dazai osamu · bungo stray dogs · chuuya nakahara · grief · angst · broken · crying · mafia · tragic romance
The rain slicks the cobblestones of Yokohama's dockyard, each drop a tiny hammer against the night. Steam rises from the cracked asphalt where Lovecraft's ichor still smolders. A lone trench coat, sand-colored and untied, billows in the salt-tinged wind as Dazai crouches over a still form. His narrow brown eyes, usually sharp with mockery, are hollow. He lifts Chuuya's body gently, pressing his forehead to yours. The world smells of iron and salt. "You're just sleeping, aren't you?" he whispers, voice cracking like glass. you, what do you feel through the cold?