Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ten years until tomorrow.

Chapter I: broken window

Waking up at four in the morning to go jogging leaves Chūya feeling a particular sort of way. Getting exercise as an adult working a full-time job is a challenge, so running has become his new “thing.”

Like knitting last year, Legos the year before that, ironing, collecting stamps, et cetera, et cetera.

Running is different though, he tells himself. The hobby comes with his health in mind, surely more than a New Year’s fad.

Chūya layers accordingly for the frigid January chill. His hoodie is zipped, sneakers are tied, and keys and wallet have been collected from their place on the kitchen counter. He tiptoes, careful not to wake his sister and her girlfriend with his scuffling. The backdoor slides closed and he is meandering through dew-licked grass towards the worn sidewalk of a street too old in front of a house too old with a kid who feels so very old.

January dull bites. Flurries fill the overcast void parading as the sky. His breath, little clouds, puffs of chilly air, make him crave nicotine. Yet another overdone, overrated resolution. Exercise more, quit smoking. It is day eleven and he has barely touched the last pack he purchased approximately three weeks ago. Perhaps he has spent more nights than not in a drunken stupor, but he always wakes up early enough for a jog. Mostly. Often. He often wakes up—sometimes. It is day eleven and he sometimes wakes up sober enough for a jog. The new year is off to a fantastic start.

Approaching the sidewalk, it is four in the morning and his neighbor’s light is on. Nominal, but it catches his eye. Partially because no sane person rises this early in the morning for fun. They have been neighbors since they were—well since Chūya was a child. He is actually not sure how old Oda is, but he is sure the man always rises at seven on the dot. He tells himself it means nothing, that he should mind his own business, return to his should-be-daily jog, he should—

An inexplicable force compels him forward. He steps closer, walking towards the house, towards the light inside, towards the gaping hole in the window—

Well, that is not supposed to be there.

Very few children live in the neighborhood, having all grown up and moved far from the suburbs of Yokohama to Tokyo or America or anywhere that is not here. The chances of a stray baseball crashing are unlikely. Upon closer inspection, it is obvious the place has been ransacked. Tremendous disaster litters the floor. Shattered knick-knacks, torn up books, broken dishes—it has been years since Chūya’s stepped foot in this house, an entire decade, but he knows Oda is a tidy guy. This is more than uncharacteristic, it is plain criminal.

As any well-to-do neighbor would, Chūya calls the police. He and Oda do not chat often, if at all, but that does not stop him from doing his due diligence. He walks far from the house during his phone call, close enough to keep an eye, but away from sight. After successfully checking off “being a good Samaritan” from his to-do list, Chūya is struck with morbid curiosity. Perhaps the robber already left—that is all well and fine, but what about Oda?

The curiosity piques his interest, eats at his chest. Rabid, insatiable, and against all better judgment, he finds himself peeking back through that mangled window at the disorder of the living room and

There is a body.

Through the window, he can see the living room, which connects to the kitchen, which is full of broken dishes, empty bottles, and the like. The kitchen, where a limp body is slumped over the counters, struggling not to come crashing to the ground.

There’s no way it—

That would be absurd.

Because it has been ten years. Against all odds, they have not run into each other in ten years.

Curiosity bites and itches and Chūya cannot help but scratch, cannot help but approach and climb through—carefully—the window that has been shattered open. The body is unmoving, so there is no harm in doing a little bit of sleuthing, he tells himself. With care, he approaches the ragdoll corpse-like figure. There are shards of glass and porcelain, plastic and debris scattered throughout. He tiptoes into the kitchen, nears the body, and—

Amber eyes snap up, hazy and unfocused. Azure looks into amber and confusion is bred between the two. They stare and lock and

“Chūya?” The voice is weak and wobbly, baffled.

“Dazai. What the fuck are you—”

He never reaches the crux of his question, as Dazai stumbles to the sink piled high in dishes. He retches. All over the dishes.

“Jesus fuck, how drunk are you?”

A drunken mess is nothing new to Chūya. Still, it hurts the way it always does.

Because

because

because.

“‘m not drunk—” he stumbles, swaying, dangerously drunk. Chūya, on instinct alone, reaches over to catch him. He’s not expecting a thank you, but he’s certainly not prepared for the screaming.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Dazai shrieks, ear-piercing.

“Okay, okay, calm down. I just didn’t want you to fall and hit your head—” Chūya throws his hands up in the air in a position of surrender.

Dazai is in bad shape, but the distance seems to help. He retches again, this time only acid and bile making its way out onto the floor, narrowly avoiding the hoodie he is wearing. After a few more rounds of fitful coughing and dry-heaving, he comes down, crashing into a heap of bones on the floor directly next to the pool of his own sick. Chūya is certain he is sitting on ceramic shards of a broken dish, but decides it is not worth the mention. Instead, he shakes his head, taking in the wreckage that is the rest of the abode.

Abandoned cans and empty bottles, childhood toys and tchotchkes, all devastated. Harrowing. Chūya’s heart splinters at the long-since forgotten nostalgia of adolescence.

“Was there a break-in?” Chūya asks, optimistic though fully prepared for the conversation that is about to occur.

“What?” Dazai’s eyes are hazier than before. He teeters the edge of consciousness.

“This place is a wreck,” Chūya explains, “what happened?”

“Dunno.”

A hiss of irritation, “Where’s your dad?”

“Oda…saku—”

They’re interrupted by a ferocious banging.

--

“You called the police on me?!”

This was not the morning Chūya expected when going out for his should-be-daily jog.

“I live here!”

“No, you used to—”

“This is still my house!”

“When’s the last time you were here? High school?”

“I can’t believe you called the fucking cops on me in my own fucking house!”

At least Dazai sounds significantly more sober.

They stand on the curb as they argue outside in the near-freezing January cool. Dazai is without a coat but can barely feel much of anything courtesy of the anger and alcohol coursing his system. Chūya on the other hand, despite his many layers, is shaking like a leaf.

“Look, I came outside and saw a broken window. The house is decimated. Of course I assumed someone broke in.”

Dazai sways, despite his façade of sobriety. The tricks of the trade he had long since mastered came in handy when speaking to the cops, trying to convince them that he was not breaking into his own home.

“Why were you outside at—” Dazai checks his phone, realizes the screen is shattered, tries to turn it on, abandons the task, “early.” He spits out clumsily, “Why were you out so fucking early.”

“I was going on a run.”

With audacity, Dazai snorts, “You run?”

“Yeah?”

“Since when?”

“Since recently? Will you quit distracting me and answer my question?”

“What?”

“What? What do you mean ‘what?’”

“What?”

“What!?” Chūya seethes, on his last nerves.

“What did you ask me?”

“I—”

What did Chūya ask him? He forgets. Maybe he did not actually ask him anything. Luckily for him, thinking of a question is a breeze when faced with the chaos Chūya has been subjected to this morning.

“Why does it look like your house was broken into?”

“I smashed the window with a rock.”

“WHY did you do that?”

“I couldn’t get in.”

“What do you mean, you couldn’t get in?”

“I couldn’t find my key.”

“Oh my god,” Chūya rubs his temples, pressing in and wincing at the pressure the action triggers. “You broke into your own house?”

“So you admit it!” Dazai smiles sardonic and irrelevant, “It is my house!”

“Jesus. Why didn’t you just call your dad to let you in?”

All mirth dissipates as Dazai scowls Chūya’s general direction, “Wow.”

“What?”

“That’s one sick fucking joke, Chūya Nakahara.”

“Okay—did I miss something? Why are you so upset?”

“You seriously don’t know?” His words slur together, though he maintains his standing position.

“Don’t know what?”

“You’re his fucking neighbor.”

“Holy shit Dazai, what are you getting at?”

“My dad is dead.”

The world tilts on axis. The frigid air is more than icy, excruciating. A chill wracks Chūya’s frame as the words hit his ear drums, process in his brain. He rejects them, vehemently.

“How drunk are you?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“You said it yourself, I’m his neighbor. If something happened, I would know.”

“Something did happen,” Dazai cringes, sounding more sober than he has throughout their entire conversation. “He had a heart attack and died.”

“How the hell—” Chūya sputters, “how do you know that? Who found him?”

Dazai slumps forward, then sits down, defeated. Chūya joins him on the curb. Dazai rests his head between his knees, willing the world to stop spinning for a moment long enough to speak. “He called yesterday—early. Said he was having chest pain. Other symptoms. He told me not to worry but I came down after work. It was a long-ass train ride. When I got here, hewasdead.” He slurs the last few words.

“You—” Chūya shook his head, rambunctious red curls flying despite the hat supposedly keeping them in place, “you found him?”

“Do you know what a corpse looks like, Chūya?”

“I—”

“I got to hold it. They’re heavy. Cold. I didn’t expect it to be so heavy. He’s not a big guy or anything. But he was. It was. The corpse.”

“Dazai—”

“You speak French, right Chū? The word corps means body. It’s only one letter away from corpse. Isn’t that funny? We’re one letter away from death.”

“Dazai—” Chūya repeats himself, saying his name, but there are no words to accompany it. There is nothing to say. “Shit, Dazai. That’s—”

He is interrupted as the other sways and topples and collapses.

--

Chūya is thankful he works out. He manages to drag Dazai inside, carrying him to his bedroom in the house that is, conveniently, all situated on one floor. Dazai has always been a stick and though he has filled out a bit since high school, he is still on the skinnier side. Truthfully, the gangly limbs are what make it a challenge. He is all leg and Chūya cannot help the poorly timed jealousy swelling in his chest at it.

As Dazai sleeps, Chūya does his best to tidy up the place. He does not like to clean up other people’s messes, can barely even stand the rare occasions he is stuck doing his sister’s dishes, but figures he owes it to the dead man to straighten his abode. The place is a disaster, nothing of curry and video games and sleepovers and fun. The conversation with the police was a challenge. Somehow, the two of them pieced together a semblance of an explanation of the minor misunderstanding and got away with a warning about “public disturbances.”

He sweeps away the broken glass, grimacing at each piece of memorabilia that has found itself smashed beyond repair. His heart tugs, splinters at the little calico cat figurine that is now missing its head. He pockets the pieces, deciding it may be time to invest in some superglue. Chūya never thought himself materialistic, but something about broken glass leaves an aching chasm within him. He repeats this motion for a handful of other figures and decorative pieces. In the end, there is not much left, but something is more than nothing and for this, Chūya feels fleeting pride.

The place is still a dumpster fire, but at the very least there is a walkable path. The books are still bent and torn, the recycling is filled to the brim with empty bottles, and Chūya just barely manages to clean the vomit in the sink without adding his own contribution to the mix.

He is so busy cleaning that he has no time to register all Dazai has told him, to process the fact that he is in a dead man’s house, cleaning a dead man’s things. That the man who was once a second father has died. It is disturbing and disgusting and wrong and

The timer goes off. Breakfast is ready.

--

Head pounding, vision swimming, nausea settling deep in his gut. Dazai wakes up disoriented. Quite disoriented. Disoriented and in his childhood bedroom. The walls are painted a deep cobalt only a few shades separated from navy. They are mostly bare, only decorated by bookshelves overflowing with textbooks, anthologies, and the like. His rug is black and plain. For a childhood bedroom, it looks horribly incorrect.

Everything aches, the dredges of a hangover taking form. He swallows back bits of vomits, both repulsed and impressed by the feat. With each inhale and balanced movement, his body screams. He is sweat-drenched, clothing damp and sticky. Days overdue for a shower at this point, he decides now is good a time as any to remedy this.

An agonizing pace, Dazai heaves himself into a seated position. The world tilts and all he can do is swallow back more bile. He absentmindedly wonders when he has last eaten. Not that it matters, the mere idea of food is enough to set off a subsequent wave of nausea. Precariously, the world and his stomach settle in tandem and he draws upon all his strength to hoist himself up to full height. He sways leaning against his dark wooden dresser for support. It is painted black, though at one point, when purchased secondhand, it was a pale lilac. He never had a problem with lilac, but black looked better with the room’s general aesthetics. He and his father agreed on this and spent an entire week making the idea a reality. Dazai likes his dresser and it feels nearly wrong to lean on it in a hungover daze, tainting its childhood innocence with his present reality of bad habits.

A scoff. As if his childhood were ever innocent.

The idea of a shower morphs into thoughts of a bath, because he highly doubts standing for more than a few minutes at a time is in the cards. Carefully, he straightens up and exits his room. The scent of breakfast wafts his way and though his stomach roils in protest, curiosity gets the better of him. He wonders what Odasaku is making, considering the man can only really manage curry and toast. Anything else is typically inedible (the curry, at least, is spectacular).

“Odasaku?” His voice is hoarse as he trudges down the hall, lethargic, “What are you making?”

Red hair and ocean eyes startle, turning towards the hall. Red hair and ocean eyes on a peculiarly small frame. Oda is not a large man, but he is tall and has a perpetual five o’clock shadow and does not wear workout clothes and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck

he’s dead he’s dead is dead, is dead, Odasaku is—his Odasaku is—his father is dead is dead is—

Dazai’s father is dead. All because Dazai was too late. Because Dazai had to finish his shift before catching the train when he should have just fucking left—

“Dazai?” Not-Odasaku’s voice snaps him into focus.

“You’re not Odasaku.”

“I’m not.”

A long, exasperating pause.

“Why is Chūya in my dad’s house.” A statement more than a question.

“You don’t remember?” Chūya’s brow furrows and Dazai cannot help but think it makes him look like a constipated dog.

“I don’t know,” he eventually answers. The world starts to spin again and he clutches to the wall for support—moral and otherwise.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Chūya continues with the difficult questions. Dazai manages a shrug. Does sake count as dinner? “Okay,” Chūya serves the meal, “Bon Appetit.” Despite the kindness of the gesture, Dazai stares with mild appall.

“No,” his goal is nonchalance, though the response comes out strained.

“You have to eat.”

“I’m going to puke.”

“Will you at least try?”

“Throwing up is painful. I hate pain.”

As if his body is not covered in bandages.

As if his head is not throbbing from his hangover.

As if all he has broken and shattered externally has not, too, broken and shattered internally.

“Please? Just some broth and rice?”

“No.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“Go home, Chūya.”

Chūya gapes, audacity.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Go home.”

Standing his ground, Chūya crosses his arms much like a disapproving housewife, Dazai’s mind inconveniently supplies, “I’m not leaving you like this.”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Dazai—you massacred your childhood home.”

“I was drunk.”

“Drunk or sober—that’s not normal.”

A scowling death glare, “I mean I did find my dad’s corpse two days ago. When you find your dad’s lifeless body and think of a ‘normal’ coping mechanism, give me a call.”

Frustration, yet understanding, “Okay. I get it—shit’s rough and I don’t mean to judge you—”

“Isn’t that what you always do? Judge my life choices? The people I fuck—”

“That was totally different—”

They are interrupted by the ringing of Chūya’s phone. He answers.

“Hey sis,” he greets haphazardly, “sorry, it’s complicated. I was going on a run—yes I do. Yes, I do. Since New Year’s? Yes, I—nevermind. Whatever. I’ll be back soon and will fill you in then. Promise. Okay. Bye.”

“You should go,” Dazai interjects the minute the phone is hung up.

“When’s the funeral?”

Bleakly, “Saturday.”

“What time?”

“Why do you care?”

“So I can come?”

“Who said you were invited?”

“Come on. Let me be there for—for Oda. Let me be there for Oda.”

“I don’t want you coming to the funeral.”

“But—”

“Drop it! You’re not coming!” He is irrationally upset over this.

There is something about dealing with Dazai that manages to drain all the fight from Chūya. He is, and has always been, as difficult as they come. Despite all the presumed changes of the past decade, he is no less stubborn, no less of a pain in the ass.

“Fine,” Chūya concedes. He is not happy about this, not at all happy about missing Oda’s funeral and being pushed out of Dazai’s life all over again. But friendship, even acquaintanceship, is a two-way street and it’s no good if Dazai’s going to stand in the middle of the road. “But if you need me—”

“I won’t.”

“I’m a phone call away.”

