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Dazai is afraid to break the silence, there are no voices floating around.

 She then briefly wonders if Dazai can be afraid, but concludes by proceeding to file away; afraid. One of her non-favorites because she finds that she is even more afraid of allowing what would happen next.

And even though talking sounds like striking up a conversation with someone holding a sharp knife to her throat, she does it. Because this is Odasaku. He doesn't take knives. He doesn't know how to cook.

“Oda,” she says, instead of 'Odasaku' . Properly for the first time since meeting her now husband. “Can we stop?”

The redhead saw him coming from a kilometer away. It should be luck, Osamu saw him about five miles ago. They must be in different geographical locations by this point in Dazai's intellectual plane. 

But knowing something in advance never helps you prepare. A gradual, defined proximity to catastrophe is more like the crescendo of a piano, but the keys are her insides. The sensation enters her sensory channel instead of your auditory one. It is unexpected and obviously more painful.

"Of course, uh, it's okay," the tone of her voice reassuringly reveals that he probably didn't want to do anything anyway. Dazai feels like Marie Antoinette.

She will remain a virgin even after her wedding night. They could probably be good friends, since people will also talk if Osamu doesn't get pregnant by this date in a month. Their only difference is that it's not a problem for Dazai. She will dress saints after her death if it's up to her. She will dress them if there is something after death.

Her immodest dress is hateful, it itches against her skin, but she sleeps in it anyway. Oda turns his back and sleeps beside her. What a magnificent and frightening peace. The worst thing about it is that it is not payment against product. She will have to pay for it once the interest is damning.

Dazai feels pretty in this dress. It's the dress a doll would wear to a wedding, it's stunning. The best part about weddings for dolls is that they don't get pregnant. Ever.

***

She considers herself a multitasker  . The bathtub is filling up on the second floor while she puts water on the stove with the flame low. Oda  is still  asleep. That's inconvenient. 

She tries to step on the creaky stairs on purpose to avoid the awkward moment of waking him up for work on her own. Like loving wives  . Come on, she likes being  useful , but that's the only thing she likes about most  things  in life.

The awful smells of her pre-shower hair oils  sting  her   nose. They stung throughout the night, as she applied them the night before like she does every night before her hair wash day. Her slippers click against the floor softly with each step she takes.

Before she enters the room again, she makes sure to throw away the sake bottles in the upstairs living room that he  accidentally left behind  last night. She hums, planning to spend a short time in the shower so she can at least wish Oda a good day before he leaves for work. 

He greets her as Dazai emerges from the bathroom in her favorite blue robe. She only wears it when she knows it's going to rain. She won't have to wash it for a few days and she'll wear it continuously. It's perfect.

"I think I'll be traveling soon for work," the redhead comments, the younger girl slicking her  post-shower  oil onto her brown tips.

"So I'll be alone?" she asks with a pout. 

She likes Oda's company. She hates sharing a sheet with him at night, like, ahem,  normal marriages . But it's not like she'd want to share a sheet with anyone else in the world. Maybe it's the simple fact that  she's not  a woman made for love.

Oda adjusts his cufflinks on the cuffs of his crisp white shirt for work. Dazai  pretends  to iron them himself but in reality she goes to the laundry because  she doesn't  know how to iron. Not that she's fooling the redhead.

She carefully divides her hair into sections to dry it. All this self-care sometimes brings a certain satisfaction. She has learned to do it well.

Normally, looking good is a requirement to not allow rumors  to circulate  like fairground horses through the county. Dazai usually shrugs off each new occurrence of her declared (extraofficially)  enemies . The truth is that she would soon be planning an elegant demonstration of her  well-being  and  class  compared to the boring lives of others.

Dazai's life is varied.  Inside  the house.

Oda serves himself breakfast (which Dazai bought  yesterday , during the afternoon, but  she warmed up  before taking a shower) while the brunette dries her hair with her red hairdryer. It was a gift from his mother, since Dazai used to have very long hair. 

As soon as she got married, she cut it  short  as a show of rebellious independence. It's a little longer now, falling a few inches below her shoulders. It's cut in layers to give her waves a lightness.

Today is Wednesday.  It will rain . Few people prettier and more interesting than Dazai have the ability to fake a complete personality. So she replaces the sun that Yokohama  won't  see during the day and wears her yellow dress, meticulously arranging the white collar. She combines it with a ribbon that identifies her as a lively housewife, quite romanticized in her time, white.

Oda is saying goodbye as she walks down the stairs, he gives her a look of admiration for her harmoniously deceptive choice of wardrobe as he grabs his coat and heads out the door.

Dazai pauses for a few seconds on the last step when she is left completely  alone  in the house. 

She looks like she's  admiring  her manicure while holding onto the railing of the stairs. But she's actually rambling. In reality, her  heart  (or maybe her limbic sector, which actually controls her emotions)  sighs  at the  emptiness . In reality, Dazai has bitten and battered nails. She doesn't have perfect manicures.

She skips his solitary breakfast at home and takes her own coat. The house is rarely enough to give her space for all her thoughts. It's a bit stifling.

***

" Vain bitch ," Yosano greets from the other side of the cash register. 

Behind her a portable stove heats water for tea. Dazai prefers it to coffee anyway. She walks nonchalantly towards the brunette while she is being lectured.

"You're  so  busy buying ribbons at the mall that you never visit this  old  music store anymore, huh ? And I always try to bring records of your choice so you don't forget me."

The brunette smiles, the black bag hanging from her arm is  almost  empty. She doesn't have any money on her. She only pays when she comes with Oda, so her debts with the record store are usually high. Not that it bothers the redhead. It's a whim that comes with being his wife of convenience. 

It doesn't bother the shop owner either. Dazai's childhood friend. She thinks the fact that she carries an empty bag is more troublesome than stylish.

“I usually buy some for you, but I intentionally forget them at home so I don’t give them to you because you always  scold me ,” she replies with some giggles. Yosano grunts in disapproval.

The dark-haired one informs her that tea will be ready soon, and Dazai acknowledges this with a hum, inspecting the various new records on the shelf in front of the door.

She doesn't look up when the door opens, the annoying bell ringing reminding the brunette of the highest note on the piano at home, which of course  she never  plays. She can't allow herself to come across as overly effeminate because that would be what  her mother  would want.

"Can I offer  you some tea , officer?" Yosano says, far away from her. 

Dazai reads a dedication left by an artist she detests on the back cover of the album case. She also deliberately wonders if  Yosano's casual air  of never formally greeting is what makes her interesting. 

After all, for better or worse, everyone has  something  interesting. Emptiness is an attractive point in Dazai. Men tend to like it as much as his physical appearance.

"I  enjoyed  yesterday's tea, I'll have breakfast here," a female voice says. Strangely, Dazai didn't hear two people come in. Unless... "I guess I should fulfill my role as the officers who  eat donuts  instead of  working . You don't see a coffee shop that sells vinyl records in every city."

Yosano laughs, the female voice laughs. Dazai raises his head.

A woman, redhead. 

A female police officer. 

She's funny too. 

Dazai knows few funny women other than Yosano. She's tried being funny before, and concluded that maybe it's not a woman's strong suit. Maybe she's wrong, because she's dealing with a female police officer. A funny woman. 

Breaking her patterns makes her think that maybe there are no patterns for girls. That sounds inspiring. Dazai didn't know any funny female police officers until now. More than that, no female police officers.

"It's actually a record store with a cafe. It's said like that to make it sound less colloquially alien. But it's more common than you think," someone says, probably the other person who came in with the policewoman.

'What a nerd,' Dazai thinks. 

A blue gaze is suddenly on her, and she almost makes the mistake of drowning pathetically as if she were an overwhelming wave. Oh, it was Dazai who said that. There are actually only the three of them.

"What my friend said," Yosano says. 

The female police officer doesn't look at Yosano when she speaks. Which is immodest but usual for police officers. Maybe it's disappointing that the female police officer doesn't break the masculine mold by being a female officer. But it's disturbing and charming that she doesn't look at Akiko to look at her.

" Is it ?" the red-haired woman rambles. 

There's a ' Nakahara C. ' on her license plate. Which makes her an only partially defined identity for Dazai. Which makes her mysterious. 

"Anyway, it doesn't matter.  I'm  Officer Nakahara," the woman smiles at her, not in a friendly way or with any mocking intention for her strange correctness, her gaze lingers for a moment on her red lips and Dazai notices it as she extends her hand to shake the policewoman's.

She has to admit, that  stunned her  a little. She doesn't make eye contact after that, overcome by sudden shyness.

" Dazai Osamu ," she replies. And of course, it doesn't show in her tone. She's not a rookie.

She walks over to the box to take the record she was looking at earlier to listen to it and give himself more reasons to hate that artist. Or maybe to develop a sudden deep love for ther music.

Who knows. Unlike people, albums by the same artist can all be different. But all the actions of the same person are governed by the same morality. It's a monotonous and comforting attraction in its predictability.

Dazai is dispassionate about interesting people, yet drawn to good music. It relaxes her restless brain. It's like a hyperactive child. One she'll never have. The whole village talks about it.

“Here you go,” Yosano tells them both, sliding two cups of tea over. A pink donut for Nakahara, too. “ It’s on the house ,” she adds.

Dazai tastes the tea as if it were an expensive wine. The smoke makes its way into his nose and she ventures to take the first sip. The taste is accepted and she entertains herself by reading the newspaper headline. A suicide.

"Hm.  That. " The redhead says, perhaps noticing her interest in the news and showing off her social communication skills. 

Dazai is solidly impressed. She doesn't know how to start conversations on her own. She hopes her bangs hide the surprise in her eyes. 

"I was transferred here precisely because of the  increase  in suicides. They are suspected to be fake."

Dazai notices that the police's pink lips are  completely  natural, as there are no lipstick marks on their mug. Unlike her own.  Suicides.  A strange activity. Why would a person kill themselves? Maybe they find  nothing  in themselves. Nothing worth  living for  . Suddenly Dazai wavers between understanding and disgust at identifying with such a cause. But she's curious.

