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Chapter Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 — 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐧
It was the kind of red that didn’t fade.

Chuuya remembered that clearly. Vivid. The balloon had been handed to him by one of the teachers that morning, tied with a soft white ribbon that looped neatly around his wrist like a promise. It floated above him as he walked, a little spot of color in a too-bright, too-loud playground.

He didn’t like the noise. He didn’t like the other kids. But the balloon?

He liked that it stayed.

While the other children ran wild across the sandbox and slide set, Chuuya sat beneath a tree, holding the string carefully between his fingers, watching it sway. He imagined it was a planet and he was its moon. A soft orbit of something warm and safe.

And then, suddenly—

Pop.

A sharp, gunshot sound. His hand jerked back. A flash of red plastic scattered like petals on the wind. The string dangled from his wrist, useless.

Chuuya blinked at it in stunned silence.

Then turned.

The boy was standing just a few feet away—slightly taller, already scuffed from whatever war he’d been waging in the dirt, wearing a crooked grin that screamed trouble. Bandages wrapped around his arms like they were just part of his wardrobe.

Chuuya didn’t know his name yet. But he would.

“Oops,” the boy said, not sounding sorry at all.

Chuuya stared at him, blinking hard. “Did you just—?! That was mine!”

The boy tilted his head. “It got in my way.”

“You popped it!”

“Maybe it wanted to pop.”

Chuuya’s lip trembled. “I’m telling the teacher!”

“You can,” the boy said, as if it didn’t matter. “But you’ll still be short.”

And that was the moment Chuuya Nakahara decided two things:

One — he would never forgive that boy.
Two — he hated Dazai Osamu more than anyone in the world.

𝐍𝐨𝐰 — 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥, 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝟑

Fate was a cruel joke, and apparently, it had a good memory.

Chuuya glared at the class list pinned outside the homeroom door, arms crossed tightly over his chest, hoping maybe, if he stared long enough, one name would disappear.

Dazai Osamu.

His name was right there. Bold. Mocking. And of course—of course—right under his own.

“Nakahara, huh?” a voice drawled behind him. “I thought I smelled blood and rage.”

Chuuya froze. Closed his eyes. Breathed in. Counted to three.

Then turned.

And there he was.

Tall. Smirking. Shoulders relaxed like he hadn’t ruined Chuuya’s life a dozen different ways since kindergarten. Hair messy, uniform slightly untucked, as if the rules didn’t apply to him. Same bandages, like a ghost that never stopped haunting.

“Osamu,” Chuuya said, as if the name physically hurt to say. “Please tell me this is a prank.”

“Nope.” Dazai peered past him, tapping the list with exaggerated interest. “Looks like you and I are going to be desk buddies all year. Lucky you.”

Chuuya turned and walked straight into the building.

Dazai followed.

𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 — 𝟖:𝟎𝟓 𝐚.𝐦..

Chuuya threw his bag down onto the desk by the window, claiming it with the desperation of a soldier defending a hill. Sunlight slanted across the wood, catching the edge of his sketchbook as he tucked it carefully underneath.

He didn’t look up when Dazai slid into the seat behind him.

Didn’t look up when he felt the slight tap tap tap of a pencil against his chair.

Didn’t even flinch when Dazai leaned in close and whispered, “Still sitting alone like a brooding little prince, I see.”

Chuuya turned slowly.

“If you breathe in my direction again,” he said, “I will shove your head into your locker.”

Dazai grinned. “Kinky.”

“Die.”

“You missed me.”

Chuuya’s eye twitched.

𝐀𝐫𝐭 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧-𝐔𝐩𝐬 — 𝐋𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐫

The gym was a kaleidoscope of chaos.

Students rushed past folding tables stacked with colorful flyers. Overenthusiastic second-years shouted club names at the top of their lungs while first-years tripped over their own shoes trying to find something—anything—that wouldn’t ruin their reputation.

Chuuya hated it. Too loud. Too bright. Too fake.

He wanted something quiet. Low-pressure. Somewhere no one expected him to talk unless he wanted to.

Which is how he ended up standing in front of the smallest, saddest booth tucked in the back corner of the gym: Art Club.

The sign was falling over. There were only two students manning it—one of them reading a book so deeply immersed, he hadn’t blinked in two minutes. The other was chewing a pen and sketching something vaguely threatening on a clipboard.

“Do you need to be good?” Chuuya asked, eyeing the signup sheet.

The pen-chewer—Yosano, if he remembered correctly—looked up. “Nah. Just don’t be boring.”

Chuuya liked her already.

He signed his name with a flourish and turned to leave—

And walked straight into a wall of bandages and smugness.

“Wow,” Dazai said, holding his arms out dramatically. “I didn’t know we were both so artistic, Chuuya. What a meaningful coincidence.”

Chuuya stared at him. “You followed me.”

“Guilty.”

“You’re a creep.”

“Guilty again.”

“You’re not even creative. You failed the clay unit last year. Your cat sculpture had eight legs.”

“It was a metaphor,” Dazai said solemnly. “For the many sides of human suffering.”

Chuuya sighed and pushed past him. “Just don’t sit next to me.”

“No promises,” Dazai called after him. “You bring out my inspiration!”

𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬
Chuuya cracked open a can of coffee and leaned against the railing of the school roof, away from the crowd. He stared out at the courtyard below, where people moved in clumps—laughing, shouting, bumping into each other without thinking.

He liked being above it. Separate.

The can was cold in his hands. The coffee bitter. He didn’t mind either.

“Brooding again?”

He didn’t jump. Dazai’s voice was as familiar as background noise by now.

“You really don’t get tired of bothering me, huh?”

Dazai leaned beside him, holding a juice box like a smug five-year-old. “Not when you’re this much fun.”

Chuuya took a slow sip. “Don’t you have other people to annoy?”

Dazai shrugged. “They’re not as expressive when I poke them.”

“I swear—”

“You’re the only one who still tries to strangle me when I say something awful. It’s endearing.”

Chuuya glared at him, but said nothing.

For a moment, there was a pause. The wind tugged gently at their uniforms. The city stretched beyond the school walls—buses crawling down thin roads, clouds drifting lazily overhead.

Then, quietly, Dazai asked, “You still draw?”

Chuuya stiffened. “Why?”

“Just remembered,” Dazai said, eyes squinting toward the sun. “You used to draw on everything. Even napkins. You made that weird balloon comic strip in second grade.”

Chuuya hesitated. His hand tightened slightly around the can.

“…You remember that?”

Dazai turned to him, grin fading a little. “Of course I do.”

Chuuya didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him.

Instead, he muttered, “You ruined the ending.”

“You mean when the balloon gets away?”

“You ripped the last page.”

“I was six.”

“You’re still an asshole.”

Dazai’s smile returned, soft but sharp. “Some things don’t change.”

𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤

Chuuya didn’t go straight home.

Instead, he took the long route—down the back alley by the bakery, past the abandoned train station, and through the quiet, empty park near the edge of town. It was the same path he always walked when his brain got too loud and his fists clenched just a little too tightly at his sides.

He sat under the usual tree. The roots were gnarled. The trunk carved with initials that weren’t his.

From his bag, he pulled out a worn sketchbook. The pages were curled and stained at the edges. He opened to a fresh page and clicked his pencil into place.

He didn’t start with shapes or shadows. He started with color—in his mind, at least.

Red.

He sketched a hand. Small. Reaching up.

Then a string.

Then a balloon—perfectly round. Floating just out of reach.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then, almost without thinking, he drew a second hand beside the first.

Bigger. Closer.

But not helping.

Just hovering there. Empty.

Chapter Text

𝑨𝒓𝒕 𝑪𝒍𝒖𝒃 𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝟑-𝑩 — 𝟒:𝟎𝟑 𝑷𝑴

Chuuya didn’t belong here. Not really.

He wasn’t one of the loud types like Ranpo, sprawled upside down on a chair in the corner, chewing on a stick of Pocky like it held the answers to life. He wasn’t someone who laughed easily, or who drew sunflowers and landscapes with gentle, untroubled lines. His art wasn’t soft. It was dark and harsh and sharp-edged, like all the things he couldn’t say aloud.

He wasn’t like Dazai.

God, and yet, here Dazai was—again.

Sitting two seats down like fate was a cosmic joke. Like it wasn’t a thousand tiny memories clawing their way up Chuuya’s spine. Like he hadn’t disappeared for a whole year and then reappeared just in time to ruin this, too.

“You’re not drawing,” Dazai said.

Chuuya didn’t look at him. He kept his pencil hovering above the page. “I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous hobby.”

“You breathing is a dangerous hobby.”

“Only if you ask me nicely,” Dazai said, grinning.

Chuuya made a low noise and finally sketched a line across the page. Sharp. Slashing. It didn’t feel right. He flipped to a new one. Again. Blank. Nothing. Why was it so hard?

He could feel Dazai watching. He hated it. He liked it. He hated that he liked it.

⸻

𝑨𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒎 — 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒐𝒔 𝑬𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒆𝒔

Ranpo and Poe were still at it. Well—Ranpo was. Poe looked like he was one second away from dissolving into anxious mist.

“Seriously,” Poe muttered, clinging to his book, “go draw something, Ranpo. That’s what we’re here for.”

“I am drawing,” Ranpo said cheerfully. He held up his page, which had exactly one detective hat and what might’ve been a half-eaten donut. “Observe: the crime scene.”

