Dazai likes to think he celebrates other people’s birthdays for himself. He gets excited at the prospect of planning a surprise party, baking a cake, picking out gifts and thinking of pranks to go with them. He thinks it’s for his own sake, his own entertainment, but he can’t deny that if it weren’t for Chuuya’s wide-open mouth and the unexpected mellowing of his voice, he probably wouldn’t be so into his hobby.
He’ll say they’re acts of service; he sneaks into people’s hearts so they’ll owe him and feel inclined to follow through when needed. But he looks at the choker around Chuuya’s neck, the one he’s worn since they were sixteen, and instead of the dog jokes, the arcade bet, the countless collar and leash comments, all he could think about was the tender trust that seeped into his skin when Chuuya lifted his hair and turned his back on Dazai, waiting for him to put it on.
He’s scared to accept that it might just be love.
