Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The dim light of Dazai Osamu’s apartment flickered slightly as if the room itself was uncertain of its purpose. It matched his mood perfectly. He leaned back on his creaky leather chair, spinning it aimlessly as he stared at the blank page on his laptop. His half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the cluttered desk, alongside an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. He hadn't written a word in days, and his editor’s nagging texts were buried somewhere under a pile of other ignored notifications.  

Then came the knock—a rhythm of impatience wrapped in Yosano Akiko’s signature sarcasm.  

“Oi, open up! I brought coffee,” she called, her voice muffled but unmistakably bossy.  

Dazai groaned, dragging himself to the door. Yosano stood there, her sharp eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like amusement. She handed him a cup, brushing past him without waiting for an invitation. “I didn’t ask for a house call,” he muttered, closing the door behind her.  

“You never ask for anything except misery,” she retorted, flopping onto his couch with zero regard for the piles of books and papers strewn across it. She kicked off her boots, making herself at home. “But you’ll thank me for this gossip.”  

“I highly doubt that,” Dazai replied, sipping the coffee and wincing. It was far too bitter—just like Yosano liked it.  

“Guess who’s on MTV these days?” she began, crossing her legs and grinning like a Cheshire cat.  

“I don’t have time for—”  

“Nakahara Chuuya.”  

Dazai froze mid-sip. His lips curled into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Chuuya? Don’t be ridiculous.”  

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Yosano said, pulling her phone out. She tapped on it for a moment before shoving the screen in his face. There, in full HD glory, was Chuuya Nakahara—his fiery orange hair now styled to perfection, his sharp cobalt eyes smoldering under stage lights. He wore a leather jacket adorned with chains, and his grin was as electric as the audience’s screams in the background.  

Dazai’s stomach churned. “What... is this?”  

Yosano arched an eyebrow. “What does it look like? Your ex-boyfriend is a pop star now. A pretty damn successful one too. Won a Grammy for Best New Artist last night. He’s calling himself the King of Heartbreak. Sound familiar?”  

Dazai didn’t answer. His eyes remained glued to the screen, watching Chuuya toss his microphone stand like it was a weapon and belt out lyrics with raw, unfiltered passion.  

“You know,” Yosano continued, studying him carefully, “his entire album is supposedly about you.”  

“That’s absurd,” Dazai scoffed, though his voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat. “We haven’t spoken in years.”  

“Exactly. What better muse than a lover who broke your heart?” She stood, brushing imaginary dust off her pants. “Anyway, thought you’d want to know. You’re welcome.”  

She grabbed her coffee and sauntered out, leaving Dazai standing there, motionless.  

When Dazai finally attended one of Chuuya’s concerts, after days of a blur of obsession, where Dazai couldn’t stop listening to Chuuya’s music. Every lyric felt like a blade pressed to his skin. The metaphors were veiled enough to avoid lawsuits but unmistakable to anyone who knew their history, he stayed in the shadows of the crowd. Chuuya was mesmerizing on stage, a whirlwind of charisma and raw emotion.  

 

But then, mid-song, Chuuya spotted him. Their eyes met for a fleeting second, and Dazai’s heart stopped. Chuuya’s smirk twisted into something colder, sharper. “By the way,” Chuuya announced to the audience, his voice playful yet cutting, “I’d like to dedicate this song to my boyfriend. Albatross, get up here!” The crowd erupted in cheers as a tall, blonde-haired guitarist stepped forward, his easy grin and confident swagger making Dazai’s blood boil. Chuuya draped an arm around him, leaning into the microphone. “He’s my muse these days.”  

 

Dazai clenched his fists. He didn’t stay for the rest of the show.  

 

That night, he scoured the internet for any information about Albatross. The man was talented, sure, but Dazai couldn’t see what Chuuya saw in him. He clicked through interviews, social media posts, and fan pages until his vision blurred. And yet, through all the anger and jealousy, he kept returning to Chuuya’s music. Each song was a window into the pain they had both endured—a pain that still lingered, raw and unspoken. Night until morning, barely sleeping and eating, his jealousy was eating him instead.

Dazai’s apartment was a shrine to disarray. His blinds were perpetually half-closed, letting in just enough light to illuminate the chaos. Empty takeout containers sat precariously on every available surface, and a laundry pile—clean or dirty, even Dazai didn’t know—occupied an entire corner. The smell of stale coffee mingled with the faint tang of regret. He sat cross-legged on his couch, hunched over his laptop, his hair a mess of brown tangles. A cigarette dangled from his lips, forgotten and unlit. His fingers flew across the keyboard, rage-fueled as he typed furiously into the void of the internet, Twitter.  

“@CHUUY4SS: Albatross and Chuuya are so cute together!!! They’re goals!!! 💕  
—AnonymousAccount23 replied: Goals? LMAO, Albatross isn’t even cute. His jawline looks like it was drawn with a ruler. Chuuya deserves better.”  

He leaned back, satisfied, only for another reply to ping moments later.  

@Chuuyaswife: Says the person hiding behind an anonymous account. Bet you’re ugly. 😂  

Dazai nearly spat out his cigarette. “Ugly? The nerve of these people,”  

From her perch on his armchair, Yosano sipped her own coffee—black, unlike Dazai’s syrupy abomination. Her sharp eyes flicked to him, a smirk curling on her lips. “You’re seriously arguing with Chuuya’s stans on Twitter? How pathetic can you get?”  

“This is not pathetic,” Dazai snapped, his voice defensive as he gestured dramatically to his screen. “This is... correcting an injustice. Someone has to tell these delusional fools the truth.”  

Yosano laughed, the sound sharp and unapologetic. “And the truth is what? That you’re jealous because he’s dating a guitarist with better hair than you? Are you hearing yourself?”  Yosano leaned against the desk, arms crossed. “You’re what, thirty now? And here you are, arguing with teenagers on the internet about whether Albatross is hot or not. Which, by the way, he is.”  

Dazai spun his chair to face her, throwing his hands in the air. “Why does everyone think he’s good-looking? His jawline is too sharp, his eyebrows are uneven, and he plays the guitar like he’s showing off to a middle school talent show, you're only into blondies.”  

Yosano burst out laughing, clutching her stomach. “Oh, you are pathetic. This is gold.”  

Dazai glared at her, his cheeks flushing slightly. “And, Albatross’s hair isn’t better. It’s overly conditioned and lifeless. He looks like a walking shampoo commercial.”  

“Keep telling yourself that, Romeo,” Yosano said, setting her mug down on a stack of precariously balanced books. “I’m actually impressed. I didn’t think you could get any more pathetic, but here we are.”  

Before Dazai could muster a witty retort, the sound of a key in the lock drew both of their attention. The door swung open, revealing Kunikida, his perpetually exasperated expression already in place. Behind him trailed Ranpo and Atsushi, who looked both confused and concerned. “Dazai,” Kunikida began, his tone sharp, “your editor called me. Again. When are you going to finish—” He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the laptop screen. “What... is that?”

“Is he arguing with strangers on Twitter about Chuuya?” Ranpo asked, his voice light with amusement as he leaned over the back of the couch to get a better look.  

“Kunikida!” Dazai greeted with forced cheer, waving his phone at him. “Perfect timing. What do you think of Albatross? Would you call him ruggedly handsome, or is ‘vaguely simian’ more accurate?”  

“I’m not dignifying that with an answer,” Kunikida snapped, striding into the room. He glared at the mess surrounding them. “When was the last time you cleaned?”  

“Why bother cleaning when your life is already in shambles?” Dazai replied dramatically, throwing himself onto the couch. “It’s called living authentically, Kunikida.”  

Atsushi hesitated in the doorway, glancing between the group. “Chuuya? As in... the pop star Nakahara Chuuya?”  

“Yes,” Yosano drawled, enjoying the chaos. “Our resident idiot here has been obsessively listening to his music and picking fights with his fanbase.”  

“Obsessing is a strong word,” Dazai said defensively.  

“It’s accurate,” Yosano retorted.  "Also stalking."

“I am not stalking,” Dazai protested, slamming the laptop shut. “I’m... keeping informed.”

Kunikida pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath about priorities. Ranpo plopped down beside Dazai, snatching the laptop with practiced ease.

“Let’s see what he’s been saying,” Ranpo said, grinning as he opened the laptop and scrolled through the recent activity. “Ooh, ‘Albatross isn’t cute.’ Bold move, Dazai.”

Dazai groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Why are all of you here? I didn’t invite an intervention.”

“You need one,” Kunikida shot back. “Do you realize how ridiculous this is? Chuuya moved on. Maybe you should try doing the same.”

Dazai peeked at him through his fingers, a pout forming on his lips. “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course, it isn’t,” Yosano said, standing and stretching lazily. “But you could at least stop embarrassing yourself online.”

“You’re all just jealous that I’m invested in culture and art,” Dazai said, his voice huffy. “Chuuya’s music is—well, it’s raw and powerful, and the lyrics are clearly about me.”

Ranpo snickered. “So you admit it. You’re still hung up on him.”

Atsushi shifted awkwardly, trying to diffuse the tension. “Maybe this isn’t healthy, Dazai-san. I mean, if listening to his music and seeing him with someone else is making you upset...”

“I’m not upset,” Dazai interrupted, though the faint tremor in his voice betrayed him. “I’m... fine. Completely fine."

“Sure you are,” Yosano said, rolling her eyes. “Let me know when you’re done pretending to be okay, and maybe we’ll actually help you.”

With that, she grabbed her coat and headed for the door. Kunikida followed, dragging Ranpo along, though not without one last jab. “Don’t let him destroy your life, Dazai. You’re doing a good enough job of that on your own.”

Atsushi lingered for a moment before giving Dazai a hesitant smile. “I hope you feel better soon.”

As the door clicked shut, Dazai found himself alone again, the weight of his friends’ words settling uncomfortably on his shoulders. He glanced at the laptop, then at the stack of Chuuya’s albums he had secretly purchased. The thought of Chuuya, smiling and glowing on stage, wrapped in someone else’s arms, gnawed at him. His chest felt heavy, his mind spiraling with what-ifs and regrets. He sighed, lighting the forgotten cigarette at last. “This is fine,” he muttered again, but now to himself. “Completely fine.” And yet, he clicked open Twitter once more.

The Agency office hummed with quiet activity. Kunikida sat at his desk, meticulously updating his planner, while Yosano leaned against the windowsill, sipping her coffee with an air of practiced nonchalance. Ranpo reclined in his chair, scrolling through his phone, and Atsushi busied himself sorting files in the corner.  

The elephant in the room, however, was glaringly obvious.  

“Are we really not going to talk about him?” Yosano asked, breaking the silence.  

Kunikida sighed, not looking up from his planner. “We’ve talked about him. Repeatedly. There’s nothing else to say. Dazai is wallowing in self-pity, as he always does.”  

“Except this time, he’s spiraling over Chuuya,” Ranpo chimed in, grinning. “I think it’s hilarious. Like watching a soap opera, but sadder.”  

Atsushi frowned. “I don’t think it’s funny. He seems really upset.”  

“Of course he’s upset,” Yosano said, setting her mug down. “He let the best thing in his life walk away, and now Chuuya’s become a global sensation while Dazai’s... well...”  

“A mess,” Kunikida finished for her, his tone clipped. “And no amount of enabling from you is going to help him. Let him figure it out on his own.”  

Yosano rolled her eyes, about to retort when a voice crackled over the small office radio.  

“...and in entertainment news, pop sensation Chuuya Nakahara has been spotted back in Yokohama, sparking excitement among local fans. The singer, known for his chart-topping album *King of Heartbreak*, is set to perform an exclusive concert in the heart of the city this weekend. Tickets are expected to sell out within minutes...”

The room went still. Awfully quiet.  

Yosano’s eyebrows shot up, a wicked grin spreading across her face. She pulled her phone out and dialed without hesitation.  

“Yosano, no,” Kunikida said, his voice low and warning.  

