Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

༺♰༻

Dazai was, without question, dying.

Not metaphorically. Not in that vaguely poetic, romanticized way he sometimes liked to sigh about on rainy days while staring dramatically out a window. No—this time, he was absolutely convinced his body was staging a slow, painful mutiny against him.

It had been five weeks. Five long, miserable, soul-draining weeks of cramps that curled him in on himself like a question mark, of relentless waves of nausea that came and went with the cruelty of a particularly vindictive ghost, and of a bone-deep fatigue that made every movement feel like wading through wet cement.

And yet, through this personal hell, he persevered. He woke up every morning—eventually—crawled into his clothes, and dragged his increasingly fragile husk to the one place that could almost make life bearable: Starbucks.

Specifically, his Starbucks. The one on the corner of 4th and Misery.

It was his domain. His stage. His carefully cultivated sanctuary of overpriced caffeine, indie playlist loops, and college students who mistook his sarcasm for flirting. He couldn’t abandon it. Not even if he had to physically collapse behind the espresso machine between orders.

But lately... even that dedication was being tested.

The vomiting had started last week. Violently. Without warning. Always in the morning, always while he was still half-asleep and actively cursing the sun for existing. At first, he’d tried to play it off—blaming bad sushi, food poisoning, perhaps a particularly aggressive hangover. But then it happened again. And again. And again.
And that’s when Kunikida snapped.

Dazai had been curled dramatically across one of the cushy armchairs in the café’s lounge area, groaning softly into a decorative pillow like a Victorian widow when Kunikida stormed over, the sheer force of his indignation practically parting the air like a divine judgment.

“There is OBVIOUSLY something wrong with you!” Kunikida barked, voice like a courtroom gavel slamming down hard. He stood above him like an avenging angel in khakis, arms crossed, jaw clenched. “You look like hell, you’re sweating on everything, and you’re going to contaminate the food with your disgusting ass if you keep touching anything in my kitchen!”

Dazai blinked up at him, bleary and nauseous, clutching his stomach with the pained elegance of a Shakespearean heroine.

“Oh c’monnnnn, Kunikida,” he whined, dragging the syllables out like he was begging for his life. “It’s not that bad…”

Kunikida’s eyes narrowed. “You threw up in the mop sink, Dazai.”

“A minor miscalculation!” he protested, hands flopping weakly in the air. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“You don’t even mop, Dazai!”

Silence. The sound of lo-fi hip hop beats continued to play awkwardly over the speakers. Kunikida pinched the bridge of his nose, as though physically holding back an aneurysm. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled like someone trying not to commit manslaughter in front of witnesses.

“Go talk to Yosano,” he said finally, voice tight. “Or I’ll fire you for spreading your sick germs all over my café. That’s a health code violation, you walking CDC case file.”
Dazai pouted from the chair like a kicked cat.

“So cruel… So heartless… And after I spent so much time charming the customers…”

“You traumatized that entire bachelorette party yesterday.”

“They loved it,” Dazai mumbled.

Kunikida turned, already done. “Go home early.”

Dazai sat up so fast he nearly vomited again. “Really?! Kunikida, I always knew you cared—this is your way of saying you love me, isn’t it?”
“I will physically remove you.”

“I love you too~!”

And with that, Kunikida grabbed Dazai by the collar and unceremoniously shoved him out the door, the bell above it jingling like punctuation on a very long, very loud sigh.

Outside, Dazai stood on the sidewalk, hoodie halfway off his shoulder, stomach churning, and dignity nowhere to be found. He squinted up at the sky, the sun blinding and aggressive as ever, and whispered to no one in particular,

“…I’m dying.”

Then he shuffled off in the direction of Yosano’s clinic like a man heading toward the gallows, theatrics still very much intact, despite being one sneeze away from unconsciousness.

༺♰༻

When Dazai walked into Yosano’s clinic, he was genuinely hoping for a death sentence.

Not a dramatic one—he wasn’t in the mood for fireworks. Just something clean. Quiet. Terminal enough to give him an excuse to lie in bed for the next six months and maybe get a sympathy fruit basket. Cancer. A mystery parasite. A slow-acting neurotoxin from all the expired milk he’d been pouring into his coffee. Anything would’ve been fine, really.

What he didn’t expect was for Yosano to take one look at him and go utterly still. Not in the usual “Oh my God, what did you do now?” kind of way. No. Her eyes actually lit up—not with delight, but with the sharp, clinical gleam of a doctor recognizing a pattern before anyone else in the room has caught up.

Dazai blinked at her, swaying slightly in the doorway. He was paler than usual, a fine sheen of sweat beading along his hairline. The smell of antiseptic hit his nose like a slap, and he winced. He should’ve been used to it by now—he was practically a regular here—but it made his stomach flip in that same awful way it had been doing every morning for the past week and a half.

Yosano didn’t even let him finish stepping fully inside before she marched up and looked him over like he was a cadaver that had started talking.

“When,” she asked, voice flat and serious, “did you get yourself pregnant?”

The words hung there. Stupid. Heavy. Hilariously surreal.

Dazai blinked. Once. Twice. Slowly. He tilted his head, like maybe the angle would change the sentence.

“...Excuse me?”

The silence that followed wasn’t the funny kind. It was the kind that curdled the air, stretched out like a held breath. Yosano stared at him for a beat too long, then squinted—closer now, as though she could somehow scan his vitals through sheer force of will. Her expression slowly crumpled as the truth landed.

“Oh… oh. Oh, you didn’t know.”

Dazai, who up until this moment had been floating somewhere between nausea and disassociation, went completely still.

No sarcastic comeback. No exaggerated reaction. Just stunned, stunned silence. His arms hung uselessly at his sides. One hand instinctively pulled at the hem of his hoodie, the other twitching slightly under the worn bandages.

Yosano’s voice softened. Not with pity—she wasn’t built for that—but with something like patience.
“Come on. Let’s get you into a room.”

He let her take him by the wrist—cool fingers over bandages, a brief flicker of grounding touch—and lead him into one of the private exam rooms. The door clicked shut behind them, and she guided him to sit on the edge of the cot. He did, moving like his limbs weren’t entirely his.
She didn’t rush him. Just stepped back to give him space.

Dazai stared ahead, unseeing, trying to piece together the last few weeks. The morning nausea. The exhaustion. The way certain smells made his stomach churn. The sudden, inexplicable mood swings that he’d written off as existential dread, which—let’s be honest—was his normal baseline anyway.

“Pregnant,” he said at last, like testing the shape of the word in his mouth. “Didn’t… expect that one" His voice cracked halfway through the joke, and he tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Yosano crossed her arms, watching him carefully. “I’ll get a test,” she said quietly. “Just to confirm.”

He nodded, still staring at the wall like it might offer a different diagnosis if he looked hard enough.

The door shut softly behind her.

༺♰༻

The test came back positive.

Of course it did.

Yosano didn’t even look surprised when she held up the small plastic strip like it was a courtroom exhibit. Just gave him that sharp, physician’s stare like she was daring him to argue with science. She didn’t say anything at first—just handed it to him and let the weight of the reality settle like dust in the room.

Dazai stared at the little pink line. And then the second one. Then back at her. And then back at the test.

“Well,” he said weakly, “that’s anticlimactic.”

Yosano sat down on the stool opposite him, crossing her legs with a sigh that carried the kind of exhaustion only Dazai could consistently inspire. She waited, arms folded, while he sat there on the paper-covered cot, looking like someone had hit him in the face with a frying pan made of raw consequence.

His brain was moving sluggishly, like a cassette tape rewinding in molasses.

