“Chuuya, /please/!” She’s crying too, just as hard, and Chuuya feels like a /monster/, but he’s so fucking /angry/ at her. “I—I hate what he did to you, I—I never meant for it to happen, but—he could go to jail for the /rest of his life/—“

“/Good/!” Chuuya’s hands are shaking.

“Do you have /any fucking clue/ what it’s been like for /me/?!” Chuuya can barely hang onto the phone, and the tears are blurring his vision. “I have dreams about it every night—I barely even like /judo/ anymore, because they have to /grab me/—“

“Chuuya, baby, I—“

“/No/!”

Chuuya rubs at his eyes irritably, but he can’t make it /stop/. “Sometimes, I cant even—when my /boyfriend/ is touching me, I’ll forget where I am, and I—I get /scared/! That’s /so/ fucked—“

“I—“ her voice is thick with tears. “Do we /have/ to talk about that right now?”

Chuuya falls silent, instantly regretting mentioning Dazai at all, because of /course/ that was going to go over well—

And then he freezes.

What the /hell/ is he doing?

“You’re right,” he mutters, “we don’t have to talk about it.”

“Chuuya—“

His head is /pounding./

“Actually, we don’t have to talk about anything at all.” Chuuya doesn’t even sound angry anymore—he just sounds /tired./

“Chuuya, /don’t do this/—“

“Don’t contact me again.” He manages to hang up after that, staring at his reflection in the dark phone screen.

He looks /bad./