Yosano seems interested in the topic, since there are no other customers apart from them. She wonders how much sales she must have during the day to allow herself to give away tea and donuts to her guests. Or maybe she is just generous.

Akiko asks the officer questions, and she answers calmly. She glances at Dazai a couple of times, intently. She doesn't look back, flipping through the newspaper.

She wonders if the gaze never moves and sometimes has waves of force or if the police are constantly watching her, looking for something to add to the conversation.

She couldn't find a reason to talk. She doesn't like to talk anyway. sHE often confuses herself with being a hollow person. But in reality it's hard to catch her thoughts that travel together like the different train cars. When she finishes saying something she concludes that it wasn't what she really wanted to say. It's annoying. It's not worth talking about.

If I were to speak, I might end up giving the pretty officer a bad impression by saying something too deep and depressing or something too superficial. It might be better to be mysterious, like her.

"Oh, Dazai. Your lipstick," Yosano points out, just as the brunette finishes her tea. 

Finally, she finds something to say that doesn't give too much away. She flashes her charming smile at the audience. She hopes Nakahara notices the effort.

Looking at the teacup, you can tell that the red color is now weak and uneven as it permeates the ceramic. She dramatically calms the black-haired girl.

“Oh, no need to worry.” She opens her lightweight purse and her red lipstick that she carries in case of quick touch-ups takes center stage. “What kind of  fashionable woman  would I be if I went out without preparing for emergencies? Not a fashionable one, that’s for sure,” she says cheerfully. With impeccable muscle memory, she touches up her skin without smudging it with delicate agility. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

But when she does look for a quick approving inspection, it's not from her best friend as she usually does, it's from the officer at her side, who watches her movements with some impudence, to be honest. It's cute. But she must also be trying hard to hide it. She admits it.

The officer in question now has a reason to gaze at her lips without hesitation. She does. There is nothing written on her face as her eyes rest on her lips like a dancer dressed in blue silk falling on a bed of roses. Dazai captures what she wants to capture directly from that screen to her soul. She smiles.

"That's it," she nods, then looks up into his eyes.

Dazai hums in thanks. Yosano speaks, Chuuya Nakahara then answers absentmindedly. No one says anything more than a noncommittal farewell as the brunette leaves.

***

"It's certainly unusual," she hears her black-haired friend say on the phone, a couple of days after meeting Officer Nakahara, the latter being their current topic of conversation. "I don't see anything wrong with it though."

"It's strange, me neither." Dazai answers thoughtfully. 

It's heartwarming to see a woman in a job like that. Normally they're relegated to mere secretaries. But from his own experience, Dazai knows that it's a tiring job. It's more than just being pretty and knowing how to type. She may be an expert at being pretty, but dealing with men on the phone who don't know boundaries because of it or not was the worst part of the contract.

The music is loud on the record player in the living room. Dazai is trying to cook a piece of meat in one of the expensive pans she received at his wedding a year ago as a gift. She's likely to burn it again. Still, she absentmindedly sips wine straight from the bottle and charges the base of the phone with it so she can talk to her best friend. The damn cable is short.

“My mother would kill me if I joined the police,” the brunette on the other end of the line comments. Dazai hums in agreement. “But she’s a nice girl, quite cute, too. She could be a magazine model. You should invite her to your shoots.” Is what Yosano says, Dazai grimaces.

"No", responds.

Yosano laughs loudly, she can hear the nail file rubbing as she speaks. Her gaze travels to her own hand holding the handle of the frying pan. She should fix her manicure.

"Oh, please. Don't pull that cold, mean girl act on me. I know you liked modeling. You can still do it. You're good at it and you're pretty, just like Officer Nakahara, huh?"

Dazai sighs, drinking more wine to avoid answering. She does so later anyway.

"Oda makes me eat at least twice a day now. I'm not in any shape to wear such tight dresses." Is her dry reply, avoiding letting her bitterness leak into it. "And anyway, don't try that leftist act, they might be listening to us on the phone. Officer Nakahara is a girl. And I am one."

Yosano groans, but Dazai is indifferent to her mood. She's really hot and wants to finally take a shower so she can have dinner and end the day. Oda went on a trip, and the brunette finally got around to playing the Cillia Black album she bought the other day. So far, so good.

"You should turn down the volume on the record player, it's annoying," the black-haired girl tells her disdainfully. But no one stops Dazai's music. It's his way of expression. She's got  rights  since 1967. Like about a  year and a half  ago.

"Or maybe you should hang up and do something productive," the brunette hums.

"Are you in a position to demand that of me,  Miss Shopping?"  Yosano scoffs after an indignant snort.

Yosano is the only one of the two who works. Dazai doesn't need to anyway. Oda's job is pretty good. And even though she doesn't go shopping every day, it's pretty close to it. But she doesn't know what Oda's job is anyway, so she tries not to spend too much.

"Die," she says, making a frivolous kissing sound before hanging up. She drinks another glass of wine, puts it down, and walks away from the stove to play the record again. It's a work of art.

She sighs, the music flowing through her veins. Sometimes she feels the need to punish herself for not being able to feel any other way, but she remembers that self-harm would leave unsightly marks on her skin, which would be inconvenient if she decides to model again. She couldn't ruin the only thing that makes her useful.

Feeling feels good, though. One wonders what life is like for a person who is always full, who never has to flee cold places to seek sensations or impressions.

Cillia Black sings better than her anyway, but she still does a duet with her on the record player, maybe she should take advantage of Oda's absence and escape to the disco, ideal to feel the collective euphoria. But when she's there...

Men are annoying. At home, Oda is an exception, of course. That's why she decides not to go anywhere so as not to make him worry about her being alone at night. People might say strange things anyway. They love to talk about Dazai's life.

Like, they've been married for a year and still don't have children.

The brunette comes upstairs, dressed only in her blue bathrobe, to take a shower. She plays with the water and rests her head near a scented candle to get intoxicated by the smell of pears and daisies. She remembers having left the wine next to the stove, but she does not remember having turned it off.

The record isn't finished yet, you can hear it down there. You can smell smoke too.

(She doesn't care enough)

Dazai squeezes out some of his moisturizer and begins to moisturize her face. She wonders what will happen, will the house burn down and she die? She hopes no one will know it was because of negligence if so. She wonders if dying will make one last time feeling pain enough of a justification to stop hating herself. Or stop wondering why she can't hate herself like a person who doesn't care if the house burns down or not would.

She chooses to continue pretending she has a personality and settles on her yellow pajamas. A vibrant, satiny textured nightgown with white lace at the neckline. It’s a little provocative, to be honest. She never wears it around Oda, though she doubts it would provoke the redhead to wear it with his skinny, strange body. But it only covers half the thigh of her long legs. It makes her feel a little pretty. She knows that even though she’s strange, people tend to like her.

Then she hears the sound of glass breaking, sighing at the crackling sounds that follow. The kitchen is on fire.

What she likes most about her nightgown is that it has pockets, it's pretty, she fiddles with some thing on her dresser as she puts on her slippers to go downstairs and slips something into her pocket. She takes her time on the stairs. Black's dramatic, wide voice on the record player at the back of the room, diffused by the smoke, makes everything seem very chaotic. It's Dazai's favorite song.

She hears sirens in the distance, she approaches the kitchen but it is impossible. The whole counter is on fire.

Knocks on the door. Oh. The neighbors noticed before she did. Everyone will be talking about this tomorrow. How embarrassing. She should have been less careless.

A puff of smoke comes out of the door as she opens it, she and the cop on the other side cough, there are screams, they ask if she's okay. Dazai doesn't answer. Standing aside as men in red suits enter and the officer talks into his radio. Then he addresses her.

"Dazai Osamu," a female voice says, in surprise. That voice is full of suffocating thickness and sweetness. It's like Christmas mashed potatoes. Dazai likes mashed potatoes. Eating them makes him feel like a dumb baby who doesn't know how to chew. 

"You'll have to come with me to the police station."

She wonders why, but nods anyway and is pulled by the arm before she can grab her coat, now everyone will see her in her pajamas.

When there is no more smoke on the road, she can see the red-haired person carrying her. It is Nakahara. It is not a surprise, but it is.

"I can't believe you're so bad at cooking that you burn down your own house," she says as she escorts her to the backseat. "Do you even know how to cook?"

Dazai doesn't respond until the redhead gets into the driver's seat after talking to a fellow officer, starting the engine. The two of them are alone now.

"Everyone knows I'm good at everything," she says. "My cat was trying to get in through the top window. I went to help him and I neglected the food. It's no big deal, why are you taking me?"

The officer looks at her in the rearview mirror, her eyes as dark as the sky at this time of night.

"You'll have to explain that over there, just make sure it's a better lie than that. Still, are you okay? The smoke might make you sick in a few days if you've been in there too long."

The brunette sighs, suddenly the redhead's voice is background noise. She should have known, she's a person like everyone else. They'll always want answers from Dazai. She's a little tired of that. 

She strategically decides not to answer, looking out the window after catching the way Nakahara grips the steering wheel violently, giving her a tingle. What a vulgar display. Or is she really angry? She figures she'll have to squeeze Nakahara until all his humanity insides unfolds in front of her.

"It doesn't matter either way. I'll pay the fine and go to sleep," she replies indifferently.

"Excuse me?" The redhead distracts herself from her path to blurt out sullenly, Dazai staring back at her through the rearview mirror. "What the fuck do you mean by that? Did you start a fire?"

She doesn't respond for a moment, just giving a meaningless smile through the mirror, suddenly starting to care less if she gives the older girl a bad impression. 

She categorizes it into two relevant reasons. Mainly, Dazai also doesn't know what the fuck she means by that. Likewise, seeing her irritated makes her feel something. She doesn't know exactly what. She decides to find out by using unsophisticated methods for a delicate lady like her. 

"So what if I did?"