Okay. Pregnant. Cool. Horrifying. But let’s be scientific about this. Rational. Trace the damage.

He rubbed at his eyes with one hand, the other absently fidgeting with the edge of the bandage wrapped around his wrist. “Okay,” he muttered, more to himself than her, “so… when was the last time I had sex?”

Yosano blinked. “You don’t remember?”

He waved a limp hand at her. “Give me a second, I’m mentally flipping through my Greatest Hits.”

There was the guy from the library—cute, bespectacled, clearly into tragic types. They’d made out behind the archives and exchanged a few dark jokes, but nothing below the belt. Literally.

Then there were a few women here and there—some warm bodies at bars, a blur of perfume and lipstick. But that wasn’t the kind of anatomy that could explain this.
His frown deepened.

“…There was that party a few weeks ago.”

Yosano tilted her head. “And?”

“I was… very drunk.”

She rolled her eyes. “Naturally.”

“I remember this guy,” Dazai said slowly, eyes unfocused as he tried to peel the night off the inside of his skull. “Red hair. Loud laugh. Drop-dead gorgeous. I think we hit it off? Or maybe he hit me. I don’t really remember.”

There was a long pause.

Then Yosano sat forward, eyebrows climbing. “A redhead? That narrows it down to either Tanizaki or—God help us—Chuuya.”

Dazai stared at her. “If it was Tanizaki, I’d be dead by now, wouldn’t I?”

She didn’t deny it. Just sighed again, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Which means it was probably Chuuya.”

“Who’s Chuuya?”

Yosano groaned. “A friend of mine. I go drinking with him. Loud. Smokes too much. Gets into bar fights and looks like he could model for a wine ad. And he’s absolutely going to lose his mind over this.”

Dazai looked down at the test in his hands, still clutched between his fingers like it might change if he stared at it hard enough. His leg bounced. He chewed the inside of his cheek. His fingers tugged at the loose edge of his sleeve again, scraping over worn cotton and gauze. Everything felt tight and foreign.

“I don’t even know him,” he said softly. “And now I’m—this is just—”

He broke off. Didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Didn't even know what word he was reaching for.

Pregnant.

With a stranger's child. Possibly someone named Chuuya who apparently looked like he walked out of a noir movie and punched people recreationally.
His brain tried to process it.

It couldn’t. It hit a wall, slid down it, and curled up on the floor to cry.

Yosano stood, brushing off her coat. “I’ll get you some prenatal vitamins and start the bloodwork to confirm timelines. You need to tell him, Dazai. Sooner rather than later.”

“Right,” he said, nodding slowly. “Right, of course. I’ll just… text the stranger I maybe slept with while blackout drunk and inform him I’m carrying his demon spawn. That’s not awkward at all.”

Yosano raised an eyebrow. “Would you rather I do it?”

“Absolutely not.”

She gave him a pat on the shoulder—surprisingly gentle—before walking out and leaving him to stew in the strange, sterile quiet of the room.
Dazai exhaled, leaned his head back against the wall, and stared up at the ceiling tiles.

“…Chuuya,” he repeated under his breath, like maybe the name itself would jog a memory.

Nothing came.

Just the weight in his gut and the silence in his chest.

༺♰༻

Dazai didn’t go back to work after the clinic.

He didn’t check his phone. Didn’t stop to grab coffee. Didn’t say a word to anyone as he walked out of Yosano’s office with the test still tucked in his coat pocket like contraband.

He just… went home.

If you could call it that.

His apartment was exactly as he’d left it—dim, cluttered, and vaguely haunted. A graveyard of empty coffee cups, half-read books, and laundry that hadn’t made it off the floor in at least a week. The curtains were still drawn, casting everything in that gray, timeless light that made it hard to tell if it was morning or late afternoon. The air smelled faintly of dust and something sour.

He kicked his shoes off halfway through the door, let his coat slide off his shoulders and hit the floor with a soft whisper, then collapsed face-first onto the couch without bothering to turn on the light.

He didn’t really want to think.

But unfortunately, that wasn’t a decision his brain was going to let him make.

How the hell am I supposed to take care of anything else when I can’t even keep myself alive?

The thought sat heavy in his stomach, turning over like wet cement.

He rolled onto his back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling like it held some sort of divine answer. It didn’t. Just a faint discoloration that looked vaguely like a duck if he squinted. He hated that he noticed that. Hated how quiet everything was. Hated that it left room for the spiral.

He ran through it again.

The timeline. The redhead. The night he barely remembered.

Chuuya. That was his name, right?

Dazai tried to picture his face again. All he could conjure was the vague impression of bright hair, sharp cheekbones, a voice that sounded like gravel and fire. The rest was fogged over with alcohol and bad decisions.

If it was him… how the hell was he supposed to talk to him about this?

What did you even say in that kind of situation?

“Hi, remember me? No? Cool. Well, you might have impregnated me while I was blackout drunk. Wanna talk about co-parenting?”

God.

He covered his face with one arm and let out a long, strangled groan. His other hand drifted down, settling over his stomach like he was expecting to feel something. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. It was too early for that. Still, the weight of the gesture made him nauseous.

Did he even want to keep it?

Would Chuuya? Would he want to be involved? Would he hate Dazai if he chose not to keep it?

The questions came fast, overlapping and relentless, like a train barreling through his chest.

And then there was the question. The one he didn’t want to look at too closely:

Would I even be a good father?

He snorted bitterly. The sound caught in his throat.

No. Obviously not. Don't be stupid.

He couldn’t even keep his house clean. He hadn’t eaten anything today. He still forgot to take his meds sometimes. The idea of raising a child was laughable—except it wasn’t funny. Not even a little.

He didn’t want to bring a kid into the world just to turn them into a mirror of all the worst parts of himself. A kid with his bad habits. His quiet, gnawing self-loathing. His lack of direction. His sharp tongue and softer weaknesses.

He wouldn’t want that for anyone.

But if I care that much, does that make me decent?

He didn’t know.

He wanted to think it did.

He wanted to believe that the fact he was even asking these questions meant something. That he wasn’t completely broken. That maybe, somewhere buried under the mess, there was a version of him who could figure this out.

Or maybe he was just afraid of letting Yosano down. Of hearing her voice change—cold, sharp, disappointed—if he told her he’d made a choice she didn’t agree with.
He didn’t know which scared him more: being a bad father, or being nothing at all.

He shifted slightly on the couch, gaze drifting to the far wall where paint peeled at the corners. A faint crack ran across the plaster like a spiderweb. He tilted his head. Watched the way the shadows gathered in the corners of the room like they were listening. His hair fell into his face, a few strands poking into his eye, but he didn’t move to fix them.

His hands were busy.

Busy scratching—slowly, harshly—at the old scars beneath the bandages on his wrists.
It hurt. Just enough to ground him.

༺♰༻

Yosano had pulled a few strings and gotten Dazai officially excused from work.

Which meant no more mornings hunched over an espresso machine trying not to puke on the milk frother, no more lectures from Kunikida about “professional hygiene,” and no more pretending like everything was fine when it so obviously wasn’t.

Instead, she dragged him into her apartment like a sickly stray cat and essentially put him under house arrest.

“Recovery,” she called it.

“Babysitting,” he called it.

Either way, he stayed.

The place was cleaner than his—warm lighting, actual food in the fridge, a couch that didn’t feel like it might collapse beneath him. She made sure he ate. Made sure he slept. Threw a pillow at him whenever he tried to disappear into the bathroom for too long. She kept the sharp things locked up, but only half-heartedly. He knew where she kept the keys. But for whatever reason… he didn’t go looking for them.