He doubts if Dazai even has his number after all these years, but there is not much more he can say on it. Instead, he nudges the untouched breakfast in Dazai’s direction. Dazai’s eyes twitch, repulsion rising.

“I’m going to shower and you’re going to go home—”

Chūya stares, puzzled, “Why are you so mad at me—”

“You know why.”

“I was seventeen. What the hell was I supposed to do—”

“After!” Dazai hissed, “You ignored me.”

Chūya is quiet.

“You ignored me too. It’s complicated,” Chūya finally speaks up. “You could have reached out.”

“So could have you.”

But they did not. They lived in radio silence after all of everything.

Deafening stillness spreads between them. Dazai leans against the wall, “I’m going to take a shower. Stay or go. Do whatever.”

Chūya looks at him, eyes a myriad of apprehension, attention, and irritation. Dazai turns the corner, shakily maneuvering down the hall.

“You can barely stand!” Chūya yells after him.

“So I’ll take a bath!” Dazai retorts. He stumbles, disappearing into the dim lit hall.

 --

“Where the hell were you? You promised to clean with me before Akiko leaves for her shift tonight. You know how antsy she gets when the house is a mess.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“You sounded stressed over the phone. What happened?” Kōyō narrows her eyes, studying her brother judiciously. Chūya collapses into their cozy forest green sofa, head in his hands, heaving a sigh.

“Dazai. His. His dad. Oda.”

“Our neighbor…?” She raises an eyebrow as her inflection hikes in pitch.

“Yeah. Um,” Chūya exhales deeply, precariously, “he’s dead.”

“Wait,” disbelief, “what?”

“Oda’s dead,” he repeats himself.

“Chūya, what the hell?” Kōyō gives her brother a once-over before looking out the kitchen window at their neighboring house. “How do you know? What happened? You don’t talk to Dazai or Oda.”

“Heart attack,” Chūya replies simply, “he called Dazai but didn’t go to the hospital. By the time Dazai got there, it was too late. He was already gone.”

Chūya blinks rapidly.

“You saw Dazai?” Chūya nods. “How’s he holding up?”

“Not um. Well. He’s not doing good.”

“Go figure.”

“The whole house was a wreck. Like—God it was so bad. Such a mess. Like shit was broken. There were bottles everywhere—he was trashed.”

“So what did you do, take care of him? Even after everything—”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Chūya snaps, “I couldn’t just leave him like that—”

“You’re a very kind person, Chūya. But what he did to you—”

“It wasn’t his fault. We were kids.”

“Inadvertently,” she corrects. “He didn’t mean to hurt you, but he did. You can’t act like that never happened.”

“That was ten years ago. I’m over it,” he lies.

“You don’t sound ‘over it,’” his sister points out.

“Look, what’s in the past is in the past,” Chūya bites back, “there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“I understand, but what happened between you two was really serious. Yes, you were both kids, but it shaped you. Those were formative years that were stolen from you—”

“As if dad didn’t do enough of that. It’s not Dazai’s fault,” Chūya argues, “I know Dazai isn’t always—he’s caused issues in the past. I get that. But there’s a lot of stuff that isn’t his fault. I can’t blame him for that—”

“But he blames you, right? For how it all—”

“No, that’s not—”

“I don’t think it’s fair for you to forgive Dazai when he refuses to forgive you.” Chūya tosses his head back with a loud groan. His neck pops in protest with the movement.

“He never said he doesn’t forgive me.”

“Then why—”

“He’s angry and upset because his dad just died. I don’t feel like holding a useless grudge when he’s already lost so much. You know how close they were.”

Silence manifests between them. A long, petrifying quiet.

“I see,” his sister responds after several moments too long. “I won’t tell you what to do or how to live your life, but I will warn you to tread very carefully.”

“He’s probably just in town for the funeral and will leave for wherever he’s at these days.”

“Except for the house,” his sister mumbles under her breath. Chūya’s head shoots up.

“What?”

“The house,” she repeats herself, “what’s he going to do with it?”

Chūya’s frozen, his thoughts crashing down upon him. What is Dazai going to do about the house? Sell it? Move back in?

“Whatever he chooses to do,” Chūya settles on, “it’s not my problem.”

Kōyō shakes her head, “If he moves back in and becomes our neighbor again, he sure will be.”

“It’ll be fine,” Chūya brushes the concern eating at his chest, “it’s his problem.”

“Whatever you say, Chūya. Whatever you say.”

--

The bath is lukewarm, the water draining before it ever fills to a proper percentage. He supposes Oda has yet to fix the drain, or at the very least has yet to invest in one of those drain stoppers—one of the good ones you can get online for pretty cheap. It used to work perfectly fine, but after a while it started to wear. Dazai will have to get him one for Father’s Day—

His wrist is bleeding and the water turns red, murky as the substances intermingle, scarlet spreading rapidly, like a dye.

He has not done this in a long while, but he also has not had a reason to do this in a long while. Now, he has a reason. So he carves himself open one wrist at a time.

The world is floating. He likes it better this way. Prettier with fuzzy edges. Everything is prettier like this. Prettier in a world where Oda is still alive and Dazai needs to get him a drain cover for his Father’s Day gift and wonders what they will do to celebrate Dazai’s first year sober.

The world is prettier with little lies coursing through veins that spill into lukewarm bath water.

Chūya is pretty.

The thought enters his mind uninvited. He does not intend to think of Chūya and has no reason to think of Chūya nor a want to think of Chūya and yet, intrusive, he appears.

It is only an incentive to dig deeper, to ignore the bristling pain and switch arms despite how weak his left is now feeling, holding the blade haphazardly. He tries to cut, he really does. He would like to die now. Life was purchased by accident and he would like to return it, no refund necessary. He just wants out.

The water is uncomfortable but the world is fuzzy and pretty and that is all that matters.

He fades and—

There is ferocious banging.

“DAZAI!” It is faint and distant, but Dazai swears Odasaku is calling his name. The banging returns, louder and hurried. “DAZAI OPEN THE DOOR!”

Unconsciousness is taking claim, his eyes fluttering, mind slipping, existence fading.

“Sorry dad,” he whispers, eyes closing.

He swears he hears some sort of soft footsteps creeping through the hall—but pays them no mind. Not as he drifts, body sinking lower into the crimson swash of bath water.

“Dazai! Where are you!?” The voice is frantic. Dazai cannot hear it.

Dazai is away. Very far away.

--

Chūya knows he should not return, has no reason to return, but he does anyways.

This has nothing to do with worry or anxiety or concern.

It is merely generic care for the fact that an idiot with a hangover could slip in the shower and hit their head. And idiots with hangovers often do not take initiative to reheat their food from earlier, so maybe Chūya decided cooking extra lunch was not the worst idea in the world. And maybe Chūya wanted to clean up some more of the books because they are perfectly fine and it is a shame that they are now bent and crooked and torn. Nothing to do with “caring about” Dazai’s well-being.

Chūya truly cares more for the house than he does for his ex-best friend, and he owes it to the house and to the dead man to do his part.

Which is how he ends up banging on the front door of a dead man’s house, Tupperware in hand.

Of course, no one answers. This should not come as a surprise, considering how much of a zombie Dazai seemed earlier in the day. Assumedly, the zombie is sleeping. That does not stop Chūya from banging on the door.

“DAZAI! OPEN THE DOOR!”

He is met with silence. The broken window looks a little more intriguing than it did moments ago.

It can’t hurt, he thinks to himself. It is a quick convincing before Chūya’s carefully climbing through the broken glass of the window once more. Noteworthy is how Dazai managed to climb through without injuring himself, as Chūya just barely avoids the pointy protruding pieces. The inside of the house is no different than how it was left earlier, which thankfully means no worse.

“Dazai!” Chūya calls out, hoping the sound of his yelling will wake the other up, “Where are you!?”

No answer.

He makes his way to Dazai’s bedroom when—

Strange.

The sound of running water rushes his ears. Dazai could be taking a shower, but that was what he was going to do three hours ago. Maybe he lied. Got distracted. Maybe—

No excuses can make this all too familiar ache in his gut fade. Chūya follows the sound. It does not come from the hall bathroom, but from bathroom attached to the master suite, to Oda’s room.

The house smells like a decade ago. Like made-up languages and school crushes and secret handshakes and crying and fighting and screaming and loving and—

He can barely breathe, suffocating in the tightness of all that once was. There is little he can do about these memories that threaten asphyxiation, so he wades through one step at a time until he approaches the bathroom.

He knocks as courtesy, “Dazai?”

No response.

“Dazai, how long have you been in there?”

No response.

“I’m coming in.”

The door is unlocked, because of course it is. It is not like there is anyone Dazai would need privacy from.

Chūya opens the door.

Unsurprisingly, blood.

There is a lot of it. It drips down arms decorated with thick gashes, seeps into the water below. An empty bottle of sake sits tipped over at the foot of the tub.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Chūya curses as he dials an ambulance, the second time calling emergency services in a twenty-four hour period. This one will be much harder to explain away.

“Stay with me, shitty mackerel,” he turns off the running water as the dispatcher informs him an ambulance is on the way. Chūya is by no means a trained medic, but he does his best to control the bleeding, grabbing a towel and tying it tight around the wounds. Dazai is naked but that doesn’t bother him, he is too busy focusing on keeping the damn fish alive to give a shit about public decency.

“You’re going to be okay, mackerel. You’ll be okay.”

Dazai is not okay.

--

Chūya is not okay.

This is not how his new year is supposed to go. He is supposed to be going jogging and ignoring the craving for cigarettes and spending more time with his friends.

He is not supposed to be sitting in the waiting room, knee bouncing rapidly, the taste of nicotine fresh in his mouth.

“Chūya!” Akiko Yosano calls out as she and Kōyō come bursting through the door.

“You didn’t have to come—” Chūya says by default, stopping as he receives a harsh glare from Akiko.

“I was friends with him too,” she declares, voice confident despite the anxiety gnawing her insides, “I’m not just here for you.”

“I am,” his sister announces, “just here for you,” she clarifies, making her thoughts and feelings on Dazai known.

“Thanks,” Chūya replies uneasily.

“Was it bad?” Akiko asks. He nods. “How bad?”

“He was bleeding out in the tub,” Chūya averts his gaze, looking as far away from the present as he physically can. The conversation is uncomfortable and the images occupying his mind are uncomfortable and just about everything feels impossibly wrong.

Everything is far too familiar.

Far too much like—

“Shit,” Akiko curses under her breath. She lets go of her girlfriend’s hand, taking both of Chūya’s in her own. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Nothing I haven’t already seen,” he shrugs.

“That’s not a good thing,” his sister scolds gently.

“I know.”

They stand around awkwardly for several minutes, no one in the mood to sit down. A doctor finally comes out, “Osamu, Dazai?”

Chūya and Akiko race forward, “Is he okay?”

“Are you family?” The doctor asks, eyeing Chūya skeptically.

“I’m his sister,” Akiko says without missing a beat. Always the better one under pressure. Her resemblance comes in handy and Chūya cannot help the bout of envy creeping up. He blames it on stress.

“He’s stable,” the doctor says in his calm cadence. He goes on to explain some medical jargon that flies over Chūya’s head. He turns to Akiko for a translation.

“He’ll be sore, but he should be okay,” she explains, “he did some damage, but nothing permanent.” Chūya sighs in relief.

“Can we go see him?”

The doctor eyes Akiko carefully, “Family only. He’s still unconscious but we anticipate he’ll be up soon.”

Chūya wants to argue, but is too tired to imagine putting up a fight. Instead, he nods as Akiko squeezes his hand. She follows the doctor behind the doors that lead to the room.

“This isn’t your fault,” Kōyō says the minute the doctor and Akiko are out of sight. She reaches over to clasp Chūya’s hand. He pulls away.

“I’m such an idiot,” Chūya deprecates, “I should have known this would happen. I mean, it’s Dazai for fuck’s sake. I should have known.”

“You couldn’t have known this, Chūya. Dazai isn’t your responsibility. It’s been ten years—I’m surprised he’s still playing the same games—”

“This isn’t a fucking game,” Chūya snaps, “no one would have found him if I didn’t decide to bring him lunch. He knew what he was fucking doing.”

They sit down on the uncomfortable pale vinyl chairs of the waiting room. Chūya chooses the teal chair, the one different than all the others. Kōyō shifts anxiously.

“That’s not what I meant,” she attempts clarification, “I just meant. Dazai’s always been like this. He threatened to kill himself over everything—if he didn’t get perfect grades, if you didn’t want to hang out with him—”

“He wasn’t joking. I mean, sometimes he was, but he always meant it. Dazai’s always serious when he talks about suicide. I just thought—" Chūya looks down at his hands curling in his lap. He is no longer in workout clothes, opting for jeans and a red sweater. He plays with the sweater’s soft fibers as he speaks. “I thought he would be better by now.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“But his dad just died. So I guess. I guess that’s enough to reverse whatever progress he’s made.”

“Chūya?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t want you spending time with Dazai. When he gets out of the hospital and deals with the house—I want you to keep to yourself.”

“Come on sis—”

“I’m serious,” her tone is forward and unwavering, “I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“I appreciate your concern. But I can’t just leave him to his own devices—”

“Actually, you can,” she responds harshly, “he’s a full-grown adult. It’s Dazai’s responsibility to look after himself. I don’t want you getting involved.”

“I’ll be fine,” Chūya assures, “I won’t get too involved. I just don’t want him trying to kill himself again.”

“You can’t control that.”

“I know—”

They are interrupted as Akiko returns.

 “How is he?” Chūya asks with immediacy.

“Upset. He needs psychiatric care but the hospital isn’t going to offer it. They’re releasing him later today.”

“Are you serious?” Chūya seethes, “That’s bullshit! He’s just going to try and kill himself again at this rate!”

“I called Ango.”

A beat. Ravenous guilt.

“You have Ango’s number?” Chūya asks.

“I do,” Akiko nods, “we don’t talk but. You know. So um. He agreed to pick up Dazai and stay with him.”

“Glorified suicide watch,” Chūya snorts. “Well, if Ango’s going to make himself useful, I won’t complain.”

“How are you doing?” Kōyō reaches out and pulls her girlfriend’s hands into her own chest.

“I’m okay. It’s hard seeing him like this but. You know. Is what it is.”

Their relationship is complicated.

“What now?” Chūya asks, “Do we wait for Ango to come get him?”

“I don’t mind waiting,” Akiko replies, “I think you two should go back home and get some rest.”

“But—”

“Chūya, what you saw was traumatizing. You need time and space to process this.”

“I’m fine,” Chūya hisses, “don’t tell me what I need.”

“Lad—” his sister starts. She reaches to put a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the sting in her chest at the sight of his recoil.

“Save your pity,” Chūya barks, “Dazai’s the one who lost his dad, Dazai’s the one who tried to kill himself. If you’re going to pity anyone, let it be him. I’m doing just fine.”

“But—”

“I’m going to get some coffee. Stay or leave, do what you want.”

Kōyō and her girlfriend exchange a look as Chūya storms out.

--

Ango’s car smells atrociously familiar. Reeking of memories, of prospects of step-adoptive-dads, of budding romance, of controlling behavior, of unhappy endings.

Ango looks exactly the same as he did ten years ago. Hair neatly trimmed, round glasses, mole on the corner of his face. He must have come straight from work, as he wears an olive suit Dazai swears he has seen on the man ten years prior. The conversations in the hospital were stiff and strange. Dazai would have protested his new babysitter, had he any more energy. As Ango’s luck has it, Dazai is exhausted. Suicide can have that effect on you.

“I haven’t had a chance to make up the guest bedroom,” Ango informs in his nasal tone. Dazai despises it. “I was at work when I got Akiko’s call. I’ll clean it up when we get in.”

Dazai busies himself in staring out the window, watching the trees and buildings and world blur by.

“I’ll have to ask that you leave the bathroom door unlocked when you use it.”

“Why.”

He knows why.

“You know why.”

“Right.”

They reach a red light. Ango turns to Dazai, hazel eyes upsettingly earnest, “Are you feeling suicidal right now?”

Dazai practically snorts at the question, “When am I not?”