Making her angry is easier than she thought. How beautiful. How beautiful she is. Nakahara slows down, pulling over in the middle of nowhere. It would be terrifying in most cases. 

She now knows what she feels when she's with this officer, it couldn't be a coincidence if this is the second time her uncertain emotional epiphany has happened. Her only clue is that she knows it's not terror. That encourages her to pursue that emotion even if she's stranded with her. Or she'll be hunted. She'll escape so her blood will be sweeter when she's caught.

"Dazai, where the hell would you sleep tonight if your house burned down?" is the officer's nosy question. Her face is, in one sentence, the condescending bitterness with which one might address a child doing crazy things that put their integrity at risk. Worried and annoyed. It's satisfying. At the same time, it's annoying.

The brunette sighs. Maybe Chuuya doesn't understand that the plan is to never have to sleep at all again. Or is it forever?

"You're right," Dazai lies. "Would you make room for me on your couch if I had nowhere to sleep? I'd like to see your house."

The other party shows no signs of finding it funny. Instead, she gets out of the car.

Dazai follows her with her eyes, she stands in front of the car door, and opens it.

"I should leave you here, you fucking idiot."

 Despite her aggressive words, Dazai doesn't feel offended or intimidated in any way worth mentioning. "You do realize it's different if you're a girl, right? Get off and go home before I electrocute you."

Electricity. It would run through her body with heat. Like feeling too strongly. So strong that it hurts. It's totally foreign to Dazai. It's not pleasant either.

"You wouldn't be able to hurt a lady," the brunette jokes, the moonlight illuminating her pajamas. She presses her legs together and feels something wet.

Chuuya looks at the gold that shines on her skin due to the poor lighting. She looks like she wants to scream. She looks somewhat agitated.

"I'm a woman too, you idiot. That's why I know in advance that it's different for girls in prison. It's arson, Dazai. You'd get at least seven years in jail for your mischeviousness." She crosses her arms, still facing Dazai, who hasn't moved from her spot.

Mischief. How fun. “Arson? I wouldn’t do something like that, Officer Nakahara,” she says innocently. But she feels decidedly dirty. She avoids using her mask of ‘genuine bewilderment’ for effect.

The redhead huffs, leaning her arms, one on the door and the other on the roof of the car. She mutters something like 'What am I going to do with you?' And Dazai feels the urge to tell her that she could do whatever she wants, but she doesn't fully know what that could mean. She's afraid it won't be right.

"Call me Chuuya," she finally says.

How appropriate, the introduction and the name. She will make sure to find information about her kanji in her dictionary. The only thing she knows about her now is that their last name means plain. Dazai imagines herself lost in her, guided only by the tangents of a river. Everything about her is like a puzzle that she has to shape and build in her head with obsession to the tangible lack of answers.

"Oh, I had to burn my house down to get you to tell me your name. You're so mysterious," she says playfully.

She looks down for a second, where she suspects (she knows perfectly well) that Chuuya's gaze traveled.

 It could be a trick of the low light, and the detective never allowed her gaze to wander down the path that leads to her chest, exposed by the yellow pajamas. Or maybe the officer is indecent and did do it. Even so, she pretends to look at her hair to fix it, caressing the waves delicately.

"So you admit that you set your house on fire?" Chuuya says, but it's not in a police tone. It's more like a mocking tone. "I should handcuff you."

She should. Dazai feels her heart racing. Maybe she accidentally sat down somewhere  damp , because she feels that way.

" No , ask something else." she says, Chuuya raises her eyebrows. She understands that she should talk more. "The house is my husband's, I wouldn't  burn it  down on purpose." - She would just let it burn, but definitely wouldn't start the fire on purpose. Chuuya hums.

" So , are you okay? You didn't answer before."

Dazai looks down at herself again, giving herself a good look. She always feels  cute  in her yellow nightgown. Cute like an  inanimate doll  . Everyone likes dolls. She hopes Chuuya likes them too.

"I'm  cold , but I'm okay," she feels somewhat naked. She concludes that doesn't care too much if it's with Chuuya.

The redhead stares at her for a second. She should close the door. Osamu steps aside to let her in. Are they staying here? Is there a reason for that?

Chuuya starts to take off his blue jacket, Dazai laughs.

"Oh, I can't believe you're going that fast," she pretends to be pure, fanning herself with her hand. The redhead rolls her eyes.

"You're a menace." She finishes taking off her jacket and hands it to Dazai. "No wonder you're cold dressed like that."

The brunette slides her gaze over Chuuya while covering her legs. Now she will pretend to be an innocent dove. She doesn't want the older girl to lose interest. Although she doesn't know why. The answer timidly peeks out every time right in front of her nose but she is focused on Chuuya.

"Right? Although I think you're jealous of my dress," she jokes.

Chuuya gives her an indecipherable look.

Dazai probably  wants  to kiss her . She's kind of curious. The last time she kissed someone was a whole year ago. She didn't like it very much. It seemed like something that could have been better executed differently. With someone different. She never gave it any thought until now.

"You're cute," Chuuya says. Oh, so she's going to kiss her without her having to ask? Or maybe Dazai is just that quick. "That's why you'd be in even more danger if you spent the night in jail, I'll take you to a hotel."

Dazai thinks it's excessive for many objective reasons and others not so much. But she could still go back home because only the kitchen is burned. The rest should be fine. But she doesn't care. Besides, if she manages to kiss Chuuya, shouldn't she sleep with her too? It seems she will have to be the brains of both of them.

She won't get anything anyway, given Chuuya's personality. She reaches into her nightgown pocket, recognizing the cylindrical object.

She sighs. “Take me home,” Then says, sounding defeated. But she’s only retreating. But first she’ll make a strategic move.

Chuuya,  adorable  Chuuya in a basic white t-shirt and uniform pants, did she expect Dazai to hold back? That's right, the brunette is the more visionary here.

She grabs the collar of her shirt, connecting their gazes for a moment, the blue jacket slowly slides off her legs as she moves, her lipstick comes off with a  click  and Dazai is so close to the redhead, she lets go of her neck and takes her right arm, writing quickly in the dark, Chuuya follows her movements. Alternating between her face and her body almost on top of her.

It's hard and boring to always be a doll, sometimes she likes to be part of the game, not itself. One of her knees is  between  Chuuya's on the seat. She finishes writing her phone number along with a heart that  declares  impulsive flirting.

"You're pretty too," she says to Chuuya, "Isn't it  scary  to be  alone  at night?"

Chuuya sends her a look  longing  to be decoded. She seems to enjoy making Dazai's mind spin. Is that good or bad for her?

“You’re the most dangerous thing yet,” Chuuya hums, she has what she needs. Dazai sitting on her lap, her landline number written in lipstick and the tentative hint of a consequence-free kiss. No one would see them. They could get a little feral here and not bother any souls unfortunate enough to cross paths. “ I should  start taking care of myself.”

Dazai laughs, almost inelegantly. There's no less for her, it's the crudest action she could do.

" Oh ? What do you think I could do to you?" She encourages, almost sarcastic, almost provocative. "Believe me, I could sit there and talk like a civilized lady. But we're far from civilization, and you don't seem afraid of what I know is going on in your mind."

What could be lost?

"Do you read minds?" Chuuya asks, her eyebrow raised, as if challenging her to say...

" Yes ," she exhales, a sigh that brings her closer to losing control. "You should tell me more about that you're thinking."

Should she start taking off her clothes? She guesses that's the part that comes next. The truth is that she's never seen respectable ladies on television rushing police and stripping. Unfortunately, Osamu is a reflection of them. She finds it difficult to hide her inexperience by disguising it as curiosity for a certain target. 

The ideal in the grand scheme of things is that Osamu ends up moist and content beneath Chuuya and doesn't have to show off her meager skills.

Chuuya sighs. "I should take you home." That's what she says, but she doesn't make any move. The brunette can't contain her confusion, but she doesn't lose her spirit either. It's not a definitive no.

"Would you come in with me? To protect me, of course."

It sounds like a taunt, as if what could happen has already been done without consequence. It's a psychological trick that helps the indecisive. Dazai makes it work almost every time she wants to get his way. Letting her interlocutor know her desires strategically prevents Dazai from turning around to inspect her emptiness and discovering that there is no longing in the nothingness.

She can see the hint of skepticism rooted in the tentative desire swimming in Chuuya's brutal eyes. How desperate. The redhead keeps hesitating so much to kiss her at once. That's why she already sees the refusal coming before she gets it. But the way it is is disconcerting.

"You should ask your husband that," the redhead huffs, opening the door, and taking her waist to gently push her aside. 

Good. She doesn't seem angry. The display of clumsy gentleness makes her curious about what would happen if Chuuya was abrupt and didn't hold back. What a strange thing to think about. She's having a hormonal breakdown, it seems. It's all because of Chuuya.

“ Oh please ,” she moans. Chuuya gets in the driver’s seat. It’s strange to put herself in Chuuya’s shoes so thoroughly, yet she tries. So she guesses that for her, fantasizing about a married woman is one thing, openly admitting it as a woman is another.

"My husband is not at home," Dazai says, it can be taken as an insistence, or a simple comment. 

It's admittedly abstract in a crude way. Free interpretation complicates things. But it's also the strength that makes Dazai essentially invincible. 

"So you're looking for temporary comfort? I think I'll pass," the redhead starts the car, and Dazai covers himself with her jacket.

"Are you admitting that you would like to comfort me?" she asks, genuinely curious. 

She thinks Chuuya could be honest enough for both of them. Though she knows it won't work like this forever. Having things clear will help her act next and guide Chuuya to the next dance, avoiding having to be open and honest. It would be ridiculous to reveal that she can't do that. She's  full  of lies, and lies  aren't real.  She's consequently empty.

“I don’t understand what the point of playing like that is,” she complains. Brutally honest. There you go. Dazai thinks she likes her brutality. In many ways. Chuuya takes a shortcut to get to her street. “Stop doing that anymore, doll. You’ll end up seeing my face while you fuck him.”