She never said anything directly, of course. That wasn’t her style. But the fact the she only had to stitch his arms up once —just once, during a bad night when everything got too loud in his head—she didn’t yell. She didn’t scold. She just cleaned the cuts in silence, sewed him back together like always, and handed him tea afterward.

He caught her watching him a few days later with a look that almost resembled pride.

And for a little while, he let himself feel safe.

…

Three weeks passed. Eight weeks pregnant now.

The nausea had settled into something more manageable—less dramatic, more constant. Like seasickness. The fatigue was worse, though. He could fall asleep in the middle of conversations now, which Yosano found endlessly amusing. His clothes were starting to feel a little too tight around the waist, and that fact alone was enough to send him into several silent existential spirals while pretending to nap on her couch.

But despite everything, he still hadn’t said anything to Chuuya.

Because honestly? He wasn’t sure if he should.

He didn’t even know for sure if Chuuya was the father. It was still a theory. A very loud, very likely theory—but unconfirmed. Dazai wasn’t going to go throwing a nuclear bomb into some redheaded stranger’s life based on a drunken flash of memory and a gut feeling.

Which is exactly why he was nervous now.

Because Yosano, in all her unholy brilliance, had decided it was finally time to find out for real. “You’re far enough along now,” she’d said, calm and clinical. “Fetal DNA’s in your blood. We can run the test.”

What she didn’t say right away was how she’d acquired the necessary sample from Chuuya. That came later. Apparently, she had “casually” invited him out to dinner. Wore her nicest blouse. Flirted just enough to keep him distracted. Waited until he got up to use the bathroom—and then yoinked his straw like a criminal mastermind. She also snagged a half-used cigarette butt from the ashtray “just in case.”

Dazai had stared at her, horrified. “You stole his spit?! What are you, a serial killer?”

“I’m thorough,” she said, completely unapologetic.

“You’re insane.”

She might’ve hit him with a clipboard after that. Hard to say—things got blurry for a second.

Once she’d secured the contraband and completed her heist, she dragged Dazai into the clinic the next morning and took a blood sample without even offering a lollipop afterward. He complained the entire time, as was tradition.

Then, like the unfeeling creature she was, she shooed him out the door with a wave of her hand and a single parting threat: “You’ll get the results when I feel like telling you. Now go be dramatic somewhere else.”

He stood outside her office afterward, staring at the band-aid on his arm like it was a bullet wound, the wind cold against his face.
Eight weeks pregnant. A maybe-father who didn’t even know Dazai existed. A doctor friend who committed minor bio-crimes in the name of science.

And somehow, this was his life now.

Chapter Text

Chuuya had just stepped back into his apartment when his phone started buzzing.
He let out a sigh—not tired, exactly, but worn down in that bone-deep way that came from juggling too many things for too many days in a row. His dog, a sleek German Shepherd named Arahabaki (Baki for short), sat dutifully at his heel, ears twitching as Chuuya kicked off his boots by the door and reached for his phone without enthusiasm.

The name on the screen made his brows lift. Yosano. Again.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at it for a second, thumb hovering above the screen, his reflection staring back at him in the glossy black. She’d been calling him a lot lately—more than usual. Normally, their friendship was built on casual bar nights, snide commentary about their mutual acquaintances, and the occasional patch-up when he busted a knuckle on someone’s jaw. That rhythm had worked for them for years.

But recently?

Too many check-ins. Too many texts that said “how are you feeling today?” with one too many emojis. And then that weird dinner invite—random, out of the blue, with her acting all smiley and polite in that particular way that told him she was absolutely up to something.

Yosano was many things. Discreet was not one of them.

He narrowed his eyes at the screen as it kept vibrating in his hand, the soft trill of the ringtone setting his teeth on edge.

“She’s scheming something,” he muttered under his breath, earning a whine from Baki.

Still, curiosity won out. He accepted the call with a resigned sigh and tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear as he crouched down to unclip Baki’s leash. The shepherd trotted off into the apartment, nails tapping softly against hardwood while Chuuya straightened back up.

“Hello?” he said, voice guarded.

“Hi Chuuya~~” came the sing-song chirp on the other end, and he immediately felt his hackles rise. Too sweet. Too casual. Suspicious as hell.

His eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

“What makes you think I want something?” she asked, feigning offense with all the sincerity of a fox caught raiding the henhouse.

“Because I know you,” he said flatly, already moving toward the kitchen to pour himself the glass of wine he’d been thinking about since lunch. “And because you’ve been acting like a goddamn cartoon character trying to hide a bomb behind your back.”

There was a pause. He could practically hear her rolling her eyes.

“Fine,” she said with a huff. “I’ll tell you this time. Just… meet me tomorrow, okay? Starbucks by that Goodwill, like… noon-ish?”

Chuuya froze halfway through pulling the cork from the bottle. His brow furrowed, shoulders tense. The last time someone used that many softeners in a sentence—"just," "okay?" "noon- ish "—it ended with someone crying or someone getting punched.

Or both.

He let out a slow exhale through his nose and rubbed his temple. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being cautious,” she corrected smoothly. “There’s a difference.”

“Bullshit.”

“Just show up, Chuuya,” she said, her voice softening—just a bit. Less manipulation, more… concern? That made him uneasy in a different way. “I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned against the counter, the cork finally coming loose with a soft pop. He poured himself a glass with practiced ease and stared out the kitchen window at the soft darkening sky.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But if this is some weird intervention again, I’m walking out.”

“Oh please, I learned my lesson last time,” she said cheerfully. “No trust falls. I swear.”

He hung up with a grunt and took a sip of wine, the taste sharp and grounding on his tongue. His dog circled once on the rug and flopped down with a sigh.

Chuuya stared down into his glass, suddenly feeling like tomorrow was going to be more important than he wanted it to be.

And he didn’t like walking into things blind.

༺♰༻

Dazai was bored.

The kind of boredom that gnawed at his insides, dulling every moment like a slow, tedious march through a lifeless room. He had been holed up in Yosano’s studio apartment for the past three weeks—three endless weeks that felt like they stretched on forever. No work, no late-night drinks, no adventures, no chaos. His entire existence had narrowed to the small, quiet space in her apartment, where the only distractions were his phone, a well-worn notebook, and a pen that was beginning to run out of ink.

At first, the silence had been almost welcome. He thought he’d enjoy the break—time to recover, to get away from the constant stream of noise and people. But after days of nothing but the same four walls, he realized how wrong he had been. He was a creature of habit, after all, and he thrived in the noise, the movement, the endless buzz of city life. Without it, he felt empty, like a balloon slowly losing air.

His thoughts had been aimless, like the restless scribbles in his notebook. He had tried to distract himself with random poetry, but nothing held his attention for long. He had even taken to scrolling through his phone—half-heartedly reading through texts, social media posts, and memes. It was all the same. Everything was the same.

Then, one day, it struck him. He missed work. He missed the busy rush of the café, the grind of making drinks, the endless banter with his coworkers, and most of all, the satisfaction of pissing off Kunikida . He’d realized, with a startling clarity, that what he truly craved wasn’t the job itself, but the chaotic, disordered life it provided—the kind that was absent in Yosano’s overly neat, quiet apartment.

He’d told Yosano as much the next morning, only half-joking. To his surprise, she hadn’t hesitated. “You’ve been moping around here long enough,” she said, her voice lacking any real concern. “You need to get back to work before you drive me insane.”

