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This is not his room.
Dazai blinks, trying to chase away the blurriness of his eyes as consciousness returns. The bed underneath him is soft – much softer than the one in his apartment, the one he fell asleep on last night. It’s bigger too. With a bit of effort, Dazai kicks away the sheets tangled around his legs and shifts to the edge of the bed, being as quiet as possible.
No reason to alert his captors that he’s awake just yet.
Despite being unable to clear his eyes any further, Dazai starts to look around the strange room. Sunlight pours in from behind the drapes of the window, meaning it must be at least ten or eleven in the morning. The walls are painted a light blue; on the wall across from the bed, there is a mural depicting a field of brightly coloured flowers.
For a moment, Dazai’s eyes linger on the painting, stunned by the detail. The flowers – red, yellow, green, purple, orange – almost seem to be gently bending with the breeze. Whoever painted this has real talent. It’s beautiful.
Rolling his shoulders, Dazai forces his attention away from the mural and keeps looking around the room. It’s almost as big as his entire apartment. Maybe he should just stay with whoever kidnapped him. They’re clearly more well-off than he is.
To his right, there is nook big enough to fit two chairs, a small round table, and a bookshelf. The chairs face are angled toward one another, the table in between. There’s a grey blanket folded haphazardly over the back of the chair on the right – it looks comfortable. The bookshelf is packed with books of all shape and size. Without being able to make out the details, Dazai can identify a few of them: Moby Dick, Crime and Punishment, I Am A Cat, The Great Gatsby. Good taste in books, at least.
Finally, Dazai’s eyes drift to the bedside table. On it, sits his antique lamp, an alarm clock that reads 8:34am, a thick notebook, a pair of unfamiliar glasses, and letter addressed to him. In his handwriting.
What is his lamp doing in this stranger’s apartment?
Curiosity reaching critical levels, Dazai reaches for the letter addressed to him in his handwriting.
Dazai,
First of all, you haven’t been kidnapped. I know, I had the same thought. But just because you’re in an unfamiliar place doesn’t automatically mean the worst case scenario.
Second of all, put on the glasses. They’re yours. Should help with the blurriness. Yes, I know you’ve never needed glasses before, but things have changed and now, apparently, you do.
Third, are you sitting down? I’ve got some big news, and it’s better to read if you’re already sitting. Trust me.
Okay. Right now, you’re thinking it’s 12 December 2015. It’s actually 2 April 2021.
No, this isn’t a joke. No, Ranpo has nothing to do with this. I think it would be a pretty terrible prank, not very funny.
You see, on 12 December 2015, you tried to kill yourself. Swan dived off a bridge. Obviously, it didn’t work. But now, you have anterograde amnesia. The long and short of it is, you can’t create any new memories.
I know you don’t trust what I’m saying. The notebook might be able to help.
With an incredulous huff of laughter, bemused smile on his face, Dazai puts down the letter. 2nd of April: at least that would explain why it’s so bright outside for only being 8am. Shaking his head, Dazai flips open the notebook. The first page shows a newspaper clipping:
24 year old PhD student in critical condition after suicide attempt
The article is dated 13 December 2015. His face smiles back up at him, a photo he remembers Yosano taking of him at his 21st birthday party.
Heart beating faster, Dazai flips to the next page. Another news article:
24 year old in coma after jumping from Yokohama Bridge, Doctors unsure of recovery
This one is dated 16 December. In it, there is a photo of him, laying in a hospital bed, unconscious. Dazai blinks, readjusting the glasses perched on his nose as he takes in the details. He looks terrible. His head is wrapped in bandages, completely covering his hair and even his right eye.
Curious, Dazai looks up from the notebook and stares back at the mural. He takes off the glasses, concentrating. Sure enough, his right eye is much blurrier than the left. Its almost impossible to see. Huh.
He tightens his right hand into a fist before flexing his fingers and reaching up to the side of his head. If all of this is true, then there must be some kind of scar, right?
Slowly, his fingers card through his hair, feeling for anything different. It doesn’t take long. Around his temple, he feels a bump. The scar extends backward, growing in size until it abruptly ends around the base of his skull at his neck.
Huh.
Dazai shudders, unable to help the sinking feeling his gut.
He returns his attention to the notebook. Page after page is filled with articles about him. Apparently, he woke from his coma a few days after the new year. He was released from the hospital two months later and moved in with Ranpo and Fukuzawa.
