Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everyone at Yokohama University knew two things.

One: if you wanted peace, you stayed away from Literature Room 4B after 3 p.m.

Two: Dazai Osamu and Chuuya Nakahara should never be left alone in the same room — unless someone wanted to see blood, books, or dignity spilled all over the floor.

The first time they met, it was over spilled coffee.

Chuuya had been running on precisely two hours of sleep and five espresso shots, balancing three open books and a half-finished essay on Nietzsche, when a long, pale hand reached past him toward the shelf labeled Existentialism.

He didn’t even see the cup tip.

Hot coffee soaked into his notes like blood, ruining two pages and setting off a reaction so volcanic that nearby underclassmen quietly disappeared.

“Watch it, jackass—!”

“Oh dear,” said a voice — too calm, too amused. “How clumsy of me. You really should learn to keep your elbows in.”

Chuuya turned. And met him for the first time.

Tall. Disheveled. Bandaged wrists and neck. Long fingers resting against the spine of Being and Nothingness like it was a joke. That lazy smile.

Dazai Osamu.

He had quite the reputation. Despite being famous among women, Dazai was known for his rather aggressive and possessive exes. Some were even stalking him, sending threats to his dorm.

And still, somehow, that damn name echoed from every fucking corner of the campus.

Not that Chuuya wasn’t well-known himself. He was popular, too. Despite his height, he worked out regularly to relieve the stress of university life, and he took care of himself — copper-toned hair, fair skin, stylish clothes... Even his taste in alcohol was elegant. (Unlike Dazai’s, which was utterly questionable.)

And Chuuya, despite the red rising to his freckled cheeks, despite the academic massacre of his notes, despite the burning desire to punch that bastard in the face, understood one thing immediately:

He hated this guy.

Two months later, nothing had changed. Except maybe the depth of that hatred.

Their rivalry was legendary. It wasn’t always loud.

Sometimes it was sharp sarcasm across lecture halls.

Sometimes it was swapped essays marked with petty comments in red pen.

(“Fascinating use of tautology — did you mean to sound this smug?”

“I fixed your thesis structure. You’re welcome.”)

And sometimes, like today, it was worse.

Chuuya stormed into the Philosophy Department’s weekly seminar five minutes late — hair tousled, eyes blazing, breath shallow — only to find Dazai already there, stretched out in a chair like he owned the room.

“I was just explaining the flaw in Camus’ logic,” Dazai said smoothly, tapping the chalkboard with those long fingers Chuuya wanted to snap in half and throw in the trash.

“But I’m sure Nakahara-san has a few passionate objections. He always does.”

A few students chuckled. The professor, long since resigned, rubbed his temple.

Chuuya didn’t sit. He dropped his bag, stalked to the board, and swiftly underlined the equation Dazai had written in chalk.

“This doesn’t even make sense,” he snapped, looking between the students and the brunette. “Camus wasn’t trying to solve suffering. He was confronting absurdity—”

Dazai tilted his head, shamelessly interrupting.

“Are you sure that’s not just your interpretation?”

“I’m sure you’re being deliberately obtuse,” Chuuya bit back.

“ME?!”

Dazai dramatically swung a hand over his chest, as if Chuuya’s words had struck him to the core. His face twisted with theatrical offense.

“No way, Nakahara! Maybe you just can’t see the obvious flaw. Oh, wait — maybe you're too short to—”

And then they were off.

Words like knives. Philosophy as warfare.

Chuuya, despite looking up to meet Dazai’s gaze, didn’t like to lose — and neither did Dazai.

Nobody interrupted.

Because that was a battlefield, right?

That night, Chuuya stayed late in the library.

It was the usual university library — dusty, dim, and mostly abandoned. Most students no longer needed to spend hours in such a place, thanks to modern tech. But students from departments like philosophy or psychology still had to visit from time to time.

Chuuya told himself he was there to fix his notes. To rewrite the pages Dazai had metaphorically set on fire.

But the truth was simpler:

He couldn’t sleep.

Usually, a sacred cigarette would calm his nerves and help him fall asleep. But tonight wasn’t usual.

The thought of Dazai correcting his “mistakes” was still rattling around in his head.

Something about the way that man looked at him — like he was peeling Chuuya apart layer by layer until he found whatever was buried under the anger.

He didn’t want to be seen like that.

Not by him.

But honestly, Chuuya just knew that Dazai was a fucking idiot, and he wanted to flush him down the nearest toilet.

So he read until the clock struck 11:38 p.m. and the library was nearly silent. The shelves were ghosts. The world outside was rain.

He turned a corner — and froze.

At first, he thought it was Einstein.

But no. It was his nightmare.

Dazai.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor between the psychology and ancient philosophy sections, reading in the half-light of a single desk lamp. Alone.

Chuuya wanted to leave. He really did.

He even rose from his chair so abruptly the legs screeched against the floor.

Through the bangs falling over his eyes, he saw a pair of brown, focused eyes staring right at him.

At first, there was no reaction — just the faintest twitch of Dazai’s lower eyelid.

Then his eyebrows lifted, and his eyes narrowed with mischief.

His lips curled into a smug smile.