An hour later, Dazai had seen her on the phone with someone. It was odd—she never really gave him the details when she made calls, but Dazai had learned not to question her. Yosano had a lot of friends, and if anyone knew how to keep him on his toes, it was her.

…

The next day, Dazai found himself standing in front of the Starbucks where he worked, the familiar hum of activity buzzing behind the door. For the first time in weeks, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He missed this place, even if he didn’t always admit it. The low murmur of conversations, the clink of coffee cups, the hiss of steam and espresso machines. It was a symphony of chaos that he thrived on.

With a dramatic flourish, Dazai threw open the door, the bell above jingling as he strode in with exaggerated confidence. He looked a little pale, and there was a weariness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, but his smile—wide and mischievous—was as obnoxious as ever.

The sight of him instantly made Kunikida scowl from behind the counter. “Dazai,” he muttered, not even bothering to look up at first. He was too busy stacking cups to pay any real attention, but the sound of the door slamming against the wall made him glance over, already bracing himself for whatever disaster was about to unfold.

Dazai grinned, his usual cocky swagger in full force. “Guess who’s back?” he said, and his voice dripped with dramatics, a little too cheerful for the hour.

Kunikida sighed heavily. “Seems like you’re better,” he observed, his eyes narrowing as he checked Dazai over. He wasn’t one to show much emotion, but the edge of concern in his tone was unmistakable. His gaze scanned Dazai’s face for any lingering signs of illness, though he was careful not to look too closely—he didn’t need Dazai getting any funny ideas.

Dazai tilted his head playfully, backing away slightly to avoid the unsolicited health inspection. “A bit!” he said, his grin never faltering. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t fatal. Just extremely painful. It’s not gone, but Yosano said I could come back to work, and I missed you soooooo much~!”

Kunikida groaned, massaging his temples as though the mere sight of Dazai caused a headache. “Of course you missed me,” he muttered, already pulling himself back into the grind. “Just get back to work, Dazai. You’ve already caused enough chaos with that entrance.”

Dazai stuck his tongue out cheekily. “Don’t be so grumpy! I’m here to make your day better,” he replied, already moving to the back counter, where the line of customers was starting to grow. The rhythmic clatter of the espresso machine and the steady hum of the café surrounded him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt a strange sense of relief wash over him.

It wasn’t that he particularly liked his job—after all, it was just making drinks for customers, day in and day out—but the comfort of routine, the steady buzz of human activity, was something he had sorely missed. This chaotic little corner of the world was his , and he was glad to be back in it.

Kunikida, for his part, could only shake his head as he watched Dazai slip effortlessly back into his role. It was as if he’d never left. The usual banter started up almost immediately, the air crackling with their familiar rhythm.

“Some things never change,” Kunikida muttered, though a small smile tugged at his lips despite himself.

And Dazai, as always, just smiled back.

…

It was at about 4:30 when Dazai’s day officially went to hell.

Because the bell above the door jingled—the same high-pitched, saccharine jingle it always made when someone walked in—and like the well-practiced service industry clown he’d become, Dazai looked up from wiping down the counter, pasted on a charming grin, and prepared to greet whoever it was with a wink and a line half-stolen from an old rom-com.

But then he saw her .

And him .

And the smile slipped clean off his face like butter off a hot knife.

Yosano strolled in first, looking devastating and amused and way too pleased with herself, the clack of her heels against the floor sharp and deliberate—like a countdown. Like tick, tick, tick, here comes the explosion. And trailing behind her, clearly irritated, clearly confused, was a man about Dazai’s age. Red hair. Broad shoulders. Expensive coat. And a face that had absolutely no right being that attractive at 4:30 in the afternoon.

Dazai felt the dread pool in his stomach like cold coffee left out too long.

He knew who it was.

Of course he did.

Because seeing him made that night 8 weeks ago come rushing back- like how his voice sounded in the dark, half-slurred from cheap alcohol. Or the way his breath hitched when he kissed his throat. Or how his hands had felt when they gripped Dazai’s hips like he was afraid he’d disappear. He remembered it all, whether he wanted to or not.

Yosano led him— Chuuya —toward the counter like she was walking a lamb to slaughter. Or a time bomb she was about to detonate and then casually walk away from.

“Morning, Dazai,” she said, voice honeyed and knowing, tapping her long nails against the counter like gunshots.

Dazai blinked. Stared. “...Stop it,” he muttered, already exhausted.

“I’ll take a black coffee,” she continued, ignoring him entirely. “Two sugars.”

“Go home.”

“Chuuya, what do you want?” she asked, turning to her confused plus-one with a smile like this was all perfectly normal and not an ambush of the most emotional kind.

Chuuya furrowed his brow, looking mildly annoyed, mildly curious. He stuffed his hands into his pockets like a defensive maneuver.

“...Um. A Caramel Macchiato, I guess?”

He said it like he didn’t care. Like this wasn’t a scene pulled straight from a bad soap opera. Like he hadn’t, several weeks ago, drunkenly knocked up the barista currently gripping the counter hard enough to leave fingerprints.

Dazai didn’t say anything.

Didn’t take Yosano’s card when she offered it.

Just turned silently to start making the drinks, methodical and robotic, like that would somehow save him from the situation unraveling in front of him. If he didn’t acknowledge it, maybe it would go away. Like a nightmare. Or a tumor.

But it didn’t go away. Because this was real. Because she brought him here. To his coffee shop. His place of calm and carefully structured delusion. That meant one thing, and one thing only.

Chuuya was the father.

Of course he was. Because Dazai couldn’t have possibly been that unlucky unless the universe was laughing directly into his face.

Yosano gave him a look then. That awful, soft look. Not smug. Not teasing. Just... pity.

And he hated it.

She put her card away without another word when Dazai refused it, sliding it back into her wallet like she’d known he’d do that all along. Like this entire thing had been scripted ahead of time.

Chuuya, meanwhile, was watching them both with narrowed eyes, trying to read the subtext written in a language he clearly hadn’t been taught. That creeping sensation was already clawing up his spine— he was being left out of something. Something important. Something heavy. And Dazai knew the moment he figured it out would be the moment everything collapsed.

“Dazai—” Yosano started, her voice unusually gentle.

But Dazai cut her off, sharply, his back still turned to her.

“Just sit down,” he said, voice tight. “Your drinks will be with you in a fucking minute.”

It wasn’t like him. Not really. Dazai didn’t usually snap like that. Not at his friends. Not at Yosano. But this time was different. This wasn’t a joke or some idle meddling. This was a life-altering secret she’d walked right into his workplace and dangled in front of him like it was her favorite science project.

He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t even close to ready.

And now Chuuya was standing ten feet away, asking for a Caramel Macchiato and looking at Dazai like he didn’t already live inside the slow-motion disaster that was his life.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw something. He wanted to rip his stupid name tag off and run out into the street and never look back.

Instead, he just made the coffee.

Because what else was there to do?

…

He made the coffee. His hands moved without thinking—grabbing the cups, pouring the shots, steaming the milk—each movement mechanical, automatic, like he could pretend this was just any other order. Like this wasn’t the moment his entire life was slowly, painfully catching up with him across the room.

He didn’t look at them, but he didn’t have to.

He felt them sit. Knew exactly where they’d go without needing to check—by the window, of course. The table he always claimed on slow days, the one tucked away just enough to pretend the world outside didn’t exist. He saw them in the corner of his eye: Yosano crossing her legs, posture as relaxed as someone waiting for the fireworks. Chuuya leaning forward, irritation already gathering in the tight lines of his shoulders. He was annoyed. Confused. Questioning her with sharp whispers and narrowed eyes, trying to make sense of the weight in the air that no one had dared name yet.