Dazai, completely entranced, flips another page, and then stops breathing. Staring up at him is a stranger.
He has red hair, held in a loose ponytail. His eyes are blue, like looking at the ocean on a calm day around a tropical island. His smile is gentle, softening his features. He’s gorgeous.
Below the picture is a page filled with his handwriting:
This is Chuuya. Apparently, he’s my boyfriend.
According to Kunikida, Chuuya has been harassing me for the past six months. According to Yosano and Ranpo, we’ve been dating.
Further down the page, written in a different colour:
Chuuya hates it when I make fun of his height. Too bad, he should’ve drank more milk as a kid, then maybe he wouldn’t be so short. But, at least he’s a good cook. Ask him for a dish with crab!
Another note:
Chuuya’s favourite colour is red. He loves his motorcycle. He’s always wanted a pet dog, any breed, but preferably large.
His favourite drink is red wine. He’s really good at playing the piano. Not as good at the guitar.
Chuuya has a potty mouth. It won’t seem like it at first, but as the day goes on, he’ll start cursing more and more.
On the next page:
Chuuya likes poetry! What a nerd.
He’s an artist.
Overwhelmed, Dazai flips to the next page, and is met with only a single sentence:
Chuuya loves you.
There’s a knock at the door. Startled, Dazai drops the notebook. It hits the hardwood floor with a thud. Breathing in sharply through his nose, Dazai focuses his attention on the door.
“Hey, idiot,” calls out an unfamiliar voice. “That better have been your notebook and not something expensive.”
For a second, Dazai flounders. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. He licks his lips and clears his throat. “…Chuuya?” he asks, tentative.
“Yeah,” comes the reply. “I can hear you overthinking in there. Do you want to come out so we can actually talk?”
Dazai stands, reaching out to the wall for balance. He shuffles around the bed, then stops just in front of the door. He takes another breath, closing his eyes shut tightly. When he opens them again, he’s hoping to be back in his real apartment, waking up from this strange dream.
The closed door in the unfamiliar light blue room is still there.
With a sigh, Dazai opens the door. He is met with a short, empty hallway. On the wall, there are a few photos. Two he recognises. In the first, he’s with Ranpo in Osaka – summer break their second year of college. In the second, he’s with Atsushi and the Akutagawa siblings, sitting on a park bench. The other photos, he doesn’t recognise at all. A few are filled with complete strangers: a blonde man and black haired man with a scarf, a young girl with pink hair, a group of smiling men huddled around a pool table.
There’s one photo that catches his attention. It’s him and Chuuya. They’re holding hands, standing close to one another, shoulder to shoulder. Snow falls around them; the sky above is a beautiful mix of red and orange and pink. They aren’t looking at the camera at all, but at each other. It takes him a moment, but Dazai recognises the shrine behind them. This photo must have been taken on New Year’s.
Dazai makes his way into the next room, looking around at the open concept. A living room is to his right, with a couch and a few chairs facing in towards a rather large television. In front of him is a black table. To his left is a kitchen. The far wall is almost completely made up of windows overlooking the city below.
“Hey, Samu. You want coffee?”
Dazai’s heart skips a beat at the nickname. No one ever calls him by his first name, let alone a nickname.
Chuuya is standing in the kitchen, facing away from him and towards the stove. Something sizzles lightly, and the entire apartment smells like breakfast.
His hair is even more red than the picture in his notebook. Today, it’s held up in a bun; a few strands hang loosely behind his ears. He’s wearing a plain t-shirt and sweatpants that frame his waist and –
Huh.
“Sure,” Dazai answers, sitting on one of the stools by the granite bar top.
Wordlessly, Chuuya removes whatever he was cooking from the active stove and sets down the spatula. He side steps over to the coffee-maker, pouring a cup. He adds a splash of milk, leaving it unmixed. Just how Dazai likes his coffee.
Then, Chuuya turns around and walks towards him. Dazai’s eyes widen just a fraction as he gets his first real look at Chuuya’s. The blue is even more stunning in person, framed by the small dusting of freckles along his cheeks.
Chuuya hands him his cup, then takes a step back and drops his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. He looks at him, expectantly.