“Yosano, yes,” she replied, putting the phone to her ear.  

It didn’t take long for Dazai to answer. His voice, groggy and hoarse, crackled through the line. “Unless you’re here to deliver good news or bad life advice, I don’t want to hear it.”  

“Oh, it’s good news, all right,” Yosano said sweetly. “Guess who’s back in town?”  

There was a beat of silence, followed by a sound that could only be described as choking. “What?! Are you serious?!”  

Kunikida groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re making this worse.”  

Ignoring him, Yosano smirked. “Yep. Chuuya. Big concert in Yokohama. This weekend. Tickets are going fast, so you’d better—”  

The sound of frantic typing cut her off.  

“I’m on it!” Dazai shouted, his voice frantic. “Where’s the link? Is it live yet? Damn it, this site is so slow!”  

Ranpo burst out laughing. “You can practically hear the desperation.”  

“Oh, and by the way,” Yosano added, feigning innocence, “you owe me if I go with you.”  

“Deal,” Dazai said without hesitation. “I’ll buy your ticket. Just—just don’t hang up. I might need moral support if it crashes!”  

“I can’t believe this,” Kunikida muttered, rubbing his temples. “You’re encouraging him. Again.”  

“It’s what I do,” Yosano replied, her tone smug.  

Atsushi looked between them, uncertain. “Do you think this is a good idea? What if seeing Chuuya again makes things worse?”  

“Oh, it will,” Kunikida said grimly. “But it’s too late now.”  

Back on the phone, Dazai let out a victorious shout. “Got them! Yosano, you’re coming with me, no excuses. I’ll pick you up!”  

Before she could reply, the line went dead. Yosano stared at her phone, chuckling. “Well, that’s settled.”  

Kunikida shot her a withering look. “You’re going to regret this.”  

“Maybe,” Yosano said, picking up her coffee again. “But at least it’ll be entertaining.”

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd still echoed in Chuuya’s ears as he slumped against the couch in his dressing room. His body ached from hours of performing, his throat raw from singing, but the adrenaline buzz was wearing thin. The small room smelled of stale air and the faint tang of his cologne, mixed with the lingering scent of sweat and leather from his performance outfit.  

He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling as his manager, Lippmann, and his boyfriend, Albatross, stood nearby, fussing over him as usual.  

“You need to take a break, Chuuya,” Lippmann said, his tone firm but not unkind. The older man adjusted his glasses, his ever-meticulous appearance starkly contrasting Chuuya’s disheveled exhaustion. “Your voice is your asset, and you’re pushing it too far.”  

“I’m fine,” Chuuya grumbled, waving him off.  

“Are you, though?” Albatross chimed in, crossing his arms. His blonde hair was damp from his own post-show shower, and his easygoing grin was replaced by a concerned frown. “You’ve been going nonstop for weeks. Maybe Lip’s right—you need to slow down.”  

Chuuya shot him a glare. “I said I’m fine.”  

Lippmann sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’ve got four days before Yokohama. Use them wisely.”  

Chuuya ignored him, grabbing his phone from the table and swiping the screen on. “I’ll rest when I’m dead.”  

“Or when you lose your voice,” Lippmann muttered under his breath, throwing his hands up. “Do what you want. I’ll send the setlist edits later.” With a defeated shake of his head, he left the room.  

Albatross lingered, leaning against the doorway. “At least eat something, yeah? I’ll have someone bring it here.”  

“Sure, whatever,” Chuuya mumbled, his attention already absorbed by the stream of notifications on his phone.  

Once alone, Chuuya scrolled through his mentions, his sharp eyes narrowing at the same anonymous account he’d noticed before.  

@AnonymousAccount23: Albatross isn’t even talented. Anyone could strum a few chords and call it art. Chuuya’s carrying that relationship, lol.

Chuuya snorted, his lips curling into a humorless smirk. “Who the hell is this loser?” His thumbs hovered over the screen as he composed a quick tweet:  

“To the random nobody constantly harassing my fans: piss off. Touch some grass. Find a hobby. Just don’t make it me.”

Satisfied, he hit post and tossed the phone onto the couch, rubbing his temples.  

Moments later, there was a knock at the door before it creaked open. Iceman, his longtime friend and backup dancer, poked his head in.  

“Hey, we’re heading out for dinner. You coming?”  

Chuuya didn’t even look up. “Not hungry.”  

“Come on,” Ice coaxed, stepping inside. “You need to eat. And get out of this damn room for once. You’re cooped up too much.”  

“I said I’m not hungry,” Chuuya snapped, his voice sharp.  

Ice flinched but didn’t back down. “Chuuya, this isn’t healthy. You’re killing yourself trying to—”  

“I’m fine,” Chuuya barked, standing abruptly. His eyes flashed with frustration, and his fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t get it, Ice, I don’t need you or anyone else to tell me what to do."  

The room fell silent, the tension palpable.  

Ice studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a quiet sigh, he nodded. “Alright. But don’t say we didn’t try.”  

He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.  

Chuuya sank back onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. His chest tightened with guilt, but he shoved it aside, focusing instead on the muted glow of his phone. He scrolled mindlessly, his jaw tightening as the anonymous account continued to linger in his mind.  

Who the hell are you?

Chuuya stared at his phone, his brows furrowed in frustration as he scrolled through his contacts. The anonymous account’s incessant jabs lingered in his mind, a grating itch he couldn’t scratch. Who the hell would bother this much to antagonize his fanbase and nitpick his every move?  

His thumb hovered over a name: Tachihara. He exhaled sharply through his nose.  

Tachihara had been an aspiring photographer who had shadowed him on a few shoots. Chuuya had liked his work initially—clean, precise, with a knack for capturing his better angles—but then the guy had started flirting. Subtly at first: lingering glances, compliments that felt too personal, little comments that strayed from professional boundaries.  

Chuuya had shut it down, curtly and efficiently. He didn’t have time for games, and he especially didn’t have time for someone trying to use him as a stepping stone. Tachihara had left the project soon after, looking more hurt than angry, but Chuuya had written it off.  

Could it be him? He doubted it. Tachihara wasn’t the type to stew in resentment, at least not like this.  

He scrolled further, his thumb hesitating over another name: Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

The memory of the Russian producer was far less pleasant. Fyodor was a legend in the industry, revered for his ability to create chart-topping hits, but Chuuya had learned quickly that his charm masked something far more sinister. Fyodor had expressed an interest in working with Chuuya, but he had been anything but subtle.  

Chuuya had rejected him coldly, calling him out in the middle of a studio session. The tension in the room had been suffocating, and Fyodor’s narrowed eyes had been the last thing Chuuya had seen before walking out.  

He wouldn’t waste his time on a stupid Twitter account, Chuuya thought, shaking his head. Fyodor was too proud, too calculating to resort to petty online trolling.  

“Damn it,” Chuuya muttered, tossing his phone onto the couch. Whoever it was, they were good at staying anonymous.  

Resigning himself to ignorance, he pushed himself off the couch and headed toward the bathroom. A quick shower would clear his head.  

The warm spray of water hit his skin, washing away the sweat and tension of the night. He rested his forehead against the cool tiles, letting the steam envelop him. But the reprieve was short-lived.  

Chuuya’s gaze flickered to the small case on the bathroom counter. Inside was his testosterone shot, a weekly ritual that had become both second nature and a constant reminder.  

Lippmann’s right, he thought bitterly. He has to be careful with my voice. His tone had always been a cornerstone of his success, but the strain of touring, combined with his ongoing treatment, made him vulnerable.  

His shoulders hunched as he gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white.  

You’re fine. You’ve come this far. Don’t fall apart now.

The words echoed in his mind, a mantra he’d clung to for years. He took a deep breath, forcing the feelings back into the recesses of his mind. He couldn’t afford to spiral—not tonight.  

After finishing his shower, Chuuya dried off and injected the testosterone with practiced precision. The sting was brief, a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things.  

Dressed in sweats and a loose tank top, he slumped back onto the couch, his damp hair clinging to his face. The exhaustion had settled deep in his bones, but he couldn’t bring himself to sleep.

For now, he let the silence settle around him, the only sound the faint hum of the city beyond the walls.

The private dining room of the upscale restaurant was pretty, its ambiance an odd contrast to the lively banter of the small group seated around the table. Lippmann sipped his glass of wine, watching as Ice and Piano sparred verbally, their teasing jabs about Chuuya’s relentless work ethic bouncing back and forth.  

“I’m telling you, he’s gonna burn himself out one of these days,” Ice said, stabbing at his salad with unnecessary force. “We all see it, but what can you do? He’s too damn stubborn.”  

“Too stubborn and too proud,” Piano added, leaning back in his chair. “He acts like he’s made of steel, but we’ve seen him crash before. It’s not pretty.”  

Doc, who had been quietly listening, finally chimed in. “He’s got to realize he’s human like the rest of us. The industry isn’t kind, and his transition is already a huge stressor. Pushing himself like this... it’s dangerous.”  

Lippmann set his glass down with a sigh. “You’re preaching to the choir. I’ve told him countless times, but you know Chuuya. He doesn’t listen unless he wants to.”  

All eyes turned to Albatross, who had been unusually quiet. He stared at his half-finished plate, his shoulders tense.  

“What do you think, Al?” Ice asked, his tone lighter than the others, but his curiosity genuine. “You’re the one closest to him.”  

Albatross shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I don’t like talking about him like this,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “He’s doing his best. He’s... trying.”  

The table fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in.  

“You’re right,” Lippmann admitted, leaning back with a sigh. “We just worry about him, that’s all.”  

“I get that,” Albatross said, standing up and smoothing the front of his shirt. “But I think I’m gonna check on him. You guys enjoy dinner.”  

No one protested as he left, the door swinging shut behind him. 

The hallway leading to Chuuya’s dressing room was eerily quiet, the muffled sounds of the restaurant fading into the distance. Albatross hesitated outside the door, his hand hovering over the handle.  

He knocked gently. “Chuuya? It’s me.”  

There was a pause before Chuuya’s voice called out, muffled but recognizable. “Come in.”  

Albatross pushed the door open, finding Chuuya slumped on the couch, his damp hair clinging to his forehead and his phone forgotten beside him. He looked exhausted, his usual sharp demeanor softened by fatigue.  

“Hey,” Albatross said softly, closing the door behind him. “How’re you holding up?”  

Chuuya snorted, a weak attempt at humor. “I’m alive, if that’s what you’re asking.”  

Albatross crossed the room, sitting beside him and studying his face. “You look like you’re barely holding it together.”  

Chuuya shrugged, leaning his head back against the couch. “What else is new?”  

There was a long silence before Albatross spoke again. “I mean it, Chuu. You need a break. Lip’s right, and you know it. You’re running yourself into the ground.”  

Chuuya turned his head to glare at him, but there was no real anger behind it. “I can’t just stop, Tross. I’ve worked too hard to get here. If I slow down now—”  

“You’re not slowing down forever,” Albatross interrupted gently. “Just enough to catch your breath. You’ve done more than enough to prove yourself. Hell, you’re the most talked-about artist in the world right now. Taking care of yourself isn’t weakness.”  

Chuuya’s expression faltered, the walls he’d built up cracking just slightly. “I don’t know how,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.  

Albatross’s heart ached at the vulnerability in his tone. He reached out, placing a hand on Chuuya’s knee. “You don’t have to figure it out alone. Let me help you. How about tomorrow morning? Just the two of us. Breakfast, somewhere quiet. No work talk, no stress. Just... us.”

Us. Chuuya hesitated, his blue eyes searching Albatross’s face for any hint of pity or insincerity. Finding none, he finally nodded. “Okay. Breakfast.”  

Albatross smiled, squeezing his knee gently. “Good. Now, let’s get you to eat something tonight, too. I’ll go grab your food.”  

As he stood to leave, Chuuya reached out, grabbing his wrist. “Tross?”  

Albatross turned back, his gaze soft.  