“I regret every life decision that brought me here.”

“You love it.”

Poe turned an alarming shade of red and retreated further into his book.

Meanwhile, Atsushi had entered with the wide-eyed confusion of someone who’d walked into the wrong room and was too polite to leave. Kunikida followed him with a clipboard, muttering about balanced schedules and productive lives. Akutagawa stood near the window like a ghost, arms folded, staring at a piece of charcoal like he could murder it.

Chuuya was still stuck on a blank page.

⸻

Dazai Again — Of Course

He was sketching something. Chuuya peeked. A stick figure falling off a bridge.

“You’re an idiot,” Chuuya muttered.

“I prefer visionary.”

Chuuya turned back to his page. After a long breath, he finally drew a balloon. The shape was rough at first. Too tight, too perfect. So he softened the lines, let it warp a little. Like it was swaying. Floating.

He added a string, slack and thin. The kind you could let go of without meaning to.

Dazai leaned over. “That supposed to be symbolic?”

Chuuya snapped the sketchbook shut.

“Touch it again and I’ll stab you with this pencil.”

“I like your anger,” Dazai said casually. “It’s passionate.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“You’re drawing again.”

Chuuya blinked.

Dazai just smiled.

⸻

𝐃𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐢 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 — 𝐎𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞

The sun was low, bleeding gold across the pavement. They walked slowly, shoes crunching softly over the scattered gravel and leaves. Not side-by-side, but not far apart either. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was heavy. Heavy with the weight of things unsaid.

“You live this way, right?” Dazai asked, nodding toward the road up the hill.

Chuuya looked at him, confused. “Why do you even remember that?”

“You used to chase me that way,” he said with a soft smirk. “In kindergarten. I’d always run toward the hill, and you’d throw your backpack at me.”

“You dumped glitter glue on my math notebook.”

“I call it performance art.”

“You were insufferable even at five.”

“You still walked me home,” Dazai said, voice lighter than the moment deserved.

Chuuya looked away. “I didn’t know any better.”

They paused at the crossing. The breeze tugged at Chuuya’s sleeves. Dazai shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Hey,” he said after a beat. “Give me your number.”

Chuuya raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“For glue emergencies.”

“You are not going to start that again.”

“Okay, okay,” Dazai said, mock-surrendering. “Then so I can send you memes.”

“I’m blocking you the second I get one with a minion in it.”

“Noted,” Dazai replied, already unlocking his phone. “Only high-quality memes for you, Chuuya-chan.”

Chuuya scowled and passed over his phone. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I never do,” Dazai lied, typing quickly and returning it with a grin. “Now we’re officially club partners.”

“You’re not my partner.”

“I will win you over.”

“Not in this lifetime.”

“You already let me sit next to you and gave me your number,” Dazai said with a wink. “That’s, like, step two of every romance manga.”

Chuuya flushed. “Shut up.”

Dazai laughed as they parted ways.

Chuuya didn’t delete the number.

⸻

𝐂𝐡𝐮𝐮𝐲𝐚’𝐬 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 — 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

That night, the sketchbook lay open on the bed.

Chuuya traced the balloon again. This time, he drew a second figure beneath it. A small one. Arms outstretched. Like someone trying to catch it as it floated away.

He didn’t add a face.

He didn’t have to.

He closed the sketchbook and stared at the ceiling for a long time.

⸻

𝐃𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐢’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕 — 𝟑:𝟒𝟕 𝐀𝐌

He didn’t sleep much.

His room was dark except for the soft glow of his phone screen. Two messages sat unread. One from Kunikida about missed classwork.
One from a number he now had memorized, even if it only said:
“𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗽𝗶𝗱｡”

He smiled faintly.

The smile didn’t last.

He turned his phone face down and stared into the dark.

The thing about Chuuya was—he was loud and sharp and alive in ways Dazai never quite managed to be. Even when they were younger, Chuuya had been fire, while Dazai had just been ash trying to remember how to burn.

He hadn’t planned to rejoin art club.

He’d walked past the room. Seen Chuuya through the door. Something tight and aching in his chest had pulled him in.

He told himself it was boredom.

He was a liar.

He didn’t want to draw.

He wanted to watch Chuuya draw.

He wanted to sit next to him and make stupid jokes until Chuuya rolled his eyes and called him names and looked at him like he used to, back when they were still friends. Before Dazai said the wrong things and hurt him. Before he ran.

Because the truth was—Dazai didn’t cut people out. He waited until they left.

And Chuuya had never quite left.

So Dazai stayed.

Maybe just a little longer.

Just enough to remember what it felt like to be seen.

Chapter Text

Art Room — 4:15 PM

The pencil in Chuuya’s hand had worn to a stub, but he hadn’t drawn anything in over twenty minutes.

The sketchbook lay open before him like an accusation. Blank page. White void. Just like yesterday. Just like the day before.

He stared at it anyway. Waiting for something. Waiting for anything.

A line. A spark. A reason.

Nothing came.

“Chuuya?” Atsushi’s voice was soft, cautious. “You okay?”

Chuuya blinked and looked up. He hadn’t realized someone had approached.

Atsushi stood awkwardly at the side of the table, hands fiddling with the hem of his jacket. His eyes flicked to Chuuya’s face and then away again, like he wasn’t sure he should be asking.

“Yeah,” Chuuya said. His voice came out flat. Hollow.

Atsushi didn’t seem convinced. “You, um… haven’t drawn anything all week. That’s not like you.”

“Guess I’m just tired.”

He lied so easily now.

Atsushi hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Okay. Just… let me know if you wanna talk.”

Chuuya didn’t respond. Didn’t nod. Just looked back at the page. Atsushi eventually left.

Behind him, Poe and Ranpo were whispering, not quite quiet enough.

“He’s been like that all day,” Poe murmured. “Even yesterday, he barely said a word.”

“He didn’t even yell at Dazai,” Ranpo whispered back. “That’s, like, a natural disaster.”

Chuuya didn’t care that they were talking about him.

Didn’t care that everyone had noticed.

He hadn’t slept.

He hadn’t eaten.

He had no energy left to pretend.

⸻

After Club — 5:02 PM

He didn’t say goodbye when he left. No one tried to stop him.

The world outside was too bright. The sun made his eyes hurt.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket. He didn’t check it. Didn’t want to see Dazai’s name. Didn’t want to remember yesterday’s half-smile, that dumb smirk, the way Dazai had leaned close like—

He shook the thought off violently.

Home was ten minutes away. The walk felt longer.

⸻

Bedroom — 5:17 PM

Chuuya shut the door and locked it.

The blinds were drawn. The air was still. His room didn’t feel like his.

Nothing did.

He dropped his bag on the floor. The sketchbook tumbled out and landed face-down.

Good. He didn’t want to look at it.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. They looked wrong today. Pale, too pale. His fingers trembled when he moved them. Not from fear. From emptiness.

He felt like a marionette.

A puppet with cut strings.

There was no anger in him anymore. No rage. No fire.

Just silence.

Stillness.

Void.

He stood up and walked into the bathroom.

⸻

Bathroom Mirror — 5:19 PM

The mirror showed him a stranger.

His curls were messy, limp. His cheeks hollow. His skin looked thinner somehow, stretched over bone.

But it was the eyes that unsettled him.

His heterochromia — one eye blue, the other brown — usually made people pause, comment, say things like “pretty” or “cool.”

Now they just looked…

Dull.

Dead.

Like two broken marbles shoved into a porcelain doll.

Not human.

He touched the glass. Cold.

“I don’t think I’m real,” he whispered.

The words tasted like rust.

⸻

Bathroom Cabinet — 5:21 PM

The razor wasn’t hard to find.

He hadn’t planned it. Not consciously.

But his hands moved like they remembered the motion.

He sat on the floor. Back against the bathtub. Tile against skin.

He rolled up his sleeve.

There were already faded marks there. Ones no one had seen. He’d been careful.

He was always careful.

The first cut was shallow. Testing. Watching. He didn’t even flinch.

The second was deeper.

Warmth followed.

Not pain.

Just… feeling.

And that was something.

He drew another line.

And another.

It wasn’t about wanting to die. Not exactly.

It was about proof. That he was still here. Still something.

Because when you didn’t feel human—when you felt like a mannequin stuffed with noise—you had to remind yourself that blood still moved. That you could still hurt.

That you existed.

By the time he was done, his wrist was a quiet red mess.

He wiped it off. Pressed tissue against it. Wrapped it tight.

Nobody would see.

Nobody ever saw.

⸻

Bedroom Again — 6:01 PM

He curled up on the bed with his arms tucked close, hoodie sleeves down, lights off.

His phone buzzed again.

Dazai: “You’re gonna ghost me now, Chuuya? I’m offended.”

He didn’t reply.

He felt nothing.

No spark of annoyance. No fire in his gut.

Just a cold silence in his chest, like someone had turned off the switch.

⸻

Later That Night — 10:48 PM

Chuuya sat in the dark.

The sketchbook sat in his lap. Open.

This time, he drew the red balloon again.

But now it was torn, shredded by wind. The string was frayed and broken.

No one was holding it.

No one was watching it float away.

He added rain around it.

Smudged shadows for clouds.

When he finished, he stared at it for a long, long time.

His eyes stung.

He didn’t cry.

He couldn’t remember

⸻

Next Day — Hallway Outside Class 3-B

Chuuya didn’t remember getting dressed.