Dazai’s voice was flat as he told Kunikida, “I’m taking my break,” not giving him a chance to object before he picked up the two drinks and walked toward them like he was marching to a guillotine.

What else was he supposed to do? Run? Scream? Lie?

No. Not now. Not anymore.

Yosano looked up as he approached, eyes flicking to him just in time to watch him slam her coffee down on the table a little too hard. It sloshed out, staining the sleeve of her coat and the edge of a paper napkin. A few drops splashed onto his hand, hot enough to burn—but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t wince. Let the liquid soak into the old bandages wrapped around his fingers like it was penance.

He handed Chuuya his cup next—wordless, expression blank. Still didn’t meet his eyes.

He sat down across from them with a soft, exhausted breath, hands folded tightly in his lap, gaze locked somewhere in the middle distance.

The silence cracked quickly.

“Are you finally gonna tell me what the fuck is going on?” Chuuya snapped, sharp and demanding, eyes narrowing on Yosano like she’d just dragged him into a crime scene. “And what this guy has to do with it?”

This guy. Dazai tried not to react, but his stomach twisted painfully at the words. The way Chuuya looked at him—confused, annoyed, completely unaware—was worse than any insult. He didn’t remember. Of course he didn’t. Not like Dazai did.

Not the smell of whiskey and warm skin. Not the desperate tug of hands under fabric. Not the soft, drunken laughs or the quiet, broken gasps. Not the way Dazai had laid awake afterward, fingers resting lightly over his stomach like he already knew something irreversible had happened.

Yosano sighed and looked away, guilt tugging at the corners of her expression. When she looked back at Dazai, it was careful. Soft. Like approaching a wounded animal. It only made him colder.

The look he gave her was hollow and sharp and made her frown.

“Dazai,” she said gently. “You can’t avoid it forever.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he replied, monotone.

“You’re thinking it.”

“I’m thinking about jumping,” he muttered, eyes flicking briefly toward the window. “Just get on with it. Not like it matters anymore.”

That made her pause. Just for a second. There was something in her expression then—something faint and wounded, like she hadn’t expected it to come out like that . Like she hadn’t realized just how tired he really was.

Chuuya glanced between them, bewildered now, mouth parted like he was about to ask something he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to. His hand hovered over his untouched drink.

“What,” he said slowly, voice louder now, angrier, “the FUCK is going on?!”

Heads turned. A couple customers glanced over, curious and mildly annoyed. Someone at the window table two rows down blinked at him over their laptop.

But Dazai didn’t notice them. Didn’t care.

Because all he could see now were Chuuya’s eyes—confused, frustrated, searching—and the slow, awful truth clawing its way up from the back of his throat like bile.

And he still wasn’t ready to say it.

Not yet.

Not like this.

Yosano shifted in her seat, crossed one leg over the other, and exhaled slowly like she was bracing herself for a blow she knew was coming. Chuuya’s eyes snapped to her, expecting answers, and when none came fast enough, he slammed a palm flat against the table.

“I’m serious,” he bit out, cheeks flushed now—not just with anger, but with that creeping sense of something’s wrong and I’m the last one to know . “You dragged me here like it was life or death, and he—” he gestured vaguely at Dazai, who still hadn’t looked up “—hasn’t said a single thing. You’re both acting like I’m supposed to know something, but I don’t, so someone better fucking explain before I walk out.”

“You don’t remember anything from that night?” Yosano asked, not unkindly.

Chuuya blinked at her. “What night?”

Dazai almost laughed. Almost. It caught in his throat like a splinter.

Yosano hesitated. Looked over at Dazai again—some silent question hanging in the air between them—but Dazai didn’t give her an answer. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. Because every part of him felt like it was made of glass. One wrong word, one wrong breath, and he’d crack clean through.

Chuuya’s voice dropped slightly, not softer, just lower. “Was it a party? What, did I get in a fight with someone? Was I drunk?”

“Yeah,” Dazai said finally, voice like gravel, eyes still glued to the table. “You were drunk.”

The words landed like stones. Chuuya looked at him, startled to hear him speak, and Dazai hated that too—that look of vague recognition, like Chuuya was only just starting to place him. The guy from the party. The one-night stand. The mistake.

“I was drunk,” Chuuya repeated slowly. “So... we know each other?”

“We met,” Dazai said with a shrug that was anything but casual. “You wouldn’t remember. You were pretty far gone. I wasn’t much better.”

There was a long, ugly pause.

Chuuya blinked. “So we...?”

Yosano cut in, sharp. “You hooked up. At a party. Weeks ago. Neither of you were thinking straight. It wasn’t supposed to be more than that.”

Chuuya's face went stiff. “Okay. Great. Awkward, but whatever. That still doesn’t explain why I’m here. Why he’s here. Why you’re both looking at me like you’ve staged an intervention for a problem I don’t know I have.”

Dazai flinched like he’d been slapped.

Yosano’s expression shifted—shoulders drawing in slightly, guilt written into the set of her mouth. “Because Dazai... he’s pregnant.”

The words hit the table with a finality that made even the noise from the espresso machine in the background feel distant. Gone. Irrelevant.

Chuuya stared at her.

Then at Dazai.

Then back to her.

“What,” he said. Flat. Dull.

“Pregnant,” Yosano repeated, gentler now. “As in—”

“I know what it means,” Chuuya snapped.

Dazai finally looked up, and Chuuya’s breath caught.

Because there it was—everything he hadn’t understood since walking through the front door. The tension. The silence. The way Dazai couldn’t even look at him. His face was pale, drawn, but his eyes… They were tired in a way that felt like they hadn’t rested in weeks. And suddenly, Chuuya understood what it was he was seeing.

This wasn’t just some weird situation.

This was a person carrying something alone for far too long.

Something heavy. Something his .

“You’re serious,” Chuuya said slowly, still trying to wrap his head around it. “This isn’t—this isn’t some joke?”

Dazai shook his head.

Chuuya stood suddenly, pushing his chair back with a screech of wood on tile. “I—I need a minute.”

He turned and left without waiting for a reply, the door swinging open behind him with a jingle that felt mocking now.

Dazai watched it close.

Then let his head fall forward onto the table with a dull thud , voice muffled in his arms.

“Fantastic.”     

Chapter Text

༺♰༻

The door swung shut behind Chuuya with a hollow little ding , and the sudden quiet left in his absence felt too loud.

Dazai didn’t move.

Didn’t lift his head from where it rested on his folded arms, cheek pressed to the cool fake wood of the table. If he stayed like that long enough, maybe he’d dissolve into it. Become part of the furniture. Something neutral and unremarkable—something that didn’t feel like this.

Across from him, Yosano didn’t say anything right away. She just stirred her coffee—absurdly calm, considering the emotional detonation that had just occurred.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

The spoon tapping the inside of her cup sounded like a ticking clock.

Dazai groaned. “You could’ve warned me,” he mumbled into his sleeve.

“I did warn you,” she said mildly. “You ignored me.”

“‘Hey Dazai, by the way I’m going to casually drag the father of your unborn child into your workplace without telling you’— that would’ve been nice.”

Yosano arched a brow. “You think I enjoyed this? You think I wanted to be the one who had to break the news because you’re too much of a coward to do it yourself?”

That hit a little too close to home.

Dazai exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes still closed. “It wasn’t supposed to matter,” he said quietly. “It was one night. He wasn’t supposed to be... anything .”

“And yet,” Yosano said, sipping her coffee like this was just another Saturday afternoon, “here we are.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It was heavy. Dense. Like everything they weren’t saying was filling the air faster than oxygen.