“Thanks,” Chuuya said, his voice steady but laced with gratitude.  

“Always,” Albatross replied, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Chuuya’s forehead before heading out to fetch the food.

Chuuya let out a soft sigh as the door clicked shut behind Albatross, leaving him alone once more. The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of the fan of the air conditioning. He slouched back into the couch, his fingers idly tracing the stitching on the cushions as his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to a time he’d tried so hard to forget.  

Dazai.  

He clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes as if that could block out the flood of memories. It never worked.  

The scene played out vividly in his mind, despite himself. Dazai leaning against the doorframe of their old apartment, his lanky frame almost completely blocking the light from the hallway. His dark eyes, playful but insistent, would fix on Chuuya as he hunched over his notebook, scribbling lyrics with manic determination.  

 

“You’re going to work yourself to death, you know,” Dazai had drawled, his voice lilting with amusement.  

 

“Shut up,” Chuuya had snapped, his pen scratching against the paper in defiance.  

 

Dazai had sauntered over, plucking the pen out of Chuuya’s hand before he could protest. “Time’s up, Chibi. You’re coming to bed.”  

 

“Give it back, Mackerel!” Chuuya had barked, lunging for the pen, but Dazai had only laughed, holding it just out of reach.  

 

The chase inevitably led to the couch, where Chuuya would wrestle with Dazai, throwing light punches at his chest and dodging the pillow Dazai had grabbed in retaliation. The memory of Dazai’s laughter—genuine and warm—cut through him like a knife.  

 

It always ended the same way: with Dazai pulling him into an embrace so tight Chuuya couldn’t escape. “Alright, alright,” Dazai would murmur against his hair. “You win. Now let’s sleep, hmm?”  

 

Chuuya hated how easy it had been to melt into Dazai’s arms back then. How Dazai’s voice, low and soft, could coax him into relaxation when nothing else could.  

 

He grunted, sitting up abruptly and running a hand through his damp hair. “Idiot,” he muttered to himself.  

No matter how many times he told himself to forget, the memories persisted. And it wasn’t the bad ones that haunted him—it was the good ones. The way Dazai had cared for him, even when Chuuya was too stubborn to admit he needed it.  

But those times were over. Long over.  

Chuuya shook his head and leaned back again, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. The harsh white light blurred as his thoughts spiraled further. Albatross wasn’t Dazai. He was sweet, steady, always kind—but he didn’t poke and prod until Chuuya dropped his walls, didn’t weave himself into Chuuya’s life like a puzzle piece fitting perfectly into place.  

Chuuya exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face. He didn’t want to think about this. Not now. Not ever again.  

He forced himself to focus on the sound of his fan, his chest tightening as the memories faded into the background, replaced by the present. That was all Chuuya needed to worry about.

Chapter Text

Dazai sneezed, startling himself from his slouched position at his desk. He blinked, sniffled, and muttered, “Someone must be talking about me... Or cursing me. Either one works.”  

He glanced at the clock. Two days had passed since he’d secured tickets to Chuuya’s concert, but the time dragged like molasses. Worse, his editor had started bombarding him with emails. Deadlines didn’t care about nostalgia—or heartbreak.  

With a dramatic sigh, Dazai tapped his fingers on the keyboard of his laptop, staring at the blinking cursor on the empty document. His latest manuscript was due by midnight, but inspiration had decided to take an extended vacation.  

He leaned back in his chair, tilting it precariously, and stared at the ceiling as if it held the answers. His gaze flicked across the room, landing on a stack of old books, an empty coffee cup, the scarf Chuuya had left behind years ago—he kept it stuffed in a drawer, yet it always seemed to find its way back into sight.  

“Ugh,” Dazai groaned, sitting up and rubbing his temples. “Music. Maybe music will help.”

He pulled out his phone, scrolling absentmindedly through his playlist. His thumb hovered over the album cover of Chuuya's album. The image of Chuuya’s sharp, confident smirk stared back at him, daring him to press play.  

“Why not?” he muttered, clicking on the first track. The opening notes filled the room, soft and haunting, before Chuuya’s rich voice joined in, wrapping around him like smoke.

At first, Dazai resisted, tapping aimlessly on the keyboard, pretending to focus. But the lyrics—bittersweet and aching—seeped into his thoughts, drawing him back to nights he’d tried so hard to forget.  

The apartment had been dimly lit, the only light coming from the lamp on his desk and the faint glow of the city outside. Dazai had been hunched over his laptop, the deadline for his manuscript looming like a guillotine. His head pounded, and every word he typed felt wrong, hollow.

Then, there was Chuuya, appearing silently with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He’d set it down beside Dazai without a word, wrapping his arms around his shoulders from behind.

“You’re gonna drive yourself crazy if you keep this up,” Chuuya had murmured, his voice soft, his breath warm against Dazai’s ear.

“Already crazy,” Dazai had replied, his lips twitching into a faint smile despite himself.

Chuuya had huffed, resting his chin on Dazai’s head. “Yeah, yeah, you’re so tortured and brilliant. Now take a break, idiot.”

“I can’t,” Dazai had whispered. “It’s not ready. I’m not ready.”

Chuuya had shifted then, pulling Dazai’s chair back and turning it toward him. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, 'samu. It just has to be yours.”

It was a small gesture, but it grounded him. Chuuya’s touch was warm, solid—a tether pulling him back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts. Dazai had stared at him for a long moment, the words settling into his chest. No one had ever said that to him—not like that. Not with such conviction.

The memory of Chuuya’s steady hands guiding his trembling ones, the way he had sat on the armrest of Dazai’s chair until Dazai reluctantly leaned into him, the quiet hum of reassurance—it all felt like a ghost pressing against his chest.

The song changed, jolting Dazai back to the present. He stared at the screen, the words he’d managed to write blurring together. He scrolled up, reading what he’d typed, and felt his stomach drop.  

The protagonist—his protagonist—had Chuuya’s temper and soft hands, his unwavering determination, and the way he always stood a little too close when Dazai was falling apart. 

“Great,” Dazai muttered, slamming his laptop shut. “I’ve turned my manuscript into a self-insert fanfiction. How professional.”  

He pushed away from his desk, pacing the room as frustration bubbled in his chest. “This is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. I should be writing, not... whatever this is.”

He grabbed his phone, pausing the music abruptly. The silence that followed was deafening. Dazai flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling as if it would offer him solace. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, all he could see was Chuuya. The way his lips quirked up in a smirk, the sharpness of his wit, the rare softness in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.  

“Chuuya,” Dazai whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of the name. The concert couldn’t come soon enough. Dazai lay sprawled on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His thoughts looped endlessly, like a broken record, playing over every detail he’d gleaned about Albatross. Chuuya’s guitarist. His boyfriend.  

The word alone made Dazai’s chest ache.  

He imagined Albatross beside Chuuya, standing just close enough that their shoulders brushed. He pictured Albatross’s hand resting on Chuuya’s back, guiding him gently through a crowd. He could almost hear the soft, murmured words exchanged between them—the kind he used to say to Chuuya.  

Was Albatross better than him? He certainly seemed steadier, more dependable. The kind of person who wouldn’t make Chuuya feel like he had to carry the weight of someone else’s problems.  

Dazai sat up abruptly, the room spinning as his breath hitched. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shove the thoughts away, but they clung to him like thorns. “Enough,” he muttered, his voice cracking.  

Staggering to his feet, he made his way to his wardrobe, yanking the doors open with more force than necessary. The scent of old fabric hit him as he stared at the rows of neatly hung clothes. He hadn’t done much with his wardrobe in years—hadn’t needed to.

But Chuuya...  

His fingers trailed over the fabric of a burgundy button-up shirt Chuuya used to compliment. “You look less like a corpse in red,” he’d said once, smirking over the rim of his coffee cup.  

But as he laid pieces out on his bed, the memories came rushing back. Chuuya tugging at his tie, muttering about how he always looked like he’d dressed in the dark. Chuuya’s laugh, light and teasing, when Dazai had tripped over his own pants while trying to get ready for one of their rare dates.

He should've take him out way more. 

Dazai sank to the floor, gripping the edge of the bed as his chest tightened. The weight of it all—the memories, the regrets, the jealousy—threatened to crush him.  

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, startling him out of his spiraling thoughts. He grabbed it, seeing Yosano’s name flashing on the screen.

“Hello?” His voice was strained, barely above a whisper.  

“Dazai, you’re coming out,” Yosano said, her tone brooking no argument. “Ranpo, Kunikida, and I are having drinks. You need to stop moping and join us.”  

Dazai forced a chuckle, trying to mask the turmoil in his voice. “Moping? Me? Never.”

“Uh-huh,” Yosano said dryly. “You’re coming. No excuses. Be here in twenty minutes.”  

The line went dead before Dazai could protest. He stared at his phone for a moment before letting out a shaky breath.  

Dragging himself to his feet, he glanced at the clothes he’d laid out. They were a reminder of a past he couldn’t reclaim, but for now, they could wait.  

He grabbed a different outfit—something simple, less evocative—and headed out the door, plastering a practiced, cheerful smile on his face.  If he couldn’t face his thoughts, he’d face his friends. At least for a little while.

The bar buzzed with energy, the low hum of chatter and clinking glasses filling the air. Dazai walked in, scanning the room until he spotted the familiar group in a booth at the back corner. Yosano was already halfway through a martini, Kunikida was nursing a neat whiskey, and Ranpo had a plate of fries in front of him, looking utterly bored.  

"Dazai!" Yosano waved, her voice already tinged with the looseness of alcohol. "About time!"  

Dazai slid into the booth, flashing a lazy smile. "Well, I didn’t want to outshine all of you with my presence too soon."  

"Outshine?" Ranpo snorted, popping a fry into his mouth. "The only thing you outshine is a raccoon digging through trash."

"Aw, Ranpo-kun, your jealousy is showing again," Dazai teased, though his heart wasn’t in it. He leaned back, swirling the glass of whiskey Yosano shoved toward him.  

The conversation flowed around him—mostly Yosano teasing Kunikida and Kunikida grumbling half-hearted protests. Dazai found himself staring at his drink, the ice cubes clinking softly as he swirled them.  

"So," Yosano slurred, leaning heavily on Kunikida’s shoulder, "Dazai, tell me—how’s that latest masterpiece coming along? Did you finally kill off another brooding protagonist?"

"Still brooding. Haven’t decided if I want to let him live yet," Dazai replied, his voice light but distant.  

"Classic," Ranpo interjected, stealing a fry from Yosano’s plate. "The editor’s gonna love that. Another dark, existential crisis novel from Dazai Osamu."  

"Hey, at least my work has substance," Dazai shot back, trying to muster his usual smugness. "Unlike your endless stream of cozy mysteries."

"They sell," Ranpo countered, pointing a fry at him. "And guess who gets paid faster because of it?" He narrowed his eyes, clearly not buying this all, but he let it slide. “Whatever. But if you’re this boring now, you’d better not drag the mood down at the company retreat next week. The boss said no more ‘Dazai-style existential crises’ after the last time.”

Yosano cackled, raising her glass in a toast. “Oh, you mean when he locked himself in the hotel bathroom and wrote depressing haikus all night?”

“They weren’t just haikus,” Dazai corrected, feigning indignation. “They were masterpieces.”

“Masterpieces my ass,” Kunikida muttered. “I had to convince the staff that you weren’t going to jump out the window.”

“And yet I’m still here,” Dazai said, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. “A testament to my resilience, not like Ranpo about to die from running out of candy.”

"Children, behave," Kunikida muttered, adjusting his glasses.  

"Lighten up, Kunikida," Yosano said, pressing a lipstick-stained kiss to his cheek. Kunikida froze, his face turning an alarming shade of red.  

"Yosano!" he hissed, reaching for a napkin to wipe off the mark.  

She smirked, catching his hand before he could. "Don’t even think about it."

