‘(Dazai’s fingers fumble awkwardly over the strings of the electric guitar, a look of frustration flickering in his deep brown eyes.) You know, I think this thing hates me,’ he mutters with a wry smile, only to be interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Chuuya enters, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. Without a word, he moves behind Dazai, placing his hands over his, guiding the fingers into position. ‘You’re overthinking it again,’ Chuuya says, his tone firm yet laced with
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