He didn’t remember brushing his teeth. Couldn’t remember if he even did.

The sleeves of his hoodie were pulled low over his wrists. His shoulders hunched forward under the weight of silence. Every step felt like dragging a lead anchor through molasses.

The hallway buzzed with morning chatter, bright voices bouncing off painted lockers and cracked tile. He floated through it like a ghost, untouched and unnoticed.

Mostly.

“Oi.”
A familiar voice — sharp, clipped — cut through the noise.

Chuuya turned slowly. Akutagawa stood by the lockers, arms crossed, a book under one arm. His uniform was pristine as always, and his expression unreadable.

Next to him stood Atsushi, who looked more worried than usual.

Akutagawa stared at Chuuya with narrowed eyes. “You look like hell.”

Chuuya tried to smirk. It didn’t work. “Thanks. Real sweet of you.”

Atsushi stepped forward, concern written across his face like an open book. “Chuuya… are you okay? You didn’t show up to art club this morning. Poe said—”

“I’m fine,” Chuuya said quickly. Too quickly.

Akutagawa tilted his head slightly. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Chuuya met his gaze. “And you’re terribly nosy.”

It was meant to be sharp. But his voice came out flat. Tired.

Atsushi looked between the two of them, then gently touched Akutagawa’s sleeve. “Maybe we shouldn’t push—”

“He’s clearly falling apart.”

The words landed like a slap.

Atsushi winced. “Ryunosuke…”

But Akutagawa didn’t look away. He just kept staring at Chuuya like he was trying to figure out a puzzle with missing pieces. “You haven’t said more than ten words to anyone in two days. You’re not eating. You didn’t even react when Dazai insulted your height yesterday. Either you’re planning to murder him in silence or something’s seriously wrong.”

Chuuya opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Atsushi gave him a soft look — no pity, just quiet warmth. “You don’t have to talk about it. But… we’re here. If you ever want someone to just listen.”

Chuuya glanced between the two of them. There was a flicker of something—confusion, maybe—when he caught the way Akutagawa’s hand brushed briefly against Atsushi’s. Barely a second. But the look they shared after lingered.

Not anger. Not rivalry.

Something else.

Something tentative.

Chuuya looked away.

His throat ached.

“Thanks,” he said finally, voice low.

They didn’t press.

Atsushi gave him a soft nod, and Akutagawa muttered something under his breath that might’ve been “Idiot” — it was unclear who it was directed at.

⸻

Art Club — Later That Day

He didn’t draw again.

He sat through the club meeting staring at the same page. The same deflated red balloon. The same absence.

Kyoka watched him from across the room, her pencil paused mid-stroke.

Yosano passed by and gave him a once-over. She said nothing, but her brow furrowed.

Naomi, usually the loudest voice in the room, was quiet. Her usual teasing was absent. She whispered something to Haruno when she thought Chuuya wasn’t listening.

He heard it anyway.

“He’s not okay.”

No one said it to his face.

He was glad.

He didn’t want to lie again.

⸻

Evening — Outside the School Gates

The sun was setting behind the school, painting the sidewalk in gold and red. Chuuya walked alone, hands in his pockets, footsteps quiet.

He didn’t hear Dazai’s voice this time. Didn’t see him leaning against the gate like yesterday.

Maybe that was a good thing.

Maybe not.

The world looked like a painting again.

Too bright. Too still.

Too fake.

Evening — Outside the School Gates (continued)

The sun was setting behind the school, painting the sidewalk in gold and red. Chuuya walked alone, hands in his pockets, footsteps quiet.

He didn’t hear Dazai’s voice this time. Didn’t see him leaning against the gate like yesterday.

Maybe that was a good thing.

Maybe not.

The world looked like a painting again.

Too bright. Too still.

Too fake.

His phone buzzed.

Chuuya didn’t check it right away. He kept walking. Kept breathing. Kept pretending.

When he finally pulled the phone from his pocket, the screen glared up at him in the dying light.

Dazai[5:47 PM]:
Did I finally tease you too hard, Slug?
Or did I say something I shouldn’t have?
You’re quiet. Too quiet.

There was a pause before a second message came through.

Dazai [5:49 PM]:
Tell me you’re okay.

Chuuya stared at the screen.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He turned the phone over in his hand and slipped it back into his hoodie pocket, the messages still unread.

The sky above him faded from gold to gray.

Chuuya’s Bedroom — 7:21 PM

The silence was thicker at night.

Chuuya lay on his side, curled inward, his hoodie sleeves still tugged down tightly. The lights were off. The only glow came from his phone screen, left face-down on the blanket beside him — buzzing quietly every few minutes with new notifications.

He didn’t check them.

He already knew who they were from.

He felt like glass left out in winter. Thin. Fragile. Full of cracks no one could see.

Earlier, he’d redrawn the same balloon over and over again — until the page was full of limp, shriveled outlines. It didn’t help. Nothing did.

He hadn’t changed the bandages yet. They still pressed tight against his skin under the fabric.

They were clean now, at least. Not like earlier. Not like when the bleeding made him feel real.

He hated that.

He hated that the only time he felt something was when it hurt.

He hated being the kind of person who needed that.

He hated himself.

“I forgot everything I was doing; that time was the only time I savoured. Vanishing into the dark sky, my young day's blazing hope.

His voice sounded foreign. Weak. Smaller than it should have been.

There were no tears.

No anger.

Not even pain.

Just… weight. A crushing, invisible weight.

He rolled onto his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Somewhere outside, a car drove past. Distant. Forgettable.

Just like him.

Just like this.

The phone buzzed again.

He didn’t move.

Chapter Text

Dazai POV

⸻

It started with silence.

And now it was everywhere.

Dazai heard it in the hollow echo of Chuuya’s footsteps in the hallway, in the absence of a retort when their eyes met in class. He noticed it in the way Chuuya lingered by the windows during breaks, staring outside as if the sky offered some kind of escape. There was something unnerving about how quiet he’d become — like someone had dimmed the light behind his eyes, and nobody had bothered to switch it back on.

They hadn’t fought in over a week.

And that alone should have been a red flag.

At first, Dazai thought it was boredom, or maybe even progress. Maybe Chuuya had outgrown their verbal duels. But this wasn’t peace. It was distance. Hollow and cold, like a house abandoned before winter.

The kind of silence that doesn’t mean “we’ve moved on.”

The kind that means something is wrong.

⸻

Math Class — Thursday Morning

Chuuya sat three desks ahead, slumped over his notebook. The usual crisp, angry lines of his handwriting were gone — replaced by soft, disjointed scrawls that looked more like someone trying to remember how to write than someone doing algebra.

He didn’t raise his hand once.

Didn’t snap at the teacher. Didn’t even whisper complaints under his breath.

He looked… drained. Not tired. Drained.

His fingers twitched with the mechanical motion of pencil against paper, but there was no life behind it. Just motion for motion’s sake. Like a wind-up toy that hadn’t been rewound in days.

Dazai stared at the back of his head for the entire class, not even pretending to care about the worksheet in front of him.

Something had changed.

Something important.

And Dazai hated not knowing what it was.

Lunchroom — Thursday

He watched him again.

From two tables away, behind the half-hearted screen of his phone, Dazai’s eyes found Chuuya without even trying. He wasn’t sure when it had become automatic — like a bad habit he never wanted to break.

Chuuya sat with the art club again. Poe, Yosano, even a quiet Lucy from the literature track had squeezed into the table. They were laughing at something Poe said, but Chuuya didn’t even look up. He smiled—barely—but it was all mouth and no eyes.

His tray was full.

Still full, fifteen minutes later.

Still full when lunch ended.

One bite of rice. A piece of egg turned over three times. That was all. Then he shoved it aside like it offended him.

Yosano leaned in and asked something — probably if he was feeling okay. Poe looked worried. Lucy frowned in his direction, sharp and subtle. Chuuya brushed them off with a laugh so practiced it made Dazai’s chest tighten.

Something inside him curled.

He remembered the last time he heard that laugh. It had been real, reckless — after Chuuya had gotten chalk all over his uniform during art class and tried to blame Dazai for distracting him.

This one was fake. Airless. Like a balloon stretched too thin.

Chuuya hadn’t gained weight in months.

If anything, he’d lost it.

His hoodie was hanging differently. Not in that oversized, cool-kid aesthetic way — but like he was shrinking inside it. His sleeves slid past his hands, covering most of his fingers when he folded his arms.

Dazai didn’t think anyone else noticed.

Or maybe they noticed but didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t either. Not yet.

But he was going to find out.

Rooftop — After School

The bell rang like a mercy.

Dazai didn’t go to his last class. Didn’t bother pretending he had something better to do. Instead, he walked straight to the back stairwell, climbed each step with a heaviness in his chest, and shoved open the rooftop door.

The cold air slapped him in the face.

There he was.

Chuuya sat curled against the far wall, arms locked around his knees, hood up, his face hidden. The sun was low, painting his silhouette in gold and long shadows. His mismatched eyes stared at nothing.

Dull.

So dull.

Not like fire or fury or lightning.

Not like Chuuya.

He looked like a ghost.

Dazai’s chest ached. Not with confusion anymore — with certainty. With the kind of grief that hits before the worst thing happens.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” Dazai said quietly.

No answer.

He walked over, sat beside him without asking, knees bumping.

“I saw your tray today.”

Chuuya didn’t flinch.