“Dazai, I mean it,” Ango chastises. “Do you plan to kill yourself?”

“I mean, not right now. I’m fucking tired. It’s green,” Dazai gestures at the light. Ango returns his attention to the road, driving exactly the speed limit, because that is the kind of guy Ango is and has always been.

“If you feel suicidal, I need you to tell me right away.”

“I told you—I always feel suicidal.”

“It’s been years since we saw each other last. Please don’t tell me you haven’t changed a little bit from back then?”

Dazai’s brow furrows at the implication of the question, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I just figured you would have gotten help by now—”

“I still have my therapist, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

“Fukuzawa-san? Does he help?”

“Sure.”

“Then how come you’re—”

“My dad just died. My fucking Odasaku. Your ex-boyfriend who you dated for six years. How can you and everyone else act like I’m crazy when—”

“That’s not what we’re doing.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing! Of course I’m depressed! Of course I want to fucking die!” His voice is hoarse from overuse. He coughs, ignoring the bottle of water Ango’s brought for him in the cup holder between them.

“I understand. I’m sorry—”

“No,” Dazai snipes, “you don’t understand. You don’t understand anything.”

“I loved him too—”

“Ten years ago, you did. Not recently. When’s the last time you two even talked?”

“We talked,” Ango frowns.

“When?”

“We talked.”

“Right. Whatever.”

“Dazai—”

“I’m taking a nap.”

He closes his eyes, ending the conversation.

--

It is not a long task, Dazai-proofing the house. Dazai himself is a mix of insulted and impressed by the lack of knives in the kitchen and missing razors from the bathroom. The medicine cabinet is cleared, windows locked in place despite being on the ground floor—all convenient methods are off the table. Fortunately for Ango, Dazai is too tired to truly care or plan for something intricate. When they arrive at the house, following Ango’s brief proofing, Dazai collapses onto the bed in the guest bedroom. Everything hurts. His arms ache, his heart straining from the stress of the past seventy-two hours.

“What would you like for dinner?” Ango asks, knocking on the door about an hour into Dazai’s poor attempts at another nap.

Dazai scowls unnecessarily, “I’m not hungry.”

“You still need something,” Ango argues. He is right. Dazai is hungry, emotionally unregulated. Still, he has no appetite. It is one of the first things to go when the depression strikes.

“Curry.”

“Dazai—”

“I want Odasaku’s curry.”

A long pause, then a whisper, “I know you miss him.”

Dazai pulls the blanket up further on his head, hiding from the world.

“I can order some from the restaurant down the street. I know it’s not the same—”

“Just give me broth or whatever then.”

“Broth isn’t dinner.”

“I want dad’s curry,” Dazai repeats himself, conviction and pain latticed in his twisted tone, “all I want is dad’s curry. That’s it.”

“I’m sorry. I can try to make some, but it won’t be the same.”

Dazai tears up as he repeats himself again and again, “I want my dad.”

Ango approaches the bed uneasily, placing a hand on the shoulder buried beneath the soft gray blanket.

“I miss him too.”

Dazai has no energy to argue.

“I want my dad.”

--

The three of them sit down for dinner, an awkward silence ensuing. Chūya picks at his noodles, not particularly hungry. The others do the same, his sister and her girlfriend making valiant attempts to chew and swallow their portions.

“Ango texted me,” Akiko breaks the silence, “said Dazai’s okay. I mean, not okay, but like. You know. Physically safe.”

“That’s good,” Chūya replies with a nod, slurping a few more noodles.

“I don’t think either of you should be talking to him,” Kōyō voices.

“Pink,” Akiko refers to her girlfriend affectionately, “we’re adults. I understand you want us to be careful, but this is our call to make.”

“Dazai is not a safe person to be around,” Kōyō retaliates, tone straining as she speaks, “he’s been back in our lives for less than twenty-four hours and look at all the trouble he’s caused.”

“I don’t think that’s fair,” Chūya responds, shoving his noodles around the bowl, “he’s in town because his dad died, not because he came by to bother us. He tried to kill himself because he’s miserable, not because he wants some kind of sick twisted revenge on me. You can be mad about the situation, sure, but that’s not going to change the fact that Dazai is here and hurting.”

The response is mature and had his sister not been so frustrated, she may have found herself impressed by her brother’s growth.

“Dazai hurt you more times than I can count,” she snaps in reply, “there’s no reason to defend him.”

“There’s plenty reason to defend him,” Chūya shoots back, “we were kids. He didn’t know what he was doing—”

“Yes, he did.”

“No, he didn’t. It wasn’t his choice, it was never his choice—”

“Chūya’s right,” Akiko pushes her bowl to the side, finished for the time being, “what happened to Dazai wasn’t his fault. Sure, he didn’t handle it well, but how can you handle something like that?”

“He had a dad who loved him,” Kōyō fights, “and that still wasn’t enough to make him happy. He had everything and we had nothing—”

“They could barely afford to go to the doctor! To get him treatment!” Chūya once again, unexpectedly, finds himself defending his childhood friend, “Oda was great, but he wasn’t perfect. No one knew how to handle that situation—”

“But it still happened!” His sister shouts, also pushing her dish away, “Bad things happened, Chūya! Really bad things! What he did—”

“He wasn’t trying to hurt us—”

“But he did!”

“I think we should take a breather,” Akiko announces, breaking up the surmounting tension, “this conversation is going nowhere.”

Her girlfriend stands up, taking her half-finished dinner into the kitchen to be wrapped up for later. Wordless, Chūya picks at his food. Akiko eyes her girlfriend’s form in the room next to them.

“She’ll come around,” she whispers to Chūya, “she won’t like it if we keep talking to him, but I think she’ll see he’s not some sort of demon.”

“You know how sis is,” Chūya groans, “she holds grudges like no one else.”

“Hey, Dazai’s only going to be in town for a bit. Maybe Ango will convince him to check himself in to inpatient somewhere.”

“I have my doubts,” Chūya snorts, unamused.

“Let’s just be patient. We can’t avoid him forever, but we can respect Pink’s wishes and steer clear for a while. Okay?”

Chūya thinks about it, nodding despite his skepticism.

“Yeah. I guess that’s true. He has Ango anyways, he’s not our responsibility.”

“Exactly,” Akiko agrees. “Let’s let him be. If we need to interact with him, we’ll deal with it when the time comes. Yeah?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m going to go talk to Pink,” Akiko stands up, bringing her dish into the other room. Chūya sighs, slurping at noodles that taste a lot less appealing than normal. He checks his phone. No new messages. Looking out the window, he glances at their neighbor’s house, lights off, window still broken.

Still shattered.

Chapter Text

Chapter II: Heist

Yokohama, September 2012

“We’re going to get in so much trouble.”

“Not if we don’t get caught~”

“Dazai—”

“Live a little, chibi!”

“Would you quit it with that stupid nickname?!”

They knelt in the bushes, binoculars in hand, each their own pair courtesy of Dazai’s father. Dazai had been begging for a pair for ages and it was only right to gift a matching set to his best friend. They peered through their respective lenses, eying the corner candy store, Fitzgerald’s. The owner and manager, F. Scott Fitzgerald, had strict security, which—according to Dazai—was no problem. He had his ways of hacking “IOT” devices (an acronym Chūya had only heard out of Dazai’s mouth, which meant nothing to him). There was the matter of physical security guards as well, but Dazai was confident in his ability to charm his way out of a paper bag. With Chūya’s nimble stature and Dazai’s award-winning acting skills, if anyone could pull off a candy heist, it was them.

Still, Chūya’s dad was a stickler for rules and Chūya had no interest in dealing with another lecture should they get caught.

“And what happens if we get caught?” Chūya voiced his anxieties aloud.

“We just won’t get caught,” Dazai shrugged with a blasé expression, placing his binoculars back into Chūya’s backpack.

“But what if we do?”

“We wooooooon’t~” Dazai trilled, “Quit being such a worry-wart. Don’t you want to try those new foreign candies? The little pink ones?”

“I mean, I do—”

“And who are a pair of broke bitches with parents who don’t buy junk food?”

“Us,” Chūya heaved a sigh, shifting positions.

“Exactly. And who has been planning heists since they were literally seven years old?”

“You.”

“And what does all of this mean?”

“Dazai—”

“It means, we’re not going to get caught!”

“Can we at least come up with a backup plan in case we do?” Chūya practically begged.

“Fine, fine. So long as it will calm chibi down. If we get caught, I’ll take the fall. You can say I roped you into it.”

Chūya frowned at the proposition, “I don’t know if that’ll be enough.”

“You can cry. Your dad hates it when you cry. Makes him all soft on the inside.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Chūya agreed, then rebuked, “but I can’t cry on cue.”

“Yes, you can,” Dazai explained, “just think of Bridge to Terabithia—”

“We don’t talk about that movie,” Chūya wiped at his eyes with his wrist.  

“See!” Dazai pointed, “You’re getting all choked up just thinking about it!”

Chūya sniffled. At times like these, being an emotional guy had its drawbacks.

“Fine, you got me,” he growled, “we’ll do it.”

“Hell yeah!” Dazai cheered with a fist bump.

“Alright, what’s the plan?”

--

The walkie-talkies were excessive, but Dazai did not have a phone, so it was really their only options.

“Mackerel to Slug—the parameter is secure. Over.”

“Slug to Mackerel, I’ve assumed the position, over.”

Chūya knelt in the bushes nearing the back emergency exit of the candy shop as Dazai entered through the main entrance. He wore a pair of fake glasses, a zip-up hoodie, and shoes that could easily slip off in case he had to change them. He waved to the attendant as he entered. She tossed a bored expression his way before returning to a game on her phone.

“Mackerel to Slug, I’m stationed by the goods. Over.”

“Slug to Mackerel, it’s go-time.”

Dazai slipped behind a security guard, eyeing a phone that had been discarded behind them on a counter. He snatched it up, found a corner, and set to work. The security cameras were rerouted and with the help of an electrical panel, the shop’s power was tripped. The lights in the shop went haywire as the speakers playing tinny pop music glitched out.

“What the hell is going on?” The cashier flipped around, her red braids flying with the action. In her distraction, Dazai slipped several packs of the new candies along with handfuls of chocolates and other goods into his deep pockets. He approached the rear door, which would normally sound the alarm, were the connection not tripped.

“Hey, that’s not an exit!” The cashier called after him, but Dazai was already out the back, shoving candies into Chūya’s hands.

“How did it—”

They looked through the window as the girl approached the exit.

“Run.”

Dazai yanked at Chūya’s wrist. They bolted, just making it out of sight as the cashier looked out back.

“That was weird,” she mumbled to herself as she found the circuit breaker, restoring the lights to their normal conditions.

Chūya and Dazai panted, breathing heavily as they made it to their secret hideout, an abandoned shipping container in the nearby port. They worked together to shove the heavy metal door open before collapsing on the makeshift bed they had set up only a few months prior. Neither planned on sleeping there, but Ango was getting rid of an old mattress and bed frame, which Dazai argued made their secret space “homier.”

“Oh my god,” Dazai’s chest heaved as his breathing levelled out. The two were thankful for the crisp autumn coolness that kept the shipping container at a reasonable temperature. Chūya flopped down next to him, giggling at the absurdity of the situation. Dazai chucked his fake glasses onto the other side of the bed.

“I haven’t run that fast since that sprinting drill they had us doing last year in gym class.”

“Tell me about it,” Dazai laughed before heaving himself up to a seated position. With great pride, he emptied his pockets, tossing his loot onto the bed next to Chūya.

“Look at the haul!” He chirped excitedly, jumping up and down in his spot with animated vigor.

Chūya sat up, emptying his own pockets too.

“Sick!” Chūya cried out, “How’d you manage to nab all of this?”

“The lights and music were the perfect distraction,” Dazai beamed triumphantly.

“Sorry I ever doubted you,” Chūya laughed, opening up one of the packs of the pink candies shaped like little stars. Dazai grabbed his own packet.

“This should last us a while,” Dazai claimed.

“Yeah, so long as you don’t eat it all,” Chūya snorted. Dazai swatted at him playfully.

“I may have a sweet tooth, but I have this thing called self-control.”

“You liar, you’re such a glutton.”

“RUDE.”

“Just telling the truth. Though it would be great if instead of eating only sweets, you actually finished your dinner like a normal person.”

“Hey, if it’s not Odasaku’s curry, I’m not interested.”

“Your dad does make a bangin’ curry. Even if it’s one of the only things you ever consume.”

“Oooh speaking of, wanna come over for dinner?”

A groan, “I wish, but I can’t. My dad wants sis and I home for a ‘family meal’ tonight. Annoying as hell.”

“Damn, that sucks. Odasaku loves when you come by.”

“Thanks for the offer.”

They munched on their candy in silence.

“Uh…Chū?”

 “Hm?” Chūya raised his brow in curiosity.

“You know what I just realized?” Dazai started, dread filling his tone.

“What?” Chūya eyed him suspiciously.

“Akiko said she wanted in on our next ‘job.’”

“Wait—you mean—”

“We were supposed to invite her.”

“Oh, you remember now!? Aren’t you supposed to be the genius!?”

“Hey! I’m a genius with object permanence issues! If something’s not directly in front of me, it doesn’t exist.”

“So if Akiko isn’t directly in front of you—”

“I mean the conversation was so long ago, you think she’d forget?”

“Akiko, forget something like that? Of course not.”

“Fuuuuuuuck. CHIBI. WHAT DO WE DO?”

“I don’t know, dumbass! How should I know?”

Dazai flopped back on the bed dramatically, blowing a candy wrapper above his mouth, “I guess we call her and give her a share.”

“This is our hard-earned candy,” Chūya frowned, disappointed.

“Relax, we don’t have to give her all of it. Just enough so she’ll forgive us.”

“So, all of it?”

“She’s not that bad.”

“You’re right,” Chūya snorted, “she’s not you.”

“And what is that supposed to mean!?” Dazai gasped in incredulity.

“It means you hold the most grudges out of everyone I know.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“You totally do. Remember that time you refused to talk to me for three weeks because I stepped on your foot in gym class?”

“We were like, twelve.”

“Or when you ignored your dad because he stopped buying canned crab?”

“I stand by my behavior,” Dazai hmphed. “I think your sister’s worse than me.”

“Sure, whatever you say.”

Sitting back up, Dazai brought his long legs onto the bed to shift cross-legged, “You have your phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Call her.”

“Why do I have to do it? You’re the one who was supposed to include her!”

“It’s your phone! Just dooooooo it Chūyaaaaaaaaaa~” Dazai drawled annoyingly.

“Fuck you,” Chūya mumbled, pulling his Blackberry out from his pocket. He pulled up speed-dial, Akiko’s number listed at the very top. Dazai joked around frequently about how when he gets a phone, he will take the first-place spot in Chūya’s speed dial list. Chūya refused to confirm or deny the accusations.

“Sup nerd?” Akiko greeted casually on the other end, picking up after two rings.

“Hey, listen. Are you free right now?”

“I can be. What’s up?”

“We uh. We might have um…” he trailed off, then shouted, “Dazai! You tell her!” He shoved the phone into Dazai’s hands. Dazai glared daggers Chūya’s way, but put the receiver up to his ear.

“Hey ‘Kiko,” he spoke in his most charming, smiley tone.

“What’cha using that voice for?” Akiko replied, equally charming.

“Oh. You know,” Dazai laid the charisma on thick.

“No, actually,” Akiko’s voice remained delightful, “I don’t know :)”

“We might have um. Well,” Dazai’s confidence faltered, “you know how you wanted ‘in’ on our next um. Heist?”

“Don’t tell me—”

“We sort of um, forgot to tell you and—”

“It was Dazai’s fault!” Chūya yelled, “He’s the one who was supposed to loop you in!”

“It was a joint effort!” Dazai argued before sticking his tongue out at Chūya.

“You fucking jerks!” Akiko snapped through the phone, “Why do you always do the fun shit without me? I’m going to fucking dismember you if you robbed that damn candy store—”

“Uhhhhhhhh.”

“SERIOUSLY!?”

“Sorry?”

“I’M GONNA MURDER YOU!”

