Chapter Text
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 — 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐧
It was the kind of red that didn’t fade.
Chuuya remembered that clearly. Vivid. The balloon had been handed to him by one of the teachers that morning, tied with a soft white ribbon that looped neatly around his wrist like a promise. It floated above him as he walked, a little spot of color in a too-bright, too-loud playground.
He didn’t like the noise. He didn’t like the other kids. But the balloon?
He liked that it stayed.
While the other children ran wild across the sandbox and slide set, Chuuya sat beneath a tree, holding the string carefully between his fingers, watching it sway. He imagined it was a planet and he was its moon. A soft orbit of something warm and safe.
And then, suddenly—
Pop.
A sharp, gunshot sound. His hand jerked back. A flash of red plastic scattered like petals on the wind. The string dangled from his wrist, useless.
Chuuya blinked at it in stunned silence.
Then turned.
The boy was standing just a few feet away—slightly taller, already scuffed from whatever war he’d been waging in the dirt, wearing a crooked grin that screamed trouble. Bandages wrapped around his arms like they were just part of his wardrobe.
Chuuya didn’t know his name yet. But he would.
“Oops,” the boy said, not sounding sorry at all.
Chuuya stared at him, blinking hard. “Did you just—?! That was mine!”
The boy tilted his head. “It got in my way.”
“You popped it!”
“Maybe it wanted to pop.”
Chuuya’s lip trembled. “I’m telling the teacher!”
“You can,” the boy said, as if it didn’t matter. “But you’ll still be short.”
And that was the moment Chuuya Nakahara decided two things:
One — he would never forgive that boy.
Two — he hated Dazai Osamu more than anyone in the world.
𝐍𝐨𝐰 — 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥, 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝟑
Fate was a cruel joke, and apparently, it had a good memory.
Chuuya glared at the class list pinned outside the homeroom door, arms crossed tightly over his chest, hoping maybe, if he stared long enough, one name would disappear.
Dazai Osamu.
His name was right there. Bold. Mocking. And of course—of course—right under his own.
“Nakahara, huh?” a voice drawled behind him. “I thought I smelled blood and rage.”
Chuuya froze. Closed his eyes. Breathed in. Counted to three.
Then turned.
And there he was.
Tall. Smirking. Shoulders relaxed like he hadn’t ruined Chuuya’s life a dozen different ways since kindergarten. Hair messy, uniform slightly untucked, as if the rules didn’t apply to him. Same bandages, like a ghost that never stopped haunting.
“Osamu,” Chuuya said, as if the name physically hurt to say. “Please tell me this is a prank.”
“Nope.” Dazai peered past him, tapping the list with exaggerated interest. “Looks like you and I are going to be desk buddies all year. Lucky you.”
Chuuya turned and walked straight into the building.
Dazai followed.
𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 — 𝟖:𝟎𝟓 𝐚.𝐦..
Chuuya threw his bag down onto the desk by the window, claiming it with the desperation of a soldier defending a hill. Sunlight slanted across the wood, catching the edge of his sketchbook as he tucked it carefully underneath.
He didn’t look up when Dazai slid into the seat behind him.
Didn’t look up when he felt the slight tap tap tap of a pencil against his chair.
Didn’t even flinch when Dazai leaned in close and whispered, “Still sitting alone like a brooding little prince, I see.”
Chuuya turned slowly.
“If you breathe in my direction again,” he said, “I will shove your head into your locker.”
Dazai grinned. “Kinky.”
“Die.”
“You missed me.”
Chuuya’s eye twitched.
𝐀𝐫𝐭 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧-𝐔𝐩𝐬 — 𝐋𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐫
The gym was a kaleidoscope of chaos.
Students rushed past folding tables stacked with colorful flyers. Overenthusiastic second-years shouted club names at the top of their lungs while first-years tripped over their own shoes trying to find something—anything—that wouldn’t ruin their reputation.
Chuuya hated it. Too loud. Too bright. Too fake.
He wanted something quiet. Low-pressure. Somewhere no one expected him to talk unless he wanted to.
Which is how he ended up standing in front of the smallest, saddest booth tucked in the back corner of the gym: Art Club.
The sign was falling over. There were only two students manning it—one of them reading a book so deeply immersed, he hadn’t blinked in two minutes. The other was chewing a pen and sketching something vaguely threatening on a clipboard.
“Do you need to be good?” Chuuya asked, eyeing the signup sheet.
The pen-chewer—Yosano, if he remembered correctly—looked up. “Nah. Just don’t be boring.”
Chuuya liked her already.
He signed his name with a flourish and turned to leave—
And walked straight into a wall of bandages and smugness.
“Wow,” Dazai said, holding his arms out dramatically. “I didn’t know we were both so artistic, Chuuya. What a meaningful coincidence.”
Chuuya stared at him. “You followed me.”
“Guilty.”
“You’re a creep.”
“Guilty again.”
“You’re not even creative. You failed the clay unit last year. Your cat sculpture had eight legs.”
“It was a metaphor,” Dazai said solemnly. “For the many sides of human suffering.”
Chuuya sighed and pushed past him. “Just don’t sit next to me.”
“No promises,” Dazai called after him. “You bring out my inspiration!”
𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬
Chuuya cracked open a can of coffee and leaned against the railing of the school roof, away from the crowd. He stared out at the courtyard below, where people moved in clumps—laughing, shouting, bumping into each other without thinking.
He liked being above it. Separate.
The can was cold in his hands. The coffee bitter. He didn’t mind either.
“Brooding again?”
He didn’t jump. Dazai’s voice was as familiar as background noise by now.
“You really don’t get tired of bothering me, huh?”
Dazai leaned beside him, holding a juice box like a smug five-year-old. “Not when you’re this much fun.”
Chuuya took a slow sip. “Don’t you have other people to annoy?”
Dazai shrugged. “They’re not as expressive when I poke them.”
“I swear—”
“You’re the only one who still tries to strangle me when I say something awful. It’s endearing.”
Chuuya glared at him, but said nothing.
For a moment, there was a pause. The wind tugged gently at their uniforms. The city stretched beyond the school walls—buses crawling down thin roads, clouds drifting lazily overhead.
Then, quietly, Dazai asked, “You still draw?”
Chuuya stiffened. “Why?”
“Just remembered,” Dazai said, eyes squinting toward the sun. “You used to draw on everything. Even napkins. You made that weird balloon comic strip in second grade.”
Chuuya hesitated. His hand tightened slightly around the can.
“…You remember that?”
Dazai turned to him, grin fading a little. “Of course I do.”
Chuuya didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him.
Instead, he muttered, “You ruined the ending.”
“You mean when the balloon gets away?”
“You ripped the last page.”
“I was six.”
“You’re still an asshole.”
Dazai’s smile returned, soft but sharp. “Some things don’t change.”
𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤
Chuuya didn’t go straight home.
Instead, he took the long route—down the back alley by the bakery, past the abandoned train station, and through the quiet, empty park near the edge of town. It was the same path he always walked when his brain got too loud and his fists clenched just a little too tightly at his sides.
He sat under the usual tree. The roots were gnarled. The trunk carved with initials that weren’t his.
From his bag, he pulled out a worn sketchbook. The pages were curled and stained at the edges. He opened to a fresh page and clicked his pencil into place.
He didn’t start with shapes or shadows. He started with color—in his mind, at least.
Red.
He sketched a hand. Small. Reaching up.
Then a string.
Then a balloon—perfectly round. Floating just out of reach.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then, almost without thinking, he drew a second hand beside the first.
Bigger. Closer.
But not helping.
Just hovering there. Empty.