Dazai feels herself hyperventilating in outrage and offense. She forces her bones to stop digging into her flesh painfully and isolate herself so that things don't have the same importance to Dazai as they do to others. A self-destructive practice. She wonders how empty she must be to allow for so little good advice.

She takes a breath, correctly. "The truth is, I never fuck my husband, I wouldn't be able to see your face if you didn't decide to show me on your own," she rambles, more frivolously than she expected. Chuuya sighs, pulling up in front of her house. There are no more patrol cars or firefighters.

What a messy day tomorrow will be. Oda will find out anyway, but she'd rather get the kitchen sorted before he gets back.

"That explains something," the redhead replies. Even she is not spared from hearing the wonderful things that have to be said about Dazai's married life.

Dazai sighs as if a weight has been lifted off her shoulders, saving her from having to say it or admit it on her own.

"So you'll call?", since she doesn't have a pair of big brown eyes for nothing, she sends a somewhat pleading look to Chuuya. For lack of a more sophisticated word than beg, Dazai will call it pretending, it's quite trendy in cinema.

Chuuya's arms are thin but strong, they look toned, and Dazai's romantic opening message fits seamlessly into his girth.  Ugh , she doesn't seem to get tired of being stressfully sexy.

"I'll wish you a good morning. Now get out of my car, baby." She promises, more important than her demand for her to get out. It doesn't matter anyway. Chuuya promised her a call. Hopefully she'll convince her sometime to come home after dinner time and have her dessert.

It will be good for her. She will discover what fuels the fire in her gut that originates from Chuya.

***

Unfortunately, Chuuya didn't specify which day she would wish her a nice day. Is the amount of importance she's implying desperate? She hopes she's not that pitiful. But she hates waiting for something she practically already has. She should just take it.

And it's ironic, because the plan is to be, ahem, taken by Chuuya. Who escapes like a ghost might do in Dazai's brain plane. She's there, but she only shows her evil energy and presence to cursed souls like Dazai. And she'll have to chase her down. It's hard to get laid in this godforsaken town.

She stretches out on the burgundy divan in the living room. It may be pretentious, but she actually prefers Victorian style to modern. Long live the Queen of England (even if she died sixty years ago).

And anyone might dare to criticize her and comment that her life consists of lazing around and being pretty all day. And while this kind of confusion is not particularly bothersome to her, it actually makes invisible the amount of work that goes into getting ready in the morning, choosing an outfit that does not reflect her lackluster heart, in the name of keeping up appearances. 

And, to waste it on trivial errands like stocking the house, or cleaning and organizing it, to then dismantle what was carefully constructed with the knowledge that tomorrow will be just as hopeless. In every sense.

A task is added to the list, being pretty and lazing around while waiting for Chuuya's call. She said she would greet her good morning, but it's three in the afternoon several days after her promise.

There's a knock on the door, and surprisingly,  there's also  a ring on the phone. Holy crap. It must be some divine test to question her  faith  in the effectiveness of multitasking.

She'll have to open the door to the closest guest, cordially invite them in, and then rush to answer the phone. Not very elegant. Quite practical.

"Jeez, Osamu," is the first thing she hears as she opens the door, what a shame. She regrets that she couldn't trip on the carpet and accidentally drop her throat on the sharp tip of the umbrella instead of opening it. "You're going to kill us both with your slip-ups.  I'll die  of embarrassment."

“ Mom ,” Dazai greets. Her tone oscillates between the amusement she might get from watching a wall dry out and the sadness that hits her when she accidentally burns her cherry pies. It’s the only thing she knows how to cook perfectly. “Always radiant like the sun at noon,”  and just as annoying,  by the way. Her mother passes by, clearly unable to interpret her daughter’s witty sarcasm even twenty-four years after her birth.

Dazai unceremoniously turns around and heads to the kitchen, where the phone is. It's Yosano.

“Hey,” may be the most formal greeting Yosano has ever uttered in her life. “I heard about your house, are you okay? You haven’t been in for a few days,” anguish is never welcome in Dazai’s tragic life, but it’s not optional either. She has learned to cope with it, though, and be grateful for it in cases of genuine concern coming from a friend like Yosano.

"Of course, weeds never die. I'm like a daisy growing on the sidewalk. The angle  is always  too  oblique  to be stepped on," she reassures, tangling her finger in the telephone cord.

The display of incomprehensible gab must reassure Yosano, who is used to Dazai. The latter can see her mother sitting on the couch and wrinkling her nose. Oh, the fury grows in Dazai's chest. How can she hate his couch when it wears that hideous green striped dress?

"Well, you should come soon. I feel lonely without your vain ass wrapped in ribbons sitting on my couch, okay?" There's genuine disgust in Yosano's tone, the brunette smirking. She was so busy tidying up the kitchen that she forgot about her best friend.

“I think you deserve your gift ribbons,” she replies. Yosano laughs and talks to a possibly customer. She takes her leave. “I have to hang up, the turkey’s in the oven,” she says, checking her nails, one of which is bruised by Dazai’s anxiety. She can feel Yosano rolling her eyes, immediately understanding the code language. Not too subtle, just a display of female camaraderie.

"Make some tea, Osamu. In case your kitchen is still of use."

A rage blooms in Dazai, undesirable. As if uncovering rotting food, the smell grows stronger  and  takes its place as if it were going to  destroy  everything, or what little there is in it.

"Anything special? I have lavender, if you want to try it," someone unknown that Dazai harbors within herself to deceive others smiles,  and it's the same as always.

***

"I don't think things are going to work out with her," the redhead says, looking thoughtfully at his glass before bringing it to his lips. He gulps down the whiskey like water and speaks again. "But my mother is pressuring me to find a wife, now that I'm out of the army."

The man beside him has a look of sternness and pity on his face. He looks like he's going to say something. Maybe a totally apathetic contribution or some pathetic party friends advice. Dazai feels ashamed for him in advance. The feeling of solidarity is somewhat bitter for her.She didn't know that his limbic brain sector had such a capacity. It must activate after the two drinks.

"I heard your conversation," Dazai says drunkenly, including herself. "I think we should get married."

Dazai dreams of different things in between her sudden intermittent dreams, she had one where daisies were infesting the flowers in her garden, scattered like buried  corpses  . However, her light sleep is interrupted in every possible way. She wouldn't consider it a nightmare, but just as she is too cold to sleep, the phone starts ringing downstairs.

She sometimes hears that she shouldn't answer the phone late at night. But who could it be? A ghost warning her in advance of an unwelcome and creepy visit? Luckily, she's not religious. She doesn't believe ghosts exist, which always helps her ignore them by alienating herself.

She wraps herself in her plain white robe and lazily goes downstairs. She grunts as she turns on the light. She clears her voice to avoid sounding too sleepy even though it is, after a quick glance at the clock, four in the morning.

As usual, she always lets the person on the other end of the line do the talking, and boy does she.

"Good morning,  princess ," greets a voice that I mentally register as a favorite. Perhaps her obsession is going too far because she feels her heart racing. 

  She has to snort in disdain at Chuuya's tone, as if it hadn't even crossed her mind that she wouldn't answer at this blessed fucking hour.

"If I'm a princess, you must be a  little bird  that sings to  wake me up,"  she says sarcastically. Clearing her throat further after noticing that it's still pitifully hoarse, but at least, it's not pitifully obvious from her shock. "I'm not sure it's daylight yet,  why  are you awake?"

Chuuya laughs, will she say something like 'I couldn't sleep thinking about you' or some similar rubbish? Because Osamu would be delighted to hear it.

"I'm a police officer, remember? It's a normal time for me to get ready. I would have called you earlier but I don't have much free time," she says. Dazai hears sizzling oil and suspects she's cooking.

"Oh, so it's your day off and this is an invitation to breakfast? I can hear you making cooking," Dazai's stomach growls irregularly. She carries the phone base to pour herself a nutritious, multivitamin glass of water.

"That's funny. But  you're right , I should treat you to breakfast so  you don't  have to cook for yourself. It would save me  the trouble ." She says cheerfully. She's surprised that her good mood is genuine at this hour of the morning.

“That  ’s not  funny,” she jeers. She sets the stand down on the counter and leans against it, adjusting her robe to make herself more comfortable. “But you’re right, you should take me home,” she says pointedly, playing with the phone cord. One of these days she’s going to accidentally unplug it.

"Eh, being desperate  suits you well , I must admit," Chuuya laughs, and although she's seemingly unaffected by her shameless flirting, Dazai can bet it's agitated her a bit.

She hums, suddenly not tired. Chuuya wakes her up completely.

"I have  better  angles," is what she replies, Chuuya stops breathing on the other end of the line. She wonders if the fried egg he was cooking isn't burning. "You should come and see them."

And luckily, there are still two hours left until Chuuya's turn..

***

A silver car parks in front of Dazai's house, she can see it through the window. Nice model. She read about cars in some magazine and now every time she looks closely she can tell them apart.

That's why she opens the door as soon as the red hair peeks out of the car. It's cold outside, if she stays here too long her loose hair gets frizzy, even so she leans her weight on the door frame, playing with her hair as she approaches. She's wearing  Fendi sunglasses . That stupid brand that's recently become popular. She's not wearing a uniform, which is strange because she's supposed to be going to work, she doesn't care since, if it were up to Dazai, Chuuya coming dressed is optional.

“You don’t have the slightest bit of shame, do you?” Chuuya greets, taking off her glasses, putting them away as he stands in front of her in the hallway. She looks her up and down, and she isn’t shy wrapped up in her robe and pajamas. “Always  making sure  to show off when I’m around.”

"You think too much," she replies, without inviting her in. But she should, she's at risk of kissing her in full view of anyone. "I'd wait for you without exhibitionist clothes if you asked me," she slips the comment in, like she'd flip a modest hand of cards in a game of poker. " Or without clothes . Or if you visited me at a  suitable hour . "

Chuuya smiles at her, "You're going fast, princess. You should treat me to a coffee before that."