Ranpo gagged audibly. "Gross. Can you two keep your weird couple thing at home? This is a professional outing."  

Yosano ignored him, instead grabbing Kunikida’s tie and pulling him in for a quick but deliberate kiss. When she pulled back, Kunikida’s lips were stained with her dark red lipstick.  

"Akiko," he sputtered, glaring at her, though his expression softened when she grinned mischievously.  

"You’re adorable when you’re flustered," she said, patting his cheek.  

Ranpo groaned, sliding down in his seat. "I’m eating here. Have some decency."  

"You’re literally eating fries, Ranpo," Dazai drawled, his gaze flicking to his friend before returning to his drink. "Not a five-star meal."  

"Doesn’t matter," Ranpo shot back. "The fries are innocent, and they deserve better than to witness this."  

The group fell into laughter, though Dazai’s chuckles were faint. He sipped his drink, trying to stay present, but his mind kept drifting back to the past.  

"Hey," Yosano said, poking him in the shoulder. Her tone had shifted, quieter, more perceptive. "You good, Dazai?"  

"Always," he said with a grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes.  

"You’re lying," Ranpo said around a mouthful of fries. "But that’s none of my business."

"Ranpo," Kunikida chastised, though he didn’t seem entirely unsympathetic.  

Dazai waved them off. "I’m fine. Just... deadlines, you know?"  

"Deadlines don’t usually make you look like someone killed your cat," Yosano said, her sharp gaze piercing through his façade.  

"Maybe I’m just inspired by Kunikida’s constant lectures," Dazai said, deflecting.  

"Watch it," Kunikida muttered, though his lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile.  

The night wore on, filled with more teasing, inside jokes about their editor’s strange obsession with punctuality, and Ranpo’s ongoing commentary about the bar’s lack of decent desserts.  

Dazai played along, smiling when required, laughing when prompted. But as he walked home later, the memory of Chuuya’s voice in his head and the weight of the tickets in his pocket, he couldn’t shake the ache in his chest. 

Two more days.

Chapter Text

Lucy Montgomery sat cross-legged on her bed, her vibrant red hair tied back in a high ponytail as she flipped through a glossy magazine featuring none other than Nakahara Chuuya on the cover. The headline read: The Prince of Pop Returns Home. “I still can’t believe it, Atsushi!” she squealed, hugging the magazine to her chest. “Chuuya’s coming to Yokohama! And it’s not just a quick stop—he’s actually performing! I’ve waited years for this!”  

Atsushi Nakajima, Lucy’s ever-patient boyfriend, sat on the edge of the bed in her room, his arms resting on his knees. He smiled softly at her excitement, though he wasn’t entirely sure he understood the full extent of her obsession.  “That’s great, Lucy,” he said, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “You’ve been talking about this concert for weeks. I’m glad you finally got tickets.” 

“Tickets? Tickets?” Lucy’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward dramatically. “I didn’t just get tickets, Atsushi—I got front-row tickets! FRONT. ROW. Do you know how many hours I had to refresh the website to get those?”  

Atsushi chuckled nervously. “I can imagine.”

Lucy’s expression softened as she reached over to grab his hand. “And you’re coming with me, right? You promised. It’s going to be the best night of my life!”  

“Of course,” Atsushi said, though he felt a flicker of anxiety. Big crowds weren’t really his thing, but for Lucy, he’d endure anything.  

As Lucy went on about the setlist she’d predicted Chuuya might perform, Atsushi’s mind wandered. The name Chuuya Nakahara had always sounded familiar, but he hadn’t connected the dots until now. His brow furrowed as he remembered a conversation he’d overheard at the office—a drunken Yosano spilling gossip about Dazai and his very famous ex-boyfriend.  

“Atsushi?” Lucy’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.  

“Huh?”  

“You look like you just saw a ghost,” she teased, poking his cheek. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”  

“Well…” Atsushi hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “I just realized something about Chuuya.”  

“What?!” Lucy gasped, leaning closer. “Don’t tell me you’re secretly a fan too! Oh my God, is this why you agreed to come with me?”  

“No, no!” Atsushi waved his hands defensively. “It’s not that. It’s just… I think my friend Dazai used to date him.”  

The room fell silent. Lucy blinked at him, her lips parting in disbelief.  

“What?” she finally said, her voice a mixture of shock and incredulity.  

“Yeah,” Atsushi mumbled, feeling the weight of her stare. “I mean, I’m not 100% sure, but Yosano said something about it. Apparently, they were together a long time ago.”  

Lucy’s jaw dropped. “Atsushi Nakajima, are you telling me that your weirdo friend—the one who tries to prank me every time we meet—is Chuuya Nakahara’s ex-boyfriend?”  

“Uh… yeah?” Atsushi replied weakly.  

Lucy stood up, pacing the room with her hands on her hips. “And you’re just now telling me this? Do you realize how important this is?!”  

“I didn’t think it was—”  

“Not important?!” Lucy interrupted, spinning around to glare at him, though her expression was more playful than angry. “Atsushi, this is huge! I could’ve been asking you about Chuuya’s entire relationship history this whole time! Do you know how many fan theories I’ve read about his exes?”  

Atsushi blinked. “People make fan theories about that?”  

Lucy groaned, throwing her hands in the air. “Of course they do! He writes songs about heartbreak, Atsushi! The fans are obsessed with figuring out who they’re about. And now you’re telling me you know one of the actual exes?”  

“I mean, I don’t know all the details,” Atsushi said, trying to defend himself. “Dazai doesn’t really talk about it.”  

Lucy stopped pacing, narrowing her eyes at him. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she said, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Otherwise, I’d be way more upset with you right now.”  

Atsushi smiled sheepishly. “So… does this mean you’re not mad?”  

“Oh, I’m mad,” Lucy said, though her lips twitched into a smirk. “But I’m also intrigued. Very intrigued. I’m going to need all the details, Atsushi. Every single one.”  

“Lucy, I told you, I don’t know much!”  

“Well, then you’d better start asking,” she said, crossing her arms. “Because now I need to know what kind of person could inspire Chuuya Nakahara to write those songs.”  

Atsushi sighed, leaning back in the bed. He had a feeling he wasn’t getting out of this conversation anytime soon.

Lucy flopped back onto her bed, her eyes gleaming with the fire of an investigator on the brink of solving a decades-old mystery. She hugged her pillow and looked at Atsushi with a grin that made him instantly nervous. "Alright, Atsushi," she said, tapping her fingers together like a villain in a drama. "Let’s start with the basics. What’s Dazai like? I need to know everything—everything—if I’m going to figure out if he’s the one Chuuya’s songs are about."

Atsushi blinked. "What do you mean by everything?"

"Don’t play dumb with me!" Lucy leaned forward, waving her hands animatedly. "I need to know what he looks like, how he acts, what his habits are. Details, Atsushi. Give me details!"

Atsushi scratched the back of his neck, already regretting this conversation. "Well, uh… Dazai is... tall, I guess? He’s got dark hair, always kind of messy. He’s usually wearing that trench coat—"

Lucy snapped her fingers. "Trench coat? Like, a dramatic, brooding poet trench coat?"

"I guess?" Atsushi frowned. "I mean, it’s not that dramatic—"

"Do not downplay this, Atsushi!" Lucy cut him off. "Okay, keep going. What about his personality?"

Atsushi sighed, knowing there was no way out. "He’s… really clever. He’s always got this weird smirk like he’s planning something. And he’s a huge prankster—he once replaced Kunikida’s sugar with salt just to see him freak out. He’s also, uh, kind of... cynical? And really, really dramatic sometimes."

Lucy’s eyes widened with excitement. "Cynical, dramatic, and a prankster? Oh my God, it’s him, isn’t it? He’s the muse!"

"I don’t know about that—" Atsushi tried to protest, but Lucy was already sitting up, gesturing wildly.

"Think about it! Chuuya’s song 'I Wish You Would' is literally about a lover who’s charming but infuriating. The lyrics go, 'You always knew how to push my buttons, you give me everything and nothing, this mad, mad love makes you come running to stand back where you stood', That sounds exactly like your friend!"

Atsushi winced. "That does sound like Dazai..."

"And what about 'The smallest man who ever lived'? You know the one: ‘From a friend of friends of mine, they just ghosted you, now you know what it feels like, and I don't even want you back, I just want to know If rusting my sparkling summer was the goal.’ Tell me Dazai doesn’t ghost people all the time!"

Atsushi hesitated. "I mean... he does disappear for days sometimes..."

Lucy clapped her hands together, her grin widening. "I knew it! It’s definitely him. Now spill—did Dazai have any habits that would drive someone like Chuuya crazy?"

"Uh..." Atsushi tried to think of a diplomatic way to phrase it. "Well, Dazai’s… not great at taking care of himself. He skips meals, stays up all night, and—uh—kind of has a thing for... reckless behavior."

"Reckless behavior?" Lucy repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Like… dangerous stunts," Atsushi muttered. "And he’s kind of a drama queen about it."

Lucy gasped, clutching her pillow. "That’s literally the plot of 'Red,' Atsushi! ‘Fighting with him was like trying to solve a crossword, and realizing there's no right answer.’ Oh my God, this is amazing. How did I not know this before?"

Atsushi groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Lucy, can we not—"

Lucy’s jaw dropped as if the puzzle pieces were all falling into place. “I knew it! Dazai is totally the ex! Wait, wait, what about his looks? Does he look like the type to ruin someone’s life in the best-worst way possible?”

Atsushi blinked, confused. “Uh… I guess? He’s tall, has messy hair, and he’s kind of… I don’t know, effortlessly good-looking? He has this smirk that makes you think he knows everything about you, and—”

Lucy groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the bed. “He’s perfect! No wonder Chuuya can’t stop writing about him!”

“Lucy, I don’t think—”

“Wait!” Lucy sat up suddenly, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t Dazai the one behind that anonymous account that keeps slandering Albatross?”

Atsushi’s eyes widened in horror. “I, uh… how did you know about that?”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “I’m in the fandom, Atsushi. Everyone knows about the weird troll account. They’re always bashing Albatross for no reason. Is it really Dazai?”

Atsushi hesitated before sighing in defeat. “Yeah. It’s him. He thinks he’s being subtle, but it’s really obvious.”

Lucy gasped, her emotions torn between disbelief and amusement. “That little… ugh! I don’t know if I should be mad or impressed! The audacity!” She stood up again, pacing with renewed vigor. “And you let him get away with this?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Atsushi said, throwing his hands up. “Dazai does whatever he wants! And besides, it’s not like Albatross even knows.”

Lucy huffed, crossing her arms. “Well, he should. Someone needs to call Dazai out for being a jealous man-child.”

Atsushi sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Lucy, please don’t start a war with Dazai. He’s… sensitive. And he’s already going through a lot.”

“‘Sensitive?’” Lucy raised an eyebrow. “What could possibly be more important than trolling Chuuya’s guitarist?”

Atsushi hesitated again before mumbling, “He’s… going to the concert, too.”

Lucy froze, staring at him like he’d just dropped a bombshell. “What?!”

“Yeah,” Atsushi said reluctantly. “He bought tickets. Front-row tickets, actually.”

“Oh, this is too much!” Lucy exclaimed, grabbing her laptop. “I need to tell the group chat!”

“Lucy, please don’t make this worse!” Atsushi pleaded, but she was already typing furiously.

“Too late!” she said, her voice full of mischief. “This concert just got a whole lot more interesting.”

Lucy’s face lit up with uncontainable excitement as she leaned closer to her laptop, pulling up the group call with her closest fanclub friends. The video feed filled with familiar faces: Higuchi, Louisa, Murakoso, Kyouka, and Naomi. They all wore varying levels of curiosity and eagerness, except for Kyouka, whose calm demeanor made her stand out from the more animated group. “All right, everyone,” Lucy began, gesturing dramatically at the camera. “You won’t believe what Atsushi just told me.”