‘Gotcha,’ they seemed to say.

Chuuya didn’t know what he wanted more: to leave, to punch him, or to take The Plague from the table and throw it at Dazai’s infuriating face.

“You stalking me now?” he asked flatly.

Dazai didn’t flinch. He demonstratively snapped the book shut, threw his legs up on the table, and folded his hands behind his head.

“You always say the most romantic things.”

“Are you out of your mind? I could tell everyone you're a faggot.”

But Dazai just blinked. Then smirked.

“You won’t,” he said — and somehow, it sounded like a dare.

Then, grinning wider: “Wanna bet?”

Dazai stared into the blue eyes across from him. Then, with a tired sigh, swung his legs down and stood up.

Despite the height difference, it was clear neither of them would back down.

“Why are you here so late, Chuuya?” he asked, dodging the original question by answering with one of his own.

“That’s none of your business.”

“But you want to ask me the same thing, don’t you?”

“And why,” Chuuya growled through clenched teeth, “did you, a walking chromosome accident, suddenly decide you know me well enough to guess what I’m thinking?”

“I know enough, thank you,” Dazai replied, nose wrinkling like Chuuya’s presence physically offended him. “How long did it take your tiny brain to come up with that insult?”

A pause.

Long. Loud. Tense.

Then Dazai leaned forward, voice low, unblinking. His eyes were almost black in the dim lighting.

“You argue like you want to lose.”

Something in Chuuya’s expression clicked — his eyes narrowing, fury building — so Dazai continued before he could interrupt:

“You throw yourself at everything. Ideas. People. You challenge me not because I’m wrong — but because you want me to be. It’s admirable.

Also stupid.”

To say Dazai enjoyed the way Chuuya’s face twisted in fury would be an understatement.

Maybe his tearful exes were right. Maybe he was a sadist.

But who wouldn’t be, when it was this easy to get under someone’s skin?

“Fucking pedant,” Chuuya hissed, stepping right up to him. “Don’t you dare say your sick little theories about me out loud.”

And after that, they both left the library.

One immediately.

The other... eventually.

Chapter Text

Dazai strolled into the seminar room ten minutes late, as usual, with a coffee he hadn’t paid for and a smirk he absolutely had. Chuuya was already there — seated, almost fuming, and feeling like he was doomed. He didn’t look up when Dazai entered. He didn’t have to.

“Nice of you to show up,” Chuuya muttered, flipping a page with more force than necessary.

The seminar room was utterly ordinary, but if it weren’t for the light from the window, it would’ve been plunged into complete darkness. The lamp above their heads only worked when it felt like it. No matter how many times it was fixed, it remained a phenomenon — it just didn’t work.

But even if the room had been bathed in warmth, Chuuya wouldn’t have felt it sitting next to Dazai. On the contrary — under the gaze of those sharp, cat-like brown eyes, it always felt like Dazai could see every secret.

The dusty space of the seminar room was more comfortable than Dazai’s presence.

Dazai dropped into the chair across from him. It creaked pitifully under his weight.

“Someone’s eager. You know stress causes early balding, right?”

Chuuya’s pen paused mid-stroke. Dazai loved to joke that Chuuya’s hat obsession was just a clever way to hide his bald spot.

“You would know.”

They’d been assigned this joint research project two days ago. “Joint,” of course, being a euphemism for academic purgatory — a cross-departmental paper on the role of emotional conflict in classical literature and its philosophical implications. A neutral-sounding topic, suspiciously chosen by Professor Mori, who had smiled in that unsettling way of his while announcing the pairs.

When the names of the two notorious enemies were read aloud, the room fell silent. Even the boy who sounded like he had pneumonia stopped coughing. The girls stopped giggling.

Dazai had just given Mori a knowing look and shrugged, arms crossed, gazing cheerfully out the window.

Chuuya, on the other hand, nearly snapped his pencil in half.

He might have kept it together — might — until Mori added,

“A large portion of your final grade depends on this.”

Chuuya had rubbed his temples and muttered,

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“I trust these two will produce something… intense,” Mori had added.

And so here they were: Saturday morning, locked in a seminar room with nothing but books, conflicting egos, and a shared hatred simmering just beneath the surface.

“We need a structure,” Chuuya said, clicking his pen. Saying he wanted to jump out the window would’ve been an understatement. “If you’re even capable of that.”

Dazai leaned back, tipping his chair onto two legs. He made a duck face and held Chuuya’s pen between his lips and nose like an idiot, clearly uninterested in doing anything.

“I was thinking we could start with Hamlet’s existential dread and see where that gets us.”

Chuuya wanted to deny it was a good idea. But he couldn’t. Dazai smirked as he watched Chuuya’s eyebrows furrow, his lips tighten into a thin line. He was so caught up in the sight of Chuuya’s internal conflict that he nearly lost balance in his chair.

Chuuya finally blinked. He was already mentally drafting his resignation from the human race.

“That’s… not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Careful,” Dazai drawled. “If you keep complimenting me, I might think you’re softening.”

When the redhead finally looked up from the incredibly interesting blank sheet of paper, his face twisted in indignation. He yanked the pen back from Osamu, muttering about needing to wash it with soap later.

