them pretty decisively at seventeen.

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