Atsushi groaned in the background, slumping against the bed. “Lucy, do you really have to tell everyone?”

“Yes,” Lucy said firmly, her voice laced with glee. “This is vital information. Life-changing, even.”

“Spit it out already!” Higuchi exclaimed, her face practically pressed against her screen.

Lucy leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Atsushi’s friend—Dazai Osamu—is Chuuya’s ex.”

The reaction was immediate. Louisa gasped so loudly that her microphone crackled, Murakoso leaned back in shock, Naomi covered her mouth with both hands, and Higuchi nearly knocked over her cup of coffee.

“You’re joking!” Louisa cried.

“I’m not,” Lucy said triumphantly. “Atsushi confirmed it himself!”

“I didn’t confirm anything!” Atsushi protested, waving his hands.

“Yes, you did,” Lucy said with a smirk. “You described Dazai perfectly, and it matches Chuuya’s lyrics exactly.”

Murakoso tilted her head thoughtfully. “If that’s true… does that mean Dazai is the inspiration behind all the heartbreak songs?”

“Apparently!” Lucy said, practically vibrating with excitement. “And get this—Dazai is going to the concert in Yokohama.”

“No way!” Higuchi’s eyes widened. “What if they see each other? What if Chuuya sings something directly at him?”

Louisa clutched her chest dramatically. “Do you think they’ll get back together? The drama!”

“They won’t,” Atsushi said firmly. “Trust me, that’s never going to happen.”

“Why not?” Naomi asked, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you don’t think they’re meant to be.”

“They’re not!” Atsushi insisted. “Dazai’s… complicated, and Chuuya’s obviously moved on. He’s dating Albatross now!”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Higuchi argued. “Chuuya’s songs make it very clear he’s not over whoever broke his heart. And if that’s Dazai…”

“It’s not happening,” Atsushi muttered, burying his face in his hands.

Before he could defend Dazai further, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Glancing at the screen, his stomach dropped. It was Dazai.

He answered hesitantly, his voice low. “Hello?”

“Atsushi!” Dazai’s voice was frantic, almost panicked. “It’s a disaster! A total catastrophe!”

“What happened now?” Atsushi sighed, already bracing for the worst.

“Some massive Chuuya fan account just tweeted that Anonymous23 might be Chuuya’s ex!” Dazai’s words came out in a rush. “Do you understand what that means? They’re talking about me!”

“How did they even figure that out?” Atsushi also pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why are you calling me about this? You’re the one who keeps tweeting from that stupid account!”

“Because I need help!” Dazai said dramatically. “I can’t let Chuuya think I’m pathetic!”

“You are pathetic,” Atsushi muttered under his breath.

Dazai groaned, his voice rising in pitch. “The tweet is blowing up! It has thousands of likes already. People are putting together evidence! Screenshots! Theories! Atsushi, they’re comparing timestamps on my tweets to Chuuya’s interviews!”

Lucy, overhearing the conversation, gasped dramatically. “No way.”

“Is that Lucy?” Dazai demanded. “Tell her to stop stirring the pot!”

“She’s not—” Atsushi started, but Lucy cut him off.

“Tell him it’s what he deserves!” she shouted, grinning mischievously.

“Lucy, you’re not helping!” Atsushi hissed, before turning his attention back to Dazai. “Look, Dazai, maybe it’ll blow over—”

“Blow over?! But what if it doesn’t?” Dazai wailed. “This could ruin everything!”

“Everything?” Atsushi repeated, exasperated. “What everything-?”

Dazai interrupted, sounding on the verge of hyperventilating. “They’re going to figure out it’s me! Then they’ll tell Chuuya! And then—then—”

“And then what?” Atsushi asked, exasperated.

“And then he’ll hate me even more!” Dazai wailed.

There was a beat of silence before Lucy’s fanclub friends, still on speaker, erupted into laughter.

“Oh, my God,” Higuchi wheezed. “He’s so pathetic!”

“Can we make him the official mascot of the fanclub?” Louisa teased.

“Stop it!” Atsushi scolded them, though he couldn’t deny that Dazai’s meltdown was a little ridiculous.

“Listen, Dazai,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “Just stay calm. Don’t respond to anything, don’t tweet, and definitely don’t—”

“I already deleted my account,” Dazai interrupted, his voice dejected. “But they’re still talking about it! They’re saying deleting it is suspicious!”

Lucy cackled. “Oh, he’s doomed. Absolutely doomed.”

Atsushi groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Why me?”

Kyouka ended the call abruptly, closing her laptop with a soft click. The chatter of the fanclub had grown too much, and her concern for Dazai’s antics outweighed her interest in their wild theories. Rising from her bed, she quietly walked down the short, cluttered hallway of their shared apartment. The mess was typical for Dazai—papers strewn across the floor, books precariously stacked in every corner, and empty coffee mugs perched on random surfaces. Kyouka knocked softly on his bedroom door.  “Dazai?”  

“Go away,” came the muffled reply.  

Ignoring him, Kyouka opened the door. The room was dim, illuminated only by the weak glow of his laptop screen. Dazai was sprawled across his bed, surrounded by a sea of crumpled papers and open notebooks. His face was pale, his usually lively eyes dull and unfocused.  

“What do you want, Kyouka?” he muttered, not bothering to look at her.  

She stepped inside, carefully avoiding stepping on anything important—or at least what might seem important to him. “You’re spiraling.”  

“I’m not spiraling,” he replied flatly, though the dark circles under his eyes and the frantic energy in the room said otherwise.  

Kyouka sat on the edge of his bed, folding her hands in her lap. “You’ve been obsessing over Chuuya for weeks now. This isn’t healthy.”  

Dazai let out a bitter laugh, covering his face with one arm. “Healthy? Kyouka, my whole life is a monument to bad decisions. Why stop now?”  

She frowned. “You’re better than this.”  

“Am I?” His voice cracked slightly, and he turned his face away from her. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to see someone you… to see someone *you ruined* become so untouchably perfect?”  

Kyouka hesitated before replying. “Chuuya isn’t perfect. He’s human, like you.”  

“Not like me.” Dazai sat up abruptly, running his hands through his hair. “He’s thriving, Kyouka. He has everything now—success, fans, someone who isn’t a disaster clinging to his side like a parasite. And me? I’m here, in this mess, listening to his songs and trying not to choke on my own regret.”  

“You made mistakes,” Kyouka said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean you’re worthless. You’re just… stuck.”  

Dazai stared at her, his lips trembling as he tried to speak. When no words came, he buried his face in his hands. “I hate this. I hate myself.”  

Kyouka reached out hesitantly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do this alone. But you need to stop torturing yourself like this. Chuuya isn’t coming back—not if you keep acting like this.”  

Her words hit him like a slap, and for a moment, he was silent. Then, to Kyouka’s surprise, he broke down completely, his shoulders shaking as sobs wracked his body.  

She stayed by his side, her small hand firm on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “Let it out.”  

For the first time in what felt like years, Dazai allowed himself to cry openly, all the weight of his mistakes, his longing, and his self-hatred pouring out. Kyouka didn’t say anything else—she simply sat there, anchoring him in the present, until the storm inside him began to quiet.  After a while, Dazai sniffled and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice raw.  

Kyouka nodded, standing up. “Get some sleep. You can’t fix anything if you’re falling apart.”  

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “I’ll try.”  

As Kyouka left the room, she glanced back at him. For the first time in weeks, he looked fragile—not in his usual dramatic, attention-seeking way, but in a deeply human, deeply broken way.  She closed the door quietly behind her, making a mental note to keep a closer eye on him. Dazai might have been a mess, but he was her family, and she wasn’t going to let him drown in his own despair.  

Chapter Text

The rehearsal hall was alive with music, lights, and tension. Chuuya stood center stage, gripping the microphone with white-knuckled determination. The notes rang out, crisp and clear, but something felt off—at least to him. The band played their parts with practiced ease, yet Chuuya’s voice faltered slightly on the high note of the chorus. He frowned, stopping abruptly.

“Again,” he called out, his voice sharp.

The band exchanged glances but complied, starting over from the top. Albatross, stationed near the edge of the stage with his guitar slung over his shoulder, watched Chuuya carefully. Lippmann stood at the back, arms crossed, his face tight with concern.

The music swelled again, and Chuuya sang with every ounce of his energy, but as the high note approached, the strain in his voice cracked through. Frustration rippled across his face, and he threw his hand up, signaling the band to stop.

“Damn it!” Chuuya growled, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Why can’t I get it right?”

“You’re pushing too hard,” Albatross said gently, stepping forward. “You need to ease into it.”

Chuuya shot him a glare. “Don’t tell me how to sing my own songs.”

“I’m not trying to—” Albatross started, but Lippmann interrupted, his voice firm.

“Chuuya, you need to take a break. You’ve been at this for hours. Your voice needs rest.”

“I don’t need a break!” Chuuya snapped, turning to face them both. “What I need is to nail this note before the concert.”

“Pushing yourself like this isn’t going to help,” Albatross said, his tone edging on frustration. “You’re going to burn out before Yokohama.”

Chuuya’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Stop treating me like I’m some fragile little thing! I know what I’m doing.”

“No one’s treating you like that,” Albatross countered, his voice rising to match Chuuya’s. “We’re trying to help you, but you’re so damn stubborn—”

“I don’t need your help, Dazai!” Chuuya barked, the name slipping out before he could stop it.

The silence that followed was deafening. Albatross froze, his mouth slightly open, while Lippmann’s brows shot up in surprise. Chuuya’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he looked as though he wanted to disappear into the stage floor.

“What did you just call me?” Albatross asked quietly, his voice laced with disbelief.

Realization hit Chuuya like a tidal wave, and his heart dropped into his stomach. His face flushed with both anger and shame, and without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed off the stage.

"Chuuya, wait—" Lipp called out. Albatross still frozen with disbelief.

But he didn’t wait. He couldn’t. The walls of the rehearsal space felt like they were closing in, the air too thick to breathe. He grabbed his coat on the way out, ignoring Lippmann's calls, and pushed through the exit doors into the cool, familiar air of Yokohama. The streets greeted him like an old friend, the rhythm of the city a balm against his fraying nerves. He didn’t know where he was going; he just needed to move. His boots clicked against the pavement as he walked briskly, his breath visible in the chill of the evening air.

Before he knew it, he found himself in front of a small, dimly lit coffee shop. It was tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place he’d frequented years ago when he needed to escape the world. The warm light spilling from its windows seemed inviting, and his legs moved toward it before his mind could catch up. The doorbell jingled as he stepped inside, and the soft hum of conversation came to a halt as the customers turned to look at him. Whispers spread through the room like wildfire.

"Is that… Chuuya Nakahara?"

"No way. It’s him!"

Chuuya’s stomach twisted as he felt the weight of their stares. He kept his head down, pretending not to notice as he made his way to the counter, but the fans began to approach cautiously, their murmurs growing louder.

"Can we get a picture?"

"You’re amazing, Chuuya! I’m such a big fan!"

Not here. Not now.

Their voices blurred together, and Chuuya's chest tightened. His fingers curled around the edge of the counter, trying to steady himself, but the noise and attention were too much. And then, everything went quiet. Chuuya looked up, his breath hitching. Standing by the entrance, looking utterly out of place and completely ridiculous, was Dazai Osamu. His long coat was slightly wrinkled, and there was an air of exhaustion hanging over him. Beside him was Kyouka, her hand gripping his sleeve as she scolded him in a low, firm voice.

“I told you not to drink that much coffee before we left,” Kyouka said, tugging on Dazai’s arm as if she were the adult in their dynamic.

Dazai, ever the dramatist, sighed heavily. “But Kyouka-chan, my muse needs caffeine to survive! How else am I supposed to write about the tragedies of life?”

“Maybe if you stopped whining, you’d finish your chapter faster,” she retorted, her tone sharper than her years.