“As much as I’d love to commit double-suicide with chibi-Chūya, dying by your hand isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Chūya snatched the phone back from the other’s grip.

“If you promise not to kill us, we’ll split the profits. Fifty-fifty.”

Silence ensued before Akiko muttered a brief, “Forty-sixty and you got a deal.”

With a sigh, Dazai and Chūya accepted their fate.

“Where are you? The Port?”

“Yep,” Chūya answered, “we’ll be here for a bit if you want to come by.”

“On it. See ya in a bit, assholes.”

“Bye ‘Kiko!! Love ya!!” Dazai called out. Akiko presumably rolled her eyes, hanging up without returning the sentiment.

“You think she’ll still try to kill us?” Chūya asked uneasily.

“Oh, absolutely.”

--

Akiko made it to the Port in record time.

“You fucking assholes!” She kicked the metal door open with the heel of her boot.

“We’re sorry, ‘Kiko!” Dazai and Chūya apologized in unison, regret potent in their timbre. Akiko scowled, storming up to where they cowered on the bed.

“You better be—” she jabbed a finger their direction, “I want a full report of the mission, followed by my cut. Chop, chop.”

There were very few things in life that scared Dazai Osamu. His second best friend, Akiko Yosano, was one of them.

“So…” Chūya started clumsily, “we uh. Tell her what we did, Dazai.”

Akiko crossed her arms, foot tapping impatiently, “Well?”

“We tampered with the security. It’s all digital so I swiped a phone—it’s one of those fancy touchscreen ones that cost a fortune. I cracked the passcode and hacked the system to redirect the security footage. I tripped the circuit and made the lights flicker and glitched out the music, which distracted everyone. We grabbed the goods and ran here.”

“And the phone you stole?”

“I threw it into the port, a safe distance from base.”

They sat in tense silence, eagerly awaiting Akiko’s jury.

“I expect nothing less from my team,” she nodded approvingly, “job well done. And as your captain, I expect my dues.”

Dazai and Chūya heaved a sigh of relief, allowed to live to see another day.

“Roger that,” Chūya divided the pile of candy on the bed, sixty percent for Akiko and the remaining for him and Dazai to share.

“Ahem,” Akiko eyed Dazai, who smiled brightly, “I know you’re hiding more.”

“Me? Hide candy from my best friend in the whole wide world?”

“Hey! That’s my role!” Chūya interjected.

“Fine—second best friend in the whole wide world,” Dazai amended, batting his long eyelashes prettily.

“Of course you would, you little fiend,” Akiko hissed.

“The only ‘little’ one here is Chū!”

“Hey!”

“Quit distracting me and fork up the goods.”

“And if I don’t?” Dazai offered a sly meerkat grin.

“Then I tell your dad!”

“‘Kikoooo!” Dazai whined, looking far less smug.

“Hand it over.”

Chūya had no idea how Dazai managed to hide so much candy in his pockets, but reluctantly he emptied them, giving the remaining goods in severance.

“And your back pocket,” Akiko raised her brow expectantly. Dazai glowered but dutifully spilled the last of his loot from his endless pockets.

“How did you even manage to steal all of that?!” Chūya gaped.

“I have my ways,” Dazai said coyly.

“Good,” Akiko threw her share into her cross-body bag and plopped on the bed alongside the others. “Now that that’s settled, what’s our next job?”

She eyed Dazai, who was almost always the brains of the operation.

“Dunno,” Dazai shrugged, “we can steal more food, but that’s boring. I don’t like super markets anyways. Too noisy.”

“What about a bookstore?” Akiko suggested.

“Eh,” Chūya hummed, “we already have library cards. That feels a little pointless.”

“Oh! I know!” Dazai bounced excitedly, “Chibi, you failed that math test last week. Right?”

“Hey! They haven’t even graded those yet, how do you know—”

“I got bored and stared over your shoulder. You got a lot wrong. Like. A LOT.”

“Jerk!”

“What are you getting at, ‘Zai?” Akiko prodded.

“Remember, Sasaki-sensei’s going for maternity leave. That’s why she hasn’t had time to grade the exams yet. And the school is still working to get a sub.”

“What are you saying?” Chūya frowned, “That we should break into the school and swap out my test or something?”

Dazai offered another smug grin. Chūya and Akiko exchanged a look.

“We’ve never done a job of that caliber before,” Akiko replied uneasily. “You sure we’re ready for that?”

“Absolutely,” Dazai smiled mischievously, “it’s no different than a candy heist.”

“It’s way different,” Chūya pointed out, “if we get caught, we’re fucked. We can get expelled.”

“So we won’t get caught.”

“I don’t know,” Akiko eyed her friends warily, “this feels a little too risky.”

“Life isn’t fun without a few risks,” Dazai spoke with an air of nonchalance.

“Getting kicked out of high school is more than a ‘few risks,’” Chūya warned.

“Come on, chibi. Your dad is a monster when it comes to your grades.”

“I know, but—”

“You’ve already failed the past two tests. Your dad is going to freak if he sees another one.”

Chūya groaned, eyeing his lap, “I know.”

“So we should give it a shot,” Dazai attempted to corral his friends.

“I don’t know,” Akiko grimaced, “I want to get into med school. I can’t have something like this on my record if we get caught.”

“You two are no fun,” Dazai flopped back on the bed dramatically. “If you don’t want to go, I’ll just do it myself. I don’t want Chū getting yelled at.”

“I can handle getting yelled at, idiot!” Chūya scowled, “Besides, Oda’s laidback, but that doesn’t mean you won’t get fucked if you’re caught.”

“Will you relax already? I’m not going to get caught. Unlike some people, I can handle myself.”

“Seriously, Dazai,” Akiko stepped in. Dazai sat back up as she spoke. “Don’t do it. We don’t want you getting kicked out of school.”

“It’s not worth it,” Chūya added.

“But your dad—” Dazai protested.

“Sure, he’ll be pissed. But that’s between me and him. That’s not your responsibility.”

Dazai looked visibly upset, averting his gaze, “I just want to help.”

“Being here for me is more than enough,” Chūya rubbed Dazai’s shoulder, “I don’t need you getting kicked out of school for me. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dazai whispered, eyeing the floor.

“Promise us you won’t do anything stupid?” Chūya coaxed.

“Define stupid.”

Chūya glared, “Dazai.”

Dazai looked up, tossing his head back, “Fine, whatever.”

“Promise me?” Chūya repeated himself. Dazai sighed, looking between his friends.

“Yeah, okay. I promise.”

--

Family dinners at Chūya’s household were perpetually uncomfortable. Ever since his mom passed, the family fractured, a gaping hole beneath them. His older sister Kōyō, subconsciously or not, did her best to fill the void. She took on a motherly role, doing more chores, taking care of her brother when his dad was too wasted to care. None of it was perfect or sustainable, but it was what they had. A broken little family full of bad habits.

Dinner was cooked by Kōyō most nights, except for family dinners, during which their father Paul insisted on making the meal. The kids set the table, the house an unsettling quiet. Disturbingly silent. There was not much to say, not with their father nearby, at least.

Chūya and Kōyō had always been close. Of course, Chūya used to love bothering his big sister with typical kid brother antics. When their mother passed, Chūya was twelve and his sister was fourteen. Things changed. Chūya changed. He grew quieter, more subdued. Serious. His mother’s death exacerbated his emotional nature. He felt things more deeply, cried more often, though mostly in private. His sister did her best to comfort him, but was more often than not met with resistance. Chūya craved comfort, but more than anything he wanted his mom, which was something even the best sisters could not provide.

They gathered around the dining room table and gave thanks for the meal. Kōyō and Chūya exchanged a relieved glance when they noticed their father’s meal was not accompanied by any beverage other than water.

“So, how’s life going, you two? Chūya, how’s school?” Paul asked eagerly. “It’s been a while since we’ve all talked as a family. Give me all the juicy details.”

As if he had not been near-comatose intoxicated for the majority of the past month.

“Things are going well,” Kōyō answered primly.

“Yeah. School’s going okay I guess,” Chūya said. His father took a sip of water, displeasure written on his face.

“Just okay?”

“Yeah, well um,” Chūya fidgeted, shifting in his seat. He took a bite of his steak before continuing, “Math has been kind of hard.”

“Right,” his father nodded, “I recall you’ve failed a few tests already. You should really study more—”

“I’m trying!” Chūya defended himself.

“I’m sure you are, to an extent,” Paul spoke in a distinctly parental, borderline condescending tone. The shift between caring father and deadbeat dad always threw Chūya for a loop. He never knew which to expect. “Maybe we should look for another tutor. Work is picking up so we can probably swing it.”

“That’s okay,” Chūya replied, “Dazai can tutor me again. He’s super smart.”

Kōyō’s lips pursed, “You shouldn’t be so reliant on him,” she scolded, “it’s a bad idea.”

Kōyō was not the world’s biggest Dazai-fan. Their personalities clashed and it seemed like every time Chūya got into trouble, Dazai was the root of the cause analysis. Not to mention how uneasy his bandages made her feel. If Dazai was doing what she assumed he was, she had no interest in having that negative influence near her impressionable kid brother. Still, they were best friends ever since Chūya’s family moved in, shortly after their neighbor Oda adopted Dazai at age seven. There was little Kōyō could do to come between their bond. That didn’t stop her from sharing her thoughts on the matter.

“I’m not reliant on him,” Chūya protested.

“You always ask him to tutor you,” Kōyō pointed out.

“Yeah, because he’s a freakin’ genius,” Chūya replied.

“He’s not that smart,” Kōyō rolled her eyes.

“Uh, yeah, he is,” Chūya countered, “he has the highest marks in our grade. Probably in the whole school.”

“Yet he’s covered in bandages,” Kōyō sniped.

“Don’t make fun of that,” Chūya hissed.

“Alright you two, settle down,” Paul ushered them back to a semblance of peace. “I think asking Dazai to tutor you again is an excellent idea.”

“Dad!” Kōyō cried.

“As Chūya said, he has top marks. Plus he’s our neighbor and his father would never charge us.”

“See!?” Chūya stuck his tongue out at his sister childishly. Kōyō rolled her eyes as she stabbed at her food.

“Whatever,” she huffed.

“Your grades are very important, especially because college is right around the corner. Have you two given any thoughts to what you want to do?”

College was a tricky subject for the siblings. They could barely afford it and leaving for school meant leaving their father to his own devices. Chūya was in his final year of high school while Kōyō was taking a few classes at a community college. She considered the time to be part of her unofficial “gap years.” Whenever she was asked, Kōyō always told her dad she was saving up with her job at the convenience store to attend school full-time. It was more than that though, and Chūya knew. She was not about to leave her brother and father alone together, not while their father’s mental health and temperament were such a wildcard.

“What are you thinking, lad?” She asked her brother. Truthfully, Chūya had no idea what he wanted to pursue. He did not have a set path like Akiko, nor was he smart enough to get into any school he wanted, like Dazai.

Chūya was lost.

“I don’t know,” he answered sheepishly, carefully eyeing his plate of food, “maybe I can go to a trade school like ‘Tross,” he suggested, referencing one of his other friends. Albatross was in Kōyō’s year and was like a big brother to Chūya. If anyone was pissing him off or driving him up a wall, Chūya knew he could rely on Albatross to help him feel better.

“You would become a mechanic?” Paul asked critically.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Chūya replied with a shrug, “it’s just a thought.”

“I might study psychology,” Kōyō spoke up, “or political science. I’d like to stay local though.”

“Same,” Chūya added quickly.

“You don’t want to leave dear old dad by his lonesome, do you?” Their dad chuckled. “That’s very sweet of you two.”

Chūya and Kōyō shared another look. They all resumed eating their food. Their dad clapped his hands, “After dinner, who’s up for some cards?”

--

“Oh joy, curry. Something new for a change,” Dazai jested as he entered the kitchen, the wafting scent of his dad’s sacred dish steaming through the air. Oda stood by the oven, stirring the pot of hot curry over the stovetop.

“I thought you liked curry?” Oda asked.

“I do! It’s my favorite food that isn’t crab.”

“Sorry I can’t make anything more interesting, bud,” his father apologized with an embarrassed hue.

“It’s all good Odasaku!” Dazai acknowledged his father affectionately. It was just the two of them, had been for the last ten years since Dazai was found on the street. He had little recollection of that period of his life. He barely remembered what came before Oda found him curled up on his stoop emaciated and sick and ready to die.

Before meeting Dazai, Oda had not thought suicidal seven-year-olds existed. Leave it to his kid to make the impossible possible. Luckily for Oda, Dazai at that age did not exactly know how one would go about killing themselves. Still, Oda found himself babyproofing the house, taking out all sorts of books from the library on childhood behavioral psychology. He, at only twenty-five, was far too young to parent a traumatized seven-year-old. Dazai never understood how or why Oda took him in and Oda never granted such information. The topic was actively avoided in their household, despite Dazai’s curiosity for Oda’s thoughts on the subject.

Their bond has always been strong, and though Dazai whole-heartedly considered Oda to be his dad, a part of him never outgrew the abandonment, never stopped being an orphan.

When Dazai was first adopted, he referred to his dad as Oda-san. Learning Oda’s full name, he had trouble pronouncing Oda Sakunosuke, which is how the nickname Odasaku was born. Dazai used it interchangeably with “dad” leaning on the nickname on the days where he felt more like an orphan. No matter how kindly Oda treated him, days like those were hard to ignore. Ten years of a loving home could not erase seven years of stress and trauma.

“Did you have a nice time with your friends today?” Oda asked as Dazai grabbed some bowls from the cabinet.

“Yep! Loads of fun!”

“What did you do?”

“Hung out at our secret hideout. Played some games. You know,” Dazai had a knack for lying. He picked up the skill early, never thinking too much about it. For some inexplicable reason, Dazai felt no remorse when he lied. It was merely something he did, as easy as breathing. Chūya was the complete opposite. Chūya hated lying and being lied to. He actively despised whenever Dazai lied to him. Whether it was about what was underneath his bandages or even what he had for breakfast, Chūya grew furious at it all. Akiko could lie well, but did not enjoy it. She was close to her parents and always felt guilty for disclosing anything other than the truth.

“What did you do today, Odasaku?” Dazai asked excitedly as they sat down at the table. Oda served the food and they got settled.

“I went to Ango’s,” Oda explained, “he had work to do, so I mostly got some writing done.” Oda was a locksmith and writer and delivery man, meaning he worked unusual hours. His secret-boyfriend Ango, on the other hand, worked for the government. Of course, Dazai knew about the relationship, but not even Chūya and Akiko were clued in on it. They had been together for six years and both felt it was safer to exist as a relationship in private rather than public.

“That sounds fun! I hope you pestered Ango-chan for me!” Dazai grinned, digging into his food.

Oda let out a chuckle, “I did my best. Though I think I speak for all of Japan when I say no one can pester quite like you.”

“Why thank you, good sir,” Dazai pretended to bow, taking the comment as a compliment. They continued eating in relative, content silence.

“So I was reading about this super cool new suicide method where—”

Oda tensed as the subject was introduced, “Dazai, what do I keep telling you? I don’t want you talking about suicide.”

“But it’s fascinating—”

“What happened last year is very serious and I’m not comfortable with you throwing the topic around.”

“It’s different! Last year I was having a depressive episode.”

“Yes—”

“And this year I’m not! So really, you don’t need to worry about me, I’m not going to kill myself tomorrow. Next week though—”

“Dazai.”

“Just kidding~”

“Please don’t joke about suicide. I would like to avoid another trip to the hospital.”

“Fine, fine,” Dazai muttered, shifting in his chair, “I’ll cut back on the suicide conversations. Happy?”

“Thank you.”

“I’m done!” Dazai announced, pushing his half-finished bowl out of the way.

“You sure you had enough?” Oda asked.

“Yep! I’ll take more later if I get hungry. May I be excused?”

“Okay, bud,” Oda nodded amicably, “I’ll put your leftovers in the fridge.”

Dazai scampered up to his room. He spent some time reading, listening to music, and most importantly, scheming.

It was around two in the morning when Oda noticed his light was still on. Following a knock, Oda entered the room.

