indensity | (no subject)

[Chuuya had felt groggy and unfocused since he woke up, a feeling not even coffee had been able to make a dent in. He'd gotten to work purely on muscle memory, and then he'd mostly stared at his desk until Kouyou dropped by for lunch and ordered him to go home and sleep it off.

He wasn't sure there was anything to sleep off, but he didn't argue with his Ane-san.

And then he'd gone home, and passed out, and woken up about an hour later as panic gripped his chest tight.

Dazai.

He had to find Dazai.

He hurried out of his apartment, grabbed his motorcycle for speed, and set off in the direction of Dazai's place. Would he even be at his place? Or with that Agency of his? He'd check both, if he had to, although he'd prefer not having to explain to any stray agency members that he wasn't there to kill them. So he'd check his apartment first, and maybe call him from there.

It was only when he parked his bike outside Dazai's building that he realized he wasn't sure what he was panicking about.

Dazai has nothing to do with him anymore, but there was something, a thought buried behind the fog of his brain that told him there was more. Something was supposed to have changed--

Shit.

His head hurt. He hadn't been drinking, and it didn't feel like a hangover, but it did feel similar to a blackout. Dazai and he had been--

Dancing?

No, that made no sense. Chuuya headed into the building, and climbed the stairs, five at a time because he didn't have time for gravity.

They'd been in the city and--

That city.

Chuuya stopped, hand raised to knock, as a few memories started to come back to him. It wasn't possible. Someone had planted that in his head somehow.

They had been dancing. ]

DAZAI!

[He shouted through the door and then knocked hard, making the door shake.]

OPEN UP, DAZAI.

Threaded | Flat

[What in hell. It was way, way too early for this, and it felt like he had the mother of all hangovers in spite of not even drinking that much. Sake, for all its delights, was not a good elixir to have in excess for the injured. If, say, he rolled mindlessly on the floor, he might pull his stitches, and bleeding out was a pain at this point.

More for the duration than the succeeding actual death. You got the idea.]

Got out already, hat rack?

[Dazai's lips were curved in an empty smile when he opened the door, his clothes from the previous day wrinkled from when he fell asleep. Pre-coffee hours were low energy hours. Surely Chuuya knew that?]

As much as I appreciate the idea of trapping in you in a mystery novel, all the credit is strictly Ranpo-san's.

Well, how was it? I bet Chuuya's single brain cell's a zombified version of itself, after being fried multiple times from the collosal task of solving a murder mystery with a thousand possible culprits.

[Chuuya's expression, he noted, wasn't just the usual "goddammit Dazai what did you just put me through I'll murder you" variety. The underlying desperation was something he rarely saw out in the open, and he refrained from commenting, unsure as he was on what to make of it.]