“I didn’t even get to finish my shift,” Dazai muttered bitterly. “Kunikida’s gonna be thrilled.”

Yosano gave him a look over the rim of her cup. “You need to go after him.”

“ No , I really don’t.”

“You do,” she said flatly. “He’s out there thinking the worst right now, and you owe him more than just a dramatic reveal and a window seat.”

“He left .”

“He panicked,” she shot back. “Wouldn’t you?”

Dazai didn’t answer.

Because of course he would. He already had. Weeks ago. Every day since.

He finally lifted his head, fingers dragging tiredly through his hair. His eyes flicked to the door. Then to the two untouched drinks sitting like ghosts between them.

And then back to the door again.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and stood.

…

Chuuya needed a drink. And a cigarette. Maybe a black hole to fall into while he was at it.

He didn’t even make it that far. Just wandered next door to the Dunkin’ Donuts, leaning against the side of the building like the bricks could hold him together better than he could do it himself. The world outside was too bright, too loud, even though it was late afternoon and cloudy enough to feel like dusk. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and lit one with fingers that didn’t feel entirely steady.

He took a long drag, eyes shut, the smoke curling past his lips like it was something sacred. It helped him think, even if the thoughts weren’t exactly comforting. His sister hated when he smoked—said it made him look tired. Right now, he was tired.

Pregnant.

The word didn’t make sense in his head. Not attached to that guy . Not attached to him.

Dazai.

The name meant something now. Not just the guy from the party. Not just a random face. Dazai—the guy who was carrying his child. The guy who looked at him like he had a blade in his chest and Chuuya was the one who put it there.

Shit.

He ran a hand through his hair, took another drag. He didn’t open his eyes, even when he heard footsteps approach—slow, soft, careful. There was a rustle of fabric and then a familiar presence settling beside him, leaning against the wall with the same exhausted posture.

“Smoking’s bad for you,” Dazai murmured.

Chuuya cracked one eye open. Dazai was staring straight ahead, profile calm but pale, his expression unreadable. Chuuya glanced at him sideways, smoke curling between his fingers.

“It helps,” he said simply, voice low.

The breeze pushed a few dead leaves across the pavement at their feet. A car honked somewhere in the distance. Neither of them moved.

Dazai exhaled slowly, letting his head rest back against the wall. “Yeah. I haven’t since…” He trailed off, eyes flickering down to his stomach before shifting away again, gaze distant.

Chuuya didn’t need him to finish the sentence. He bit his lip and looked away, frustration bubbling up again. Not at Dazai—at himself. At how little he remembered. At how much had already happened without him.

How much he’d already missed.

Chuuya didn’t say anything right away.

He just stood there, cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, watching the smoke drift into the open air like it had somewhere better to be. His chest was tight. Not in the dramatic, panic-attack kind of way—just this slow, growing ache under his ribs. Like something heavy had been wedged there and wasn’t going anywhere soon.

Dazai hadn’t moved. He was still leaning against the wall beside him, arms crossed lightly over his chest, like he was trying to look unbothered. But Chuuya wasn’t blind. He saw the way Dazai’s fingers twitched slightly where they gripped the fabric of his hoodie. Saw the way his jaw was set too tight, like every breath had to be measured or it might crack him open.

“So,” Chuuya said eventually, his voice low. Not angry. Not yet. Just... tired. “Are you gonna tell me what I’m supposed to do with this? Or were you planning to just drop that bomb on me and disappear?”

Dazai let out a slow breath, lips quirking into something too sharp to be a smile. “I was leaning toward the ‘disappear’ option, honestly.”

“Yeah. I figured.”

The silence between them wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t hostile either. Just thick. Real. The kind of silence that hangs between two people standing at the edge of something they can’t quite name.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t expect anything from you,” Dazai said after a while, voice soft and strangely calm. “I wasn’t even sure I was going to keep it at first. I thought maybe it’d just... go away. Like the rest of my problems.”

Chuuya turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “That why you never called?”

“I didn’t know for sure it was you until today”

“You could’ve still said something ”

Dazai gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Right. ‘Hey, I’m the guy you slept with while blackout drunk at some mutual’s apartment and now I’m pregnant—do you want to meet for coffee?’ That would’ve gone over great. ”

Chuuya looked away again, jaw clenched.

He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette with a sharp little movement. “Nine weeks?”

Dazai hesitated, then nodded.

“Yeah. Around that.”

Chuuya let the silence stretch again. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. Congratulations ? I’m sorry ? Are you okay?

None of it felt like enough. None of it would fix what was already broken.

And yet, looking at Dazai now—under the dull glow of a cheap streetlamp, eyes tired and mouth set in that crooked, bitter line—he felt something cold and hollow settle in his chest.

Dazai looked so alone.

“I didn’t want to do this,” Dazai said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. “Not like this. Not with someone I don’t even know.”

“Then why are you?”

Dazai stared straight ahead for a long time before answering. “Because even if everything else is falling apart, this is... mine. For once, this is mine.”

Chuuya’s stomach turned.

There was something in Dazai’s voice—something fragile and raw and terrifying—that made him want to put out his cigarette and run straight into traffic. Because he hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t chosen this.

But neither had Dazai.

And for all that he’d walked out of that café like the floor had dropped out from under him, he hadn’t gone far.

He stayed.

Maybe that meant something.

He took one last drag, then flicked the cigarette away, watching it spark on the pavement.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and said, “Okay.”

Dazai turned to look at him.

Chuuya didn’t meet his eyes. “Okay. So... what do we do now?”

Dazai stared at Chuuya like he wasn’t entirely real. Like maybe this was a stress-induced hallucination conjured by a brain that had finally hit its limit. Because that tone—soft-edged, uncertain, almost willing —was the last thing he’d expected from the redhead. And yet, here he was, standing under a dim streetlamp with his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, scowling at the sidewalk like it had personally offended him, but still… there.

Still choosing to stay.

Dazai’s gaze flicked to Chuuya’s face, to the set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders. His eyes—mismatched brown and blue, sharp and searching—held no sarcasm. No cruel edge hiding beneath the surface. Just confusion, discomfort, and something rawer than either of them had the language for. He looked like a man standing at the edge of something big, staring into the unknown, and for some reason… not turning away.

Not yet.

Dazai exhaled through his nose and let his eyes drop, the corners of his mouth curling into something crooked and dry. “I don’t know,” he said finally, voice low. “I’m tired. My legs hurt. I could really use a nap.”

It was meant as a joke, maybe. A weak attempt at levity. But it fell flat under the weight of everything hanging between them. He sighed and ran a hand down his face, palm dragging across the stubble on his chin before coming to rest at the inside of his arm.

His fingers pressed into the soft bandages there without thinking, rubbing slow, familiar circles into the gauze like they could ground him in his body. They didn’t.

Chuuya noticed the motion.

His gaze flicked to the movement—quick, sharp—but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. His expression tightened slightly, but he turned his head and respectfully looked away, jaw working like he was biting something back.

Dazai saw it. He always saw more than he let on.

But Chuuya’s silence didn’t sting the way it might’ve from someone else. Because it wasn’t indifference—just restraint. The kind you give to someone who hasn’t given you permission yet.

And that, somehow, felt heavier than if he had said something.

Because the truth was, Chuuya couldn’t ask. Not yet. Dazai might be carrying his child—might be exhausted and unraveling and barely holding himself together—but they were still strangers. Just two people orbiting the same disaster, pulled together by gravity they hadn’t chosen.