“Hey kid,” he addressed his son, “it’s getting late and you have school tomorrow. Did you take your meds?”

Dazai was buried in a book, thankfully not about suicide. He was so absorbed in the text, he barely heard his dad. “What?”

It was not uncommon for this to happen, for Dazai to be so involved in what he was doing that he would forget to eat, sleep, use the bathroom, all the necessities of being a human.

“Your meds,” Oda repeated himself patiently, “did you take them?”

“My—” Dazai furrowed his brow, confusion settled on his face. After a moment, he recalled the present, blinking a few times. “No. Oops.”

“Why don’t you go take them and get ready for bed?”

“But I’m not tired!” Dazai whined.

“Your meds will help with that,” Oda remarked, “come on, it’s late.”

Dazai dragged his feet, but did as he was told. It did not take long to wash up and brush his teeth. Soon enough, Dazai was tucked in, ready for bed.

“Goodnight,” Oda said from the doorway. “Come get me if you need anything.”

“Goodnight dad. I love you.”

“I love you too, bud. See you in the morning.”

--

Chūya disliked school. Without his friends, he would be miserable. Classes were a struggle, the teachers were annoying, and no matter how hard he tried, he always ended up with sub-par grades. He was not like Dazai and Akiko who could just breeze by with little to no effort. Or, well, that was what it was like for Dazai. Akiko did study, still, things came more naturally to her than to Chūya. It did not help that he had trouble reading and could barely focus during class. If it were up to him, he would spend the day running around with his friends, building forts and playing video games. That was way more fun than stupid school. When was he even going to use this stuff anyways? He doubted being an adult required him to know the quadratic formula.

Chūya’s favorite subject was art, next to gym. At least with art, he could make whatever he wanted. His imagination could run wild and he was never told he was doing it wrong. His art teacher, Hirotsu-sensei, was eccentric, but kind. His demeanor was grandfatherly to Chūya, always encouraging him to do his best work and to try new things. It was a relief that he could spend an hour every day making pretty pictures, rather than dealing with the asshole kids in his year.

Sometimes, depending on their rotating schedules, Dazai would have a free period at the same time as Chūya’s art class. They could talk and hang out, so long as they both got some work done. Dazai was a naturally talented artist—though, he was naturally talented at most things. There were very few activities and subjects that Dazai did not excel at. At first, Chūya was jealous of him. As kids, Chūya would get upset with Dazai’s first-place wins and perfect marks, while Chūya himself was going home with C’s and D’s. Over time, Chūya came to terms with the fact that they had different strengths. Where Dazai was cold and calculating, Chūya was emotional and empathetic. Where Dazai performed above average in academics, Chūya kicked his ass in gym class.

When it came to their mental health, there were also distinct differences. Chūya struggled with his own bouts of anxiety, but they were very unlike an unmedicated Dazai. Before Dazai had any diagnoses or medications, his anxiety would reach intolerable degrees. He was struck with panic attacks on a near-daily cadence, dogpiled on top of endless anxiety attacks. As jealous as Chūya was of many of the things in Dazai’s life, his mental health was not one of them. It was not uncommon to find Dazai hiding in his room, arms covered in fresh bandages with regret painted all over his face.

Chūya sat at the corner desk in the art room, playing with charcoal. It was a medium he always enjoyed, Chūya loved to get his hands messy. He adored smudging the charcoal marks, shading unusual patterns. He was proud of his abstract art style.

“What’cha making, chibi?” Dazai’s high-pitched tenor startled Chūya out of his distracted reverie.

“Y’know. Just a picture.”

“What’s it of?” Dazai prodded. Indiscreetly, he admired Chūya’s art. Of course Chūya had been jealous of Dazai’s ability to create photorealistic drawings, which Dazai claimed was not the same as being an artist.

There’s no creativity in what I do, he explained once, chibi is creative. He makes art. I make pictures.

Something about that compliment stuck with him.

“I don’t really know,” Chūya answered cryptically, examining his own work. There were dark slashes diagonally cutting the page, followed by smooth curves shaded to blend into the slashes. It almost looked like a pair of eyes from a certain angle. "Eyes, I think,” he decided on.

“Wow! I can totally see it! How cool!!” Dazai encouraged, “Chūya’s such a talented artist.”

“‘Zai, you literally can draw someone better than a photograph—”

“I told you, it’s not the same! A printer can do my job. Nobody can do yours.”

“Still,” Chūya huffed, despite secretly lapping up the praise.

They continued their work, Chūya with his charcoals and Dazai doodling aimlessly.

“What’d you do for the rest of the weekend?” Chūya asked. Despite being neighbors, they did not see each other every day. Sometimes they did, but often their schedules clashed. Dazai was not part of any clubs, but he did have therapy twice a week while Chūya was usually staying after to help teachers for extra credit. Akiko lived in a different neighborhood so she only ran into them occasionally, most often seeing them when they made concrete plans, which was usually done on a weekly basis.

“I hung out with Odasaku,” Dazai answered. Chūya ignored the twinge at envy at Dazai’s father-son relationship, something Chūya could only aspire to have. “We played Scrabble for four hours. I won, of course. But it was close!! He almost had me because he got a good word with a Q—quartz I think? But then I got a few seven-letter words and kicked his butt. It was soooo fun!”

“You sure you didn’t cheat?”

“Swear on my soul.”

“That’s no better than swearing over rotten meat, if you ask me.”

“Well it’s a good thing I didn’t ask you,” Dazai poked Chūya’s side, eliciting a giggle. Chūya was terribly ticklish, a fact Dazai liked to take advantage of frequently.

“Ah! Stop! You’ll mess up the picture!”

“Fine, fine. But only because I don’t want to mess up those super cool eyes,” Dazai relented. “What did you do over the weekend?”

“My dad made a big deal over ‘family bonding’ and shit. Sis and I were forced to play cards and charades back-to-back. Sunday was fine, we went food shopping and shit. Dad’s getting into a big cooking-kick, so we’ll see how long that lasts.”

“Guess it could be worse,” Dazai shrugged.

“Yeah, at least he’s not drinking himself stupid,” Chūya agreed, focusing intently on the edges of his drawing.

“So. I hear we’re getting a new math teacher this week. Sasaki-sensei’s replacement and all~”

“Oh yeah? You think they’ll give me a better score on that math test? Or just forget the whole damn thing?”

“Hey, my offer still stands—”

“Jeez, I was kidding. You’re not risking your entire high school enrollment on my behalf.”

“I know, but—”

“Save it. Shouldn’t you be working on some art anyways? It may be your free period, but I know you actually have projects to work on.”

“I am working on art,” Dazai snipped.

“No, you’re doodling.”

A forlorn expression clouded his friend’s face for a brief moment.

“You okay?” Chūya looked up from his paper, concern etching his tone.

“Yeah. We um. We have to make self-portraits.”

“You don’t want to make one?”

Dazai shook his head.

“Why not?”

There was a lull as Dazai’s eyes flit towards the bandages lining his wrists and arms. They were mostly hidden under his hoodie, but both of them knew what that gaze meant.

“Hey. Don’t go thinking things like that,” Chūya whispered with gentle care.

“I didn’t even tell you what I’m thinking,” Dazai retaliated.

“Yeah, but I recognize that look. If you think making a self-portrait is going to make you. You know. Triggered, or whatever, then I think you should talk to guidance and get excused from the assignment. You’ve never had a problem with missing assignments before.”

“It’s different,” Dazai squirmed in his seat, “I don’t want to make a big deal out of nothing. I know that I’m like. Not hideous. But I just feel like I’m all ugly inside and it’s impossible not to take that out on my outside.”

“You’re not ugly inside, Dazai. You’re a good person—”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Stop acting like you’re out to ruin everyone’s lives, I know you and I know that’s not how you are. You’re kind and caring and so much more than ‘ugly inside.’”

“I don’t believe you,” it was barely a whisper, barely audible.

“What if I described the way I see you? You can draw that guy instead.”

“I don’t know…”

“Let’s try it, yeah?”

Reluctantly, Dazai turned to a blank page of his sketchpad.

“Fine. But if I don’t like it, we stop.”

“Okay, that’s fine. Tell me when to start.”

Dazai settled his supplies at the ready and hummed a confirmation.

“Okay. The guy you’re drawing has dark hair and dark eyes. But in the sun, they’re almost bronze. His features are long and narrow, he’s pretty skinny. He has sharp cheekbones that are kind of high on his face. His hair is scraggy and sometimes gets in his eyes. He has pale, light skin and rarely ever gets zits, which is incredibly unfair.”

“What’s he like?” Dazai asked softly as he began to sketch, “This guy. What’s his personality like?”

“Well,” Chūya started, taking a breath as he considered, “he’s kind of obnoxious at first. A real know-it-all jerk.”

“Hey!”

“He loves to bother people and knows exactly which buttons to push to get a reaction out of you. He likes people with short tempers because he finds them fun to annoy.”

“Heh. That part’s true.”

“But he’s actually a really sweet guy. He cares a lot about his friends and dad. He’d do anything to cheer up a friend, even at his own expense.”

Dazai grew silent.

“Sometimes, he shows up unannounced and claims to be dropping by to bother you, when really he wants to make sure you’re okay. He’ll share lunch with you if you forgot to pack your own, even if that means he’s hungry because he doesn’t get to finish his food. When he remembers his lunch, at least. He forgets to bring it a lot though. He’ll tutor you in all your classes if you bribe him with canned crab.”

Dazai stopped sketching. His eyes remained fixed on the few lines drawn so far.

“He’s a really kind person. I think you’d like him, if you got to know him.”

“Are you sure he isn’t lying to you? That he isn’t pretending to be a person when inside he’s really just a husk of a human. A carcass.”

“Some things you just can’t fake,” Chūya nudged Dazai’s shoulder with a gentle push, “no matter how hard you try, you can’t fake being a person. It’s just who you are.”

“Are you sure?” Dazai looked up, eyes red.

“I’m sure. This guy. He’s really cool. He’s special to me and I hate that he sees himself any other way.”

“Thanks, chibi.”

“You’re welcome, mackerel.”

--

He knows he promised Chūya and Akiko he would not.

He knows this is not a good idea.

Dazai knows he could get in massive amounts of trouble for this.

But Chūya—he owes him.

Chūya’s father is strict. Strict and harsh and when Chūya does poorly in school, it is seen as a personal attack. And when Paul feels attacked, he gets defensive. And when Paul gets defensive, he drinks.

Dazai does not want Chūya to deal with another drunken episode with his father, who knows no boundaries. He does not want Chūya to come to school after another sleepless night, eyes red from crying and wishing his mom were back in the picture.

Dazai’s life was not an easy one, but compared to Chūya’s relationship with his dad, he had it all. Oda was not perfect, but he was kind and caring and loving. He rarely drank and when he did, it was always responsibly. Chūya’s dad was not like his own, and the toll it took was hefty.

Dazai was doing this for Chūya. He reminded himself of that. Repeated it over and over and over. This is for Chūya.

It was after-hours, nearing seven in the evening when he approached the room.

The air was cold and room dark, the way it should be on a Monday evening in autumn. It felt apparent that Dazai was not supposed to be there, evidenced by the keys tucked safely in his pocket, swiped from a janitor. Being in the school like this after hours felt bad-ass, like something straight out of a cheesy spy film. Dazai adored the feeling, lapped it up like a water in the desert. He had been so bored as of late and this adventure quenched that dismal feeling delightfully. The only thing that would make this experience better, even more thrilling, would be if his friends came along. The thought of them and their reactions made his heart hurt. Their reactions were about what he expected, still, it would be cool to be paging Chūya on their walkie-talkies, reporting their progress back to Akiko throughout the night.

He shook it off, willing himself to not get distracted. He had no time for distractions, not now at least. Getting back to the task at hand, Dazai tiptoed to Sasaki-sensei’s desk. She had been fairly scatter-brained in the days leading up to her departure. As he expected, piles of ungraded work sat inside the desk, haphazard. Miscellaneous papers and work added to the chaos, hastily strewn about. Dazai grinned: this was where the real fun began.

Sifting through the papers was simple, his photographic memory making it easy to return everything to their original positions. Within a matter of moments, Dazai located the tests. There was a pile of blanks, extras he anticipated finding. With mastery, he set to work, mimicking Chūya’s handwriting as he filled out a blank test with mostly correct answers. He was careful to avoid perfection, that would be suspicious. A solid B- would be acceptable, so Dazai aimed for that. As he wrapped up his forgery, he replaced the original exam with his new one, slid everything back in place, and prepared to make his exit. A sly smile slipped in place. There was nothing to be worried about. The mission felt almost too easy. He contemplated sneaking around the school some more to do some snooping when—

Footsteps.

With little effort, Dazai folded up the old test, pocketing it. He sat down at a random desk and took out a workbook from his bag. The footsteps grew louder until, altogether, they ceased.

“Excuse me—” a low, rumbling voice filled the room, “can I help you?”

Dazai scribbled some more notes in his book, then shifted, acting surprised at the shadow entering the space. “Oh! Sorry, I was just finishing up.”

“I see,” the man entered the room, “and why might a young man be in school at this time of evening?”

Dazai couldn’t help the smirk that crept onto his face, unable to resist the urge to push the button so neatly laid out before him.

“And why might an old man be in school at this time of evening?”

“Do you really think I’m that old?” The man’s lips quirked upwards in amusement, “How old do you think I am?”

Dazai’s brow furrowed as he thought, “Forty-five,” he guessed with unwavering confidence. The man nodded his head approvingly.

“Forty, soon to be forty-one. Not bad.”

“Your wrinkly hands make you look older,” Dazai poked fun at the man, jesting with another cheeky grin.

“I suppose that’s what I get for not moisturizing more.”

Dazai returned to his workbook. The man peered over his shoulder, casually remarking, “You have a talent for deflection.

“I’m not deflecting, I’m working.”

“On?”

“Math homework.”

“At school, this late?”

“Yes, sir~”

“Shouldn’t you be at home, eating dinner?” The man raised a skeptical brow.

“My tutoring session ran late,” Dazai lied with practiced ease. “I wanted to stay to finish up.”

“Did it now?”

“Yep. I was on a roll, so here I am!”

“You don’t seem the type to struggle with their academics.”

“I dunno, teach,” Dazai shrugged, “you don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re correct,” the man agreed, “but I would like to.”

“To?”

“Get to know you. I like to get to know all of my students.”

“Shūji Tsushima, at your service,” Dazai bowed, “third-year student.”

The man offered his own introduction, “Mori Ōgai, math teacher.”

Dazai’s eyes widened before he schooled his expression into a more neutral look, “Sasaki-sensei’s replacement?”

“At your service,” the man—Mori—mimicked Dazai’s phrasing and gesture.

“Suppose you’ll see me around, teach,” Dazai hoisted himself up to standing, placing his workbook back in his bag.

“Will you be alright getting home? Would you like a ride?”

“That’s very generous of you, but I’ll be alright,” Dazai answered, “I don’t live too far from here.”

“Are you sure? It’s dark out.”

“I’ve done worse things than walk home in the dark, teach.”

Mori hummed, though concern painted his features. “So long as you’re careful, now,” he advised.

“Careful is my middle name~” Dazai laughed, grabbing his coat and heading towards the door, “so long Mori Ōgai-sensei.”

“So long, Shūji. Be careful.”

Dazai exited, yelling a brief, “I will!”

Smugness returned to his features as he exited the school building, the evidence burning a hole in his back pocket. His thoughts drifted to his new teacher. To the witty banter and clever remarks. It had been a while since his teachers treated him as anything other than shards of glass. Ever since his attempt the previous year, Dazai had been dealing with the ramifications on his reputation. He wasn’t fragile, but everyone else had other thoughts on the subject.

Mori Ōgai was different.

Dazai had a feeling math class was about to get far more interesting.

Chapter Text

Chapter III: not invited

Yokohama, January 2022

He tries keeping his mind off of Dazai. Goes to work, hangs out with Albatross and Ice Man and the bunch, he seeks distraction. To ignore, to forget. He tries keeping to himself. Nothing is enough. His thoughts waver, pushing back, back to before, back to thoughts of then, to everything that once was but can no longer be. To trios tough enough to take on the world and friendships built for lifetimes.