The brunette finally steps away from the entrance, of course.

Dazai waits for the water to boil, offers Chuuya a bun, and she sits comfortably at the kitchen table, where she has a view of the television on, but she watches it intently instead, like the first time. She expects Chuuya to drink his coffee, pretend their meeting is merely a casual affair, make the minimum of intimate physical contact with her, inviting her to her dance eager for eye contact, so she can pounce on her. By this point, Osamu is already willing to risk his class to cheer Chuuya on. Not at all desperate.

But none of that is necessary, Dazai almost despairs, because twenty minutes later, she's taking the cup away, Chuuya not looking at her as she does so. Silly Chuuya. Sje can't just come all the way here and not do what they both know she intended, can she? She wouldn't change his mind so easily. She wouldn't play with Dazai's sweet, empty heart like that.

"I wonder what you gain by being so  cruel , cutie," she hears the murmur right in her ear, momentarily turning her back on Chuuya to leave the cup in the sink. She planned to wash it a few days later. Cruel? Her? Chuuya must be getting confused.

Chuuya, pressing her chest against the brunette's back, running a hand around her waist to play with the ribbon of her robe, she playfully debates whether to undress her or not.  How cute.

"I hope you stop pretending to be so shy after  I'm done  with you."

Oh.

Her previous master plan had an approximate completion time of thirty minutes, but in less than five she is already naked on the couch, moaning at each shiver that Chuuya's lips on her neck provoke. Is she  that  sensitive  ?  Sounds promising. The background noise of the television hides her embarrassing sounds.

Chuuya lets the weight of her hips fall on her own, which is wonderful. She never thought that kissing a woman would be a thousand times better than marrying a man. It seems like what she needed.

She stammers out a futile request for more and swings her hips, strategically spreading her legs even wider, between which is the red-headed detective she met about three weeks ago. She's a sweetheart, by the way.

Shee moves from her bare neck to her even more bare chest. She kisses her reverently and ignores her breasts without ceremony. She grabs each side of her thighs and spreads her legs.

“ C-chuuya! ” she squeals, and the aforementioned can see the tips of her bangs damp from her agitation as she looks up, her lips parted in a question she hasn’t yet asked. It’s adorable to see that cute little head working at the speed she does. “I… never… Well, what I mean is that-”

The redhead looks at her, raising her eyebrows in shock, but also some bewilderment.

"I don't expect you to have done it with another girl before, so it's okay," how nice of her. The truth is, Dazai hasn't done this with anyone before. Anyway, what good could that information do for Chuuya?

She weighs the possibilities. She'll probably be subjected to an annoying conversation about this, questions from the redhead about why she's been married for a year and still a virgin. That would delay her initial plan of having an amazing orgasm in the next fifteen minutes. Or maybe she'll become too condescending. She decides to nod and let her head fall back onto the pillows of the couch, letting out a small jump and a cry when Chuuya licks her hungrily.

Oh, if she knew it would be this way, she might have invited Chuuya the same day she met her, but of course, to do so he would have had to skip his sexually oriented dilemma.

Maybe he likes women as much as he likes being  useful.  Maybe it’s the other way around. The best part about the process of establishing her preferences is that she knows she’ll never like most things. Just these sweet exceptions. She clutches the pillow beneath her head between her fingers, body presumably restrained by the older woman’s grip.

Still, she does her best, chasing the pleasure with clumsy movements of her hips. The sound of Chuuya's lips pressed into all the wetness makes her shiver.

She must be really  soaking wet , because one finger slides so easily inside her that it's a crime Chuuya didn't decide to start with two full on. The latter stands on top of her, moving her hand delicately inside her, finally deciding to give attention to her small breasts, which by the way, fit perfectly in Chuuya's palm.

The brunette pushes against the fingers ramming her hole, but flees from Chuuya's cruel bites all over her diaphragm, it's lovely that she's so possessive, but she assumes the price is the redhead's erotic torture.

" Yes ," she moans softly, enjoying the shiver that runs down her spine when Chuuya perpetuates a love mark right between her breasts, tangling his fingers in her red locks. "Chuuya," she moans.

She doesn't try to be nicer despite her pleading in the sexiest voice she can muster, instead choosing to pamper her with her approval. Something that   people who love being helpful will always love to have.

"You taste good.  You're a good girl,"  the older girl informs him, kissing her skin every few words. "I want you to cry while you cum," she murmurs, graceful even as she takes it upon herself to dirty Dazai's mind with other people's fantasies, such as... "You're perfect."

Dazai  blushes .

Their legs are adjusted until one of them is between Chuuya's, and the redhead's thigh is pressing on her clit, Dazai moans and presses harder.

"What embarrassing tendencies Chuuya has," she criticizes, hiding her embarrassment and looking away. Useless, of course. She has Chuuya practically in her face because of the position. "My mother says that pretty girls don't cry, I don't think i do so." She scoffs poorly.

Chuuya seems to remember that she has a really pretty girl under her, so she gives in to the primal urge to kiss her, for the first time, wildly, taking her wrists and holding one of them just above hes head. It will give her some support. She might faint from such beauty, ha.

“Is that so?” She starts riding him like a wild animal. It’s perfect. It’s everything she wanted. “You’re right, dolls like you shouldn’t cry,” she rocks back and forth, moaning softly. “But you will.”

What a convincing sentence. It could be a judge sentencing a guy who stole a bicycle to life in prison. It's not appropriate. Chuuya could be wrong, but Dazai never fails in his predictions.

Dazai feels a little dirty, the rest of her is boiling pleasure and splashing like sparks of electricity. Her hand caught by Chuuya is pressed where her hair is also scattered on the pillow of the divan.

Chuuya's last kiss plus her heated declaration keep her passive and panting, her cheeks still flushed.

Without looking Chuuya in the eyes, she frowns, the latter decides that she doesn't like her indifference and takes her chin, without aggression or delicacy.

She doesn't say a word. She just kisses her again, and this time she has the violent intention of hitting her with a rose petal. She draws out the shameful sounds that she fancies with a sophisticated style even in her carnal and intimate action. She is poetic.

She wraps her arm around Chuuya's waist, not restricted by the redhead's grip as she moves, grinding into his thigh and thus pressing on the brunette's clit. She moans at each thrust, leaving faint scratches on his back.

She lets out a soft sob that is inadmissible, because she immediately decides to reaffirm her inability to cry by flipping Chuuya over, this time letting her cunt rub directly on the older girl's. It's heavenly. She uses the toned abdomen beneath her as a support point, riding Chuuya roughly.

"That's, um-" she whines, a sophisticated sound to anyone but even crude in context. "....I'm close! No! A-ah!"

The redhead's soft, brutal hands wrap around her waist, instigating her into a rhythm dictated by her. Too rough for the position Osamu is in. But she knows that if Chuuya were softer, he wouldn't be able to reach orgasm.

Small tears nestle in her eyes, oh fuck no. How embarrassing. She covers her face as the blue-eyed girl sets the pace and cums with a heated huff. She follows shortly after, sobbing softly and hiding the fact that she was undoubtedly a little devastated by Chuuya.

She exhales slowly, everything seems too difficult as she comes down from her cloud. But everything feels pressing. She wants to resolve her doubts, but she wants to remain happy in ignorance like a hollow person would, living their life without bitter questions. But does she want to be hollow? She supposes it's the best thing for her personality. But it's not the best thing for her. It's not the right thing.

Does Dazai care about what's right? The differences between right and wrong have always been a concept to play tricks on people who are unclear about them or who are ignorant of their depth. Dazai doesn't understand them at all. But Dazai does. That's what everyone thinks. She collapses into her new dilemma by lying on top of Chuuya without permission. Chuuya laughs.

"You're so light," he tells her, making room for her head to be buried in his neck, Osamu bites and sucks gently to return the marks, and the detective lets him as she scratches gently, barely moving hes hair.

She decides to ignore it. Being governed by correct passivity would mean getting hurt so as not to hurt others. And you shouldn't get hurt because otherwise you're weak. He assumes that being weak is bad. Dazai's soul is always in pain, so she assumes that she never has the energy for anything that makes her seem strong. But does the opposition between strong and weak have the same importance between being good and being bad? She assumes not, because everyone takes their own path. But if good and evil are definitive antonyms, shouldn't there be only one path for good and only one for evil? Considering that there are good people like Chuuya. As said, she will ignore the problem.

"Hm," she says eloquently. "I had to be. It was my job."

Chuuya wants to ask, but decides not to. Her other hand rests on the brunette's lower back.

She cranes his neck and can see the clock on the wall. It will be six o'clock soon. He will have to be a little late today. She asked for permission before coming anyway so she can have fun with the cute girl who has been getting into trouble ever since she met her. She hopes his boss doesn't find out about that last bit. Chuuya hasn't taken a vacation since she started working, so one hour late won't kill her.

Still, it's an encouraging way to start the day.

***
The tub is filling up upstairs. Osamu is heating up coffee, her hair tangled in a small towel to let the oils take effect.

She bangs on the pots with less grace than usual while cooking, with the clear objective of waking up her beloved husband, who has already returned from his trip. Dazai greeted him with a smile, washing the coffee cup in the sink so he wouldn't suspect (Since she doesn't even drink coffee).

Coming out of the shower, Oda is without pants, but he is looking for his shoes under the bed. The  position  is elegant.

She moisturizes her face, applies some blush without any foundation, and squeezes her hair with the towel to start drying it.

"I saw your face in a magazine recently," Oda comments. He always starts the conversation. Given topics, they're never too relevant. Oda is reserved by nature, she supposes, as she never talks to him about work nor does she bother to ask him, since she can't talk like he does. Maybe she married him because of that. Maybe she has a soft spot for people with social skills. "Have you gone back to modeling?"

Dazai raises an eyebrow. Maybe they are recycling old photographs. That means she will receive some money soon.

"No," she replies. Humming Cillia Black. "Do you think I should?"