Chuuya had no idea who Dazai really was. No idea what he’d been through in the past nine weeks. What kind of life he lived. What he needed.

It would be unfair to ask for more than Dazai was ready to give.

So instead, Chuuya stood in the cold, in the soft yellow glow of the streetlamp, letting the silence stretch out between them like a thread that hadn’t snapped. Not yet.

And Dazai… didn’t push him away.

That, somehow, was enough—for now.

༺♰༻

Two and a half months pregnant now.

Roughly ten weeks in, and somehow, the world hadn’t ended yet. Dazai had half expected it to. Had braced himself for total collapse—for screaming matches, for lawyers, for vanishing acts. But things had… settled. Not completely. Not comfortably. But enough.

It was easier now, in some strange, backhanded way. The suffocating fog of anxiety had lifted slightly—thinned out just enough for him to breathe again, at least on most days. Because the worst part was over. The secret wasn’t a secret anymore. Chuuya knew. Chuuya hadn’t run.

That alone was enough to ease something sharp in Dazai’s chest.

He was still staying at Yosano’s place, crashing in the spare room that smelled vaguely of antiseptic and vanilla candles. But it was temporary. Or so he kept saying. Neither of them really pushed it. Yosano had stopped asking questions after the third time she caught him crying into an open jar of pickles at 3 a.m.

Chuuya, to his credit, hadn’t vanished. In fact, he’d done the opposite.

They saw each other often now—just casually. At least, that’s how they pretended it was. No one said the word routine , but that’s what it had become. The little things. The quiet, stupid things that stitched people together without either of them noticing until the seams were already tight.

Like how Chuuya had started showing up at the Starbucks before work—every morning, like clockwork. Always playing it off like he just desperately needed his coffee and his daily chocolate croissant. As if he didn’t already own an espresso machine nicer than anything Dazai had ever touched in his life.

And then there were the other things. The more obvious ones.

Like how Chuuya would sometimes buy him snacks Dazai had only mentioned liking once in passing. Or leave behind little things—hand cream, socks, weird herbal teas labeled for “digestive health.” When Dazai asked about it, Chuuya just shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal.

Dazai wasn’t sure if it was courtship or guilt. Or if Chuuya even knew the difference himself.

He’d come to the conclusion, after much consideration, that Chuuya reminded him of a dog. Or maybe a magpie. Something that collected shiny things and brought them back to the nest with this earnest, slightly grumpy energy. A muttering, red-haired terrier who barked too loud but didn’t know how to leave well enough alone.

It was… sweet.

Annoying, sometimes. But mostly sweet.

Dazai didn’t quite know what to do with that. With being on the receiving end of gentle persistence. He didn’t hate it, he supposed. Which was almost worse.

He was starting to learn things about Chuuya. Not just the basics, not the one-night snapshot that had somehow become the foundation of their mess—but real things. Stupid things. Human things.

Like how Chuuya had gone to school for fashion design, and now worked part-time in some painfully trendy boutique downtown where all the mannequins looked like they hated their lives. Dazai had teased him relentlessly about it. Made offhand comments about feather boas and rhinestones and “haute couture trauma.” He milked the fact that Chuuya was too decent a person to punch someone carrying his child—though Dazai had definitely caught him balling a fist once or twice.

Still, he had to admit it fit Chuuya in a weirdly perfect way. The perfectionism. The attitude. The hands that knew exactly how to shape something beautiful from a mess.

Chuuya also loved dogs. Really loved dogs. He had a German Shepherd named Arahabaki, who apparently was a rescue from this animal experimentation lab. Chuuya had gotten him just before they were going to put him down. He always wore gloves when he sewed to avoid stabbing himself, and sometimes forgot to take them off afterward. He tongued at his canine tooth when he was annoyed or deep in thought, like a tic he didn’t know he had. How he always seemed to have music playing.

It was strange. Seeing all of that. Unfiltered. Real.

Seeing Chuuya as a person and not just a mistake wrapped in red hair and regret.

Dazai didn’t quite know what to make of it.

But the more time they spent together, the harder it became to ignore the reality that Chuuya wasn’t the caricature Dazai had built in his head. He wasn’t just the father . He wasn’t just the problem.

He was just… Chuuya.

And somehow, that made everything harder. And maybe just a little easier, too.

…

Dazai pissed him the fuck off.

But—annoyingly—he was also easier to get along with than Chuuya had expected.

Chuuya had gone into this thinking it’d be a disaster. That Dazai would be some flaky, too-clever-for-his-own-good asshole who’d find a way to disappear the moment things got even a little bit difficult. And to be fair, Dazai kind of was all of those things… but he also wasn’t. Not exactly.

He was a pain in the ass. He whined too much. He was sarcastic even when no one was laughing, and he had this unnerving ability to make a joke out of things that weren’t funny—especially when it was about himself. But he was also—god help him—kind of decent. Not in the typical, sunshine-and-manners way. But in the way he kept showing up. In the way he tried, even when he clearly didn’t know how.

Chuuya wasn’t good at this emotional crap. He never had been. But he knew enough to recognize effort when he saw it. And Dazai… Dazai was trying.

He’d made it a habit now to stop by the Starbucks every morning, right before his shift at the boutique. It started out as an excuse—he told himself he just needed caffeine. That was all. A routine stop. But at some point, it became something else. Some days he lingered longer than he needed to. Some days he didn’t even get coffee. He’d just show up, lean on the counter, and trade insults with Dazai until his break was over.

He started buying things, too. At first it was practical—stuff that might help with the nausea or the migraines. Ginger candies, wrist bands, water bottles with those annoying fruit infusers. But then it got… less practical. Things like blueberry Pop-Tarts. Cheap keychains. A novelty mug shaped like a goose that said “Honk if you’re overwhelmed.” The kind of things that made Dazai blink like he couldn’t quite tell if he was being made fun of or cared for.

Chuuya didn’t have an answer for that either.

He noticed a lot of things now. Things he hadn’t picked up on before, when Dazai had just been a blur of too-long limbs and bad decisions.

Like how Dazai moved his hands constantly. Always fiddling with something, tapping against the countertop or twisting at the hem of his shirt. And he didn’t always sit still—he rocked on his heels, shifted his weight like he couldn’t quite get comfortable in his own skin. Chuuya hadn’t missed the bandages either, or the way Dazai’s fingers sometimes hovered near them like they ached, like they were familiar in a way they shouldn’t be.

And the eye. The glass one. Chuuya hadn’t mentioned it, and Dazai hadn’t offered. But it was hard not to notice once he’d caught it. The difference in the way the light hit it. The way Dazai sometimes kept that side of his face turned away when he was tired.

Chuuya didn’t press. He wasn’t that kind of person.

But he remembered it. He remembered everything, in annoying, precise little fragments.

He noticed how Dazai always looked more exhausted on Tuesdays. How he liked lemon in his tea but never added sugar. How he got weirdly defensive when Chuuya offered to carry something heavy. How his face went a little pink whenever Chuuya casually handed him something, like the idea of being looked after was somehow more shocking than the pregnancy itself.

It was strange.

Stranger still was the way it didn’t feel like some forced obligation. Chuuya wasn’t just checking in because he had to. Not anymore. Somewhere along the line, he’d stopped treating this like damage control and started… caring.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

Because it would’ve been easier if Dazai was just a mistake. If this whole thing had stayed impersonal. A problem to fix and move on from. But Dazai wasn’t just the guy from that night anymore. He was real. He was sarcastic, and complicated, and self-destructive, and—goddammit—funny when he wanted to be. He was sharp around the edges, but sometimes… sometimes he was soft, too. Soft in the way he looked when he didn’t realize someone was watching. Soft in the way he laughed with his shoulders instead of his mouth. Soft in the way he talked about the baby without even meaning to—offhand comments, quick glances, protective hands hovering near his stomach like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch.