“My notebook said you were short, but I didn’t realise just how short. I’ll need to make some amendments,” Dazai says, breaking the awkward silence as his fingers tap unrhythmically against porcelain.
“Seriously?” Chuuya replies, exasperated.
He turns back towards the stove, resuming whatever he was cooking before. Dazai hunches his shoulders. Maybe the book was lying, and this person really is a stranger? Did he just fuck it all up already?
“Are you hungry this morning?” Chuuya asks.
Dazai cocks his head to the side. Chuuya asked if he was hungry, not how much food he wanted. Like he knows that Dazai isn’t always hungry. Like he knows Dazai.
“Um, yeah. I’m hungry.”
“Bacon? Or just eggs?”
“Just eggs.”
Dazai watches as Chuuya flits around the kitchen, getting two plates and loading them with food. After a minute, he hands Dazai the plate with a single scoop of scrambled eggs, a bit of hot sauce layered over them evenly. Just how Dazai likes his eggs.
He takes a bite. It’s delicious. Perfect.
“So,” Chuuya interrupts after a few seconds. “Where do you want to start?”
Dazai raises his head, looking into those enchanting eyes once more. He smiles. “Well, handsome, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
Chuuya rolls his eyes, taking another bite of his bacon before answering. “My name is Chuuya Nakahara. I’m 29 years old, same as you. I’m an artist. Mostly independent work on canvas, but sometimes I draw for books and stuff like that.
“Um, I moved to Yokohama about five years ago. I first met you a few weeks after you left the hospital. You were sitting at a booth alone in this local café – Fukuzawa’s – so I sat down with you because I thought you were cute, and we had lunch. A few days later, I went back to that same café, saw you sitting at the same table, and decided to join you again. But, of course, you didn’t remember me. I made a bit of an ass of myself, not gonna lie.
“What else? Sorry, I try to tell you something new every day, but I’m starting to forget what I’ve already –”
“What happened?” Dazai interrupts. He leans forward, resting his chin on his folded hands and looking up at Chuuya over the top of his glasses. The details of his face instantly blur, his red hair the only discernible feature.
Chuuya, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “You tried to kill yourself. Jumped off of Yokohama Bridge in the dead of night. You had been feeling really depressed, like everything in life was just kind of… pointless. So, you jumped. Instead of dead, though, you ended up in a coma for a few weeks. And, when you woke up, you had an advanced form of anterograde amnesia, along with some other issues.”
“Rude,” Dazai replies with a smile. Chuuya huffs a laugh with a raise of his eyebrow.
“I mean, you’ve probably noticed. You’re basically blind in your right eye – you smashed you faced in, the doctors had to do some reconstructive surgery. Your eye was basically flattened. You also have the attention span of grape, though apparently you were always like that.”
“Okay, short stuff. I get it. What about this?”
“Coming in hot today with the height jokes, huh?”
“First thing I have written down in my notebook about you.”
“Of course. I don’t know why I would expect anything different.”
“You haven’t read it?”
Chuuya looks taken aback by the question, his mouth falling open just slightly. “I would never,” he says. A simple answer.
Dazai’s chest suddenly feels very heavy.
“So, what about this?”
“This?” Chuuya asks, taking a sip of his coffee.
Dazai gestures between the two of them.
“Oh,” Chuuya replies. “Well, we’ve been dating pretty consistently for about four years. For the first six months of it, I never told you that we knew each other. I liked the idea of having infinite first tries at a first impression, you know?”
Despite himself, Dazai laughs. He sits up, putting a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “How unchivalrous of you, Chuuya. Taking advantage of me, like that.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m a real piece of shit. But it’s not like you’re one to talk, either, Samu.”
“I’m a perfect gentleman!”
“Ha!” Chuuya barks out a laugh. Dazai’s heart flutters in his chest at the sound. Then, Chuuya starts singing a familiar tune: “Oh, oh, yeah. You can’t do a double suicide, all by yourself.”
“You know my suicide song?”
“Yeah. I catch you singing it all the time when you ask women to kill themselves with you. You call that chivalry?”
With an amused smile, Chuuya takes Dazai’s plate and empty cup away, staking them with his own and moving towards the kitchen sink. He’s too busy cleaning up to notice Dazai’s shocked expression.
This guy seems to know everything there is to know about Dazai. He calls him by hist first name. It’s almost… too much.