“You didn’t eat.”

“Wasn’t hungry,” Chuuya mumbled. His voice sounded like gravel—low and raw from disuse.

“You said that yesterday too.”

Chuuya snorted faintly. “Keeping tabs on me now?”

“I’m trying to keep you alive.”

That made Chuuya go still. So still Dazai could hear the shift in his breathing. Could feel the weight of the words sink in between them.

“Look, if this is your weird way of flirting—”

“Shut up,” Dazai said. It wasn’t cruel, just soft. Honest.

“I saw your drawings. The ones with the red. And I’ve seen your arms.”

Chuuya’s hand clenched his sleeve.

“I’ve seen the way you pick at your food like it’s poison. The way your shoulders slump. The way your eyes—” He broke off. “They used to spark. Now they’re just… gone.”

Chuuya said nothing. He didn’t move.

So Dazai kept going, voice low and certain.

“You’re disappearing in front of everyone and pretending it’s fine.”

Chuuya let out a shaky breath.

Then— “It is fine.”

“No,” Dazai said. “It’s not.”
Chuuya’s voice broke the silence, low and barely audible.

“I hate it.”

Dazai tilted his head slightly, not interrupting.

“I hate food. I hate being in my body. I hate feeling it all the time — how tight my chest is, how heavy everything feels. Even when I don’t eat, it feels like I’m too much.”

He laughed. Hollow.

“And the hunger? It’s sharp, yeah. But it makes me feel something. I can control it. That’s more than I can say for anything else in my life.”

Dazai swallowed hard, saying nothing yet.

Chuuya kept going, voice gaining a bitter rhythm. “People think not eating is about being thin. Like I’m trying to be some perfect version of myself. But it’s not that. It’s—”

He paused. Took a shallow breath.

“It’s because I don’t feel human when I do eat. I feel disgusting. Like I’m taking up space I don’t deserve. Like I’m some gross animal trying to pretend I belong here.”

Silence stretched between them again.

And then Chuuya added, so quietly Dazai almost missed it—

“I don’t think I’m human.”

Dazai’s heart shattered just a little more.

Chuuya wrapped his arms tighter around himself, shrinking in on that fragile core like he could disappear. “I feel like a walking mess of skin and noise and shame. And people keep looking at me like I’m supposed to function. Like I’m supposed to joke and draw and laugh like I’m not rotting inside.”

He laughed again, a sick sound. “Even the art feels fake now. Everything’s fake. The only real thing left is the ache.”

Dazai didn’t reach out. Didn’t say something bright or soft. Instead, he let his voice drop to match the weight of Chuuya’s.

“You’re not fake.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Chuuya didn’t argue. But he didn’t believe it either. Not yet.

They sat in silence for a long time.

Not the kind that hurts. The kind that breathes.

Dazai didn’t speak again until the wind shifted and Chuuya’s hood fell back slightly, letting golden light catch on his dull eyes — one blue, one brown, both dimmed like dying stars.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I’ve always done it alone,” Chuuya murmured. “People don’t stay when it gets ugly.”

“I’m not people.”

Chuuya snorted again, but there was no bite in it. “You’re such a drama queen.”

Dazai smiled. Just a little.

Then: “I texted you last night. You didn’t answer.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“‘Hi, Dazai. I’m still alive’ works.”

Chuuya looked down at his hands. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just… let me know next time. Please.”

Chuuya nodded once, barely a movement, but Dazai caught it.

The sky had turned a deeper orange now, almost red at the edges. The kind of light that made everything look softer, gentler. Not real — but not fake either.

“I’m not going to force you to talk,” Dazai said finally. “I just want you to know I see you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“…Even if I keep being like this?”

“Especially if you keep being like this.”

That got him a look. Sharp. Confused. Vulnerable.

Dazai met his eyes and didn’t flinch.

He meant it.

Eventually, they both stood up. No dramatic moment. No healing arc. Just two boys and a rooftop and an ache too big for either of them to name.

As they reached the door, Chuuya spoke again, quieter than before.

“…Thanks.”

Dazai didn’t say anything. He just brushed their shoulders together as they walked.

Sometimes, that was enough.

Chuuya’s Phone — 12:04 AM

Dazai
Still awake?

Chuuya
…maybe

Dazai
I’ll take that as a yes.

Chuuya
Don’t get cocky fuckhead

Dazai
Too late.
Was just making sure you’re still breathing.

Chuuya
Rude

Dazai
Not dead = progress
I’m proud of you for talking to me today.

Chuuya
Wasn’t that deep.
Don’t make it weird.

Dazai
I wouldn’t dream of it.
(unless I do, and then it’s your fault for haunting my REM cycle)

Chuuya
You’re actually so annoying

Dazai
You smiled, didn’t you?

Chuuya
maybe.

Dazai
Good!
Sleep a little tonight, okay?

Chuuya
can’t promise that.

Dazai
Then just close your eyes. I’ll be here tomorrow either way.

Chuuya
Why

Dazai
Because I want to be.

There’s a long pause. Chuuya doesn’t answer for several minutes.

Then:

Chuuya
Night, dumbass.

Dazai
Good night, slug ><.

Chapter Text

Some mornings were quieter than others.

This one was suffocating.

The air in his room felt thick, clinging to his skin like sweat. He lay there long after his alarm buzzed, staring at the ceiling like it might start spinning if he moved too fast. His hoodie sleeves bunched under his hands. The cuffs smelled faintly like acrylic paint.

He hadn’t eaten breakfast.

Not because he was trying to prove something. Just because the thought of food turned his stomach. The memory of Dazai’s voice — soft but firm — kept echoing:

“You don’t have to disappear.”

But what if he already had?

By the time he made it to school, the hallways were half-empty and the bell was five minutes from ringing. He kept his head low, avoided everyone’s gaze. Even Poe gave him a worried glance, but Chuuya just nodded and kept walking.

He hated the looks.

The sympathy. The concern. The “are you okay?”s that came with tilted heads and soft voices, like he was something fragile about to crack open in their hands.

He didn’t want to be seen.

He didn’t want to be invisible either.

He didn’t know what he wanted.

Art Room – Third Period

Chuuya sat at the far table by the windows.

The sun filtered in through dusty glass panes, casting soft light across the empty desk. His sketchbook lay open in front of him, but the pencil in his hand hadn’t moved in ten minutes.

He stared at the page.

The lines didn’t make sense anymore. Nothing did.

The swirls he’d started days ago looked like a scream twisting into silence — all red smudges and black gouges in the paper where he’d pressed too hard. He’d meant to turn it into something abstract, something beautiful. But now it just looked violent.

Like something had bled out through the graphite.

He pressed the pencil to the paper again and tried to draw a curve. It broke clean in half.

“…Tch.”

He didn’t have the energy to be angry. Just leaned back in the chair and stared out the window, watching clouds shift across the sky like they were running from something.

The door creaked behind him.

He didn’t look up.

Not until he heard footsteps stop behind his chair — light ones. Familiar.

Dazai didn’t say anything. He stood there quietly, not mocking or teasing, not even moving.

Just… present.

That somehow made it worse.

Chuuya didn’t turn around.

“If you came to check on me, don’t.”

There was a pause. Then Dazai’s voice, quiet.

“I didn’t.”

Chuuya almost laughed — almost. It caught in his throat like a shard of glass.

“So you just wandered into the art room for fun?”

“Maybe,” Dazai said softly. “Maybe I just wanted to see what you’d do.”

Chuuya’s hands curled into fists in his lap. “You think watching me fall apart is entertainment?”

“No,” Dazai said, serious now. “I think watching you pretend you’re fine is heartbreaking.”

That silenced him.

The air between them grew thick again, like it had on the rooftop. Only now, there was paint and dust and the faint smell of charcoal floating between them.

Dazai didn’t sit beside him.

He just stayed standing there, waiting.

Waiting for Chuuya to breathe. To speak. To break.

And Chuuya hated how much that made him want to do all three.

Chuuya didn’t look up.

Couldn’t.

His throat felt tight. Like if he opened his mouth, something real might fall out — something ugly. Something he didn’t want anyone, especially Dazai, to see.

But Dazai didn’t push.

He didn’t come closer, didn’t try to sit, didn’t ask him questions or pretend to fix anything.

He just waited.

That stillness — that patience — felt louder than anything else.

“I can’t draw anymore,” Chuuya said finally, voice barely audible.

Behind him, Dazai didn’t react. Just let the words hang in the air like dust.

“It’s like… everything I put down turns into something I hate,” Chuuya continued. “Like my hands can’t remember how to create. All they know how to do is destroy.”

There was a long silence.

And then:

“Maybe your hands aren’t the problem.”

Chuuya blinked.

“It’s not about the drawing,” Dazai said. “It’s about the weight you’re carrying while you try to draw. Of course it feels wrong. You’re trying to bleed out through a pencil.”

Chuuya’s shoulders tightened. His fingers twisted in the hem of his sleeve. He hated how well Dazai could see through him — how easily he picked apart the armor without even trying.

“You don’t get it,” Chuuya muttered.

“I don’t,” Dazai agreed. “But I want to.”

That—
That made Chuuya freeze.

Not because he didn’t believe him.

But because he almost did.

He finally turned around then. Slowly. Like movement itself took effort.

Dazai was standing a few feet away, leaning casually against the counter with his hands in his pockets, but there was nothing casual about his eyes.
They were steady. Soft. Watching Chuuya like he wasn’t something fragile — but something worth holding anyway.