Chuuya stared at them, his coffee forgotten. It was like the past had walked straight into his present, uninvited and inconvenient. Dazai looked up then, as if sensing Chuuya’s gaze. Their eyes met, and the world seemed to tilt sideways. For a moment, neither of them moved.

“Chuuya?” Dazai said, his voice soft, almost disbelieving.

Chuuya’s grip tightened around his coffee cup. His heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of anger, confusion, and something he couldn’t quite name. He didn’t know whether to run or to confront him. The voices of the crowd melted into a dull roar as Chuuya pushed through the throng of fans.

His heart was racing, not just from the rush of escaping the shop but from the weight of Dazai’s voice lingering in his ears. “Chuuya!” Dazai had called, his tone uncharacteristically urgent.

But Chuuya didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

His breaths came out in short, frantic gasps as he bolted down the streets of Yokohama, weaving through alleys and darting past pedestrians. The city’s neon lights blurred in his peripheral vision, but his focus was singular: to get away. He didn’t slow down until he reached a quiet, familiar corner of the city. Nestled between a small flower shop and a bakery was Kouyou’s boutique—a warm, inviting haven that had been his refuge more times than he could count.

Chuuya stumbled through the door, the bell above it ringing softly. The boutique was as he remembered it: racks of elegant dresses and tailored suits, all meticulously arranged. The faint scent of lavender filled the air, calming his nerves just slightly.

“Chuuya?”

Kouyou emerged from behind the counter, her crimson hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall. Her sharp, hibiscus eyes softened the moment they landed on him. She was dressed impeccably, as always, in a sleek white dress adorned with subtle pink embroidery.

Chuuya leaned against the door, trying to catch his breath. His chest heaved, and he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Hey, Ane-san,” he managed, his voice hoarse.

Kouyou’s brows furrowed in concern as she approached him. “What on earth happened to you, lad? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Chuuya let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Might as well have,” he muttered.

Kouyou guided him to a plush chair near the boutique’s fitting rooms and handed him a glass of water. She didn’t press him for details immediately, knowing better than to push when he was this wound up. As Chuuya sipped the water, his shoulders began to relax, the tension slowly easing out of his body. The boutique felt like a sanctuary, far removed from the chaos of the streets and the suffocating presence of Dazai.

Kouyou finally broke the silence, her voice gentle but firm. “Chuuya, you’re trembling. What happened?”

He sighed, resting the glass on a nearby table and burying his face in his hands. “I saw him,” he admitted, his voice muffled.

Kouyou didn’t need him to elaborate. She knew exactly who he meant. “Dazai,” she said softly, sitting down across from him.

Chuuya nodded, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “He was at a coffee shop. With Kyouka, of all people.” His voice cracked slightly, betraying the whirlwind of emotions he was trying to suppress.

Kouyou placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “And how did that make you feel?”

Chuuya let out a shaky breath, leaning back in his chair. “Like I was sixteen again. Like all the progress I’ve made—my career, my transition, everything—meant nothing. Seeing him… it brought everything back.”

Kouyou’s expression softened with understanding. She had been there for him during his darkest moments, offering unwavering support as he navigated his identity and the aftermath of his breakup. To her, Chuuya was family. “You’ve come so far, Chuuya,” she said gently. “Dazai doesn’t define you. He never did.”

Chuuya scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Try telling that to my brain. Or my heart.”

Kouyou’s lips curved into a faint smile, though her eyes remained serious. “Your heart is stubborn, just like you. But you’re stronger than this.”

Chuuya nodded, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. The weight of seeing Dazai again felt insurmountable, like a storm cloud looming over his otherwise sunny sky.

“Thanks, Kouyou,” he murmured, his voice sincere.

She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Anytime. Now, why don’t you sit here for a while? I’ll make you some tea.”

Chuuya managed a small smile as Kouyou stood and disappeared into the back of the boutique. For the first time that evening, he allowed himself to breathe. Minutes fly by as he sips on his tea, silence way too comforting as he’s lost in thought.

The boutique bell rang twice, the soft chime breaking the fragile calm in the room. Chuuya froze in his seat, his fingers curling tightly around the armrest. Kouyou turned toward the door with a sharp glance, her protective instincts flaring. 

Standing there, looking utterly out of place among the boutique's elegance, was Dazai. His shirt was wrinkled, his coat haphazardly slung over his shoulders, and his usually carefully disheveled hair now looked genuinely unkempt. Dark circles under his eyes told the story of sleepless nights, and he was out of breath, as if he'd sprinted all the way here. 

Behind him, Kyouka stood quietly, her expression unreadable but her gaze flicking between Dazai and Chuuya.  Chuuya’s heart plummeted. He felt his pulse pounding in his ears as his mind scrambled to process what was happening. His body reacted instinctively, standing up from the chair in a tense, defensive stance. 

Before he could say or do anything, Kouyou stepped forward, her posture commanding and unyielding. She moved just enough to position herself between Chuuya and Dazai, her expression icy.  “What are you doing here, Dazai?” she asked, her tone clipped and cold, yet unwaveringly calm. 

Dazai didn’t respond immediately. His gaze was locked on Chuuya, wide and searching, as if he was looking for some kind of confirmation that this wasn’t all a dream.  “Kouyou,” Dazai finally said, his voice hoarse and lacking its usual charm. “I… I need to talk to him.” 

Kouyou scoffed, crossing her arms. “You’re not in any shape to talk to anyone, let alone Chuuya.” 

“Kouyou—” 

“No,” she interrupted sharply, her tone like a blade cutting through the air. “You’ve done enough damage, Dazai. You don’t get to barge in here like this and expect a conversation. Look at yourself. You’re a mess.” 

Chuuya’s breathing grew uneven as he watched the scene unfold. His chest tightened, and his vision blurred at the edges. The argument between Kouyou and Dazai became muffled, distant, like he was underwater.  What is he doing here? Why now? Why like this? His thoughts spiraled, memories crashing into him with a relentless force. Dazai’s voice, his laughter, his touch—it all came flooding back, suffocating and inescapable. 

“Chuuya,” Dazai said suddenly, his voice cutting through the fog. 

But Chuuya couldn’t respond. He couldn’t even move. His hands trembled at his sides, and his breathing quickened. The boutique, once a sanctuary, now felt like a prison closing in on him. 

Kouyou noticed immediately. She turned to Chuuya, her expression softening in concern. “Chuuya?” she said gently, stepping closer to him. 

Dazai took a step forward, but Kouyou shot him a warning glare. “Stay back.” 

“Chuuya,” Dazai said again, his voice quieter, almost pleading. 

Chuuya’s knees gave out, and he collapsed back onto the chair. He buried his face in his hands, his breaths shallow and ragged. The panic was overwhelming, a storm he couldn’t escape. 

Kouyou knelt beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “Breathe, Chuuya,” she said softly, her tone a stark contrast to the sharpness she’d used with Dazai. “You’re safe. Just focus on my voice.” 

Dazai stood frozen, his hands clenched at his sides. He looked at Chuuya, at the way his small frame shook with each uneven breath, and he felt his chest tighten with guilt. He had caused this—he knew it, and it was unbearable. 

Kouyou turned her head slightly, her gaze locking onto Kyouka. “Take him outside,” she said, nodding toward Dazai. 

Kyouka hesitated for a moment before stepping forward and gently tugging on Dazai’s sleeve. “Let’s go,” she said quietly, but firmly.  "It's enough."

Dazai resisted for a moment, his eyes never leaving Chuuya, but eventually, he let Kyouka guide him out of the boutique. As the bell above the door chimed again, signaling their exit, the room fell into a tense silence. Kouyou stayed by Chuuya’s side, her hand never leaving his arm. She spoke to him in soothing tones, grounding him as he slowly came back to himself. 

“It’s okay, Chuuya,” she whispered. “You’re okay. Just breathe.” 

It took several long minutes, but eventually, Chuuya’s breathing evened out, and the tightness in his chest began to ease. He looked up at Kouyou, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. 

Kouyou shook her head, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Why does he always have to ruin everything?” Chuuya whispered, his voice tinged with equal parts anger and sadness. 

Kouyou didn’t have an answer for him, but she stayed by his side, her presence steady and unwavering. For now, that was enough too. 

Chapter Text

The night air clung to him, cold and damp, like a second skin he couldn’t peel off. Dazai walked aimlessly through the streets of Yokohama, his steps heavy despite his usual practiced grace. His mind was loud, screaming with the echoes of Kouyou’s sharp words and Chuuya’s broken breaths.  

He buried his hands in his pockets, his fingers brushing against a crumpled receipt. Nothing felt real. The city blurred into a watercolor painting of muted neon lights and blurred faces. But even in his daze, his mind betrayed him, dragging him back into memories he thought he had buried.  

It started as a whisper. A laugh—high, clear, infectious.

He was ten again.  

The playground was loud, a symphony of children’s voices rising and falling, punctuated by the squeak of swings and the metallic clang of the jungle gym. Dazai sat on the edge of a weathered wooden bench, his skinny legs dangling, a thick book balanced on his lap.  

He was reading Melville. Again.

It wasn’t like the other kids understood why he loved those books so much. Whales and obsession and existential dread didn’t exactly make for fun lunchroom conversation. But Dazai didn’t care. He didn’t want their understanding. He wanted quiet.  

“Oi!”

The voice shattered his cocoon of solitude.  

There he was—Chuuya. A mop of fiery red hair that seemed to catch the sunlight just right, making him glow like he was kissed by the sun itself. He was running, always running, a blur of motion as he led a pack of other kids through some chaotic game of tag. 

Dazai grimaced and looked back down at his book, pretending he hadn’t noticed. But Chuuya had a way of noticing everything, even when he wasn’t looking.  

An hour passed, maybe more. Dazai didn’t keep track. He was immersed in his book, the corners of his lips curling into the faintest smile at a particularly clever passage.

And then, there he was again. 

Chuuya plopped down on the bench beside him, red-faced and panting, his energy finally burned out after leading his reckless gang through the playground. He smelled like grass and sunshine and sweat, the earthy kind of scent that only kids seemed to carry.  

“What’re you reading now?” Chuuya asked, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand.  

Dazai tilted the book slightly, so Chuuya could see the title.  

“Herman Melville,” Chuuya read aloud, his voice dripping with mock sophistication. “Sounds boring... Haha it says dick!”

Dazai clicked his tongue, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You wouldn’t get it. Too many big words for someone who still laughs at the word dick.”  

Chuuya shot him a glare, but it didn’t have any real heat. “Shut up. It’s not my fault you read weird old-man books instead of doing something fun.”  

“Reading is fun,” Dazai countered, his tone infuriatingly smug. “It’s just that your definition of fun involves running around until your brain rattles loose.”  

Chuuya huffed and leaned back against the bench, kicking at the dirt with the toe of his sneaker. “Well, I’m gonna be a popstar someday, so I don’t need big words to be famous.”

That made Dazai look up. His expression was somewhere between bemusement and outright disbelief. “A popstar?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.  

“Yeah,” Chuuya said, his chest puffing out like a tiny rooster. “I’m gonna sing, and everyone’s gonna love me. I’ll be rich and famous and…” He trailed off, his eyes shining with a kind of hopeful determination that only kids could muster. “...and I’ll never have to sit on a dumb bench reading dumb books again.”  

Dazai stared at him for a long moment before breaking into a laugh, sharp and quick, like the snap of a twig. “You? A popstar? You can barely go a day without falling flat on your face, and you think you’ll survive the stage?”

Chuuya’s face turned as red as his hair, and he shoved Dazai’s shoulder, making him jolt. “Shut up! I’ll show you! When I’m famous, you’re gonna regret laughing at me!”  

“Oh, I’m sure,” Dazai said, rolling his eyes. “And when that happens, I’ll be in my study writing novels that’ll be remembered long after your bubblegum songs fade into obscurity.”

Chuuya paused, frowning. “You wanna be a writer?”  

Dazai nodded, his expression softening just a fraction. “Yeah. Like Melville.”  