“Keep dreaming. You’re not that charming.”

“I’m devastatingly charming,” Dazai chirped, switching to inspecting his nails. “Ask literally anyone who isn’t you.”

They worked for an hour. It was surprisingly productive — which, naturally, made it worse. The problem wasn’t intelligence; they both had that in excess. It was everything else: the way Dazai interrupted mid-sentence, the way Chuuya corrected grammar like he was wielding a blade, the constant tension beneath their words.

“Chuuya, tell me, why do you even need this stupid design here if you can do it later?” Dazai drawled, watching as Chuuya underlined the end of his paragraph with a red pencil and ruler — for eighteen full seconds.

“Whiner, shut up. It’s not my fault your writing slurs even on paper,” Chuuya muttered, finally putting the ruler down.

Dazai’s eyes flicked to the clock. 6:24 p.m. He could physically feel the hours spent beside Chuuya turning his bones inside out. He sat straighter.

“Why such a bright color? Ugh. You know, for someone who pretends to hate attention, you definitely dress like you want people to notice you.”

Chuuya didn’t think. Something inside him snapped. He shot a glare at Dazai like a thrown blade.

“And if I do want people to notice me, so what? It doesn’t mean I want YOU to.”

Silence. Thick, suffocating silence.

They were still staring at each other. In the quiet, they could hear someone walking down the hallway, talking on the phone. The wall clock ticked like it was waiting for something unsaid.

Chuuya didn’t even realize he’d stood up. He looked down at Dazai, jaw clenched.

Osamu’s brown eyes locked on his — until a wave of goosebumps crawled down his spine. He shifted, breaking eye contact, losing all trace of confidence.

“Jeez, I get it, Chuuya. Relax. I'm not into loudmouths with a Napoleon complex.”

The smile on his face came too quickly. He noticed, with a glance, the sweaty palm print Chuuya had left on the desk. So… Dazai wasn’t the only one who heard something he wasn’t supposed to.

After that, the room felt uninhabitable. Dazai swore he’d only return at gunpoint.

Since it was April and the sun had returned to warm the ground, most students spent breaks outside near campus. Chuuya actually loved the sun. It warmed his skin, brought comfort, made his freckles bloom. Usually, he basked in it like a lazy cat.

But not today.

Akutagawa Ryunosuke wasn’t known for being talkative. His perpetually sour face and thin eyebrows made it seem like he hated every second of his life. But Chuuya knew — if you talked to him for five minutes, he was actually pretty nice. A sharp haircut, stylish and comfortable clothes. Law student. Smart as hell. But his English?

Terrible.

“No—wait, Ryu— It should be R-y-u-n-o-s-u-k-e, not R-u-u-n-o-s-u-k-e,” Chuuya sighed, catching the mistake in his friend’s handwriting. He took a drag of his cigarette — inhaled wrong — and burst into coughing.

Akutagawa, seated next to him on the bench, gently patted his back.

“Chuuya-san, be careful.”

When the coughing fit passed, Chuuya wiped the tears from his eyes. He ground the cigarette out under his boot, tossed the butt into the bin, and winced as the sun hit his face.

“And by what date do you have to hand in that paper about London?” he asked, gesturing at the page Ryuunosuke was correcting.

“By the end of April,” the boy replied calmly. He glanced at Chuuya’s hand, already reaching for another cigarette. “Chuuya-san, are you okay?”

Chuuya froze, fingers on the pack. Then he sighed, shoved it back into his pocket, and leaned against the bench.

“Same as always.”

“So… bad?”

“Great.”

“You’ve smoked three in half an hour.”

“That’s normal.”

“It’s lung cancer.”

“...”

When Chuuya returned to his dorm, he wasn’t angry.

He was pissed.

Shirase, his roommate, wasn’t home. That didn’t help. The room was just as he’d left it: posters of his favorite bands on the wall, his bed half-made, the bedside table old and battered. Shirase’s bed? A disaster zone.

The door slammed behind him. He didn’t bother with the light — kicked off his boots, let them hit the radiator, dropped his bag somewhere near the desk.

The silence that followed was the worst part. No Dazai. No ticking clock. Just that line, on repeat in his head:

“If I do want people to notice me, so what? It doesn’t mean I want YOU to.”

God. His own voice made him cringe.

He grabbed a half-full water bottle from his desk, took a swig, spat it out. Warm. Stale. Like him. Threw it toward the trash. Missed.

He dropped onto his bed, elbows on knees, dragging his hands over his face — then buried his fingers in his hair like he could staple his thoughts in place.

“What the fuck was that, Nakahara.”

He felt it again — that glare, that ridiculous overreaction. The way he’d stood like he was starring in some school play. And Dazai’s eyes — quiet, sharp — watching him like he’d seen something Chuuya didn’t give him permission to see.

“You let him get to you. Again. Just like in high school.”

He yanked his jacket off too fast, catching it on his watch.

“So what if you want people to notice you?”

What a stupid fucking thing to say. No one’s ever looked at you the way you want them to, anyway.

He stood abruptly. Paced once, twice. Stopped in front of the mirror. Stared.

The freckles. The sharp eyes. The mouth still tight with frustration.