Chuuya didn’t say anything else. He just looked at him.

And Dazai looked back.

That was all.

And for once, it was enough.

Lunch – Courtyard

The sunlight was too bright.

Chuuya squinted as he stepped out into the courtyard, clutching a bento box Atsushi had practically shoved into his arms. He didn’t even remember saying yes, but here he was.

“Over here!” Yosano waved him down from the shade of the tree.

The usual group was already there: Yosano, Kyōka, Poe, Ranpo (currently sprawled across three people’s worth of space), Atsushi, Akutagawa sitting stiffly at his side like he didn’t belong there but had been dragged along anyway.

And now Dazai.

Of course.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bench, grinning like he’d been waiting specifically for Chuuya to show up.

Chuuya sat on the edge of the group, not saying much.

The bento was still warm.

He picked at it without looking. Three bites in, and his stomach hadn’t flipped. That was… new.

Yosano was watching him from over the rim of her water bottle. So was Poe, quietly fidgeting with the bookmark sticking out of his latest novel. Ranpo had his head on Poe’s shoulder, chewing on Pocky, eyes half-lidded and entirely unbothered.

“You look less like you’re dying,” Ranpo commented. “That’s nice.”

“Gee, thanks,” Chuuya muttered.

“Translation,” Poe said gently, “we’re glad you came.”

Chuuya didn’t reply. He just nodded and forced himself to eat another bite.

Across from him, Atsushi was whispering something to Akutagawa, who scowled but didn’t move away. Akutagawa said something back, a little too sharp, and Atsushi flushed — but didn’t stop talking.

Dazai watched them with a raised eyebrow.

“I give them two weeks,” he said. “Tops.”

“Three,” Yosano said. “Akutagawa’s in denial.”

“They’re not dating,” Kyōka added, chewing calmly on her rice.

“Yet,” Ranpo chimed in, smirking.

Atsushi and Akutagawa both choked.

Chuuya rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He caught Poe’s glance across the group — the way his fingers brushed Ranpo’s sleeve when he thought no one was looking. Soft, careful.

The world felt… a little less loud.

And maybe that was enough for today.

Later — Walking Home

The sidewalk was cracked in places, lined with summer weeds poking through. Chuuya kept his head down, headphones in, music loud enough to drown out the world but not enough to hurt. Just enough to feel full.

His playlist shuffled through old songs — ones he’d liked in middle school, back when he still believed in things like stability or friendship that didn’t end in ashes. The kind with a drum beat in your chest and lyrics that felt like someone else had written your diary.

He stared ahead, not really seeing.

The light was warm on the pavement. A breeze tugged at his hoodie. He didn’t know what this feeling was — not happy, not exactly safe — but it was quiet. Softer than the usual noise.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He checked it without stopping.

⸻

[Group Chat: The Chaos Coven 🔥]

👀 yosano pls

okay losers
group hangout this weekend
no excuses. i already bullied koyo into letting us use the garden behind the cafe.

📚 edgypoe

Will there be chairs. And shade. I will perish otherwise.

🍬 R4np0w!!

SHUT UP EDGAR WERE GOIN 2 HAV FWN
*FUN
i can spel shut up
i brinG SNAX

🌀literally dazai

only coming if chuuya brings his grumpy little face 😌

🍷 short king

fuck off

🌀literally dazai

🥰 love u too

🐯 atsushi 🐯

I’m free Saturday! Can I bring ice cream? Or like. A blanket?

🌑 aku (grudgingly here)

if you bring sweets, I’m not eating them
I am not 5

🌀literally dazai

says the guy who ate 3 strawberry pocky sticks at lunch 🤡

🌑 aku (grudgingly here)

that was DIFFERENT

👀 yosano pls

everyone shut up. bring whatever.
chuuya you in?

🍷 short king

maybe
idk

🌀literally dazai

i’ll drag you myself if i have to 🫶

🍷 short king

ew

🍬 R4np0w!!

HE SAID YES THATS A YES HE CANT UNSAY IT

📚 edgypoe

i’m bringing a novel to read while all of you scream into the void

🌀literally dazai

so… saturday. 3PM. emotional chaos. group trauma bonding. excellent.

👀 yosano pls

bring ur weird little selves. or die.

⸻

Chuuya stared at the screen for a second longer, one headphone still in, the other hanging loose.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Then, slowly:

okay. i’ll come.

Another message blinked in right after:

🌀literally dazai

see you there, sunshine ☀️

Chuuya rolled his eyes — but couldn’t stop the small smile that pulled at his mouth as the music picked back up in his ear.

Private Chat: dazai 🌀 & chuuya 🍷]

dazai 🌀
grumpy shortcake >⩊<
you actually said yes

chuuya 🍷
stop calling me that

dazai 🌀
but it suits you so well >:3
bite-sized and always angry

chuuya 🍷
bite me

dazai 🌀
don’t tempt me

chuuya 🍷
you’re insufferable

dazai 🌀
yet you’re still texting me
hmm…

chuuya 🍷
shut up
i’m listening to music

dazai 🌀
what song?

chuuya 🍷
none of your business

dazai 🌀
bet it’s something emo and dramatic
like “i’m not human and this is a metaphor (piano version)”

chuuya 🍷
i’m blocking you

dazai 🌀
too late. i already made a playlist called “chuu chuus tragic little heart”
it’s got violins and rage

chuuya 🍷
…
send it

dazai 🌀
thought you’d never ask >:D

Night – Chuuya’s Room

The house was silent.

Not peaceful-silent — just the kind that reminded you no one else was home. No footsteps from Kōyō. No distant chatter from the TV. Just Chuuya, a dim lamp, and the music curling out from the speaker on his windowsill.

“Nobody but me’s gonna like me if I disappear…”

Mitski’s voice hung low in the room, floating like smoke. He didn’t know why he put it on. Maybe because it sounded how he felt — like a question no one wanted to answer.

He sat hunched over his desk, hoodie sleeves stretched past his palms, knuckles pressed to the paper like he was holding himself together by keeping busy.

The sketchbook was open.

The pencil moved in soft, repetitive strokes. Circles. Spirals. Lines that didn’t form anything coherent. Just motion. Just proof he was still here.

He wasn’t drawing anything real.

But he couldn’t stop either.

His room smelled faintly like paint and dust. The window was cracked open. Summer air drifted in, warm and useless.

“I’ve been big and small… and big and small… and big and small again…”

Chuuya blinked down at the page.

Somewhere in the red swirls and black smears, there was a shape starting to form. It looked like a balloon, maybe. Or a broken sun. Or just a mess.

He didn’t know anymore.

He dropped the pencil. Rubbed a hand over his face. His eyes stung, but he wasn’t crying.

His phone buzzed on the bed behind him. He ignored it.

Until it buzzed again.

This time, he turned. Picked it up. Saw the group chat light up with chaos — Ranpo’s unhinged spelling, Atsushi’s usual politeness, Poe threatening to bring a book to the hangout. Dazai had reacted to one of Chuuya’s texts with a weird little “>o<” emoticon.

Chuuya stared at the screen for a moment.

Then turned it back over. Face down.

He sat there, music still playing.

Still here.

The music played on.

“And I know no one will save me…”

Chuuya leaned forward slowly, resting his elbow on the edge of the desk. The motion was sluggish — more muscle memory than intention. His head dipped into the crook of his arm, cheek pressing against the paper he’d been sketching on.

The page smudged under his skin.

Pencil dust clung to his sleeve, to the soft spot just beneath his eye. The red swirls he’d drawn were half-finished. The black lines bled out like cracks.

“I just need someone to kiss, give me one good honest kiss, and I’ll be alright…”

His breathing slowed.

He didn’t remember closing his eyes. Didn’t remember letting go of the pencil. It rolled gently from his hand and stopped at the edge of the sketchbook, caught between a tear in the page and the soft circle of something that looked like a heart. Or maybe a balloon.

Outside the window, the night murmured low.

The music trailed on into background noise , and Chuuya didn’t move.

Chapter Text

The doorbell chimed.

Dazai didn’t even have to look up. He felt it—the tiny shift in the air, like a storm slipping under the doorframe. And then there he was, all messy hair and leather jacket, that stupid beanie pulled down over his ears like it could hide the mood written all over his face.

Chuuya.

“Look who finally showed up,” Dazai called, leaning back in his chair. “We were about to send a search party. Or a carrier pigeon.”

Ranpo snorted into his milkshake. Poe muttered something about pigeons being cleaner than Ranpo’s hands. Yosano was stabbing a slice of strawberry cake with calculated elegance.

Chuuya didn’t even bother with a full scowl. Just gave him a glare sharp enough to slit through glass and muttered, “You’re a pain in my ass.”

Dazai smiled.

“Still better than a knife.”

But something didn’t sit right.

The swagger was there. The usual fire in his glare, the exaggerated sigh when Ranpo offered him a half-eaten cookie, the way he sank into the corner of the booth like he couldn’t give a damn—yeah, that was all typical Chuuya.

But his eyes—his eyes looked wrong.

Not the color. Dazai had memorized that mismatched stare a long time ago: one like summer sky, one like rich soil. A strange combination that somehow made sense, because Chuuya was made of contradictions.

But right now?

They looked dull. Like glass left out in the rain.

He wasn’t eating either.