Chuuya tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. “Why?” 

“Because words matter,” Dazai said simply, his voice quieter now. “Because stories last. They’re immortal. People might forget your face, your name, but a good story? That’s forever.”  

Chuuya didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at Dazai like he was trying to figure him out, like he was piecing together some complicated puzzle. Then, he broke into a grin, small but genuine.  

“Well, if you ever get famous,” Chuuya said, leaning back with a shrug, “you’d better not forget about me.”  

Dazai smirked, closing his book with a satisfying snap. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”  

The two of them sat there for the rest of the afternoon, bickering and teasing each other until the sun dipped low in the sky and it was time to go home.  

The memory drifted into the haze of adolescence, a time where everything felt sharper, heavier, more suffocating. Dazai could almost feel the August heat pressing against his skin again, sticky and relentless. He was fourteen, and everything was already starting to crumble.

High school wasn’t his scene. It wasn’t about the classes or the rules—those were easy to skip or ignore—it was the people. The endless chatter, the cliques, the way everyone seemed to wear their insecurities like badges of honor. Dazai hated it all.

He skipped school more often than not, disappearing for days at a time without much explanation. Chuuya tried to pull him back, at first. He’d show up at Dazai’s apartment with bags of convenience store snacks and that fierce determination in his eyes, the kind that could burn through walls.

But even Chuuya’s fire wasn’t enough to pull Dazai out of the dark.

By August, it was worse. Two weeks straight, Dazai hadn’t shown up to school. He barely left his room, the blinds drawn so tightly that not even the summer sun could slip through. He lay in bed most days, staring at the ceiling, a book untouched on the nightstand.

Chuuya came, of course. He always came. He’d knock on the door, loud and insistent, calling out Dazai’s name with that mix of anger and worry that only Chuuya could pull off. And when Dazai didn’t answer, Chuuya would let himself in, stomping through the apartment like he owned the place.

But those visits were different now. They weren’t the same as before. Chuuya still talked, still bickered, still poked and prodded, but the fire felt dimmer. And Dazai—Dazai couldn’t bring himself to respond the way he used to. His sarcasm felt hollow, his words like ash in his mouth.

And then Chuuya stopped coming every day.

Dazai noticed the change immediately, though he refused to admit it. He heard through Yosano, one of the only people he still talked to, that Chuuya had been hanging out with someone else.

Albatross.

The name tasted bitter, even in his thoughts. Albatross was in their class, a guy with an easy smile and an annoying habit of always being in the center of attention. Dazai had seen him before, laughing too loudly in the hallway or cracking jokes that made Chuuya snort when they weren’t supposed to.

And now, Albatross was hanging out with Chuuya.

Dazai’s jealousy wasn’t immediate. At first, it was just an irritation, like a splinter in his mind. But then he started noticing things—how Chuuya would mention Albatross offhandedly during his visits, how he laughed a little brighter when Albatross’s name came up, how he started spending less and less time at Dazai’s apartment.

It gnawed at him, that jealousy. It twisted into envy, fear, anger—emotions he couldn’t name or control. He tried to ignore it, to focus on his books, his thoughts, his quiet. But it was there, festering, until it consumed him.

It came to a head at the back of the schoolyard.

Dazai had finally dragged himself to school, more out of spite than anything else. He didn’t want to give Chuuya the satisfaction of thinking he’d given up completely. But he kept to himself, lingering on the edges of the classroom, his gaze fixed on the clock as the hours crawled by.

When the final bell rang, Dazai slipped out the back, hoping to avoid any conversations. He didn’t get far.

“Oi, Dazai!”

He froze at the sound of Chuuya’s voice.

He turned slowly, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Chuuya was standing there, his hair messy from the summer breeze, his uniform slightly askew. “You’ve been avoiding me,” Chuuya said, his voice tight.

Dazai shrugged, his expression carefully blank. “You’ve been busy. Thought I’d give you some space.”

Chuuya’s jaw tightened. “Don’t pull that crap with me. You’ve been ignoring me for weeks, and you know it. What the hell’s your problem?”

Dazai’s hands clenched into fists in his pockets. He didn’t answer.

“Is this about Albatross?” Chuuya pressed, stepping closer. “Because if it is, you’re being a complete idiot. He’s just a friend—”

“Is he?” Dazai snapped, cutting him off. His voice was sharp, venomous, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s replacing me.”

Chuuya blinked, stunned into silence for a moment. Then his brows furrowed, and his voice dropped to a quieter, more dangerous tone. “You’re jealous.”

Dazai laughed, but it was a bitter, broken sound. “Of course I’m jealous. How could I not be? You’re spending all your time with him, laughing, talking, forgetting I even exist—”

“Forget you?” Chuuya interrupted, his voice rising. “Are you kidding me? You’re the one who shut me out! I tried, Dazai! I came to your place every day, and you just… you didn’t care!”

“I did care,” Dazai said, his voice cracking despite himself. “I cared too much. That’s the problem.”

Chuuya stared at him, his anger faltering, replaced by confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Dazai looked away, his shoulders tense. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but it didn’t help. The words were already there, clawing their way out of him.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The confession hung in the air like a thunderclap, heavy and electric.

Chuuya’s eyes widened, and for once, he was completely speechless.

Dazai didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked away, his heart pounding, his chest tight, his mind a whirlwind of emotions he couldn’t untangle.

He didn’t look back.

Although, Dazai froze when Chuuya’s voice rang out again behind him, sharp and unrelenting.

“Oi, don’t just drop a bomb like that and walk away, you idiot!”

He felt a hand grab his wrist, forcing him to turn around. Chuuya’s face was flushed—not from the heat, but from anger, embarrassment, or something else entirely. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Chuuya demanded, his grip tightening as if daring Dazai to bolt.

Dazai sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I just told you I love you, Chuuya. What more do you want me to say?”

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed, his voice growing softer but no less intense. “How about you don’t run away like a coward? God, you always do this. You think you’re protecting yourself, but all you’re doing is shutting people out. Do you even know how infuriating you are?”

“Then why do you stick around?” Dazai snapped, his voice rising. “Why do you keep chasing after me when you could be with someone easier? Someone better?”

“Because I’m in love with you too, you dumbass!” Chuuya shot back, his voice echoing across the empty schoolyard.

The words hit Dazai like a punch to the chest, knocking the air out of him. He stared at Chuuya, wide-eyed, unable to process what he’d just heard.

Chuuya groaned, running a hand through his hair as if to steady himself. “Yeah, I said it. I’m in love with you. Always have been, even when you’re the most insufferable person I know. So stop acting like you’re not worth it, because you are.”

For once, Dazai was speechless. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he laughed—a soft, disbelieving sound that quickly turned into something lighter, something genuine. “That’s not how this was supposed to go,” he muttered, more to himself than to Chuuya.

“Yeah, well, too bad,” Chuuya said, crossing his arms. “This is how it’s going. Now, are you gonna say something useful, or are we just gonna stand here like idiots?”

Dazai smiled, a real, unguarded smile, and took a step closer. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah. And you’re a drama queen,” Chuuya replied, rolling his eyes. But there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, soft and warm. That August turned into something sweet, something Dazai hadn’t expected. He finally understood why those clichéd high school sweetheart stories existed.

The days were filled with stolen kisses behind the bleachers, lazy afternoons spent bickering over homework, and nights where they shared their dreams in whispers under the stars.

The memory shifted, as memories often do, fast-forwarding through time. Dazai was eighteen now, with Chuuya still by his side. They were chasing their dreams, each in their own way—Chuuya with his music, pouring his soul into every draft, and Dazai with his writing, chasing the impossible standards he set for himself.

But even then, cracks were forming.

Dazai’s depression never really left him; it lurked in the background, a constant shadow that grew darker when he wasn’t paying attention. He hid it from Chuuya as best he could, not wanting to burden him, not wanting to dull Chuuya’s light with his own darkness.

But hiding didn’t make it go away.

There were days when Dazai didn’t leave his bed, when the thought of writing made him nauseous, when the ache in his chest felt unbearable. He would ignore Chuuya’s calls, his texts, and when Chuuya showed up in person, Dazai would push him away with sarcasm and indifference.

At first, Chuuya was patient. He always was, in his own stubborn way. He’d drag Dazai out of bed, force him to eat, sit with him in silence when words were too much. But patience wears thin, and by the time they were nineteen, Chuuya was exhausted.

Dazai could see it in the way Chuuya’s shoulders slumped when he came over, in the way his fiery retorts lost their edge, in the way his eyes lingered on Dazai with a mixture of frustration and heartbreak.

It all came to a head one night, after yet another argument over something neither of them could remember later.

“You don’t care about me,” Chuuya had snapped, his voice shaking. “All you care about is wallowing in your own misery.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who thinks singing into a microphone is going to fix the world,” Dazai had shot back, his words sharper than he intended.

Chuuya flinched, but he didn’t back down. “At least I’m trying, Dazai. At least I’m doing something with my life. What are you doing? Hiding in your room and writing stories no one’s ever going to read?”

The words stung, but Dazai didn’t show it. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to hide if I didn’t have to deal with you constantly breathing down my neck.”

Chuuya stared at him, his blue eyes wide and glistening. “Fine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “If that’s how you feel, then I’ll leave you alone.”

And he did.

Chuuya moved out that same night, taking his things and leaving without another word. Dazai didn’t try to stop him, too proud and too stubborn to admit how much it hurt.

But the silence that followed was unbearable.

Dazai tried calling, tried texting, but Chuuya never responded. Every message felt like shouting into a void, every unanswered call another weight on his chest.

Yosano showed up that night, dragging Kyoka along with her. She didn’t say much, just handed him a glass of water and sat next to him on the couch while he stared blankly at his phone.

Kyoka, barely twelve at the time, quietly announced that she was moving in. “You’re a mess,” she’d said, matter-of-fact as always. “You need someone to keep an eye on you.”

Dazai had laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Do I really look that pathetic?”

“Yes,” Kyoka had replied, deadpan, and Yosano had snorted into her drink.

The two of them stayed with him that night, their presence a small comfort in the storm of regret and self-loathing that churned inside him. But even their company couldn’t fill the space Chuuya had left behind.

Dazai sat alone in the tiny apartment, the dim light of the lamp flickering as if it were about to give up. The air felt heavy, suffocating even, and the silence was deafening. Kyoka had gone to bed, and the solitude wrapped around him like a suffocating fog. His fingers twitched, restless, as his eyes wandered to the corner of his desk where his trench coat hung on the back of the chair.

He didn’t want to move, but something deep inside gnawed at him, refusing to let him sit still. He stood, his movements sluggish, and walked toward the coat. His hand trembled slightly as he reached into the inner pocket, feeling the worn edges of the tiny piece of paper.

The numbers were faded, smudged from years of being folded and unfolded, but they were still legible. Chuuya’s number. He’d kept it all this time, even though it had been years since he’d last dialed it.

He stared at the paper, his mind racing with the memory of that last fight, the venom in their words, the way Chuuya had looked at him as though he’d shattered something precious.

Dazai swallowed hard, his throat dry. His other hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out a few coins. He weighed them in his palm, each one feeling heavier than it should.

Before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed his coat and headed out the door. The chill of the night air hit him like a slap, but he barely noticed. His legs moved on autopilot, carrying him to the nearest payphone, a relic from a bygone era that somehow still stood on the corner of the street.

Chuuya had dreamed of being a popstar, and he had made it. He had become everything he said he would, and more.  

And Dazai? He had become a hollow shell, clinging to the scraps of stories he could no longer finish, haunted by the ghost of the boy he had once known.  

Because Chuuya hadn't forgotten him. He hated him.  

The booth was cramped, the glass scratched and fogged from years of neglect. Dazai stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and stared at the receiver for what felt like an eternity. Could he really do this? Would Chuuya even pick up?

His fingers hovered over the buttons, the coins clinking softly in his other hand. Taking a shaky breath, he slid the coins into the slot and began dialing.