And Dazai’s voice, echoing in his skull:

“You definitely dress like you want people to notice you.”

Chuuya laughed once. Bitter.

Then, quieter:

“Maybe I do. So what?”

He looked away from the mirror like it had betrayed him.

But deep down, he knew what really pissed him off.

It wasn’t that Dazai saw through him.

It was that some part of him wanted Dazai to see — and not laugh.

Chapter Text

Song:

'Celebrating Nothing' by Phantogram

The seminar room was unusually quiet.

Not the good kind of quiet, like the one Dazai enjoyed when the world finally shut up and let him think. No, this one was thick. Loaded. Like a curtain that had dropped over the air.

Chuuya was already there, of course. He always was. Bent over his notes, hair falling slightly in front of his face, pen twitching in his hand like it wanted to stab someone. Probably Dazai.

Dazai stepped in, letting the door shut with a soft click behind him. He tilted his head at the silence, then offered:

“If I walked in on you planning a murder, you’d at least look up.”

No response.

Chuuya didn’t even flick his eyes toward him. Just underlined something in his notebook with surgical precision.

Dazai whistled low, setting his coffee cup on the table with an obnoxiously loud clack.

“Oof. That bad, huh? Did your favorite philosopher get canceled? Or did you finally realize Dostoevsky had mommy issues and wasn’t being deep?”

Still nothing.

The silence was starting to get under his skin.

He dragged the chair out, let it screech just enough to be irritating, and plopped down across from him. “Alright, Chuuya. Blink once if you’ve been possessed. Blink twice if it’s a cry for help.”

Chuuya finally looked up.

One glance.

Flat, sharp, exhausted.

Then he went back to his notes.

Dazai blinked. “Okay. Cryptic and brooding. Classic. But can you at least throw a pen at me or something? I’m starting to worry you’ve replaced your soul with a spreadsheet.”

Still no answer. Just a quiet inhale. Pen scratching paper again.

Dazai leaned back in his chair, letting it rock onto two legs. His fingers tapped idly against the table. He waited, but Chuuya didn’t break the silence. Not even a sigh. Not even a snort.

He hated this.

He hated that he noticed it.

Chuuya, on the other hand, did notice something.

He noticed the way Dazai kept fidgeting. The way he kept glancing up from his fake notes, tapping that pencil like he couldn’t stand the quiet either. Which was ironic, because wasn’t that what Dazai wanted? A world that shut up and stayed still?

Chuuya hated this too.

But for a different reason.

He didn’t know what the hell came over him during the last meeting. The words he’d said — the way he’d stood up like something possessed him — it had all felt so much heavier than it should’ve been.

> “And if I do want people to notice me, so what? It doesn’t mean I want YOU to.”

His voice still echoed in his head sometimes, out of nowhere.

Chuuya told himself he was tired. That this project was hell. That Dazai was just a ticking bomb of provocation. That’s why he’d snapped.

And yet, now he couldn’t look at him without feeling something taut and raw under his ribs.

Eventually, they started working — or pretending to.

Ten, fifteen minutes passed.

Dazai had flipped his notebook open but hadn’t written a single word. He just stared at the page like it owed him money.

And then, of course, he couldn’t help himself.

“Hey, Chuuya,” he started, voice casual. “If we kill the TA, hide the body, and blame it on Akutagawa, do we automatically pass?”

Chuuya glanced up, unimpressed. “What?”

“Think about it,” Dazai said. “It’s the perfect crime. Akutagawa already looks like he eats people. No jury would question it. We say it was over poor citation formatting and voila — clean record, full marks, and one less TA who assigns fifty-page readings.”

Chuuya didn’t smile.

Didn’t frown either.

Just muttered: “You’re unhinged.”

Dazai grinned. “That’s not a ‘no.’”

Still, there was no spark. No quick-fire insult. No “Dazai, shut the hell up.”

And that’s what bothered him.

Chuuya wasn’t engaging. He wasn’t fighting. He wasn’t even rising to the bait.

It was like something in him had curled inwards. Coiled.

Later, as Dazai crossed the courtyard between buildings, coffee in hand and existential dread in tow, he saw something that made his stomach twist in a way he couldn’t rationalize.

Chuuya.

Sitting on a low wall in the sun, head tilted slightly, laughing at something some guy next to him had said. Some tall guy. Blond. A face like he walked off a brochure for summer camps and eternal optimism.

Dazai didn’t recognize him. And he hated that he noticed how close they sat. Or that the guy was looking at Chuuya’s face too long between sentences.

Chuuya laughed again.

It was a quieter laugh than usual. Natural. Real.

Dazai looked away.

Walked faster.

That evening, the group chat was alive with weekend plans.

Someone mentioned the new guy from the philosophy department. "Takuya," maybe. The one who’d apparently “hit it off” with Chuuya during a lunch event.

Dazai typed:

> “Hope he doesn’t mind competing with Chuuya’s first love: existential rage.”

Then, without thinking:

> “Also, Takuya looks like the type to commit tax fraud and cry after.”

Pause.

> “…I respect it.”

He stared at the blinking cursor.

Didn’t hit send.