Oda smiles in a strange way. Like he doesn't want to. The chances of Oda doing something he doesn't want to are slim. He's like a bloodhound. A huge, loyal bloodhound. But dogs don't do things they don't want to do. They only think about their temporary well-being. They're bastards. They'd give up years of care and love from a master for a piece of meat from some stranger on the street.

"Maybe, if that's what you like," the redhead agrees. But she can infer from his tone that there's more behind the genuine pleasure of Dazai's interests, the latter turns off the dryer and turns around to face the other.

She examines him silently, he is crouched down putting on his shoes. They are different shoes today. They are not the ones he wears to work, which are at the entrance. Osamu helped Odasaku pack his suitcase, and in fact, she doesn't remember packing anything that Oda wore when he returned yesterday.

She wonders if Oda shares the feeling provoked by mortifying silences. She concludes that he does not. Oda is an impassive person. And she does not experience feelings. She creates them.

Oh, she won't make a scene. Ignorance is bliss.

Ignoring whatever the redhead meant to say and didn't after his superficially disinterested comment, she narrows his eyes and smiles. "Whatever you say, Odasaku."

The dryer resumes its expulsion of warm air, slowly clearing away the haze of uncertainty and melting away her doubts, blooming like daisies on her head. Daisies are pretty, they are helpful for flu and scars. Her daisy candle helps her relax quite a bit when she takes a bath. But daisies are a weed.

Oda drinks coffee, as usual. She sits watching TV when he is leaving.

The day passes as if the passage of time has no importance to human interests, is that cruel? Is it an incentive to do the things you want to do as soon as possible? Her dress is pale pink today, she doesn't wear a ribbon but her hair is tied back in a loose bun. She vacuums the floor lazily, oh, there are so many things to digress on when you're a girl.

Calls with Chuuya are becoming common these days. Chuuya calls, wishes her good morning, good night, asks her if she finally fucked her husband like the ridiculous indecent woman she is and even alludes to a strange subject.

"I haven't been able to visit you, but I'll be taking some days off soon. The case isn't progressing at all, but there was another suspicious suicide recently, we're trying to prove that's false as well," of course, that doesn't interest Dazai, what really enters his head is: "I hope you don't get too excited about yourself when you think of me, see you later, princess."

Get excited?  About herself? Dazai doesn't get excited.  Ever . And now, for Chuuya to think she could get excited about herself is delusional on her part and the reasons are unfortunate for Dazai, but that's not literally what Chuuya means.

The TV plays in the background as she cooks chicken for her salad. She's suddenly very hungry, having eaten nothing but half a cup of tea all day, but she remembers that she must eat healthy if she considers becoming a model again. A bottle of red wine is beside her. Another of the many gifts she and Oda received at their wedding. But neither she nor Oda like wine. Dazai drinks it while laughing in complete solitude at Chuuya's antics.

Playing with herself. Funny. Chuuya has touched her more than she could ever touch herself in her entire life,. When it deviates into the erotic aspect, it is even more unexplored for her.

She turns off the chicken, tossing it on top of her pre-prepared salad. But the wine has taken away his hunger, and he takes the bottle into the living room, where she plays an album by a promiscuous American with the last name Presley. She's heard bad things about him, and he feels sorry for the guy.

She laughs again, it's terrible not being able to be normal. Everyone will talk about you, that's the only thing common in her life. She's too hot, so she puts the red wine down on the living room table and starts to unbutton her crimson dress. Pulling it over her head and leaving her in just her white shirt. Her mother would disapprove, of course.

Red is a tempting color and a girl shouldn't seem too interested because she could easily be labeled as some kind of bitch. Luckily she doesn't need a dress for that. The dress serves to hide it.

Oh, she's basically naked now, she can see her own lanky body that hasn't eaten for a while, superficially worrying. Chuuya likes this body, why can't she like it? Everyone likes to see her face frozen in a hollow emotion on paper. She hates seeing herself smile. Maybe she doesn't deserve it.

She feels like  she hates  everyone, and even though it's too easy for them to guess, they choose not to see it, right? Perhaps the prospect of someone condemning her in the future, wandering until they find that truth about her, will be what slides the mask off her face.

And it's frustrating. Should she long for the verdict to end her once and for all, or run away from it and be vaguely embraced by the warmth of the things in her life? Assuming they're worth it, though.

She laughs. She'll take what she gets. There's no need to make another stupid dilemma about it. She doesn't think she's a woman made to hate. Maybe it's some kind of envy that rots her hollow soul.

She falls onto the couch, reaching out to take the bottle by the neck and drink. Even when she's drunk, she doesn't squirt the liquid anywhere. She gets perfectly drunk without any noise. No disaster. It would be terrible if she did something she shouldn't do.

She groans in pain, her neck is terribly uncomfortable. She shifts and wanders.

Getting excited. It sounds more and more fun.

To hell with it, she arches her back a little to accommodate herself more. Her breasts are small. They were always useful for her to fit perfectly into a size zero dress but were still striking enough to look stylish.

She squeezes one of them with the layers of her shirt and underwear in between. It's like she's squeezing her bath sponge. It makes her laugh. She tries to feel the same way Chuuya made her feel, but concludes that maybe that's unique to the redhead.

Her hand trails from her stomach to her belly, still thinking too much as she plays with the waistband of her panties. Should she indulge herself? She knows she shouldn't, but she figures Chuuya would probably talk to her at a time like this.

She would say something to her that makes her feel pathetic and needy and nickname her a princess. She likes being a princess the way Chuuya says it.

Her hand enters without bothering to pull down the only piece of clothing that's in the way. Oh, maybe Chuuya would be naked on top of her. Maybe he'd let one of her long, slender fingers inside her once she got her wet enough. Luckily, Osamu feels her soaking wet at the mere instance of Chuuya being near.

She concludes that the panties are annoying, so she pulls them off, rocking her hips as she does so. Her finger is wet. There's something slimy on her brain that has the texture of slug slime but feels smooth and sweet like honey. She might end up being eaten by it.

Using her fingers is too tiring all of a sudden, so she just massages her clit ceremoniously. She moans, closing her eyes. Chuuya would mark her skin, roughly grabbing her waist and hips and leaving marks. Her poor entrance would end up swollen from her harsh attentions.

She gasps, she would love to slowly strip Chuuya of his police uniform. She would like to be restrained even more than Chuuya's dominance during sex implies. Maybe she'll let the redhead put her handcuffs on her, and maybe she'll have her kneel at the foot of the bed.

Dazai cums, but it proves to be insufficient. He grabs one of the soft pillows from the couch, settles himself in, and finishes again.

***

"Your husband doesn't sleep here often, right?" Chuuya says, comfortable on the couch, without a police vest, just pants and a white T-shirt. She came straight from work, around 7:00 p.m., just because I called her.

"Not today, but it's not usual," Dazai replies.

"I see why you don't fuck him, poor baby." The nickname is the most mocking part of his comment, the rest sounds like he genuinely feels sorry for her.

"I've survived without it," she says simply, returning the taunt without giving any tragic hints about the background, as if the mere thought of remembering her kiss with Oda during the wedding didn't make her gag a little.

Chuuya sneers again, the light from the TV illuminating half of his face. She's relentlessly sexy.

Anyway, Dazai pours them lemonade and sits next to her, immediately snuggling into her side. Chuuya's affection is easy to get. She gives it as if she has plenty for everyone. She's like the air. It can be a delicate breath. It can also be a devastating tornado.

"Oda isn't in love with me," Osamu suddenly says. He wonders who gave her the authority to say something like that. Dazai would've never. "And I'm not in love with Oda either. He's my best friend. I don't think I'll ever fuck him," she finishes, trying not to sound as pitiful as possible. She was lucky.

Chuuya scratches lazily, she can feel his otherwise hypnotized and cerulean gaze fixed on her temple. She must have understood. Surely she's not the first woman who has to do something like that to appear normal. She's just the first one who doesn't interest him in the slightest, just like he doesn't care about anything else. She's  empty .

"Depressing indeed," Chuuya says. There's no mockery. There's no pity. Just a  Chuuya tone  in his voice. "And they've been together for how long...?"

Dazai rambles. She really likes Chuuya. She never knows what he's thinking. Only what she feels and what she'll do. She's perfect.

"A year, a few months," she answers.

"And you...", something hesitant finally leaks out. She should ask whatever it is anyway. She's quite likely to respond with her charming self. "...have you done  this  before? Behind his back?"

Despite knowing the answer, Dazai takes a moment to respond. It's a no on his part, but has Odasaku cheated on her before? It sounds hopeless. She'd be comfortable with the idea, anyway. She prefers realistic things to cruel and optimistic ones.

"No, shrimp. You're the only one who has had the  honor  of  taking  my  honor ," she jokes. She doesn't think she would have ever fucked if it wasn't for Chuuya.

"Please," she scoffs. "You don't go a year and a few months without some kind of... activity, honey. You're being dramatic."

Chuuya certainly came and broke her celibacy streak. In a couple of embarrassing ways.

"Well, I did," she lies. Or, actually, hiding the truth isn't the same as lying. She's just hiding a bit of the truth from Chuuya. She has to preserve her dignity and omit the fact that she fantasized about something close to Chuuya's entire hand inside her. "It's not that impossible.  You  're just sexual."

"So...You were a virgin"

And Dazai stays in silence. And its the first time that she doesn't acts like its nothing when she's pointed out for lying. She wants an answer from Chuuya about that self answered question. 

Chuuya laughs, focusing his attention on the program briefly interrupted by commercials. She'll now on rather to be gentle with her. Even if she weren't like, tough. But still...oh.

“ Hey ,” Chuuya stops his caresses on one of her temples. “Isn’t that  you  on TV?” she forces Dazai to stop rambling about that incomprehensibly wonderful laugh. She focuses his vision on the screen. Sure enough, it’s a perfume commercial she did half a year ago.

"I guess so," she answers, yawning and stretching her legs. She has to make herself very small to fit Chuuya.