Chuuya returns to his place standing on the other side of the bar top facing Dazai, eyebrows quirked upward. He looks nervous.
“What’s wrong?” Dazai asks.
“Yeah, so, listen. I know this is all a lot to process, and usually I wait until the afternoon to spring any new information on you, if at all.”
“But?”
Chuuya lifts a hand to the back of his neck. “We’ve got a flight to catch, this evening. If we’re going to make, we’ll need to leave here in a few hours.”
“Oh? Where are we going?”
“Paris.”
Dazai blinks. “Huh. I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.”
“I know.”
Right. Of course, he knows that. They’ve been dating for four years, apparently.
“What’s the occasion?” Dazai asks, mostly as a joke.
Chuuya somehow manages to look even more nervous than he was before. Dazai’s heart beats faster.
“Okay, just, don’t freak out.”
Dazai raises an eyebrow at him. “Sure. I never freak out.”
Chuuya, in response, just exhales slowly out of his nose, eyes closed. Dazai tries to ignore the quick pang of loss when that shade of blue goes away.
“It’s our honeymoon.”
The room is silent. Outside, a flock of birds chirp incessantly.
“Honeymoon? As in –?”
“We got married. Yesterday.”
Without a word, Dazai turns, falling off of the stool and on to heavy legs. He walks away, closing the bedroom door behind him.
…
The call connects after one ring.
“Hey, Ran –?”
“You can trust him,” Ranpo interrupts on the other side.
Dazai furrows his eyebrows. “Wh –?”
“Fancy Hat. You can trust him, okay?”
“I wasn’t going to ask that,” Dazai replies automatically, frowning.
Ranpo’s familiar laugh greets him. “Yes, you were. And that’s not based on my awesome deductive skills – we have this conversation almost every morning.”
Dazai doesn’t know how to react to that, so all he says is, “Oh.”
“Relax, Dazai. I take it as a compliment. I’ve been keeping score, you know? You call me first 84% of the time – I think it’s because you know I don’t lie, and because I always know the truth. Next is Kunikida, then Yosano, and even Atsushi once or twice. I’ve never been able to figure out why you call him, though. Must be a fluke.”
“Atsushi? He’s just a kid.”
“Well, not anymore.”
And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Dazai went to sleep yesterday and woke up almost six years in the future, with a new apartment and a husband he’s never met. Of course, Atsushi isn’t a kid anymore. He’s in his mid-twenties by now – probably has a job and a life.
“Anyway,” Ranpo’s cheery voice interrupts Dazai’s spiral. “Enjoy Paris!”
“Wait! What am I supposed to do?”
Ranpo sighs. “What do you mean? You go to Paris with your husband, see the Eiffel Tower, eat a baguette, have sex in a five star hotel. It’s your honeymoon – it’s supposed to be fun!”
“Sure, and what happens tomorrow when I wake up on an airplane next to a stranger with no memory of why I’m there?”
“Ha! Funny. You don’t sleep on planes.”
“Ranpo,” Dazai draws out his best friend’s name, begging for him to be serious for once.
“Dazai,” he returns with the same intonation. “I told you to relax. I know this is all very overwhelming. It always is. But you can trust Chuuya. He’s been by your side for over four years. Yesterday, you got married. And you know Yosano and I wouldn’t let you get married to someone we didn’t approve of first.”
Dazai takes a deep breath, nodding his head. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Besides, you already trust him, don’t you?”
“What do you mean? He’s a stranger – gorgeous, I’ll give you that, although unfortunately tiny. But I’ve really only known him for an hour.”
“Dazai, stop being an idiot.”
“Rude.”
“I’m about to say something I never say, but in this instance I think it’s the only thing that’s going to get through that thick, mildly cracked skull of yours. Forget about logic for a second, and listen to your heart. When you first saw Chuuya this morning, what did you feel? Ah! Don’t answer just yet – really think about it.”
So, Dazai sits back and thinks.
He thinks about the words in his notebook. Years worth of observations made about this one man. Little, insignificant facts about a stranger.
He thinks about the photo of them in the hallway. Standing side by side, in the snow, on New Year’s. Obviously, when that picture had been taken, Dazai had only known Chuuya for one day. Yet, he looked so… at ease. Like holding hands with Chuuya had been the most natural thing in the world.