Typed again:

> “If Chuuya brings him to the party, someone please stage a fake emergency. I’ll handle the smoke bombs.”

Sent.

Closed the chat.

Threw his phone onto his bed and laid back with a sigh.

One of Dazai’s friend’s apartments was horribly filthy.

No — in reality, it was clean. But the air felt sticky, and the mass of bodies dancing under blaring music pressed down on his head.

Bright lights, stuffy from closed windows.

Someone had spilled wine on the owner’s carpet, prompting a loud curse.

"Spin the bottle, spin!" voices echoed from the spacious room where most of the teens had gathered.

Faded, torn wallpaper revealed cracks in the wall, while the floor was covered with an old rug littered with chip crumbs and something even harder to identify. Even though the old-framed window was shut, a soft whistle of wind drifted through the room — though it was muffled beneath joyful cries:

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

Another pair of lips met in a heated kiss. A girl Dazai didn’t know, proudly displaying her impressive cleavage, had dragged some loudmouth into a tongue-heavy tango. Her bright pink lipstick smudged obscenely over the guy’s lips as his hand kneaded her ass through tight jeans. Yes, Osamu noticed that very clearly. Everyone was quite drunk, and the scent of alcohol was probably strong enough to reach the next district.

Was it idiotic? Probably. But while the alcohol dulled their thoughts, everyone was enjoying themselves.

An empty beer bottle spun again.

Hungry eyes followed its movement, even if it was physically difficult due to the high blood alcohol level. When the bottle finally slowed and pointed toward two guys, sounds of mock retching and loud, rolling laughter erupted.

"I'm not a fag! I refuse!"

"BLEEEGH!!! STACY, GET A BUCKET!"

Chuuya was almost bored. Sure, he let out a few chuckles when someone said something so stupid it became undeniably hilarious. He himself had refused to take part in the game, brushing it off with his usual line about “saving himself for the one.” Of course, losing such a potentially scandalous participant drew disappointed sighs from several students who tried to persuade the redhead otherwise — to no avail.

// Tell myself I'm fine in celebrating nothing //

Dazai, on the other hand, was all too happy to lock lips with a pair of painted female lips. So he would never turn down such a delightful offer. On his right sat Enti. A stupid girl, likely cheating on her boyfriend, who probably had no idea. Osamu knew — he had spent time in her bed while she was doing her makeup, getting ready to see her "beloved."

And to his left, he was less fortunate — next to Emily. What a strange, nervous little thing she was. Two pigtails so thin and patchy they looked like rat tails, a nasty pimple on her forehead she kept trying to scratch off... Everything about her screamed "virgin." But everything about her also screamed she wanted Dazai. Cute.

Another glance across the room and he met familiar blue eyes that threw the brunette completely off track, making him forget about Emily entirely.

// And all the time I waste on celebrating nothing //

Not that Dazai had wanted to see Nakahara here. No — he figured he probably would, but had hoped he was wrong.

Because those irritating blue eyes would always bore into Dazai’s face, and the moment the brunette so much as tilted his head, the redhead’s attention would dissolve as if it had never been there. And that pissed Dazai off enough to raise goosebumps. How dare Chuuya be so brazen, standing right in his line of sight like that?

The loud pop of champagne opening in the next room finally tore his gaze from the annoyance to the green bottle in front of him.

Another second — and yet another pair of lips kissed Osamu.

And what a disgusting sight it was for Chuuya.

Not that Dazai was kissing a girl. And God forbid — not that Dazai was kissing at all! What irritated Chuuya was how easily these people could dive into such an intimate act with someone they barely knew.

Why the hell was Dazai smiling while a stranger’s lips caressed his? Why was he cradling the back of her head like he was encouraging her to deepen it? What were those cheerful whoops from the “friends” around them for?

// How many times can I blow it all //

When Osamu finally pulled away from the girl, his lips were a little swollen and tingling pleasantly. His head spun slightly — from the heat of the contact, the music, and the brandy warming his insides. Although Dazai was certain he wouldn’t be able to drag himself out of bed the next morning.

And again — there it was.

Those fiery red curls and ocean-colored eyes distracted him once more.

// How many times will I burn it down //

There was a soft curve to the boy’s lips, and his brows were slightly furrowed. He often looked like that — either displeased or deep in thought. Osamu knew he was both, right now. His gut twisted painfully, remembering their earlier conversation.

"Dazai! Maybe you’d like to go talk somewhere more private?"

// Give me a reason to stay alive //

A girl’s voice came from his right, and brown eyes tore themselves away from the boy across the room with effort. His gaze landed almost immediately on the girl’s generous chest, prompting Dazai to instinctively slip an arm around Enti’s waist. Even though all his attention now shifted toward dragging her away to blow off some steam, a small part of him still wanted to find Chuuya’s gaze — as if to prove, “I have a great, popular life, Nakahara. I’m not alone, and I don’t give a damn whether you’re happy or not.”

Maybe he would’ve heard Emily’s disappointed sigh or the drunken laughter of students.

But when his gaze flicked back to the redhead — he was already gone.