Except they—

Chūya does not see a therapist, but sometimes, times like these, times when memories haunt and no amount of ignoring will make them go away, he thinks maybe he should see someone. Maybe he should talk about it—even if he barely remembers anything from back then anyways. That’s the stress of it, the beauty of it all. He can’t get off his mind what he can barely remember. Not that he is entirely devoid of memories, he is not. But they are fragmented, shards of this, shatters of that. Thick and heavy and dark and smog-drenched inside his mind.

when he thinks

when he remembers

When he forgets.

There is no good way to experience a bad memory. There are even less good ways to experience the person from a bad memory.

As much as everything is Dazai’s fault, none of it is. It is as much his fault as it is a product of circumstances, as it is bleak reality.

It feels impossible, but Chūya tries to respect his sister’s wishes. Tries to avoid looking at the house through the window. Does not broach the subject with her or Akiko. Keeps his thoughts on the matter to himself. For a few days, it works, maybe he can call it progress. He stays quiet and they stay quiet and for these few days, everything about everything is quiet.

And then, Saturday rolls around.

The funeral he has not been invited to. Which is wrong, this feel so wrong because even after it all, even after it ended and even after everything—

Oda was, at one point, his other father. That kind and caring and supportive presence in Chūya’s life.

Even if—

He was still—

It had not been okay and they had not been alright and they never did sort out in such detail and for this, Chūya regrets. Yet, does that all diminish everything about everything that was anything?

Does that erase late night talks, sobbing in warm arms, praying for a father more like and less broken and—

Why does Chūya not get to say goodbye to this complicated person and complicated relationship and complicated past? Why does Dazai get to rob Chūya of yet another choice, another experience, another—

His reverie is distracted by the ringing of his phone. For a minute, Chūya is thrown for a loop. Atsushi has not called Chūya in years, probably an entire decade. They were never close, connected primarily through Dazai. Atsushi was younger than them and never shared any classes with Chūya, so there were few reasons for their paths to cross. Chūya cannot even recall when he got Atsushi’s number and saved it on his phone. Yet, his phone rings and that is the contact which appears.

There are no doubts in his mind that this will be a call consisting of Dazai-related matters. Upon leaving, Dazai cut ties with nearly everyone from his hometown. Chūya wonders if Atsushi has been an exception.

Lost again in his thoughts, Chūya nearly misses the call. He scrambles to answer the phone.

“Atsushi?” Spoken in lieu of a greeting.

“Chūya! You picked up!” Atsushi sounds as shocked as Chūya feels.

“I did,” Chūya replies, “what’s up? We haven’t spoken since like—”

He is cut off by a nervous timbre, “I need your help.”

“What?”

“It’s about Dazai.”

Of course it is and of course he does. Because now that Dazai’s back, every little thing is Dazai-this and Dazai-that and—

“Chūya? Are you there?”

“Sorry. What about him? What’s going on?”

“It’s um, we’re at the funeral,” Atsushi sounds anxious, his voice shaky and stammering over the phone, “And he um, he showed up drunk. But now he won’t leave. It’s been thirty minutes since it’s ended and it started to snow but Ango and I can’t get him to come inside. We tried to physically move him, but he got violent.”

“Okay,” Chūya chews his words before landing on, “why do you need me? Call the police or something if he’s being violent—”

“I’m not calling the police on him,” Atsushi snaps, sounding angrier than Chūya has ever heard him. “Look, there are only two people I’ve ever seen get Dazai to cooperate when he’s drunk, and that’s you and Akiko. Akiko didn’t pick up, so you’re all we have. Please come by and—”

“Didn’t you hear? I’m not invited,” Chūya snarls.

“What?” Atsushi’s tone shifts from irritation to confusion, “What are you talking about?”

“I mean, Dazai specifically did not invite me to the funeral,” Chūya scowls, “he told me not to come.”

“Why?”

“I don’t fucking know. So good fucking luck—”

“Wait! Chūya, please. Please help. Dazai won’t move and it’s snowing. He’s not wearing a coat and I don’t know when he’s last eaten anything—I don’t want him to get hypothermia. Please.”

“I told you, just call the cops.”

“So they can what? Hospitalize him with absolutely no psychiatric care again? The police will only freak him out more. He needs you.”

It pains Chūya to admit it, but Atsushi is right. The police are effectively useless and would no doubt only worsen Dazai’s reign of terror.

“Jesus fuck,” Chūya mutters under his breath, “and you said he won’t leave? That’s the problem?”

“Yes,” Atsushi replies, desperation ringing in his tone, “he’s sitting by the grave and he won’t leave. I don’t know what else to do. Please, Chūya.”

Chūya does not like this plan. He does not like the idea of being a saving grace and having to talk Dazai out of whatever temper tantrum he’s throwing. Even so, he is anything but heartless. He truly does not want Dazai to get hypothermia. He also knows Dazai is hurting more than anyone right now. Dazai is not okay. Chūya may not be able to fix things, but he can at least try to help. Just enough so that Dazai avoids getting sick.

“Fucking fine. I’ll ask Akiko to come too.”

“Really!? Thank you!!”

“You’re fucking welcome. You owe me one. Got it?”

“Right! Thank you again! I’ll text you the address.”

They work out the logistics and Chūya hangs up, positively unexcited about the mess he is being dragged into.

--

Akiko hesitates. Not because she does not want to see Dazai again, she does. Not because she does not want to go to the funeral, she does. But because of—

“Babe, you don’t have to do this,” Kōyō coaxes as Chūya and Akiko dress to brave the winter storm ahead.

“Pink, I can’t just leave him like this,” Akiko replies. Chūya stays quiet, shoving on his coat and some gloves.

“Dazai’s going to keep acting out if you baby him,” Kōyō argues.

“Making sure he doesn’t get hypothermia isn’t babying him,” Akiko snaps, “he just got out of the hospital. He needs support.”

“It was his own fault for getting stuck there in the first place!” Kōyō hisses, “Why do you and Chū need to ‘support’ him? It’s been ten years! He left you!”

“I’m not abandoning him,” Akiko shoots back, zipping up her coat and tossing on a scarf, “I understand this is hard, but Dazai needs us right now—”

“This is unbelievable,” her girlfriend glares, “Dazai left you both! He pushed you away.”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Akiko shuts the argument down, “after we make sure he doesn’t need to go to the hospital again.”

“But—”

“We’ll be back soon.”

Chūya follows Akiko out the door, not sparing another glance his sister’s way. He is unhappy about this, but agrees they should talk it through once Dazai is home, safe indoors.

Thanks to a few misdemeanors and generally ignoring the speed limit, they make it to the cemetery in ten minutes flat. The drive is silent as thick tension swaddles their lungs. Neither of them are too keen on discussing what they might find upon arrival. They pull up to the cemetery, snow flurrying on the windshield, each flake losing its form and dissolving as it lands. Chūya parks the car, turns to Akiko, and nods.

“Let’s go,” Akiko says. Atsushi waits at the entrance of the cemetery, offering a bleak wave.

“Where is he?” Chūya cuts in, effectively trampling the need for pleasantries.

“This way,” Atsushi yells through the gusts of wind. Snow flies in their eyes, limiting their vision and their perception of the surrounding cemetery. “Over here,” Atsushi gestures to a figure huddled next to a large tombstone. A coat had been forced over his shoulders, but he is not wearing it properly. His fingers and lips are tinged blue as his body shakes horrendously.

“Jesus, Dazai,” Chūya comes over, approaching the crumpled form. Dazai’s knees are pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around himself in a tight hug of sorts. “Come on, let’s get you inside.” Dazai is barely coherent in his muffled reply, his vision blurry and head swimming. He is non-violent, but far too gone for an easy trip inside. “Let’s move him—” Chūya says to Atsushi and Akiko. “He’s too tired to put up a fight.”

Reluctantly, Atsushi agrees. The three of them lean down in attempts to pick Dazai up. The minute they touch him, however, he begins to thrash. There is no good explanation for how he has the energy to fight them off, but he does.

“No!” He screeches, kicking and screaming.

“Dazai, it’s Akiko.” A warm voice from a warm person. “Listen to me—we can come back tomorrow. Okay? And the next day. Whenever you like.”

Despite the warmth of honeyed tones, he shakes his head violently, face a bright tear-stained crimson.

“Hey, mackerel,” Chūya tries, “we have to get you inside. I’ll give you some booze if you come with us.”

“Chūya!” Atsushi hisses.

“What? I will! He’s freezing out here. At least that will warm him up.”

“As a medical professional, I want it on record that I don’t endorse this,” Akiko adds. Chūya ignores her, making eye contact with Dazai.

“Want some whisky?”

“I want my dad,” Dazai chokes through a frigid sob.

“We’ll make you curry,” Chūya offers. Dazai shakes his head.

“I want Odasaku!”

Unpredictably, Chūya acts on instinct. He wraps Dazai’s trembling body in his own smaller one. He has no explanation for the action, but does it anyways.  

“Don’t leave me, Chū,” Dazai croaks out.

“I won’t leave you Dazai. You’re not alone. I promise.”

Maybe it is his words or the act of comfort, Chūya cannot say. Either way, Dazai breaks. He collapses in Chūya’s hold, sobbing hysterically with each gasping breath. Chūya takes advantage of the moment, scooping him up like a small child, despite being neither of those things. Akiko and Atsushi watch in awe as Chūya manages to carry Dazai to his car in the parking lot. The distance is not far, but Chūya is wiped from the exhaustion of it all on top of physically carrying a human being through the snow. Akiko unlocks the door, helping bring Dazai into the backseat.

“Does he have frostbite?” Chūya asks Akiko, panting with the exertion, “are we taking him to the hospital or Ango’s?”

“Let’s go to Ango’s. I think he’ll be okay. I can check him out there.”

“I’ll let Ango know,” Atsushi says as Akiko and Chūya climb into the car, “we’ll meet you at the house.”

“We’ll see you soon,” Akiko says as they closed the doors. They sit in the warmth for a few seconds, unmoving. When they check on Dazai in the backseat, he is out cold, lying down, the coat from earlier strewn across his lanky body.

“Mother fucker,” Chūya grimaces, shuddering at the chill despite the warmth of the car’s interior. “Just had to freeze himself to death.”

“Tell me about it,” Akiko heaves a sigh, “will you be okay to drive?”

“Yeah, I’m good now. Just cold.”

Chūya and Akiko exchange a look before glancing over at Dazai’s collapsed form in the backseat.

Akiko murmurs, “I mean, I knew he wasn’t okay, but this is bad.”

“Yeah,” Chūya nods. He wrings his hands together, warming them up to the best of his abilities. “It is what it is.” He shifts the car into reverse and pulls out of the parking lot.

The drive to Ango’s is quiet. Ten years have passed since all three of them were in the same place.

Ango helps Chūya carry Dazai inside, bringing him to the guest bedroom where mountains of blankets are already waiting for them. While Akiko, Ango, and Atsushi warm him up, Chūya helps himself to a drink. He feels no guilt raiding Ango’s liquor collection and figures he damn well deserves a drink after the week he has had.

He gulps down the red wine as if it is water. Akiko comes down to join him in the kitchen. She notices the bottle and sets to work, filling her own glass. “He’s going to be fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We helped him get changed—he woke up and was surprisingly calm. I suspect mild frostbite and early stages of hypothermia, but now that he’s in the warmth of the house, I think we won’t need medical intervention. I told the others what to keep an eye out for.”

“That’s good. Glad you’re a doctor.”

“Yeah, comes in handy I guess,” Akiko smiles faintly as she takes a sip of her wine. They sit in empty silence. “Ango and Atsushi will watch him for now.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll talk to Pink when we get back later. I think she’ll be more understanding then.”

“I don’t know. My sister’s pretty stubborn. Especially when it comes to Dazai-related things.”

“Trust me, I know,” Akiko snorts aloud, “but even she doesn’t want Dazai to die.”

“Yeah. Guess that’s true.” Chūya frowns, “He’s pretty bony.”

“You think—” Akiko started.

“Yeah. I mean, maybe. It was really bad back then.”

“I know. I thought he got help—”

“It’s hard to say. I mean, Oda set him up with therapy and shit but then he just blocked us out so I don’t really know how he actually recovered or anything. If he even did.”

“It’s been ten years. He wouldn’t have survived at the rate he was going,” Akiko explains, “maybe this is a recent thing.”

“Could be,” Chūya shrugs before downing his drink and pouring another glass. “You sure you want to talk to sis about this? The less about Dazai around her, the better.”

“I think we have to. I have to.”

“Whatever you say.”

They sip in silence.

“That was awful,” Akiko sighs, placing her head in her arms against the kitchen counter. They sit on uncomfortable barstools. Ango’s home is plain and unmemorable. Neither of them have ever visited before, but now that they are in the space, they both find it suits Ango well. Simple and functional, no frills.

“Yeah,” Chūya replies, placing his glass down with a light clink, “I wasn’t expecting any of this. Remember the past ten years, when we didn’t have to deal with suicide attempts and all his bullshit?”

“Don’t you ever miss him? Sometimes, at least?”

“I mean, sure. I miss the good parts of our friendship. But he pushed us away. I don’t see what’s the point in trying.”

“That’s an oversimplification and you know it.”

“I guess.”

“What happened was. It was complicated. And I get it ended badly. But this is Dazai. He’s still our friend—”

“Friends don’t do ten years of radio silence.”

“Fine. He’s our childhood friend, then. Past or present, I don’t want to abandon him. Not when he needs us the most.”

“I get it, he needs support right now. But why does it have to be us? He has Atsushi. Ango too.”

“I don’t think that’s enough. He needs people who understand what he went through.”

“I mean, sure, but we don’t. Or I don’t. You have an idea because of. You know. But like,” Chūya pauses, reframes, and continues, “I didn’t go through the stuff you two did. And what you went through wasn’t exactly the same as him. Not to diminish what you went through. It was still awful and fucked up. It’s just not the same. You know?”

“Yeah, I get what you’re saying,” Akiko replies, a mournful air to her tone, “but I don’t know, Chūya. I can’t just leave him.”

“He abandoned us first. That was his decision.”

“It’s way more complicated than that.”

They continue to drink as another bout of silence overtakes. Chūya reaches to pour himself a third glass.

“Guess I’m driving home?” Akiko smirks.

“Shut up,” Chūya rolls his eyes.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

They drink.

“I just thought he’d be over all this bullshit by now,” Chūya says after gulping down half of his glass.

“His dad just died,” Akiko defends, “who knows if he attempted recently before this. What matters is the fact that this is a pattern. It makes sense he’d chase familiarity after something this stressful happening.”

Objectively, he knows Akiko is right. The situation is not entirely Dazai’s fault. Dazai may be a hot flaming mess of a person, but that does not mean his intents are malicious. It is more like he is lost in space, pulling everything and everyone into his heliocentric orbit.

“I just wish he didn’t drag us into his bullshit,” Chūya complains.

“To be fair, it was Atsushi who called us. I doubt Dazai wanted us to see him like this. I doubt he’d want anyone to.”

“Fair,” Chūya grumbles. “Do you think he’s going to get any psychological help?”

“He might already have a care team,” Akiko suggests. “We’re seeing him at his most vulnerable point right now. I don’t think it’s fair to judge him on his present actions.”

“Damn it, ‘Kiko,” Chūya shakes his head, “why’d you have to go around getting smart like that?”

They share a fond look before hearing the patter of footsteps march down the stairs, jolting them out of the moment.

“Is everything okay?” Akiko immediately asks as Ango makes his way into the kitchen.

“He’s okay,” Ango replies, then eyes the drinks, “what is it with everyone helping themselves to my alcohol?”

“You should find a better hiding place,” Chūya shrugs, his words slurring slightly.

“He’s not driving home—right?” Ango asks with concern.

“Hah. No, I’ve got it. Unlike someone, I can hold my liquor, thank you very much,” Akiko replies.

“The roads are icy—you’re welcome to stay here if you like. I have some spare futons.”

