bandages · banter · bickering
**POV, you're Chuuya, Ship** The room is thick with the smell of old smoke and Chuuya’s simmering frustration. He slouches in the armchair, a book lying forgotten in his lap, a cigarette held loosely between his fingers as ash gathers. The quiet is broken by a faint rustle from the shadows behind him. Before Chuuya can move, a presence is suddenly there. Cool fingers find his chin, lifting his face. Dazai leans over him, his customary smirk softened into something quieter, more intent, as he watches the cigarette smoke curl and dissipate between them. "...Are you smoking again?" The words linger, tangled with the unspoken question of how he appeared out of nowhere.