// I've got the feeling we're gonna die //

The confusion mingled with an unexpected sting of offense — and amusement. So when, in the cramped bathroom, Enti hiked up her skirt, Dazai buried every thought of Chuuya deeper in the ground, along with the seed of doubt and fear he didn’t dare acknowledge.

“This is what normal looks like. This is what men do. Easy. Effortless. I’m great at this.”

That was the only thing Dazai knew, the moment Enti's face was out of view and his smirk faded.

Chapter Text

Waking up in another person’s bed is almost always considered the pinnacle of trust and intimacy in society.

After all, seeing the sleepy face of someone who has shed all their ‘perfection’ from the night before — that’s a vulnerability not everyone can afford.

Sharing a blanket, tugging it over yourself in your sleep, then freezing when the other person steals it entirely — it all requires a readiness to be imperfect. To be groggy, to have a hoarse voice, to risk morning breath. But that kind of intimacy had never been in Dazai’s arsenal.

When Osamu cracked open his eyes, he didn’t even have to glance at the other side of the bed to know the girl was gone. Enti was the type who wouldn’t let herself be seen without eyeliner, let alone a full face of makeup. A clever woman with a neat, beautiful nose — and no real self-confidence. She’d slipped off to the bathroom long ago, and by now had probably left entirely — off to see her “boyfriend.”

Dazai stuck one leg out from under the white blanket and stared at the ceiling. Upstairs, someone was playing Everybody Wants To Rule The World. The melody wasn’t bad, but something about it scraped against his nerves. It left a melancholy mark.

There was no satisfaction in his body. The usual haze of post-sex numbness was gone, replaced by a film of sweat and the too-sweet perfume clinging to the sheets. Dazai was afraid he reeked of it too. His jaw held a faint smear of lipstick. He needed a shower.

He didn’t have a terrible hangover — he rarely did. Just a slight ache behind his eyes and a thirst he couldn’t ignore. He was prepared to stay in bed and stew in it all until his phone rang.

The ringtone buzzed somewhere on the floor. With a groan, he leaned down, checked the screen, and froze.

The name read: ‘Father’.

A second passed. Two. He almost pretended not to see it — then answered.

“Osamu,” came the voice, clipped and cold. “Why didn’t you answer your mother’s call?”

That was the beginning of the end.

Hiroshi Dazai had been strict from the beginning — rigid, dignified, and loving only toward the version of Osamu that stayed obedient and small. Somewhere between childhood and adolescence, that warmth had vanished. All that was left was pressure. Iron hands. Cold glances.

He didn’t yell. He never needed to.

Disappointment was his native tongue.

“Osamu. I asked you a question.”

Dazai dragged a hand down his face, eyes still half-closed, throat dry. Somewhere on the floor above, a man came out onto the balcony and shouted obscenities into the phone, clearly arguing with someone. The voice was rough and hoarse, as if he smoked constantly. But even with the rough words, this neighbor seemed kinder to him than the voice on the other end of the line.

“She called while I was sleeping,” he said eventually. “I was going to call back.”

And it was almost true. He would have answered the call — but, alas, he didn’t even know she had called.

“Sleeping,” Hiroshi repeated flatly. “It’s nearly noon.”

“Would you prefer I lied and said I was in church?” Dazai murmured.

“Don’t be clever.”

There was a pause. A silence so sharp it sliced into the base of Dazai’s skull. He felt himself already curling inward, slipping into that old rhythm — restrained breathing, tone under control, chin up. The subtle art of making yourself impossible to wound, even when the knife was already in.

“Your mother was worried,” Hiroshi said. “I had to tell her not to call again. You’ve embarrassed her enough.”

Osamu let out a laugh — soft, humorless. He could practically feel that heavy gaze on him. And he had to make an effort to answer without revealing how the chill ran down his spine and how his lip would soon start bleeding.

“Yeah, I’m pretty good at that.”

“You think this is amusing?” The voice hardened. “You’re a scholarship student, Osamu. You attend a respected university. Do you understand how fragile that position is? How quickly your reputation can catch up with you?”

“Which part?” Dazai murmured. “The grades, the girls, or the gossip?”

“The behavior.”

That word struck like a gavel. Disgust wrapped in civility. The room became cold, which forced him to hide his leg under the blanket again. He didn’t like his father’s tone. It made him feel like a defenseless boy.

“I get calls,” Hiroshi continued. “From old friends. Associates. People who still think I raised a son with discipline. And do you know what I hear from them lately?”

Dazai didn’t answer. In any case, his answer had the illusion of choice, and there was only one outcome.

“They say you parade around like some entertainer. They say you drink in public. That you… flaunt things.”

“Things,” Dazai echoed. “What a vague, trembling little word.”

“You know what the papers say about those who don’t marry, Osamu. Weak men. Undisciplined men.”

“Don’t worry. I kiss plenty of women.”

“You disgrace them all equally.”

A silence. Even the music upstairs had stopped. The neighbor stopped swearing loudly. The pigeons stopped purring.

Dazai lowered the phone slightly, forehead pressing into the back of his hand. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He could hang up. He could block the number. But instead, he found himself saying:

“I’ve done everything you asked. Good grades. A presentable face. Never been arrested — unless you count ethics class.”