“Hey,” Chuuya complains. That tone indicates he wants to ask his annoying questions. It must be because he’s a detective. “What do you mean by that? Are you on TV? Was that the job you were talking about?”

She does the usual thing, answering herself. It's not a cause for much fuss. Dazai takes one of her hands that is gesticulating like an idiot and puts it on her head, so that she can continue caressing and can fall asleep, she's run out of social skills. It's like an alarm clock.

"That's right, is it too impressive?" she asks back, joking to both pretend she's interested in the conversation and lighten the mood.

“Of course not,” Chuuya quickly replies. It doesn’t sound like she’s lying. She sounds way too honest. “You’re fucking gorgeous. I just find it kind of mysterious of you not to specify before sleeping with you that I was going to date a star,” Chuuya jokes.

"Chuuya should just shut up. It's not a big deal." She says, almost embarrassed. Still Chuuya keeps scratching her head.

"I'm serious," she complains, like the annoying brat she is. "Aren't you going to talk about it?" This last bit makes her think. Doesn't she talk to Chuuya enough? Oh, how depressing that must be.

"No," she answers. Only because she's already somewhat accustomed to the tragic and perhaps she likes it. "Chuuya talks too much."

She is audibly offended by that, but then remains silent for a few seconds and says.

"So...could you show it to me?"

***

Chuuya insists on being exquisitely ridiculous, so they go up to his shared room with Oda and he has to constantly go into the dressing room to show Chuuya off.

"Try that one on," she motions, ending up picking out about five dresses, Dazai looks at her in disbelief and Chuuya heads out to let her change. It's not like he hasn't seen her naked before. It's not like he's had a few fingers inside her at some point.

"I'm not a runway model," Osamu complains, getting dressed inside the closet. Chuuya sits up in bed, audibly. "I only ever filmed commercials. Or magazine covers. This is humiliating."

“Stop being so dramatic,” she scolds. “If I liked them enough, I could fuck you with every single one of them on,” she offers. It’s embarrassing that it is actually tempting.

Dazai opens the closet in a distinguished manner. She walks slowly until she is in front of Chuuya. She remembers when she wore this dress. It is black cotton and reaches almost to the knee. It has a white sweetheart neckline that is like a ribbon, ending in a small bun of the same color. She is wearing transparent black socks.

“Oh, it’s the same one from the commercial,” Chuuya says, surprised, standing up and looking almost out of breath. She circles her to examine different angles. She deliberately touches her butt. “It suits you very well. Nice ass.”

Dazai plays with the ends of a strand of hair, rolling his eyes.

"Next," Chuuya says, almost excitedly.

And the next one is a silver swimsuit, it's quite shiny. I use it for a lingerie magazine .

"Forget the catwalk," Chuuya slams her into the mattress, making her smile victoriously and feeling her hair spill out around her. "I'll fuck you now, this one's pretty sexy . "

Dazai pulls her by the neck, making space between her legs, the suit has a bow tie-type ribbon on the back, this presses uncomfortably when lying down, but she trusts that Chuuya will undress her soon.

Kissing Chuuya is contradictory. The woman kisses her softly and sweetly, while running her slender fingers over her body as if preparing a feast, her touch makes her shudder. Her kisses generate romantic hope in her.

"I think I could be yours, Chuuya," the brunette sighs, and for once, every part of herself is gracefully eager for the previously authorized answer.

. Chuuya stands up from where he was kissing the corner of her lips in an awkward and beautiful way. She looks at him. 

"Can't you be mine ?" he finishes whispering.

Confessing a crime seems like nothing compared to confessing that you think you can have a place that is always warm, always ready. Eternally for her. It hurts like opening a wound intentionally, as if digging would find something.

But it's wonderful to bear the pain to find the answer. The chestnut haired's painful perspective makes her see it that way. Another person would compare it to smelling flowers you're allergic to. Or eating cake when you're gluten intolerant for your favorite person's birthday. She supposes that for people like her happiness is more of a natural effort, if that's what they want. She supposes that she's willing to fight with that, even if she doesn't know her limit.

(Or maybe people like her never get anything they want.)

"¿Yours?"

Her first thought is to sink into her lover's arms, blushing passively. 

Choose not to. 

" No, Dazai. I am not anyone's."

"I am not an object." Is her answer.

In return, she gets nothing from Dazai. No jokes, no condescending or hurt skepticism. The simple lulling silence of his embrace. His arms around her neck, playing absentmindedly and coolly with the hair at the back of her neck.

(She meets Dazai's gaze, and holy shit, she's beautiful. Even though the calculation in his eyes was like he was looking through her to avoid seeing her as punishment. Chuuya would do the same to her.

But the truth is that Chuuya is afraid. Because what is this feeling of helpless belonging? Hasn't she worked her whole life to earn recognition and prove to herself that she can, and then go and give herself over with abandon to someone's dispassionate belonging?

She is afraid of the lack of struggle. She is terrified of the lack of will in her bones in the face of the sublime attempt to belong to Dazai. It just happened. She believes that the lack of rapture is due to the ardor of love consuming and suffocating all her forces against it.

Only Dazai remains, colder than ice in the center of her ring of fire. Chuuya would cross the flames just for her coldest kiss.)

In the end, Dazai supposes she's right. Chuuya is like the wind. Sensitive, devastating, and unconfinable. Unconditionally free. She must have been too naive, because the fall hurts. She's everything he'll never be or deserve.

***
Chuuya is no longer in bed when Dazai wakes up. She herself is naked and covered in marks. There is a knock on the door.

Life appears grey before her eyes, as if the fog of the night never dissipates for her. As if she were back at the beginning. Before Chuuya. Before she believed she could have a home.

(A person for her.)

There's a knock on the door, she doesn't bother to check his hair as she puts on a robe, and her slippers. She just untangles it superficially and goes downstairs. She opens the door without asking. She expects it to be a murderer.

"Dazai," that's Odasaku. He seems suddenly embarrassed by his current modest attire. But it's not just Oda, behind him is a man with a hat and briefcase whom he's never seen before in his life and there's also Oda's mother.

The woman passes by, greeting Dazai indifferently and even hostilely. She never genuinely liked him. She supposes it was a miracle that he approved of her after her unexpected and ridiculous engagement to Oda a little over a year ago. He stopped despising her when he learned that she is practically useless at housework.

Oda follows his mother with a thoughtful look on his face. He doesn't look at Dazai, he inspects the house but not in the dismissive, fault-finding way his mother does, but in an anguished way. Dazai only looks at him. Oda, who she might consider his best friend. Never a lover. Never a home. A husband. Fulfilling the same role as all men.

The redhead looks at the glasses of lemonade on the living room table from the night before and finally looks at Dazai, oh, she completely forgot to pick them up. She's about to make a polite excuse for herself as a way to give a reason for her unpresentable condition and the glasses on the table, two instead of one. But she finds nothing. Her silver tongue doesn't work against her best friend, and fear.

Oda's gaze strengthens this time, swallowing as the man who, if Dazai is not mistaken, is a lawyer, pulls out some papers from his scandalous briefcase.

“Dazai ,” Oda says. She could almost smile at the unspeakable bitterness. Of course, she sees him coming from a mile away. Unfortunately for him, Odasaku is already five miles ahead. “We need to talk.”

***

The water is cold around him, making sounds that sound like what Dazai wishes they were: daggers cutting through the air. Sharp blades cutting through skin.

She lies in the bathtub, looking at the ring on her left ring finger that she never wore after the wedding, until today. She never noticed how pretty it was. Only how advantageous it was for her deplorable situation.

Her mother never loved her when she was pregnant, Dazai must congratulate her; she tried hard to hide it. Dazai didn't love himself much in the early years of his life either. No one did.

She didn't play with the other girls. The girls were afraid of her appearance. They said she was ugly and weird. There was a time in her life when she felt satisfaction in becoming a model because of her beauty.

It was the day she decided that her outer shell was what mattered most, and she long abandoned the importance she gave to her emptiness. She was never going to build anything good inside of it, she thought. But it was no use.

His father died in the war before she was born. Funny enough, the war was about to end a few months after she was born, and his mother, believing Osamu wasn't listening, gossiped with her friends, convinced that the man had faked his death to escape responsibility. Dazai would escape from herself if he could too. But she was always the only person he had. She was always the only one he never wanted at all.

To this day, she can still salvage aspects of her mother's motherhood. She never gave up despite being a single mother. It turns out that she left Yosano's parents for a year in search of her father, but came back empty-handed and with even more resentment towards Dazai. But  she came back  and decided to be the lonely mother she was destined to be. He can admire that about her. He accepted her situation. Dazai will never get over the fact that she is doomed to live alone, with herself forever.

She can't hate her mother, she can't hate Chuuya for not loving her. She can't hate Odasaku for leaving her . Her father for dying or running away, whatever the fuck. Because she's not capable of feeling as strongly as all of them do. But she can hate herself, she's decided to. The same way she decided to invent a personality, the same way she remembers that she creates her own feelings.

Her dream becomes reality. It is no longer the water that sways sharply in the air. It is on his skin.

Oda left and the house was his. He told her that she should go back to her old job, and then he found out that that was what it was all about. Remembering that their marriage was fake after all didn't stop Odasaku from thinking about what would happen to her if he left her.

She can't hate him. It's his fault after all.

But is she really? She feels the need to wallow in self-deprecating pity. It must be late, because her wrists are already bleeding. But she tries anyway – did anyone ever bother to notice her? Did they ever discover her emptiness? No one can expect much from her after all, can they? It's unfair.

The scent of pears and daisies floats past her nose. She thinks her sense of smell is sharp enough to smell blood; it must be the effect of dying.

There is little left of her in moments like this, less than what she already had, if it was ever hers.

And she can hear the sirens, oh, did the neighbors notice that she's been in the bathtub all day? She must have known that it was a crime to be that useless. Her life full of misfortune must have made her realize that. She supposes that it's another of her involuntary faults that no one instructed her to avoid.