Each number pressed felt like a weight being lifted and then dropped onto his shoulders, heavier and heavier. When the final digit was pressed, the line buzzed faintly, and Dazai pressed the receiver to his ear.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

And the chapter ended with that.

Chapter Text

It was past midnight when his phone rang. The sound was so sharp, so sudden, that it cut right through the half-silence of the night like a knife. Chuuya blinked awake, eyes heavy and dazed, his head still hazy from sleep. For a second, he thought he’d dreamed it. Then it rang again.

He groaned softly and sat up, the sheets rustling around him. Kouyou’s house was dim, the moonlight spilling in from the thin curtains and painting the room in bluish shades. He rubbed his face, reached for his phone on the nightstand, and pressed it to his ear, still half-lost between the present and the fog of sleep.

“...Hello?”

There was silence on the other end—silence so dense that it pressed against his chest. He frowned, ready to hang up, when a breath came through the line. Then, a voice.

“Chuuya.”

He froze.

That voice—raspy, tired, unmistakable. It was Dazai. The sound of his name in Dazai’s tone felt like being pulled underwater; every thought he’d carefully built over the years scattered instantly.

His heart kicked against his ribs once, twice, and then went quiet. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

The quiet stretched, heavy and fragile. Chuuya could hear Dazai breathing on the other end, steady but trembling slightly—as if he was trying not to fall apart.

And in that silence, the memories began to flood in.

They always did, whenever Dazai’s name brushed against his thoughts.

He remembered their first meeting—how he’d hated the kid with the bandaged arms and the smug grin, yet somehow, in the chaos of middle school, Dazai had stayed. They became inseparable, like magnets constantly colliding and repelling at the same time. Chuuya had always had a lot of friends, people who liked him for his confidence, his energy, his ability to fill a room. But Dazai was different. He saw through all of it, like he could read the things Chuuya didn’t say.

Maybe that’s why he let him in.

When his parents divorced, the house split in two—his mother in Yokohama, his father in Nagoya—and Chuuya got stuck in the middle, belonging to neither. He was supposed to be a twin, once. His mother told him that when he was ten, almost casually, like it was just a sad fact. “You were supposed to have a brother.” She didn’t say more. But he caught the way she looked at him sometimes—like he was the reminder of what didn’t make it.

After that, he lived mostly with Kouyou. She was his tutor, his guardian, his sister in everything but blood. Kouyou was steady where he wasn’t, calm where he burned. She didn’t tell him what to feel. She just let him exist. And when she’d tuck his hair behind his ear, saying softly that he didn’t have to prove himself to anyone, it almost felt like safety.

But then came Dazai. And safety turned into something else.

It wasn’t sudden, not like the movies. Their relationship happened in fragments—late-night calls, shared umbrellas, laughter that got too soft to be friendly. Dazai had this way of drifting close just to pull away again, like he was scared of being known. And Chuuya… he couldn’t help chasing after him every time.

When they got together, it felt unreal at first. Two boys who’d grown up side by side, who fought and patched each other up, suddenly standing too close and kissing under the August sky—it had felt like the world stopped for a second. That summer was theirs. They shared everything, even silence. Dazai’s hands were always cold; Chuuya’s always warm.

But that warmth was hard to keep alive when Dazai’s depression began to crawl back.

At first, Chuuya didn’t understand it. He’d see Dazai disappear for days, locking himself up, not answering texts. When he did show up, there were bandages again, new ones. And Chuuya would argue, would yell, would beg him to stop. But it wasn’t that easy.

Dazai wasn’t trying to hurt him—he was trying to stop hurting himself. And that realization shattered Chuuya every single time.

He tried everything—cooking, staying over, holding him through long nights, talking until dawn. Sometimes Dazai smiled and said thank you. Sometimes he stared past him, as if Chuuya wasn’t even there. Those were the hardest days.

It wasn’t just the exhaustion—it was the helplessness. Watching someone you love slowly drown, and knowing you can’t pull them out because they don’t want to be saved. Chuuya started to feel it too: the guilt, the failure, the quiet resentment that came from loving someone who kept slipping through your fingers.

And then that last fight.

He could still hear the echo of it, the words thrown. They weren’t arguing about love; they were arguing about life, about the future. Dazai had accused him of wanting too much—of wanting light when Dazai could only offer shadows. Chuuya had thrown back that Dazai wasn’t trying hard enough, that he was letting his sadness define him.

It was ugly. Cruel. And when Dazai said, “Maybe you’d be better off without me,” Chuuya didn’t deny it.

He’d packed that same night. Left without looking back, because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to leave at all.

Now, hearing that voice again like this, years later, felt like a wound reopening.

He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if he wanted to.

The line buzzed faintly. Dazai’s breathing stayed there—soft, waiting.

Chuuya’s lips parted, but no sound came out. He gripped the phone tighter, staring at the wall, at the faint reflection of himself in the window. He looked older now. More tired. But deep down, some part of him was still that seventeen-year-old boy, aching for the boy who never knew how to stay.

He swallowed hard, eyes burning, but still, he said nothing.

And on the other side of the line, Dazai didn’t either.

Just two people breathing through a crack in time, waiting for one of them to speak first.

Dazai’s hand was shaking. The phone cord twisted around his fingers as if trying to hold him together, the plastic slick from the nervous sweat on his palms. He had rehearsed it a hundred times in his head — what he would say, how calm he’d sound, how he’d maybe even joke like he used to. But now, with the silence on the other end, with him there… it all fell apart.

“Ch–Chuuya,” he started, the syllables tripping over each other. His voice cracked halfway through, and he bit his lip hard, hating how small it sounded. “I… I wasn’t sure you’d pick up, I— I didn’t even know if— shit, I’m sorry, this is stupid, I shouldn’t—”

He stopped. The words tangled. His throat felt like it was closing. He could hear his own breathing, shaky, too fast. He hadn’t meant to sound like this — desperate, raw, like a kid caught crying in the dark.

The quiet on the other end didn’t help.

“Listen,” he tried again, rubbing at his eyes, voice unsteady. “I just— I didn’t know what else to do, okay? I saw you, and you looked… you looked— I don’t know. Different. Or maybe I did. Maybe I’m just—”

He broke off again, teeth clenching as if the sound itself betrayed him.

This was humiliating. Pathetic. All the things he swore he’d never be.

And then —

It came through, quiet but real.

A laugh.

A small, startled sound. Barely there, but enough to split the air like a spark.

Chuuya laughed.

Not mockingly — more like he couldn’t help it. A tiny, choked giggle that he immediately seemed to regret, because there was a pause right after, heavy with guilt.

Dazai froze, mouth half open, his heart tumbling out of rhythm. “W–what? What’s so—” He laughed, too, but it came out wrong — high-pitched and nervous, full of trembling air. “You— you’re laughing at me now? God, you always—” He stopped, his voice cracking again, softer this time. “You always do that,” he said, almost to himself. “You make me forget how to— how to talk.”

He tried to breathe, but it came out as a shaky sigh, fingers pressed to his forehead. He could hear Chuuya’s faint breathing through the receiver, steady and close. For a moment, he thought he might cry. Not from sadness, not entirely. More from the fact that this — even this — felt like more than he deserved.

Chuuya was still quiet. Maybe smiling, maybe trying not to.

“Dazai,” he finally said, softly, like a warning. “Stop. Just— stop talking before you—”

“Before I what?” Dazai cut in, voice breaking in the middle of the question. “Say something stupid? Too late.” He laughed again, dry, breathless. “You know I don’t know when to shut up.”

“Exactly,” Chuuya muttered, but there was warmth behind it, a tone Dazai hadn’t heard in years — not anger, not pity, just something familiar.

It hurt.

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down, unable to stop the next words before they stumbled out. “Chuuya,” he said again, quieter this time, raw. “I know I shouldn’t ask. But… could you— maybe— come over tomorrow morning?”

There was no response. Just the faint hum of the phone line, the sound of breathing.

He swallowed, pushed through the silence. “I just— I need to talk to you. Properly. No one’s gonna see you, I’ll make sure of that. Please.”

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t even smart. But he was too far gone to pull the words back now.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to imagine Chuuya’s face on the other side of that silence — the way his brows probably furrowed, the way his lips pressed together when he was thinking too hard. He could almost see him, illuminated by the cold light of Kouyou’s hallway.

Dazai’s voice trembled as he added, almost whispering, “Just this once. I swear.”

And for a long time, Chuuya didn’t answer.

But Dazai didn’t hang up either. He waited, trembling, the receiver pressed to his ear like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

There was a pause so long it nearly broke him. Dazai leaned against the cool glass of the payphone booth, breathing fogging faintly against it, hand still tight around the receiver like if he let go, Chūya would disappear again — like the whole call had just been a ghost in his head.

Then, finally, a voice came through.

“Fine.”

Just one word, flat and sharp.

Dazai blinked, lifting his head. “Fine?”

“I’ll come,” Chūya said, tone clipped, tired, like the words were dragged out of him. “But don’t get any ideas. It’s not because I want to.”

The silence between them stretched again. Dazai’s heart gave a pathetic little jump he tried to smother.

“Oh?” he managed, trying to sound amused, though it came out strained. “So you do still take pity on me. How noble.”

“Don’t,” Chūya snapped back instantly. “Don’t make a joke out of this. You called me out of nowhere, after years, and you expect me to what— act normal?”

Dazai exhaled through his nose, pressing his thumb into the bridge of it. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say please. Instead, he chuckled weakly. “You’re right. You’ve always been terrible at normal.”

There was a sharp hiss of breath on the other end. “You’re still such an ass.”

“And you’re still—” Dazai bit back the word beautiful at the last second, clenching his jaw. “—dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Chūya barked, and for a fleeting second, Dazai could picture the way he probably stood up from the couch, pacing. “You think this is drama? You vanished, Dazai. You broke everything and then just— what, call me like it’s nothing?”

“It’s not nothing,” Dazai said quietly. He could feel the tremor in his voice betraying him. “You know it’s not.”

There was another sigh. A tired one, like Chūya was trying too hard not to feel anything at all. “You make me sick, you know that?”

“Constantly told so,” Dazai muttered under his breath, running his fingers through his messy hair.

“And you’re pathetic,” Chūya added.

Dazai hummed, forcing a small grin, though it didn’t reach his voice. “That one’s new. You’ve upgraded your vocabulary, I see.”

“God, you’re impossible,” Chūya groaned, the sound more pained than angry. “You think you can just talk your way out of everything with those stupid little lines.”

“Worked pretty well before,” Dazai said — too quick, too cocky for how fragile his voice really sounded. He regretted it the moment it left his mouth.

Chūya’s exhale hit like a slap through the phone. “You haven’t changed at all.”

Dazai hesitated. Then, softly — almost too softly — he said, “You have.”

The line went quiet again.

Dazai stared at his reflection in the dark glass of the booth, at the tired eyes, the slight twitch in his jaw. He smiled like it was supposed to hurt. “So, tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah,” Chūya muttered. “Tomorrow. But don’t flatter yourself, it’s out of pity. You’ll get your little conversation, and then we’re done. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Good.”

“And you hate me, right?” Dazai added lightly, forcing a laugh. “You should say it, for closure.”

“I do hate you,” Chūya snapped, but there was something in the way the words caught at the end — something that didn’t quite line up with the venom.

Dazai’s grin faltered for a second, but he pushed it back up. “Perfect. I’d hate me too.”

“Stop talking before I change my mind.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t help himself. “You won’t.”

“Try me,” Chūya said, and the line went dead.

Dazai stood there, the dial tone buzzing in his ear, frozen in that tiny booth as if the world had stopped outside it. The streetlight flickered once. His reflection looked a little too much like someone he didn’t recognize.

And then — finally — he laughed. A short, broken thing. Half joy, half despair.

“He’s coming,” he whispered to no one, pressing his forehead to the cool glass. “God help me, he’s actually coming.”