“Don’t mock me, Osamu.”

“I’m not,” he quickly said. “I just think it’s funny, how I keep performing for you like I’m still twelve and waiting to be patted on the head.”

There was a long breath on the other end of the line. Disappointed. Measured.

“I won’t repeat myself again, Osamu,” Hiroshi said finally. “You will either act like the man you were raised to be — or you will lose every door I helped open for you. Be exceptional, or be nothing.”

The line went dead.

Dazai stared at the screen until it faded.

Despite how confidently Osamu had spoken before, he was shaking all over now. Not much — just his palms were sweaty and his fingers didn’t feel as controlled as before. That’s why he avoided talking to his father. Hiroshi always came out on top, no matter what Osamu did to please him.

His hand eventually dropped to the blanket, and for a moment, he just sat there — shoulders slumped, hair sticking to his forehead, the weight of an entire decade pressing down on his chest.

And then he laughed. Bitter, and so quiet it could’ve been mistaken for a cough.

“Still a man, huh?” he whispered. “Didn’t notice I’d stopped being one.”

It all started with a message on the dorm announcement board:

>“All first-year residents must participate in the monthly dormitory volunteer event. Attendance is mandatory. Teams will be assigned. Complaints will be ignored.”

Chuuya stared at the sign like it had personally offended him.

He didn’t have time for this. Midterms were creeping up, his research notes with Dazai were scattered across three notebooks and two arguments, and he’d barely gotten any sleep last night. All he wanted was one quiet weekend. One.

But the next morning, when names were called out in the common room, the universe laughed in his face.

“Team 9: Dazai Osamu and Nakahara Chuuya.”

There was a moment of thick, stunned silence.

Chuuya was ready to curse everyone in this damn university, because yesterday the Wi-fi didn't work and no one from that damn friends group had reminded him about the event. And when the pairs were being created, he was arguing on the phone with the provider. Of course stupid Shirase went to Egypt and left internet services unpaid.

“Seriously?” Chuuya muttered, under his breath.

“Aw, destiny,” Dazai cooed from across the room, stretching his arms behind his head. “We just keep ending up together. Almost romantic, if you think about it.”

“I’m thinking about punching you in the face.”

“Still romantic.”

The task was simple: clean and organize the old storage room on the bottom floor of the dormitory. Except that room hadn’t been opened in what looked like years. Dust coated every surface, there were broken chairs stacked like a game of Tetris, and an old vacuum cleaner sat in the corner like it had seen war.

Dazai poked at it with his foot. “This thing looks like it’s haunted.”

Chuuya glared at him, already pulling on a pair of cleaning gloves. “You’ll be haunted if you don’t get to work.”

They started in silence.

Well — Chuuya started. Dazai mostly poked things with a broom and made vague observations like:

“You ever think about how this room is just like society? Full of broken things no one wants to deal with.”

“You ever think about how fast I’d break you if you don’t shut up?”

After a while, the space started to shift.

There was a rhythm to the cleaning — a shared effort neither of them wanted to admit was kind of working. Chuuya dusted shelves while Dazai organized a pile of old books and files. Once, Chuuya nearly tripped on a loose floorboard and Dazai instinctively reached out to steady him.

“Careful, princess. This isn’t a catwalk.”

“Touch me again and you lose a finger.”

“Let's not promote violence towards Osamu Dazai. He might go extinct.”

Chuuya really wanted to throw down this already dusty yellow rag and run away. How could his plan to ignore Dazai work while that idiot was next to him all day long?

“It would be great if there were fewer inadequate people like you on earth.”

They mostly worked in silence and didn't look at each other. Only occasionally cast interested glances into the hallway, where two idiots were trying to stick gum into each other's hair. One, Nick, was tall, skinny and blond, so he gradually acquired the nickname "Stick." The other was a head shorter than him, a famous clown who apparently never washed his brown hair. His name was Roddy, and if you saw the two of them separately, it was a bad omen.

When the gum ended up in both of their hair and they started arguing, Osamu couldn't help but burst out laughing. But when Professor Jin came to Nick and Roddy and threatened to shove the gum where the sun doesn't shine, Chuuya laughed too.

In the corridor dissatisfied voices could be still heard, complaining about the tradition of cleaning. And Dazai complained too. He constantly ran to wash his hands as soon as he touched something dirty with bare hands, which infuriated the red-haired man.

“When will you finally calm down and stop running around washing your hands like an idiot?” he asked irritably, holding a garbage bag in his hands while Osamu raked candy wrappers into it.

“Never.”

“You'd better stop.”

As the sun shifted higher, the light streaming through the window softened. Their clothes were messy, hands covered in dust, and they were both breathing a little heavier.

“You ever wonder,” Dazai said casually, tossing a worn-out pillow into a donation box, “how we ended up like this?”

Chuuya, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, didn’t look at him. “Like what?”

Dazai tilted his head. “In a storage room. Covered in mold. With unresolved sexual tension.”

Chuuya threw a broom at him, but still struggled to hold back an infectious smile.

Just before they left, someone from another group peeked into the room.

“Whoa. You two actually worked together without killing each other?”

“Give it time,” Chuuya said.