It's nighttime, he supposes, hours passed before he finally decided to take the razor blade from the dresser next to the bathtub and his movements became automatic.

She can hear men outside, is the world ending? It sure sounds like it. People are giving orders and there are unpleasant sounds from the earth, she curses herself. Even in death her brain refuses to shut down. She is a little tired. More and more dead from the inside out. What peace. She feels like her whole being is being washed away, motionless in the reddish water of the bathtub.

"Dazai!" She tries to lift her head, but it hurts too much. It's like her brain has turned to mush. She assumes the voice she hears is Dad's, waiting for her in hell. "...What? Dazai! Shit!"

It's Chuuya.

Chuuya's big, beautiful eyes guide her to where she could only dream of going. Heaven, oh, God must not exist if Dazai ends up in heaven. Her soul will fade away before she ends up in paradise.

"C-call the paramedics! I think  he  did this!" It seems like one of Chuuya's colleagues was following her. Now they're finally alone again. She'll see a little bit of sky before she loses it completely, it seems. She'll die in Chuuya's arms. "...Dazai, fuck , don't- do n't do this . "

It's like she's floating, but she stops to listen to it.

Do.

...Do what?

"Please... please don't do this... Shit! " 

Dazai thinks she's smiling, Chuuya must be a really bad cop if she can't keep his cool at times like this. But Dazai can't smile now. She's dying. "I'm so scared... please ..." The salt from the tears falls into the bathtub, and Dazai feels like she's burning. "...I love you."

Dazai doesn't answer. Oh. Chuuya is so funny. Giving her a taste of Romeo and Juliet as she watches, not her pitiful life she's trying to end, but a wonderful future slipping away like dry, burning sand through his fingers. There are footsteps on the stairs.

"I'm scared all the time , sorry." Chuuya kisses the back of her hand. She then examines the cuts on her wrist and kisses them as well, her cheek getting a little bloody. How clumsy she is. Crying foolishly. Dazai would have loved her forever. "I'll catch that jerk and I'll be yours for life, okay princess?"

She has to be wrapped in a towel as two paramedics lift her up and carry her to a stretcher. Chuuya thinks someone did this to her. She assumes they all did.

***

When Dazai wakes up, he assumes that every cute girl with severe trauma's fantasy comes true. He ends up in the hospital, the love of his life is there to visit him.

There's her mother too, but that's irrelevant, she gasps in surprise and goes out to call a nurse as soon as she opens her eyes. Chuuya gets up and touches her forehead. She feels sorry for her, she couldn't imagine how awkward it was to sit next to her mother while she was useless and unconscious. 

She couldn't have dealt much with the discomfort of being awake, either, to be honest. It probably would have made it worse, and her mother would have made her feel self-conscious and uncomfortable with herself.

"Dazai, shit." The nurse comes in before Chuuya can vent she anger on her, so this is a failed suicide attempt? Dramatic, but she's used to that. Painful, but it's not relevant. It's like spending a month of her life in a single day.

Her mother is crying at the door. She doesn't see her cry every day, but she used to cry on more nights during the years after she left. She never comforted her. She assumed it would be worse. The woman comes out and seems to be talking to someone.

"Chuuya," she says, staring at the ceiling as the nurse uses her stethoscope and checks her vitals manually. "Am I still alive?"

"Shut your mouth," the redhead barks, crossing her arms, oh, she can't be mad at her for hating living, can she?

Chuuya can't.

"How selfish," she mutters, "Chuuya despises me and then expects life to go on as usual, no kind of emotional responsibility," she complains, managing to make it sound like a joke even when she could...

"I thought...!" Chuuya almost explodes, the nurse comes out, she must tell the others not to come in. Chuuya's look is conflicted, Dazai wants to touch his cheek and tell her she'll be okay. But she's not, not anytime soon. "I thought you were going to die, Dazai," that was the plan. But she avoids discouraging Chuuya. "I thought that damn idiot had tried to silence you or... or that he had found out... you know... and that maybe he had been violent... But you...!"

Oh, what a painful truth that comes from a liar. The truths kept grow heavier every day. The lies clearer and more real in his hands. How powerful.

"I don't understand," that's the first weird thing in the day, though she sounds remarkably composed unlike Chuuya. "You mean Odasaku...?" Chuuya clicks her teeth, taking a newspaper from the dresser.

"Yes, Sakunosuke Oda, the culprit of the fake suicides," the paper is thrown into Dazai's lap. "They tried to frame you as their accomplice, for your attempt...", Chuuya takes a breath. "They thought you wouldn't want to tell the truth and that you pretended to be silent or something, they couldn't prove it so it was ruled out."

“Oda dumped me,” Dazai says. Suddenly the event sounds harmless to her. But then she thinks back. “Wait,” she thinks she’s never said that word in her life.  Oda is a murderer . She hasn’t thought anything like that since she met Odasaku either. How weird are those things now?

"His connections after the war hired him to kill," Chuuya frowns. She doesn't like the idea of ​​working in a country where she has to admit to corruption. "I never suspected him, since one of the crimes happened when he was away. But he switched shoes with the victim on the occasion. That, him trying to cover it up, gave him away. He never left the city. He was hiding. Then I just had to investigate him further...and I thought you were in danger with him."

Chuuya looks away as if she should be ashamed of herself for worrying, but actually that's Dazai's job, she looks away.

 Chuuya takes a breath. "But it seems like you're a danger by yourself." The last thing sounds annoying, Chuuya thinks she wasted her concern, but she should be glad, she feels with touching force.

Oda. A murderer. It sounds like someone decided to sweep the train tracks at departure time. It's laughable. Not so much, considering the ingenuity. It sounds like something Oda would never do, but he's proven otherwise. Those weren't his shoes.

So, Dazai laughs.

Her mother comes in, Yosano comes in with her, her brother Ranpo also came. Wow, she has so many friends.

“…You’re such a b- ,” Yosano starts, her mascara smeared, but Ranpo stops her before she embarrasses herself in front of Dazai's mother. Dazai can’t stop laughing, and Chuuya is just standing there, bewildered, arms crossed. “Jeez, Dazai,” Yosano hugs her, a loving hug. She hadn’t felt that before from Chuuya. “I… I’m sorry, I should have realized, I’m sorry.”

Osamu returns the hug, with his painful smile still on his lips, he glances at Chuuya and tells him.  That  's the way to welcome the love of your life.

Chuuya rolls his eyes.

Oda,  a murderer. How crazy. 

Dazai Osamu, with joy overflowing in his chest.  Double crazy.

***

The police station is twice as far away now as it was in his old apartment. But when you're offered a fully paid-for move in with the love of your life, you shouldn't complain. Chuuya had to ask for a cumbersome indefinite transfer to his hometown to be here.

"You should just turn that stupid shit off already," Chuuya tells her, one Sunday, coming down the stairs in all his newly awakened glory. Crazy love, Dazai takes a sip of his tea, half lying and half sitting on the couch and suddenly wants to wake her up completely by slamming her against the wall.

The Jackson 5, some Americans, sing for her like she's in a club this morning as she gets ready for her shower. No oils this time, it's not her hair washing day yet. Her ' roommate (since she teased Chuuya when she told her they were girlfriends ) with the benefit to kiss her in every possible place ' pours herself coffee, because she's not as big a fan of tea as Dazai.

Living with someone else, it used to be bearable. It was good, if it's optimistic, which it never was and never will be. It was like living with your serial killer best friend. She's no stranger to drama, she just misses Oda sometimes.

But knowing that all of this was hers now, and that the only thing missing was her heart stolen by Chuuya long ago made her feel fuller than ever, and everything she touched told her that it would be better if she shared it with Chuuya.

She watches her drink coffee with a cryptic look, and then Chuuya eats a vanilla bun that was Dazai's.

"I think I'll go take a shower," the brunette says deliberately, stretching. Chuuya looks at her in amusement. Is that an invitation? his eyes say. And of course it is.

"Alone? I don't think so, princess. " Chuuya makes it sound funny, taking her hand and pulling her along once he sets the teacup down on the table. "I'll have to accompany you there to protect you."

Dazai scoffs, loosening his robe as they walk up the stairs.

"I'm sure Chuuya would run first if there was danger, in the shower," she makes sure to emphasize. The redhead isn't a coward, of course, but she tenses up too much at the danger that catches her off guard. "But, maybe there's something you can help me with ," she says.

It's funny, she tells Chuuya she looks like a soaked Chihuahua, as she carries him against the tiles. The truth is that she's still unbearably beautiful. It's Dazai who looks like a wet kitty, kissing Chuuya under the shower that soaks them both.

Chuuya's usual but always devastating kiss trail begins, she positions Dazai and kneels with his brown legs hooked on his shoulders. This is new, it could become one of his favorite positions.

She could choke on it all. Nothing is familiar, just right. 

She hates to live, but loves to love. Can a human live without feeling? They certainly can, in the literal sense, Dazai knows that better than anyone. But even emptiness is a feeling. Loneliness, the lack of despair.

And sometimes she misses being a doll for the camera, so she decided to venture out onto the catwalk. It's not going too badly. She can live with that. And girl can she live with it. Now she does go shopping every day. She also buys some dresses for Chuuya, and some dresses for Chuuya too. The latter excite her more than the former.

She buries her fingers in Chuuya's fine hair. She won't be optimistic. She will be guided by the truth that has led her to remove a blindfold from her eyes. The only truth of her life that she never sank into her lies.

She's human, she should be. It was always the only thing she could never hide. Her perspective has become filled with that. She feels much more sophisticated, Chuuya would laugh at that.

She sighs. But humans are fickle, she should stop being as embarrassed as she feels. “That’s it, Chuuya,” she gasps. She feels something on the tip of her tongue. She would know, because a human would. 

I love you. But who heard that?

Finally, the silence and noise stopped, and Dazai felt like she had nothing else to do, she gave up his efficient but exhausting principle of multitasking and fell into Chuuya's arms.

***