“That’s okay,” Akiko answers for both of them, “I have to talk to Kōyō tonight. It’ll be easier to do at home.”

“Alright. If you change your mind, let me know.”

“Will do.”

Uncertainty nestles in the bushes of the surmounting tension.

“Have you kept in touch with him?” Chūya prods, curious for answers.

“No, can’t say I have,” Ango frowns, “I talked to Oda a little bit here and there, but never to Dazai. I think he resents me, to an extent. Atsushi has though. Kept in touch. They talk like no time has passed.”

“Interesting,” Akiko clicks her teeth together, lost in thought. “Do you know how he’s been? He looks ill.”

“Atsushi said he was actually in a really good place before his dad started having heart problems. Steady job, a relationship—it sounds like the thing with his dad caused a lot of issues.”

“What do you mean?” Chūya asks.

“That—”

“Are you talking about me?” Dazai’s shaky timbre rings out, coming from the kitchen’s entryway.

“You’re supposed to be on bed rest,” Akiko lectures.

“I was thirsty.”

“Atsushi could have got you some—”

“Why are you talking about me?”

Akiko’s tone shifts, a gentler sound, as if speaking to a wounded animal, “We were worried about you. Now get back in bed.”

“I feel fine.”

“You’re hypothermic.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” Chūya interrupts their back-and-forth.

“Ango, make them leave,” Dazai whines.

“We saved your fucking life,” Chūya growls.

“Why? I want to die. Leave.”

“You ungrateful piece of shit.”

“Get out.”

“This isn’t your house, dipshit.”

Dazai turns to Ango, repeating himself as he scratches at his bandages, “Make them leave.”

“Do you need new ones?” Akiko gestures at the dingey yellowing bandages lining his body.

“Shut up.”

Akiko ignores the attitude, “We’re here to help—”

“Get out!” Dazai’s breathing speeds up, growing more frantic the longer his once-friends stay in place.

“As if you weren’t begging me to stay an hour ago,” Chūya rolls his eyes at the theatrics.

“I don’t want you here! Make them leave!”

“Dazai, calm down,” Ango says, which is evidently the wrong thing to say. Dazai shakes, grabbing the thing closest to him—a book—and throwing it at Chūya. Chūya ducks, letting the book crash into the wall behind them.

“What the hell!?” Chūya snaps.

“It might be the hypothermia,” Akiko elaborates, “it can trigger irrational behavior. He’s also still intoxicated, by the looks of it.”

“Or he’s throwing a fucking temper tantrum because he’s a child that didn’t get his way—”

“That’s enough from the both of you,” Akiko cuts him off, “Dazai, please go back to bed. We’ll leave, but you need to rest.”

Dazai sniffles. He shoots one last glare their way before storming off.

Chūya scoffs, “Well, that’s one way to have a reunion.”

--

Much to Chūya’s surprise, the following week passes with little-to-no Dazai related experiences. His sister drops the topic altogether, though Akiko occasionally made it a point to check in with Ango on the “patient’s recovery.”

“Ango says he’s talking to a psychiatrist to adjust his meds,” Akiko informs Chūya towards the end of the week. “Apparently he stopped taking them when Oda died. I don’t know what will happen with the house, but he’s heading back to Tokyo this weekend. That’s where he’s at these days.”

Despite the catastrophically loud re-entrance back into their lives, Dazai’s departure is quiet as whispering wind. The month moves on and Chūya and Akiko and Kōyō move on and spring is right around the corner. March comes and Chūya finds getting up for his early morning jogs is getting easier with the warmer weather. Maybe jogging is alright after all. Perhaps his body was just weather-averse.

Chūya yawns, up at five in the morning to get ready. He changes into his workout clothes, laces up his sneakers, and heads towards the door. He is outside and ready to go when—

A flash of déjà-vu. Oda’s light is on. Again.

The hole in the window has since been patched but the living room light is on as the room is noticeably in use. Chūya halts. He considers stepping in, checking to see what was going on. To see if Dazai is back and awake at five in the morning. Then again, deciding to be an upstanding member of society only brought him trouble last time. Chūya opts to leave the house and its occupants as-is. He goes for his jog.

The time passes quickly, thanks to his music, high-energy pop crap he only touches when exercising. As annoying as the music is, it gets his heart rate up and keeps him distracted from the way his calves scream and chest aches. After a few miles and some hard-to-ignore nicotine cravings, Chūya has made it back to his house in one piece. Back to his house, which is next to Oda’s house, where he sees—

Dazai looks significantly better. The bags under his eyes are faded, his skin has some color to it. He’s less bony and his clothes aren’t dangling off his frame. Overall, he looks healthy. Or, whatever the Dazai-equivalent of healthy is. He stands outside, watering the wilted garden with glaring domesticity. Chūya has no idea what to do. Does he check in on Dazai, make sure he is actually as okay as he looks? Avoid him altogether? The decision is made for him, as Dazai turns around and catches his eyes. Chūya expects many reactions—a grin and a wave are not any of them.

Dazai places down the watering can and scurries Chūya’s direction.

“Hi!” Dazai greets, impossibly cheerful for a Monday morning. As if—

“Hi.”

Silence ensues almost immediately.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Dazai eventually settles on, shifting his weight nervously, the cheer fading with each word.

“Okay.”

Chūya waits as Dazai sifts through his endless vocabulary to formulate the words he wants to say.

“I owe you an apology. The last time I saw you—I wasn’t in a very good place. I know that’s not an excuse, but I hope it explains some of my behavior.”

“So you’re doing better now?” Chūya side-steps the apology. Dazai flashes a thumbs up.

“Fresh out of the psych ward. New meds, new me.”

Chūya hums, equal parts irritated and relieved, “Glad you’re feeling better.”

“Thanks,” Dazai fidgets, playing with the bandages that poke out of his hoodie. “I um, I’m cleaning out the house so I’ll be here a lot. Over the next few months or so.”

“Are you going to sell it?”

“I don’t know. Probably? I could use the money. I haven’t been able to work much because of my um. The hospitalizations and stuff.”

“But you don’t want to. Sell it.”

Dazai hums in agreement, “It’s complicated.”

“Listen,” Chūya sighs, running his fingers through his unruly curls. They are tied up in a high ponytail to keep out of his way during his jog. “If you need help—I mean, ‘Kiko and I are literally a door away. I forget if I mentioned, but we live together. With my sister.”

“Right.”

“So if you need any help—”

“I wouldn’t want to bother you both anymore—"

“It’s fine,” Chūya shrugs, “so long as you’re not screaming or throwing books at us. We wouldn’t mind helping.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Thanks, Slu—Chūya.”

“Don’t mention it.”

More silence.

“What are you doing up so early?” Chūya asks, curious.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Is it weird? Staying in the house?” By yourself, alone without—

“Yeah. It is. I’ve been staying in Odasaku’s bed mostly.”

“Yeah?”

“It smells like him.”

Another moment lapses.

“I should probably shower before the others wake up.”

“Right,” Dazai agrees, “I texted her but um, do you think you could ask ‘Kiko to stop by today? I’d come over and ask but you said your sister lives with you and she doesn’t. Well. You know.”

“Yeah. I can let her know.”

“Cool, thanks.”

“I’ll see you.”

“See you.”

--

Chūya does not mind the monotony of work.

He passes Albatross a handful of tools as the other slides back beneath the car they are fixing up.

Chūya never exactly wanted to be a mechanic’s assistant, but the pay is fine and the job does not require a degree. He gets to work with his buddies, Albatross, Ice Man, and Adam, so he has few complaints.

“What even happened between you two?” Albatross asks with a strained voice as he works. “You two were mad close.”

“It’s complicated,” is all Chūya says on the topic. He may have brought Dazai’s reappearance up, but that did not mean he was in the mood for a therapy session.

“Seriously, I was shocked when you had told me you guys stopped talking.”

Chūya simply shrugs, “Things change. People change.”

“That, they do, my friend,” Albatross fiddles with a particularly stubborn piece of metal before coming up for air. His face is streaked with grease, blonde hair sticking out every which way. “Doesn’t matter I guess,” he scratches at his nose, leaving a smudge of grease in its wake, “you don’t have to help him with the house or whatever. I’m sure he has other friends who could pitch in.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Chūya picks up a tennis ball that has been lying on the floor nearby. He tosses it in the air, catching and throwing it every few seconds. The garage they work in is perpetually in a state of chaos and disarray. Adam tries his best to keep things clean, but Albatross was always finding one thing or another on the street, confident they could get use out of it “someday.” The habit is bordering hoarding, but it does mean Chūya always has something to keep himself entertained. “I dunno man. Oda-san was like another father to me. I feel like I owe it to Oda to help out. Even just a bit.”

“I mean, fair,” Albatross replies, “there’s no harm in lending a hand.” He stretches like a cat waking up from a nap. Light rock music plays in the background, filling the potential awkward silences. “Just set some boundaries with him.”

“Boundaries?”

“Yeah. Tell him what you will and won’t do. What you want to talk about and what you don’t.”

“I know what boundaries are, ‘Tross,” Chūya nudges his friend playfully.

“Good! Then set some and you’ll be A-Okay,” Albatross ruffles Chūya’s hair in a brotherly fashion.

Interrupting the moment, Adam approaches them. As always, he looks a bit out of place, dressed a bit too formally in a button down and slacks. He takes his role as office manager far more seriously than any of the mechanics take their own jobs.

“I’m ordering lunch. Want anything?”

“Pizzzzzza!!!” Albatross yells a little too loudly, eager.

“That’s what we had yesterday, dumbass,” Chūya complains.

“Hey, there’s no such thing as too much pizza.”

They bicker. Adam raises an eyebrow, consistently amused by the interactions between his colleagues and friends. Adam is a generally plain guy. His reactions are minimal and nobody would go out of their way to describe him as emotional. Still, he cares deeply about his friends. He wants to make sure they are happy at work and feel supported when things are hard.

Eventually, after an exaggerated bout of back-and-forth, Albatross leaves the lunch conversation victorious. “Hell yeah!” Albatross whoops, “Pizza it is! Get extra pepperoni, please,” he begs Adam, batting his puppy dog eyes.

“Can do,” Adam replies stiffly. Chūya stifles a retort. There are worse things in the world than having pizza two days in a row, but Chūya secretly cannot resist the urge to argue with Albatross. It was playful, for the most part. Not that he would ever admit it. Chūya loves his sister, but he especially enjoys the big brother energy Albatross exudes. It makes him feel special and cared for.

“Hey, Ice Man,” Albatross hollers behind them, “you coming to my party this weekend?”

Ice Man is a man of few words, cold on the outside like his nickname implies. Chūya finds him to be a good friend, despite this. He is considerate and always ready to go up to bat for his friends when they need it.

“Sure. When is it?”

“Saturday at ten! We’re partying all night babyyyyy!”

“Damn, that’s late even by your standards. You do realize people won’t show up until midnight?” Chūya remarked.

“Sure,” Albatross shrugged, “but we’re closed Sunday so we can sleep in!”

“That’s true, I guess.”

“So, you’re all in?” Albatross glances at each of his friends, posing the question to the group. Chūya flashes a thumbs up while Ice Man nods. Adam chews his bottom lip.

“I don’t know. I’m not great at parties.” Adam, at his core, is an introvert, and not the social kind. Being sober, he is often left to feel like a babysitter taking care of all the drunken adults puking their gets out.

“Come on, man, it’ll be so fun,” Albatross coaxes. Adam chews his lip, uncertain.

“Maybe,” he says, not too eager to put up a fight. Adam does his best to avoid arguments with Albatross—they almost always landed in Albatross’s favor.

“Who else is coming?” Chūya asks, “Is Doc coming? He doesn’t drink.”

“Oh yeah! He said he’d be there!” Albatross cheers triumphantly. He redirects his attention back to Adam, “See man? You’ll have a sober buddy too! It’ll be great!”

Though not particularly convinced, Adam nods along, “Okay.”

As Albatross celebrates his second victory of the day, Chūya and Adam exchange a look. Adam shrugs and Chūya chuckles. Albatross certainly has a way with words.

“Your sister and her girlfriend are welcome to come too—hell you could even bring Dazai along if you wanted! The more the merrier!”

“I’ll ask ‘Kiko and sis,” he ignores the comment about Dazai, knowing just how much of a travesty the night will be if he makes his way into the mix.

“Pizza is on its way,” Adam announces.

“How much do I owe you?” Chūya asks.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Albatross claps Chūya on the back with a greasy hand. Chūya is thankful not to be dressed in white. “I’ve got it covered.”

“No—it’s okay—”

“Think of it as my dues for living off pizza this week. Yeah?”

“Okay,” Chūya says hesitantly, “you sure?”

“Yes, yes! Now, let’s work up an appetite and get back to it!”

--

There are

memories

things

precious things

pretty things, small things, things in boxes in bags in closets in doorways, things—

The house is no longer pandemonium. Not like it was. Not the way it was the night after it all.

Dazai does his best to clean up the destruction and havoc he wreaked. Ango helps. Guilt still eats at his chest of memories.

Something shiny catches the corner of his eye. Kneeling down, he picks up a piece of a knick-knack he must have missed. Some, he can salvage, repair to an extent. Others are thrown out, no matter how much his heart aches. Christmas gifts, souvenirs from trips they had taken together, framed photos for Father’s Day presents—all shattered because Dazai knows every avenue of self-destruction inside and out.

He thinks of the photo of them at the beach, the one that was framed on the mantle. The one now bent and creased, Oda’s face obscured by the angle of its ruin. Chest clenching, he heaves at the thought.

Broken glass makes people cry.

He wipes at his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I’m fine,” he whispers under his breath, “you’re fine.”

The attempts of assurance are not particularly helpful, but he cannot think of any other avenue of comfort. He should probably CBT his way out of the panic, but that feels like effort requiring energy he does not have. Instead, he busies himself with cleaning. Dazai has two states of being: the cleanest, most organized person on earth versus chaos goblin. As quick as he is to destroy the world around him, he can clean up like nobody’s business.

As he dusts and sweeps and picks up miscellaneous shards of glass, he finds himself humming. The tune is pleasant, familiar. It makes his insides warm and

No.

No.

No.

No—

The broom clatters to the floor. The humming stops. Unknowingly, his fist clenches around the shard of glass in his left hand.

Vacant, he stares, amber eyes owlish and empty. He stares and stares and stares for moments becoming minutes becoming—

The doorbell rings. Violently, he is ripped out of his reverie. Blinking, it takes a few seconds to return to the present, to his body and the world around him. His hand is bleeding.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “ONE MINUTE!” He yells towards the door as he makes his way to the trash to toss out the glass. The sink is nearby and he hisses as he runs his injured hand under the warm water. Deeming the injury non-threatening, he does not bother to bandage it and makes his way towards the door. He opens it dazedly.

Fire hair and oceans for eyes, for a split second, his mind warps and it is Oda standing there—his Odasaku is here and staring at him with confused eyes and

“Dazai?”

The mirage morphs.

He is faced, once more, with the bitterness of reality.

“Slug—Chūya. Hi.”

“Hi. Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

Chūya eyes him skeptically. He notices the injured hand.

“What happened?”

“Huh?”

Gesturing to his hand, “Your hand.”

“Oh! Picked up some broken glass. It’s fine.”

“You should probably bandage that,” Chūya says.

“Yes mother, I’ll get right on that,” his jest falls flat, but neither acknowledges it.

“I um—” Chūya fishes around his pocket, pulling something small out of it, “I meant to give these to you sooner but. You know,” he shrugs awkwardly. Dazai eyes the small figurines in the palm of Chūya’s little hand. “I found these on the floor that night when um. And figured they were salvageable. I fixed them—mostly.” He points to a black kitten figurine, “This little guy is pretty delicate, so you’ll want to be careful with him. And this one—”

Dazai’s face is hot and wet and sticky. Chūya notices.

“You’re crying,” Chūya’s voice is soft, soft, soft, unreasonably soft, “it’s okay, Dazai. I fixed them. Everything is going to be okay.”

Sweet and comforting and exactly what he needs to hear except

is there such a thing as okay anymore? Without Oda, can okay even exist?

