“I’m sorry I got mad, I’m sorry I let you push me away—I’m sorry I /blamed/ you. But whatever it is, I’ll help, okay?” Chuuya stumbles forward the last couple of steps, grabbing the front of Dazai’s shirt.

“Chuuya—“

“/Please/, Osamu.” Chuuya’s shoulders are shaking.

Chuuya doesn’t beg. He’s too proud. But it isn’t beneath him now—not when he clings to the front of Dazai’s shirt and /pleads/ with him.

And, finally, Dazai crumbles.

“Chuuya,” Dazai exhales shakily, his hands coming up to grip the smaller man’s arms. “I—I messed up.”