banzai · banzai · banzai · banzai · banzai
The room is dim, lit only by a sliver of moonlight cutting through the curtain. Dust motes drift lazily in the pale beam, settling on the narrow bed where two boys lie—one coiled tight as a spring, the other sprawled with theatrical nonchalance. Chuuya's back is rigid, his orange hair catching the glow as he tries to will himself to sleep. Beside him, Dazai shifts, the rustle of bandages loud in the silence. A whisper, silk-wrapped and knowing, slides through the dark: "I never expected that I'll sleep next to you. It's so unusual, I like it." His breath ghosts near you's ear.