But the other student grinned. It was Takuya. That same successful guy who Dazai genuinely despised. But Chuuya, on the contrary, seemed to be friends with the blonde man. And he was not at all like Osamu.

“That's quite impressive considering your attitude towards each other.”

Dazai's face didn’t change. Not visibly.

But Chuuya saw his jaw tighten. Just for a second.

It was past 1:30 a.m. when Dazai wandered onto the dormitory rooftop.

He hadn’t meant to go up there.

He’d just been tossing in bed again, the sheets too warm and his brain too loud. The ghost of his father’s voice — that controlled, sharp disapproval — still rang in his ears. The ceiling had started to blur. He needed air. So he slipped on his hoodie, shoved his phone in his pocket, and climbed up the back stairwell.

The old metal door creaked open slowly.

The roof was quiet. The kind of quiet that only happens when the whole world is exhausted.

And there, leaning against the metal railing with one arm slung over it, was Chuuya.

His back was to Dazai. The breeze caught his curls gently, and a half-finished cigarette glowed between his fingers. He hadn’t noticed him yet. Chuuya looked almost melancholic, although from this distance it would have been impossible to see his expression even if Nakahara had turned his face completely towards him. His red hair was not styled, but rather, just fluttering in the night wind. Was it really fate or just a coincidence? No one knew, and it was unnecessary.

Dazai considered leaving. Really. He did.

But then Chuuya turned his head slightly, just enough to see out of the corner of his eye. “...You gonna hover there forever, or what?”

Busted.

“I was just appreciating the romantic moonlight,” Dazai deadpanned, finally stepping onto the roof. “But then I realized the moon wasn’t as pale as your face, so I lost interest.”

“Touching.” Chuuya exhaled smoke through his nose, completely unimpressed. “You wanna smoke?”

Dazai blinked and felt utterly dumbfounded. “You’re offering me one?”

“No. I’m offering one to the part of you that occasionally shuts up.”

He tossed a cigarette at him anyway and hid his hand in the pocket of his jeans. Dazai caught the cigarette and then leaned beside him on the railing.

For a while, there was nothing but the sound of the wind, the occasional car on the road below, and the soft crackle of Chuuya’s cigarette. What was Chuuya thinking? It wouldn't be like him to start a conversation when he didn't want to. And to stand next to a man with whom he had previously fought like dogs, and especially to give him a cigarette... Well, Osamu didn't know whether he should be afraid or feel flattered.

Then, finally:

“Dorm Duty wasn’t awful,” Chuuya muttered.

“High praise.”

“I mean, you were barely useful, and I’m pretty sure you inhaled more dust than you moved, but still.”

“Say it.” Dazai turned to him slowly, hiding the unused cigarette in his pocket. “Say you didn’t hate spending time with me.”

Chuuya didn’t even flinch. He took another drag, answering naturally calmly. “I didn’t hate it.”

That was… shockingly close to a compliment.

And Dazai — for once — didn’t respond with a joke. Just nodded.

Silence again.

The sky was dark blue with a slight mist that washed out the yellow light from the street lamps. Dew had collected on the railings, which Dazai only became aware of when he leaned on them. Several windows in the high-rise buildings were lit, and Osamu wondered: what were the people doing there? Waiting for a loved one to come home from work? Studying for exams? Having sex or someone leaving in the middle of the night after an argument? It was unclear and not destined to know.

Then, quietly, Chuuya added, “My mom used to make me do chores like that. Not exactly ‘team bonding,’ though. More like, ‘you better not ruin the living room before guests arrive.’”

Dazai glanced at him, snapping out of his thoughts.

It wasn’t the words themselves. It was the way Chuuya’s voice tightened around guests, like it left a bad taste.

“She’d make me stand in front of the mirror before they came,” Chuuya continued. “Fix my posture. My hair. ‘Smile properly, Chuuya. Not like that. Wider. But not too wide — no one likes a show-off.’” He flicked the ash off his cigarette. “Then she'd tell me which compliments to accept and which ones to act humble about.”

Osamu didn’t say anything. But his brows had pulled together slightly.

“I guess…” Chuuya let out a dry breath. “I got used to it. People looking at me. Judging. Wanting me to be something.”

“You play the part,” Dazai said, softly.

“Yeah.”

He turned slightly toward Dazai then, his cigarette near finished.

“I act like I don’t care what people think. But that’s just what people expect someone like me to act like.” He laughed bitterly. “So even not caring becomes another role.”

Brunette stared at him.

And for once, no sarcasm came to his lips.

He just said:

“You’re more honest when you’re tired.”

Chuuya snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”

Dazai leaned back on the railing, letting his gaze drift up to the stars.

After a beat, he asked: “Do you think you’d be different if your mom wasn’t like that?”

Chuuya was quiet for a long time.

Then: “I don’t know. But sometimes I think I wouldn’t hate myself so much when I’m alone.”

That one sat between them, raw and honest.

Dazai swallowed. “Yeah.”

Neither of them elaborated. And they didn’t need to.

When they finally parted, they didn’t say goodnight.

But something — small and invisible — had shifted between them. A step closer.

Not quite friends.

But something was starting.