Then, Dazai thinks about seeing Chuuya for the first time in their kitchen. Chuuya was standing there, facing away. A complete stranger. And yet, Dazai hadn’t felt wary at all. The opposite, really.
Upon seeing Chuuya for the first time, Dazai had felt relieved.
Like Chuuya was a buoy to hold on to in the absolutely terrifying storm that his life had become seemingly overnight.
“I told you,” Ranpo’s voice cuts through, bringing Dazai back to the present. “Go enjoy Paris with your husband, Dazai.”
Dazai takes in a shuttering breath. “Right.”
“Great! Now that’s settled, I have to go. Ed just got out of the shower, and I promised him I’d have coffee waiting.”
“Ed? As in Edgar Allan Poe? I though you guys hated each other?”
“It’s been five and half years, Dazai. A lot has changed. I’ll see you in a few weeks, but I’m sure we’ll talk again tomorrow. Bye, Dazai! Don’t forget to wear a condom!”
And then the call disconnects.
…
Twenty minutes later, Dazai walks back out into the main room. He looks around, seeing the dishes air drying on the rack next to the sink. Chuuya is sitting on the couch to his right, watching the TV. He sits up and turns his head when Dazai enters.
“Hey,” he says.
Dazai shuffles over, taking the seat next to him. Chuuya doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t move. “What are you watching?”
“The Godfather.”
Dazai smiles. “No, you’re not.”
Chuuya smiles back. “Damn. Yeah, I’m not. It’s actually a movie called The Boy and The Puppy.”
“Is it about a boy and a puppy? How thought-provoking.”
“Shut up, dumbass. I know what you watch, and it’s not exactly deeply intelligent either.”
Dazai just shrugs, pulling one of his legs up to his chest and hugging it. They sit in silence for a few more minutes – the movie starts up again after the commercial break, a puppy happily barking in a park.
“So, we got married yesterday?” Dazai breaks the silence.
Chuuya hums in affirmation.
“April Fools Day?”
“Hey, man, don’t look at me,” Chuuya chuckles. “It was all your idea. The first time we ever talked about getting married, you suggested April 1st, mostly as a joke I think. But, whenever I asked you after that, you would always agree. And besides, spring weddings are good luck, I’m pretty sure.”
“Why Paris?” Dazai asks.
Chuuya doesn’t react, but his eyes drift away from the screen. “You’ve always wanted to go.”
“Right, but there’s another reason, isn’t there?”
“Fucking geniuses,” Chuuya mutters under his breath. Then, he pauses the movie and shifts in his seat so that he’s facing Dazai more directly, left leg bent underneath the right and left hand braced against the back of the couch. “Yeah, my brother is in Paris.”
“The blonde guy?”
“Good guess. His name is Verlaine. He couldn’t make it all the way to Japan for the wedding, and at one point I suggested that we go over there. The idea just kind of snowballed after that.”
“Are you French?”
Chuuya shrugs. “Half French. Verlaine is full French, my half-brother. Same mom, different dads.”
“Is everything already planned?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry, you had plenty of input. Do you want to see?”
Dazai waves a hand. “No point, is there?”
Chuuya laughs. “I guess not.”
“Okay, then. Before I agree, I have one last question.”
“Shoot.”
Dazai pauses, eyes drifting back around the room. At the life he’s apparently built for himself.
“Why did you marry me?”
Chuuya doesn’t flinch at the question. Instead, his resolve seems to harden, his blue eyes sharpening. He shifts once more, bringing his other leg up so that he’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, fully facing Dazai now. Dazai, in turn, shifts so that his position mirrors Chuuya’s. He leans forward, elbows sitting in the crooks of his knees.
“Do you want to know when I realised I loved you, Samu? It was about eight months after the first time we met. We were out at a festival, just enjoying the summer evening. Then, we ran into someone you knew from grad school who you were not a fan of. Well, he started talking to you, and you had to explain the whole amnesia thing to him. After about ten minutes, the guy was still hanging around despite you giving clear ‘fuck off’ signals. You know what you did? You started acting like you had forgotten who he was.”
Chuuya pauses to laugh, throwing his head back, eyes closing in amusement. Dazai doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.
“You said to this guy, ‘Oh, sorry. Who are you? I’ve got amnesia, so sometimes I forget people.’ In the moment, it scared the living shit out of me, but then you gave me this look over the guy’s head like you were gonna kill me if I didn’t play along.
