*a single, lone yike resonates in the distance*
Dazai had never considered himself a connoisseur of the visual arts; It was always Chuuya who dragged them from museum to museum after missions, fawning over peculiar paintings and sculptures that showed no obvious meaning.
It wasn't that he didn't have any interest, either. As a child, he was never allowed to express a creative side— or, if he had been, it could only be expressed through tasteful killings. Had he lived in another life, he would have very much liked to be an artist.
However, sitting beside the rickety old piano in Kouyou's brothel, none of that could bother him. When his hands touched the keys, Chuuya relaxed into another person. In their small world, with finely tuned waveforms passing through their ears, there was no need for violence, bloodshed, or snark.
Dazai wasn't speaking (he wouldn't dare), but he rested his cool gaze on Chuuya while the latter bled melodies dry. He had never seen his partner physically play, though he had heard tunes practiced countless times through the years.
Rachmaninoff's Prelude in G Minor.
Chuuya's arms sagged after the last note, his narrowed eyes widening as he sank back into reality.
For a few seconds, his feisty ball of anger looked like the innocent boy Dazai had first met, but the moment vanished when Chuuya whirled to the side to face him.
"The fuck do you think you're looking at?" He spat.
Dazai merely grinned.
Dazai may not have been a connoisseur of visual art, but in this room, in these seats, with Chuuya's gleaming eyes set only on him…
He thinks he's pretty close.
Title from Starset's My Demons.
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