Even Yosano, who usually didn’t care unless someone was bleeding, cast a sideways glance at Chuuya’s untouched pastry.

Atsushi leaned across the table, trying to offer a wrapped sweet bun. “You didn’t eat lunch either, right? Want this one? It’s the kind you like…”

Chuuya blinked at it, then waved him off. “I’m not hungry, alright? Jesus.”

A beat of silence followed, and Dazai watched how quickly Chuuya regretted snapping. His hand twitched in his lap. He glanced away.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Long day.”

Dazai tilted his head, still watching.

Ranpo, thankfully, broke the tension.

“You think your day was long?” he mumbled through a mouthful of sugar. “Poe made me carry his bag and then tripped over my leg. On purpose.”

“I did not!” Poe cried.

“Yes you did,” Ranpo said.

“No, he’s right,” Akutagawa said flatly. “I watched it happen. It was tragic.”

Dazai let them spiral into chaos. He didn’t care much about Ranpo’s dramatics. What mattered was the way Chuuya was sitting.

Too still.

And when Dazai kicked him lightly under the table, Chuuya flinched.

Not the kind of flinch you give someone who annoys you.

The kind you give when you’re barely stitched together.

Dazai frowned.

Atsushi was fiddling with his straw like it had personally offended him.

Akutagawa, seated stiffly beside him with his usual posture of brooding contempt, cast a glance in his direction. “If you keep doing that, it’s going to snap.”

Atsushi jumped slightly. “Wh-what? Oh—right. Sorry.”

He stopped.

Then, five seconds later, started fiddling again.

Akutagawa narrowed his eyes. “Do you have a problem with your hands or your brain?”

“Do you ever shut up?” Atsushi snapped back, too quick, too defensive.

Akutagawa didn’t respond.

Just stared.

And then—weirdly—looked away. Not irritated. Not smug. Just…awkward.

Dazai blinked.

Something in the air shifted. Ranpo, mouth full of cookie, noticed it too. He elbowed Poe with a snort.

“Oh no,” he whispered theatrically. “They’re flirting.”

“Ranpo!” Poe hissed, red-faced. “You can’t just say that—!”

“I’m not flirting with him,” Atsushi mumbled, his ears going red as he glared at his lap.

Akutagawa looked personally offended. “I wouldn’t flirt with you if you paid me.”

“See?” Atsushi said quickly.

Then Akutagawa added, a little too quiet: “Unless it was a lot.”

Chuuya choked on his drink.

“Excuse me?!” Atsushi sputtered, practically slamming his drink down. “What is that supposed to mean?!”

“You’re not worth much,” Akutagawa muttered.

“You—!”

“Okay!” Dazai clapped his hands once. “Lovers’ spat: table it. I’m trying to enjoy my sugar rush in peace.”

Ranpo cackled. Poe buried his face in his scarf. Even Yosano cracked a sly grin behind her teacup.

Atsushi crossed his arms and turned away. Akutagawa did the same.

But Dazai noticed—just for a second—their knees bumped under the table.

And neither of them moved.

The table was chaos.

Poe was trying to spread marmalade on a scone, but Ranpo had stolen his butter knife to stir a milkshake. Yosano was sipping coffee with the serenity of someone who could kill a man with a paperclip. Kenji was attempting to stack sugar packets into a little house while Kyoka helped. Akutagawa looked like he was five seconds away from declaring war on the entire establishment, and Atsushi…was still red in the ears.

Dazai sat back, lazily stirring his tea.

“So,” Chuuya said, lounging with one arm slung over the back of his chair, “you gonna drink that, or are you just gonna play with it like a toddler?”

Dazai smiled. “Aw, Chuuya. You worried about me staying hydrated? That’s sweet.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “I’m worried about you spilling it all over the table, jackass.”

“Oh, so that’s what concern looks like on you.”

“You wouldn’t recognize concern if it punched you in the face.”

“Are you offering?”

Chuuya raised an eyebrow. “Gladly.”

Ranpo interrupted them with a loud slurp. “Are you two flirting again, or do we have to stage another intervention?”

“We weren’t flirting,” Chuuya snapped, eyes narrowing.

Dazai grinned. “That’s exactly what someone flirting would say.”

Poe, still fighting his scone, finally gave up and took a savage bite, marmalade dripping down his sleeve. He froze. “I made a mistake.”

“No kidding,” said Yosano, offering him a napkin like she was bestowing royal favor.

Kenji leaned forward. “We should come here more often! The air smells like cake and cleaning chemicals.”

“That’s just Ranpo’s breath,” muttered Akutagawa, still staring down his untouched cup of black coffee like it had personally betrayed him.

Ranpo, mid-sip, nearly choked. “Rude! My breath is a national treasure.”

Kyoka pointed at the crumbling sugar packet tower. “I think Kenji’s building is falling.”

“It’s a metaphor,” Kenji said solemnly. “For capitalism.”

Everyone stopped and stared.

“Where did he learn that?” Atsushi whispered.

“TikTok,” said Kyoka.

Dazai snorted into his tea.

And then, from under the table, his phone buzzed.

He slid it out casually. A message from Chuuya.

Chuuya 🍷:
Stop looking at me like that. You look like you’re about to commit a war crime.

Dazai ☠️ :
Me?? Never~ I’m just admiring the way your face crumples when you’re annoyed 💕

Chuuya 🍷:
Try “punchable,” asshole.

Dazai ☠️ :
Can’t punch perfection 😌✌️

Chuuya 🍷:
Don’t make me throw my drink at you.

Dazai ☠️ :
Ooooh~ you wanna share your overpriced mocha with me? That’s love, Chuuya. That’s real love

Chuuya 🍷:
You’re insufferable. Actually—shut up.

Dazai ☠️ :
Make me 💋

Chuuya 🍷:
I will, with a chair.

They’d just finished arguing over whether Ranpo had actually beaten a chess-playing AI in five moves (spoiler: he hadn’t), when Kyōka—quiet as ever—set down her strawberry soda and said, completely deadpan:

“Let’s play truth or dare.”

A moment of silence passed over the group like a cloud.

“Wait—what?” Chuuya blinked, mid-sip of his drink.

“She said what she said,” Ranpo smirked, already leaning back like a king on his throne. “I second the motion.”

Atsushi looked nervous, glancing around the circle. “Uh… do we have to?”

“You scared?” Akutagawa muttered, but the corners of his mouth twitched in something that almost looked like a smile. Almost.

Atsushi turned pink. “No! I just… don’t want to end up licking whipped cream off the window like Tanizaki did last time.”

“Whipped cream’s expensive now,” Yosano sighed. “Make it worth it.”

“Don’t give her ideas,” Poe whispered, eyes wide.

“Okay,” Dazai clapped once, drawing all eyes. “We’re doing this. But no repeating dares, no backing out, and—” his gaze slid lazily toward Chuuya, “—no crying when you lose, Chuuya-chan.”

“Fuck off,” Chuuya muttered, slouching deeper into his seat. “But fine. I’m in.”

“Great,” Dazai beamed. “Chuuya goes first.”

“What the hell?! I didn’t agree to that!”

“You just said ‘I’m in,’” Dazai said, fluttering his lashes innocently. “That makes you the sacrificial lamb.”

Ranpo gave a dramatic cough. “Truth or dare, shortstack?”

“Dare,” Chuuya said flatly. “Let’s get this over with.”

Ranpo grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

“I dare you to text a random contact something super flirty. No explanation. No take-backs.”

Chuuya froze.

Atsushi gasped. Akutagawa actually looked up. Poe blinked twice.

“Oh no,” Chuuya groaned. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Dazai’s phone buzzed a second later.

Chuuya 🍷:
If I kissed you right now, would you shut the hell up?

Dazai choked on his drink.

The table exploded.

Dazai stared at his phone like it had just delivered the secret to eternal life.

Then he looked up. Slowly. Locking eyes with Chuuya, who had the audacity to smirk—like that text hadn’t just knocked the wind out of Dazai’s ribcage.

“Bold of you,” Dazai said smoothly, swirling the last of his iced coffee. “Can’t say I’m surprised though. You’ve been dying to kiss me since middle school, haven’t you?”

Chuuya’s eye twitched. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.” He leaned across the table just enough to annoy him. “You sent me the text. Not Poe. Not Ranpo. Me. That’s fate, Chuuya-chan.”

“It’s alphabetical order, dumbass!” Chuuya hissed, red creeping into his cheeks. “Your name starts with ‘D,’ you’re just at the top of my list!”

Akutagawa snorted quietly. Atsushi covered his mouth to hide a laugh. Even Kyōka looked vaguely amused, which was rare.

“Y-you’re all idiots,” Chuuya said, grabbing his drink like it was the only thing grounding him to earth. “It’s just a stupid dare.”

Dazai tapped his phone screen with a mock-sigh. “Guess I’ll have to reply, then. Wouldn’t want to leave you on read, darling.”

His thumbs hovered dramatically before typing:

Dazai :
Depends. How good’s the kiss, babe? 😘

Chuuya physically recoiled.

“Delete that. DELETE THAT.”

“Sorry, no take-backs,” Dazai sing-songed.

Ranpo was crying with laughter now. “Oh my god. This is so much better than whipped cream on the window.”

“I will throw hands,” Chuuya muttered. “Don’t test me.”

“Let’s be real,” Dazai said, leaning in again, “if you kissed me, you’d be the one shutting up.”

