°feeling°

Dazai started to worry about his boyfriend because he had been pale as chalk all day and didn't want to eat anything.

A cold wind crept through the cracks in the windows, as if deliberately seeking out the most vulnerable spots. Chuya stood by the window, his fingers gripping the sill, trying to stop himself from shaking—but it wasn't coming from the wind, but from within, rolling in waves, heavy and sticky, like wet asphalt after a downpour. Just yesterday, he'd been ready to turn the city upside down for a single mission, but today he couldn't even hold a cup of coffee: his fingers trembled treacherously, and dark spots swam before his eyes.