It was... a lot.

Too much, maybe.

And yet, Chuuya didn’t leave.

He couldn’t.

He didn’t know what the hell they were. Friends? Co-parents? Some tragic comedy of errors with feelings neither of them knew how to handle? He wasn’t sure. Dazai probably wasn’t either.

But for now, he showed up. With coffee and sarcasm and weird snacks Dazai didn’t ask for but never gave back.

And for now, that was enough.

…

Chuuya had recently started having weekly visits to Yosano’s place—strictly under her orders, of course. Not that he particularly minded. It wasn’t like he had any other blueprint for how to handle “impending accidental fatherhood with a stranger who happened to be a barista.”

These weekly check-ins were supposed to help him “adjust,” as Yosano put it. Ease him into the situation. Talk things out, get some updates, ask his questions, and maybe—just maybe—wrap his head around the fact that someone was going to be calling him “dad” in less than seven months.

The first time he’d shown up, he’d hovered in the hallway for almost a full minute before knocking. Just stood there like a moron, staring at the chipping paint on her door and wondering if it was too late to fake a medical emergency. But then the door had flung open and there was Yosano, her sharp smile a scalpel, dragging him inside like she was doing surgery on his denial.

Now, it was almost routine. He usually showed up around 5:20 in the evening, right after work, still smelling faintly of linen, musk, and the designer boutique he worked in. His commute from the shop was short, but the weight in his chest seemed to stretch the distance every time.

This time, like clockwork, Yosano opened the door before he could knock twice. She looked tired, in that effortlessly glamorous, mildly irritated way that only she could pull off. “You’re late,” she said, but there was no bite to it.

Then, almost immediately, she raised a finger to her lips and shushed him like a strict librarian. Before Chuuya could get a word in, she tilted her head toward the living room with a sigh.

“Keep it down,” she muttered. “He only just knocked out.”

Chuuya stepped inside, shrugging off his coat, and followed her gaze—and nearly choked on a laugh.

There, stretched across the couch like some exiled prince banished from his kingdom of espresso and sarcasm, was Dazai. Flat on his back, drooling into a throw pillow, one arm slung off the side like he’d melted there. His dark hair was a tangled halo around his head, and his chest rose and fell with the slow, deep breaths of someone too tired to dream.

He was wearing sweatpants and, more offensively, a shirt that should have been illegal to sell in stores. Baggy and black with peeling white letters that read, “When I'm not eating ass, I'm eating at Taco Bell.”

Chuuya slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound that clawed its way up his throat.

“What the actual hell—”

“I know,” Yosano said dryly. “Believe me, I tried to get him to change. He just said it was ‘a statement piece.’”

Chuuya stared, horrified and almost impressed. “A statement piece for what? Public indecency?”

Yosano shrugged and padded toward the kitchen, heels clicking against the hardwood. “Hell if I know. The fetus likes it, apparently. He wouldn’t shut up until I let him wear it.”

Chuuya remained frozen near the door, eyes locked on Dazai’s ridiculous sleeping form. Somehow, there was something… human about it. Something oddly soft. Dazai looked exhausted, like the weight of everything had finally caught up to him and forced him to stop moving.

Chuuya’s hand dropped from his mouth. He exhaled through his nose and shook his head.

“How long’s he been out?”

“Only about twenty minutes,” Yosano answered, setting a kettle on the stove. “He’s been dealing with the usual. Morning sickness that lasts all day, fatigue, mood swings. Oh, and I think the cravings are getting worse. He cried over a bag of sour gummy worms yesterday.”

Chuuya blinked. “He doesn’t even like sour candy.”

“Exactly.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Now imagine him at three in the morning, weeping like it was a love letter from God.”

Despite himself, Chuuya cracked a grin. He slipped off his coat, draped it over the back of a chair, and lowered himself into the armchair across from the couch. For a moment, he just sat there, watching Dazai sleep.

It was still so strange—seeing him like this. Without the sharp tongue, without the cocky facade, without the jokes that deflected every question too close to the heart. Just Dazai. Asleep, vulnerable, and wrapped in a t-shirt that would haunt Chuuya for the rest of his life.

He shook his head again and muttered under his breath, “You’re unbelievable.”

But the words came out softer than he expected.

Yosano returned with a mug of tea and handed it to him without a word. Chuuya nodded in thanks, took a sip, and let the silence settle between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Just quiet.

Chuuya settled into the armchair, the worn fabric creaking under his weight. He cradled the mug of tea in his hands, the warmth seeping into his palms, grounding him in the present. The soft hum of the kettle and the occasional rustle from the kitchen were the only sounds breaking the silence.

His gaze drifted back to Dazai, still sprawled across the couch, oblivious to the world. The absurdity of the situation—their situation—wasn’t lost on him. Here he was, sitting in Yosano’s living room, sipping tea, while the father of his unborn child slept like a child himself. It was surreal, yet strangely comforting.

He still wasn’t sure how it had even happened.

One rainy night. One too-long shift. One too-many drinks at a dive bar that smelled like regret and old citrus peels. Dazai had been there, dry under an awning, sipping an Americano with a smirk like he knew something Chuuya didn’t. They’d talked. Argued. Flirted in that sideways, sarcastic way where it was easier to be mean than honest. Somehow, they’d ended up in the same bed. No names, no numbers. Just heat, and hands, and—

And now here they were.

Yosano returned with a plate of cookies and dropped onto the couch's other armchair. "He'll be out for a while," she said, glancing at Dazai. "Hasn’t been sleeping well lately."

Chuuya nodded, fingers tracing the rim of his mug. "I can tell."

They sat in silence again. Comfortable, somehow. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“So,” Yosano said after a beat, “how are you holding up?”

Chuuya exhaled slowly. "It’s… a lot. More than I expected."

“That’s understandable. You went from total strangers to future co-parents in under forty-eight hours. That’s whiplash.”

“I didn’t even know he liked men,” Chuuya muttered.

Yosano gave him a look. “He likes chaos. Men just come with the package.”

Chuuya laughed, a low, tired sound. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Yosano leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Have you thought about what you want to do? About the baby. Parenting. Co-parenting. The whole mess.”

Chuuya didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted back to Dazai. Despite the ridiculous shirt, despite the tangled hair and the open-mouthed snore starting to creep out of him—there was something steadying about the sight. Like, maybe, if Dazai could find a way to keep showing up for this, so could he.

“I don’t know,” Chuuya said finally. “I never planned for this. I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“No one is,” Yosano said, voice soft. “You just start showing up. That’s all it takes.”

Chuuya nodded, but his chest ached. “What if I screw up?”

“Then you fix it. That’s how life works.”

He looked down into his tea. "What if he doesn't want to do this with me? I mean... we're not even anything. Not friends. Not partners. We're barely acquaintances who had one weird night."

Yosano glanced at Dazai, then back at Chuuya. "You’re something. Maybe not what you expected, but something."

Chuuya let the words sink in. He didn’t know what they meant, not really. But something about them kept him seated in that chair instead of running out the door.

From the couch, Dazai stirred, mumbling incoherently. His hand came to rest on his stomach, fingers splaying out gently like he was trying to anchor himself.

And Chuuya watched—eyes caught on that small, unconscious gesture—and felt something shift.

Maybe he wasn’t ready.

But maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be.

Not yet.

Not alone.

༺♰༻