Chuuya’s face turned a dangerous shade of red.

“Keep talking, and I swear I’ll make you swallow your phone.”

Dazai only smiled wider.

God, he thought. He hadn’t had this much fun in weeks.

And if his heart skipped just a little seeing Chuuya flustered like that?

Well.

He’d take that secret to his grave.

⸻

The café buzzed with laughter and mock outrage as the game spiraled out of control.

“Okay, okay, my turn again,” Ranpo declared, holding his phone like a sacred artifact. “Atsushi! Truth or dare?”

Atsushi blinked like a deer in headlights. “Uh—truth?”

“Booooring.” Ranpo blew a raspberry. “Fine. Who in this group would you kiss if you had to?”

Atsushi froze. Slowly, agonizingly, he turned his head toward Akutagawa.

Chuuya raised an eyebrow. Poe looked intrigued.

“…You,” Atsushi muttered at last.

The table went silent.

Akutagawa choked on his iced tea.

“I—excuse me?” he rasped, face going ghost-white, then violently red. “Are you mocking me?”

“N-No! I just—Ranpo made me pick! I didn’t mean anything weird!”

Ranpo smirked. “Didn’t sound weird to me.”

“You’re all insufferable,” Akutagawa growled, pulling his hoodie up like he wanted to vanish.

Kyōka slid a cookie toward him in silent support.

Poe cleared his throat. “Alright, Dazai, you’re up.”

“I live for this,” Dazai said, reclining like a king. “Chuuya. Truth or dare?”

Chuuya didn’t even flinch. “Dare.”

A low whistle came from Ranpo. “Oooh. Spicy.”

Dazai tapped his chin, pretending to think. In reality, he’d known what he’d say the second Chuuya picked dare. “I dare you to whisper the name of your crush. Just to me. No one else.”

Chuuya blinked.

Then frowned.

Then glared.

“You’re joking.”

“I never joke about love~” Dazai replied sweetly, resting his chin on his palm.

Chuuya’s eyes flicked toward the group — Poe and Ranpo arguing about whether whispering counted, Atsushi nervously sipping his drink, Akutagawa glaring at a napkin like it had insulted his family.

“I don’t have to do it, right?” Chuuya asked flatly.

“Are you backing out?” Dazai teased.

Chuuya growled under his breath, then stood up abruptly. “Fine. Come here.”

“Wait, what—” But before Dazai could react, Chuuya grabbed his sleeve and pulled him toward the corner of the café, away from the others, behind a wall of fake plants and seasonal decorations.

It was quiet back there. Warm. The soft hum of the espresso machine and muffled chatter faded to background noise.

Chuuya didn’t look at him.

He looked at the ground.

And then—quietly, quietly, voice low like it hurt to say it—he muttered, “You. It’s you, idiot.”

Dazai froze.

He hadn’t expected it. Not really.

He’d thought maybe it’d be some throwaway name, a joke, something Chuuya could walk away from with a smirk.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

His mouth went dry.

“You’re serious?” he asked, voice nearly a whisper too.

Chuuya scoffed, but it lacked any real venom. “Tch. You gonna make me say it again?”

Dazai’s lips parted—then shut again. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He just stared at him, the words looping in his head like a melody he couldn’t stop hearing:

You. It’s you.

Chuuya shoved his hands in his pockets and turned back toward the group. “You got what you wanted. Don’t make it weird.”

Too late, Dazai thought, heart doing somersaults as he followed behind him, stunned silent for once in his goddamn life.

Too late.

“Alright, Poe,” Yosano said, practically vibrating in his seat, “Truth or dare?”

Poe paled. “T-Truth?”

“Boring,” Yosano grumbled, then leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Okay. Who’s the last person you had a romantic dream about?”

Poe made a choked noise. “I—I don’t remember—”

“Liar,” Yosano sang. “Tell the class.”

Next to him, Ranpo helpfully offered, “He moaned my name once during nap club.”

Poe’s soul visibly left his body.

Ranpo collapsed into laughter, Atsushi spilled his soda, and Akutagawa said flatly, “You’re all exhausting.”

“You’re next, emo boy,” Chuuya said, pointing his spoon like a sword.

“I don’t play games.”

“You are a game,” Dazai muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing~”

Chuuya gave Dazai a warning look. He returned it with a shit-eating grin.

Ranpo quickly roped Kyōka into the game. Her “dare” was to take over the café speaker and blast the first song in her playlist—which turned out to be a hyper-pop nightmare that made everyone cringe while she stared blankly at them like what, this is normal.

Atsushi’s truth—“Have you ever had a crush on someone here?”—sent him into full malfunction mode.

“I—I—um—I think the weather is really nice today, huh?”

Akutagawa narrowed his eyes. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“I—NO—maybe—I mean no—”

Chuuya blinked at them. “Oh god. Are you two—”

“NO!” they both shouted in harmony.

Yosano smiled like a cat.

It was almost 9 when the café lights began dimming and Poe yawned so hard he nearly dislocated his soul. Kyōka had already left with a mysterious smile after whispering something to Yosano, who just winked and said nothing, which was worse. Ranpo insisted he could teleport but then just dragged Poe away by the hoodie mumbling about snacks and conspiracies.

And then it was just the two of them.

Chuuya cracked open the café door and glanced up at the night sky. “It’s not too late. You walking?”

Dazai shrugged, sliding his hands into his coat pockets. “Depends. You inviting?”

“No,” Chuuya said immediately, but his tone was too lazy to sound like rejection.

They stepped into the buzz of the quiet street, the kind of silence that hums instead of screams. The air was cool, enough for breath to ghost faintly in front of them. Streetlights flickered like half-hearted stars.

“I need snacks,” Chuuya muttered. “I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

Dazai tilted his head. “Did you even eat lunch?”

A pause.

“…Mind your business.”

He smirked. “Worried about your image, chibi?”

“Worried about throwing you into traffic if you don’t shut up.”

“Violence this late at night?” Dazai sighed. “Scandalous. Let me at least buy you dinner before you kill me.”

They wandered into a small 24-hour konbini tucked between a laundromat and a tax office. The fluorescent lighting was blinding after the calm outside. Dazai could see Chuuya’s eyes narrow slightly as he adjusted to it.

He grabbed a green basket and held it out to Chuuya.

Chuuya scoffed. “I can carry my own stuff.”

“I know,” Dazai said, and didn’t let go of the basket.

Chuuya stared at him, then finally—grudgingly—dropped a bag of spicy chips in. “I’m not sharing.”

“You always say that and then hand me one.”

“Out of pity.”

“Out of love.”

“Out of wanting you to shut up.”

Dazai just grinned wider.

They walked the aisles together. Chuuya browsed with the intensity of someone solving a murder case. Dazai, meanwhile, kept throwing the weirdest things into the basket. Seaweed gummies. Mentaiko mayo puffs. Sakura-flavored soda.

Chuuya noticed the soda and stopped walking. “Why the hell would you pick that?”

“It’s seasonal.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“It’s pink.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes so hard it probably reset a few galaxies. Still, he didn’t remove it from the basket. Not even when Dazai tossed in one of those mystery flavor chocolate bars.

“Bet you won’t eat this without checking what it is first,” Dazai said.

Chuuya grabbed it, unwrapped it with dramatic slowness, bit off half, and chewed with the emotional detachment of a man on death row.

A beat passed. Then he swallowed, face unreadable.

“Well?”

Chuuya smirked. “Tastes like regret. Your kind of flavor.”

Dazai barked a laugh loud enough to earn a glare from the cashier.

Eventually they migrated to the instant ramen section. Dazai leaned against the shelf, arms crossed.

“What do you actually like?” he asked, voice lower now, less teasing. “Besides burning your mouth off.”

Chuuya blinked, caught off guard. “I don’t know. I just eat whatever.”

“You mean you don’t know or you don’t care?”

“Same thing,” Chuuya said, turning away, a little too quickly.

Dazai didn’t push it. But he did notice the way Chuuya hesitated at the snack breads before picking the smallest one.

They bought everything, split the bags, and stepped back into the night.

⸻

Back on the Sidewalk

The air outside hit colder than before, wind threading through the fabric of Dazai’s coat. He tugged the collar up, glanced sideways at Chuuya, who was walking with his hands in his hoodie pocket, his mouth full of shrimp crackers and irritation.

“You’re walking like you just punched someone,” Dazai said.

“Maybe I did. Wanna be next?”

Dazai chuckled. “Why so tense, Chuuya-chan? Is it the mystery chocolate? The existential dread? The realization you’re stuck with me all night?”

Chuuya gave a short, sharp scoff. “It’s because I’m walking next to a dumbass who thinks shrimp-flavored gummies are a good idea.”

“They’re innovative.”

“They’re a war crime.”

They walked in sync, even if they’d never admit it. Their steps matched naturally, the quiet filling the spaces between sarcasm and breath. Dazai looked over again, this time more carefully. The shadows under Chuuya’s eyes were darker in the streetlights.

He nudged him gently with his elbow. “You okay?”

Chuuya didn’t answer immediately. He bit into another chip and looked away.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“That’s not a no.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes and gave a heavy sigh. “Don’t psychoanalyze me right now, Dazai.”

“You’re not as good at hiding things as you think.”

“And you’re not as smart as you think,” Chuuya shot back, but the edge was duller this time. More tired than angry.

“Touché,” Dazai said softly.