“It definitely worked. We got the hell out of there and made our way towards the lake. We got there just in time for the fireworks show. Man, it was a great night.”
Chuuya wipes his eyes with a finger, a few more chuckles escaping from the back of his throat.
Dazai watches with a smile. “As much as that sounds like something I’d do, that doesn’t answer my question, exactly. Actually, it just enforces it. Why did you marry me? I’m apparently stuck at 24 years old forever. I don’t remember that, or any of the other dates we’ve ever had. Why would want to spend your life with someone who can’t remember you?”
“Because I love you, idiot. And even though you don’t remember me, I’m pretty sure you love me, too.”
Oh.
That’s what this feeling is. How strange.
Because, Chuuya is right. Dazai doesn’t remember him, not in the slightest, but Dazai does trust him. There’s a feeling, deep in his core, that is telling him Chuuya can be trusted. With everything. Dazai doesn’t think he’s felt this way about any before.
“And, listen,” Chuuya is still talking, hands starting to wave around nervously as he speaks. “I know I sprung all of this on you really fast today, and didn’t give you enough time to process. We can cancel the trip to Paris, if you’d rather stay here. I got travel insurance, we’d get all of the money back. There’s no reason to do something you don’t want –”
“Chuuya,” Dazai interrupts. He surges forward, spurred on by sudden bravery, and grabs Chuuya’s hands in his own. They are surprisingly rough, calloused by a full life Dazai may or may not have already been told about. “I want to go to Paris. With you.”
For a moment, Chuuya is speechless. Then, hopefully: “You sure?”
“Yes. You’re right. I trust you, I might even love you. And I don’t know anything about you, except that you’re short and apparently you like to wear hats and drink wine. But, I don’t think any of that matters. As of yesterday, April 1st, 2021, you are my husband. And tonight, we’re going to Paris together for our honeymoon. I don’t think the details really matter, do you?”
Chuuya blushes, blue eyes diverting to look anywhere other than Dazai. Then, he blinks, and he’s looking back at Dazai with a new found confidence. “Can I kiss you, Samu?” Chuuya asks.
Dazai rolls his eyes in response. “We’re married. Do you even need to ask?”
“I think you have something of a special circumstance.”
“Yes, Chuuya. Shut up and kiss me.”
Chuuya surges forwards, grabbing the sides of Dazai head in a gentle hold. Their lips meet, and Dazai’s breath gets taken away. A shiver rushes through his body with the feeling of Chuuya’s lips on his. Dazai closes his eyes, revelling in the moment.
After a few minutes, or maybe it’s a few hours, they break apart. Dazai feels Chuuya’s phantom touch linger on his skin.
Chuuya smiles at him, beaming.
“Great timing,” Chuuya says, still slightly out of breath. “We have to go in about ten minutes if we want to grab food before the flight.”
“Oh, uh, right,” Dazai replies dumbly. “Are we already packed?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry, you had plenty of input.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that to me today. Do I usually complain about not having a say?”
Chuuya huffs. “Yeah, like, all the time, asshole.”
“Right. That does sound like something I’d do.”
“Come on, we’ve gotta get ready. Go get your notebook and stuff.”
With a smile still plastered on his face, Dazai makes his way back to the bedroom. As he passes, his eyes linger on the New Year’s photo of him and Chuuya once more. Now that he knows what he’s looking for, Dazai can see it clear as day: love.
Dazai heads back into the bedroom, quickly finding his notebook. He opens it, flipping through until he finds the first empty page. He takes out a pen, uncapping it and making a new note.
As of 1 April 2021, Chuuya and I are married.
Chuuya loves you. And you love Chuuya.
“What’s taking so long?” Chuuya asks on the other side of the door. “And you call me a slug.”
Dazai quickly collects the notebook, opening the door to see Chuuya leaning against the wall. He’s wearing a hat and a light jacket.
“I’m ready,” Dazai says.
“Obviously. Let’s go. I’m not missing this flight.”
They head to the door, slipping on their shoes. Chuuya opens the door for Dazai, grabbing the keys from the nearby table.
Outside, the air is cool, a slight breeze ruffling the trees. Two sets of luggage are already waiting for them, one red and one blue. Chuuya closes the door to their apartment with a quiet thud, locking it. Then, they walk away together, hand in hand.