They didn’t speak again until the vending machine on the corner buzzed to life behind them, casting pale light across the sidewalk. Dazai’s reflection blinked back at him, and beside it, Chuuya’s—slouched posture, tousled hair, headphone cord tangled in his hoodie like a lifeline.

⸻

Chuuya’s House (Almost)

Chuuya’s building was old, a little worn down around the edges, like it had seen too much rain and not enough repairs. The porch light above the front stoop blinked weakly before giving up altogether.

“Still broken?” Dazai asked, shining his phone’s flashlight like a ghost hunter.

“No shit. I’ve been too busy to fix it.”

“You’ve been avoiding fixing it.”

Chuuya ignored that. He dug out his keys, fumbled them into the lock with more force than necessary.

Dazai glanced around. It was quiet—too quiet. No lights on in the neighbor’s window. No distant sound of a TV. Just the hum of the vending machine across the street and the crackle of wind kicking leaves down the gutter.

“Looks like something out of a psychological thriller,” Dazai said lightly. “I half expect a guy with a chainsaw to pop out.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Good. Maybe you’ll get chased.”

“I’m oddly flattered by the image of you saving me.”

“More like I’d trip you so I could run faster.”

He pushed the door open and gestured grandly. “After you, princess.”

“Fuck you.”

Dazai stepped in behind him, letting the door click shut. The entryway was dim but clean. There was a faint smell of citrus cleaner and something else—turpentine? Ink? The lingering scent of paint and worn sketchbooks.

“Shoes off,” Chuuya muttered, already toeing off his boots and padding toward the kitchen in socks.

Dazai followed, dropping the bags on the counter. Chuuya reached into one and pulled out the drink Dazai had picked for him—a mild black tea with a blue label. He stared at it for a second before silently twisting the cap off and taking a sip.

Dazai took that as a win.

“I didn’t peg you for a minimalist,” he said, looking around. The kitchen was small but tidy. A sketchbook sat closed on the table, beside a half-used eraser and two charcoal pencils. “Where’s the dramatic velvet curtains? The Victorian flair? The romantic chaos?”

“I live alone, not in a Dracula cosplay.”

“Still. A little mood lighting wouldn’t kill you.”

Chuuya yanked open a drawer and pulled out two mismatched bowls. “We’re eating ramen or not?”

“Is that an invitation?”

“God, just shut up and eat.”

⸻

The microwave hummed. The room was warm, and quiet again. Chuuya leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, head tilted back to rest against the cabinet.

For a moment, Dazai didn’t say anything. He just watched him in the soft light, the way his shoulders slowly relaxed, how his mouth parted slightly as if caught between thoughts.

“You don’t let many people in here, huh?” Dazai asked.

Chuuya’s eyes cracked open. “Is that a question or an observation?”

“Both.”

Chuuya didn’t answer. The silence stretched, filled only by the bubbling noise from the microwave and the occasional shifting of the wind outside.

“I can tell,” Dazai said softly. “It’s too quiet. Like you built the silence on purpose.”

Chuuya’s jaw twitched. “Maybe I like it that way.”

“I don’t believe you.”

That earned a dry laugh. “Of course you don’t.”

The microwave beeped.

Chuuya moved first, pulling the steaming ramen out and setting it on the counter. Dazai grabbed two sets of chopsticks and passed one over.

As they sat side by side on the kitchen floor, eating instant noodles at 9:30 p.m., Dazai looked at Chuuya again.

Something about this—about the hush, the heat of the bowl in his hands, the muted glow from the stovetop light—felt unshakably important. Small, but intimate. Like sharing oxygen.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did Chuuya.

But when their knees accidentally brushed and neither of them pulled away, Dazai knew something was shifting.

And for once, he didn’t rush it.

⸻

Chuuya’s Room

The bowls were half-finished, left on the counter, forgotten. Chuuya didn’t say anything as he left the kitchen, just turned and walked down the hall barefoot. Dazai followed, silently, the only sound between them the whisper of socks against wooden floorboards.

Chuuya’s room wasn’t what Dazai expected. It was small, but not cramped—sunlight-yellow walls dulled by the night, a desk under the window stacked with notebooks and graphite-streaked sketchpads, a record player on the shelf, and Mitski’s “I Bet on Losing Dogs” still paused on his phone screen beside the bed. There were thumbtacked art prints, quiet color palettes, a crooked corkboard with sketches pinned in layers.

And on the bed: a faded blanket, worn soft from use.

“Sit wherever. Just don’t touch the ink pens or I’ll kill you,” Chuuya said, voice low but tired more than threatening.

Dazai didn’t answer. He sat on the floor with his back against the bedframe, legs stretched out, eyes scanning the room like he was trying to memorize it. Chuuya sat on the edge of the bed a few minutes later, his hair still damp from the snow earlier, eyes not quite meeting his.

The silence this time wasn’t heavy. It felt like standing on the edge of something, neither of them sure if the other would jump first.

Then Dazai spoke. Quietly. Like the words might vanish if he said them too loudly.

“Do you… actually like me, Chuuya?”

Chuuya blinked. “What?”

“I’m asking if you like me,” Dazai said again, slower this time, like he wasn’t sure what answer he wanted.

There was a beat of stillness.

Chuuya exhaled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands tangled.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he said.

“I know.”

“You’re manipulative. And a know-it-all.”

“I get that a lot.”

“And you talk too much.”

Dazai offered a small, lopsided smile. “But?”

Chuuya didn’t look at him. His fingers twitched, then stilled. “But… sometimes, when you’re not trying so hard to be clever, you’re just… you. And I don’t hate that.”

Dazai’s chest felt tight—unexpectedly so.

“So… you do.”

“I didn’t say that,” Chuuya muttered. “Don’t twist my words.”

“You didn’t not say it, either.” Dazai tilted his head to the side, voice softer now. “Chuuya. Just tell me.”

Chuuya’s hand went up to his hair, tugging at the base of his ponytail, nervous. “It’s not that easy.”

“Yeah, it is. It’s just three words.”

“I’m not saying it like that,” he muttered. “Not when you’ll just turn it into a joke.”

“Not tonight.” Dazai looked up at him, serious now. “I won’t.”

For once, there was no smirk. No teasing.

Just him.

Chuuya looked away. His voice, when it came, was small.

“…Yeah. I do.”

Dazai’s heart skipped once. “You like me.”

Chuuya groaned. “Don’t—say it again like that.”

But Dazai was grinning now, not like a tease, but like something was unfolding inside his chest.

“I like you too.”

Chuuya finally looked at him. Really looked.

He didn’t smile—but his shoulders relaxed a little. His eyes softened. He muttered something like “dumbass,” but it didn’t have teeth. Not this time.

Dazai shifted slightly, resting his arm on the edge of the bed. “So what now?”

“Now?” Chuuya leaned back on his hands, eyes on the ceiling. “Now we pretend this didn’t happen tomorrow so the group doesn’t ask a million questions.”

Dazai snorted. “And then?”

“…Then maybe we figure it out.”

“Together?”

Chuuya gave him a sidelong glance. “…I guess.”

Dazai’s smile returned, soft and slow, like he was settling into something he didn’t expect to want. He tilted his head back and looked at the glow-in-the-dark stars on Chuuya’s ceiling like they were constellations just for them.

And neither of them said anything more.

But in the quiet, something changed.

Something real.

⸻

Night Falls Quieter Here

The room dimmed as the night crept further in. The only light came from the glow-in-the-dark stars above and the dull amber hue of the desk lamp Chuuya had forgotten to turn off. Outside, the city softened to a hush—muffled traffic, distant wind, the occasional bark of a dog.

Chuuya was quiet for a long time, arms tucked behind his head now, eyes half-lidded.

“I’m so fucking tired,” he muttered, barely audible.

“Then sleep,” Dazai murmured from the floor, where he now laid flat, hands behind his neck.

Chuuya didn’t answer, but the rustle of blankets and the shift of the mattress told Dazai he’d finally laid down. There was something comforting about the rhythm of his breath, the way it slowly evened out. Something human. Something fragile.

Eventually, Dazai sat up.

He moved slowly, quietly, lifting himself to sit on the edge of the bed. Chuuya had curled toward the wall, hair loose now, a few red strands brushing across his cheek. His brow was furrowed even in sleep, like he was still bracing for something—like rest didn’t come easy.

Dazai looked at him for a long time.

The way his hand had slipped under the pillow. The sketchpad still open on the desk with a half-finished drawing in charcoal. The faint bruise-colored shadows under his eyes that hadn’t quite faded since that awful day in the locker room.

He reached out, hesitated, then gently tugged the blanket up over Chuuya’s shoulder. His fingers brushed the curve of his arm—cold. He tugged it higher.

Chuuya stirred, murmuring something unintelligible, but didn’t wake.

Dazai whispered, “You’re not alone anymore, you know.”

The words dissolved into the room like breath in winter.

He didn’t expect Chuuya to hear. He didn’t need him to.

For now, it was enough to just be here.

Dazai leaned back against the wall, let his head rest there. His eyes drifted shut, but he didn’t sleep—not yet. He stayed like that for a long time, listening to the small sounds of Chuuya’s breathing, the weight of silence between two people who had finally begun to let the walls fall.

He watched the way the stars on the ceiling glowed faintly above them, flickering, faint, but still burning.

Even in the dark.

Chapter Text

Im going to orphan this series I just feel like I don’t like it anymore