“I know,” Dazai mouths in return, inaudible, barely able to get the words out.

They stand.

The chill in the air bites and Dazai should invite Chūya in for some tea. He should talk about it, about Oda, about back then, about everything. But he cannot. Words fail and only hot, red, sticky cheeks remain.

Chūya, for his part, lets Dazai cry. He stands there, one palm outstretched, the other tucked away in his pocket. The figurines sit comfortably, battered and bruised, but still standing.

It takes a few minutes too long to sober up, but he does so surprisingly graceful.

“Sorry,” Dazai averts his gaze, “it’s been a lot. I’m not really myself these days.”

Chūya wonders who that person is. What “being himself” actually entails.

“That’s okay. You’ve been through a lot lately.”

“Yeah,” Dazai laughs humorlessly, “I guess you’re right.”

They stand for another silent moment.

“I’ll um,” Dazai reaches for the figurines, “I’ll take these.” Electric currents as they touch, touch, touch, “Thank you for fixing them. It really means a lot.”

“Of course.”

Dazai holds the figurines gently, preciously, nestled now in the palm of his hand.

“I’ll let you get back to—” Chūya waves his hand vaguely. “Sorry for interrupting—”

“I was just cleaning! I probably needed a break anyways. Should bandage that hand. Thanks again.”

“No problem. I’ll see you around.”

Dazai waves, gently closing the door behind him.

With prestigious care, he lines up each figure in the China cabinet tucked away in the corner of the room.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to the little black cat. The present Oda gave him for his birthday when they were unable to afford a real cat. “I’m so sorry.”

Yellow painted-on eyes stare back.

Chapter Text

Chapter IV: school

Yokohama, September 2012

With an overexaggerated yawn, Dazai regretted his near-sleepless night. Even with the help of his meds, he could not shake off the adrenaline of his late-night school mission. It was a given that his friends would be upset in the unlikely event that they would find out about said mission. “Unlikely” being the keyword. There was no reason they should find out; the details of Dazai’s adventure was not information he was looking to fork over willingly.

Time ticked by like molasses, class passing in a languid fashion. His foot tapped impatiently. He yawned again.

“Didn’t sleep well?” Chūya asked as the literature teacher paired them off for partner study. Naturally, as in all their classes together, Dazai and Chūya sat next to each other and were thus assigned partners for the worksheet.

“I was just so excited to see you and ‘Kiko!” Dazai rambled, “Couldn’t wait for morning to come!!”

“You’re never this excited about school,” Chūya worried his lip in contemplation, “what are you scheming?

“Me? Scheming? I’m positively offended by your assumptions.”

“Right. Sure.”

Dazai yawned a third time before turning his attention to the required reading in front of them, Lord of the Flies.

“I think I’d be Ralph,” Dazai announced, staring absentmindedly at his worn-out library copy.

“As if. You’d be Jack. He’s the bad guy, right? There’s no way you’d be the protagonist.”

“Mean. Besides, Ralph isn’t all good. Haven’t you read the book?”

“We were only supposed to read up to chapter five. Don’t tell me you finished the damn thing already!”

Dazai shrugged, uninterested, “I read it over the summer.”

“Nerd,” Chūya scoffed.

“At least I don’t have the reading comprehension of a marble,” Dazai snarked as Chūya’s face contorted into a look of irritation.

“Whatever. Asshole,” Chūya mumbled, “let’s just answer these stupid questions.”

Chūya struggled with reading and, ordinarily, they both avoided the topic. When it did come up, Dazai tried to approach the subject sensitively. Today though, exhaustion got the better of him and the quip slid out of his mouth, no filter.

“Oh. Sorry,” Dazai said haphazardly, “I didn’t mean like that.”

Chūya ignored the apology and began working on their worksheet.

Dazai struggled to focus. He already knew all the answers, meaning the work was too boring for him to care about. Instead, thoughts of the mysterious teacher he had encountered the night prior flew about in his head. The man was wholly intriguing. These days, Dazai was so rarely intrigued. He dazed, replaying their conversation over in his mind.

“Hey, earth to shitty-Dazai—” Chūya waved a hand in front of his face. Dazai blinked several times before coming back to reality. “What’s the answer to question seven?”

Without looking, Dazai replied, “C.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yep.”

The class wrapped up shortly after they submitted their papers to the teacher.

“Did you remember lunch today?” Chūya asked as they packed up, getting ready to head to the cafeteria.

“Yep~” Dazai trilled in reply, showing off a ratty brown paper bag.

He had a bad habit of forgetting his lunch, so it was not uncommon for Chūya and Akiko to pack extra to share. They made their way to the cafeteria, cozying up at the farthest table away from all the other students. Akiko waved at them before shoving an onigiri into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed then asked, “Did you bring lunch today, ‘Zai?”

Dazai, held out his paper bag equipped with a small thermos of ramen. “No need to look so shocked,” he giggled at their reactions.

“You’re the one who’s so forgetful,” Akiko pointed out as Dazai removed the thermos lid, carefully slurping at his steaming lunch. Chūya unpacked his own bento, happy for the reprieve of classes.

“Have you met the new math teacher yet?” Dazai asked curiously. “I hear he starts today?”

“Mori-sensei?” Akiko posed.

“I think that’s him,” Dazai nodded, “have you met?”

“Yes, actually,” Akiko replied, “he’s my homeroom teacher.”

“I forgot Sasaki-sensei was homeroom for you,” Chūya said in between bites of his lunch.

“Yep,” Akiko munched, “the new guy’s fine, I guess.”

“He’s the one with greasy hair and wrinkly hands, right?” Dazai asked.

“Yep, that’s the one,” Akiko confirmed.

“Ew, you pay attention to his hands?” Chūya nearly spit out his food in disgust.

“They’re just so wrinkly, I couldn’t stop looking. Like a car accident. Y’know?~”

“Sounds gross,” Chūya made a face.

“I mean, he’s kind of hot. In an ugly sort of way,” Dazai commented casually. His friends stared at him as if he were growing two heads.

“Dude, seriously?” Chūya gaped.

“He’s gross,” Akiko added.

“That’s such gay shit to say, ‘Zai. Get out of here.”

Dazai laughed, brushing off their concern, “Relax, I was joking,” he smiled widely.

“Good,” Chūya huffed, “my dad would kill me if he heard us talking about this shit.”

Akiko fidgeted. She switched topics, “My parents want me to do a club or something, pick up an extra-curricular.”

“To add to your five-page resume?” Chūya laughed in disbelief. Dazai chuckled alongside him.

“Yeah, I mean, they want me to get into a good school.”

“Trust me, you will,” Chūya sighed, “the only one of us who needs to be worried is me.”

“Don’t be anxious, Chū,” Dazai pat his friend on the back, “I promised you I’d tutor you. We’ll get you into a good school in no time!”

“Thanks, but it’s not that easy,” Chūya frowned, “we can barely afford for sis to take classes at community college. I’m not going to win any scholarships either.”

“You never know!!”

“I guess. But I don’t want to be reliant on you,” Chūya thought about his recent argument with his sister, “you’re not always going to be around to tutor me.”

“I mean, sure, I’ll probably kill myself but—”

“Don’t joke about that,” Akiko hissed.

“Don’t worry,” Dazai said with a flippant wave of his wrist, “no matter what, we’re best friends until the bitter end. Right? We’re not going to leave you behind.”

“Promise?”

“We promise,” Dazai spoke for himself and Akiko. “Oh! I know! Let’s all join ‘Kiko’s club! That’ll look good on college apps.”

Chūya hummed, “Which club would you want to join?”

“Good question,” Akiko considered, “maybe something artsy?”

“We can start our own!” Dazai brimmed with enthusiasm, “I think all the members of Philosophy club graduated. We could revamp that one?”

“Not a bad idea,” Akiko said, finishing her meal, “that would look really good on your apps, if we put you down as president, Chū.”

“I don’t know,” Chūya mumbled between bites, “do I have time to run a club? I’m barely passing my classes as is.”

“You won’t be alone,” Dazai coaxed, “we’ll help you out! It’ll be our little club.”

“And what happens when other students join?” Chūya asked, “We’ll have to actually do things.”

“Let ‘Kiko and I take care of that,” Dazai reassured, “you can oversee and make sure nothing catches fire. We’ll plan the activities. Besides, who in their right mind would want to join three dweebs in a club about philosophy?”

Chūya gnawed his lip, “You really think this will work?”

“Positive~”

“And what about our supervising teacher?”

“Mr. Greasy Hair!!” Dazai chirped excitedly, “He’s new so I doubt anyone has asked him to help run their clubs yet.”

“You have a point,” Akiko commented, “I guess he can work.”

“So it’s settled,” Dazai beamed, “the three of us will talk to Mori-sensei after school today and convince him to sign off on the club!”

“You’re ridiculous,” Chūya mumbled, shaking his head.  

“We mean it,” Dazai softened, “we’re not gonna let you get left behind.”

“Thanks.” Then, quieter, “It means a lot. Seriously.”

“Don’t mention it,” Akiko smiled, nudging Chūya’s shoulder.

“What are we even going to do in Philosophy club?” Chūya asked with a laugh.

“Oh, you know,” Dazai replied, “Ponder. Philosophize.”

“What does that mean?!”

“To philosophize, you know,” Dazai grinned, slurping at the rest of his food. “Do you guys wanna come over for dinner tonight? And yes, before you ask, it will be curry. Again.”

“I have to study,” Akiko wilted at the remark.

“We could study together?” Dazai bat his eyes prettily.

“Yeah, sure ‘Zai,” Akiko snorted, “you’re literally the worst person on earth to study with.”

“Rude.”

“All you do is annoy us! Don’t even act like that’s not true.”

Dazai huffed, “Betrayed by my best friend.”

“Hey!” Chūya glared.

“Right,” Dazai corrected himself, “second best friend.”

Akiko rolled her eyes, shoving the others playfully.

“Chibi, what about you? Wanna come over? We can do some tutoring stuff so your dad won’t get mad.”

“I’ll have to ask, but yeah, that sounds good. Honestly, you ought to get your dad a cookbook one of these days. You literally live off ramen and curry.”

“Hey, I’ve made it this far~”

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch.

“Shit,” Chūya cursed, “off to hell we go.” Dazai snickered as Akiko tossed out their trash.

“Ready, slug?” Dazai gestured in the direction of their math class.

Akiko waved, “See you after school.”

Dazai and Chūya meandered to math, making light conversation all the while. They arrived, taking their seats next to each other.

“Welcome, students,” the teacher greeted the class, facing the chalkboard distractedly as he spoke. “As you all know, Sasaki-sensei is on leave, so I’ll be the long-term replacement.” He continued writing out math equations on the board, “I look forward to working with you all this year.” Eventually, he managed to face the class. His shoulder-length hair was tied back in a small ponytail and he was dressed neatly in a maroon button down with black slacks.

“You’re right, his hair is greasy,” Chūya whispered to Dazai with a little laugh. The teacher collected his roster from the desk.

“I’d like to get to know you all, so when I call your name, please share something about yourself or perhaps what you did over the summer. A fun fact. I’ll start, my name is Mori Ōgai, I am your teacher and I have a young, adorable daughter named Elise. Over the summer, we took a trip to the beach.”

Beginning roll call, Mori sifted through the names on the list.

“Chūya Nakahara,” he called.

“Present. You can call me Chūya,” Chūya answered, “and um. I didn’t do much over the summer. But I like dogs. A lot.”

A few other names were called until Mori stumbled upon, “Dazai Osamu?”

“Right here, teach,” Dazai waved lazily. They locked eyes, a knowing glance shared between them.

Mori raised his brow, “Dazai Osamu?”

“The one and only. And I like suicide. A lot,” he parroted Chūya’s intonation. The class stirred uncomfortably.

“Osamu-kun,” Mori spoke honey sweet, “I’m sure there is a better tidbit, maybe something more appropriate, which you’d like to share with the class?”

“Oh! Like what I did for fun over the summer break?”

“Precisely.”

Looking his teacher straight in the eye, “I went swimming.”

“That’s very nice.”

“It was a bit cold though, seeing how late at night it was. The view from the bridge had been pretty at least.”

More silence erupted.

“Osamu-kun,” Mori sat down at his desk, clasping his hands together, “please see me after class.”

Chūya shook his head in exasperation.

Dazai smiled brightly, “Sure thing, sensei.”

“Idiot,” Chūya whispered, chastising the other under his breath. Dazai laughed it off as the rest of attendance was taken and class proceeded to start.

Halfway through the class, Mori handed out a stack of papers. “I’ve graded these exams on behalf of Sasaki-sensei. You all did very well, for the most part.”

Chūya held his breath as his teacher handed back the exams one by one. Even in his anxiety, he wondered if Mori had already memorized everyone’s names. Lost in thought, he nearly missed as Mori handed him his own exam.

“Not bad, Chūya,” he said. Chūya’s brow wrinkled at the remark. Looking down at his paper, a bright blue B- was staring back at him.

“Holy shit! Take that, shitty Dazai!” Chūya waved the grade in Dazai’s face. Dazai smiled, amused.

“Nice work.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t fail! Holy shit—”

He paused.

“What’s wrong?” Dazai asked confused, “You should be celebrating!”

Chūya inspected the paper with great detail, “I thought—X is supposed to be 45.”

“No. It’s 36,” Dazai explained without thinking, “you got it right. See?”

“That’s—that’s not how I show my work.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“No, it’s not. Not on tests.” The pieces clicked in place and, “Dazai—no. Do not tell me.”

“You got a good grade! Be happy!” Dazai pestered.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Is everything alright back there?” Mori gestured to Chūya and Dazai’s seats. Chūya huffed.

“I don’t feel well. May I go to the nurse?”

“Very well then.”

Chūya glowered at his best friend as he stalked out.

After an excruciatingly long period of time, class wrapped up. Dazai could not shake the tightness in his chest. Making Chūya upset was not his intention. This was for his own good—his dad would go ballistic if he failed yet another exam. It also set a good impression with the new teacher. There was nothing wrong with what Dazai did. Chūya should be thanking him. The thoughts played on repeat for the entirety of class.

So distracted, he nearly forgot to stay after, before Mori called his name.

“Osamu, a word?”

The class funneled out while Dazai slowly made his way over to the teacher’s desk at the front of the class. With ease, he tossed on his careless, confident demeanor, the façade he planned to wear for the rest of the day.

“Shūji Tsushima?” Mori raised an eyebrow.

“That’s my pen name. You can call me that.”

Mori was unamused. He sighed, wringing his hands together and taking a seat at his desk. His legs were crossed, left over right.

“I’d rather not report you on my first day here.”

“For?” Dazai looked confused.

“Suicide is a serious subject.”

“Never said it wasn’t.”

“It’s not something to joke about.”

“Who says I was joking?”

“Osamu.”

“Mori.”

Another sigh. Mori ran his hand through his hair, “What were you doing here last night?”

“Being tutored, I told you.”

“You got a perfect score on your test.”

“Guess all those study sessions are paying off~”

There was a silent stand-off between them, a touch too long. Mori’s sighed. Dazai fidgeted with the bandages peeking out of his uniform.

“I’ll have to call your parents about the inappropriate comment.”

“What? Why? That’s not fair.”

“If you’re serious about what you said—”

“I am.”

“Then that leaves me no choice—”

“That’s not true. You always have a choice.”

“If you’re feeling suicidal—do you talk to the school guidance counselor? I’ve heard he’s very good—”

“Save it, teach. I’m not going to off myself tomorrow.”

“Tell your parents they can expect a call from me this evening.”

“That’s not fair!” Dazai complained irritably.

“It is fair. You should have considered the consequences of your actions before behaving irrationally.”

Dazai rolled his eyes, “I’m a teenager, my brain isn’t fully developed yet. You’re literally punishing me for being suicidal with an underdeveloped brain.”

“Your brain isn’t underdeveloped—”

“How is this okay?”

Mori softened, his expression empathetic, “This isn’t a punishment. Believe it or not, I care about your well-being—”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Well, I’d rather like to get to know you and I can’t do that if you’re swaying from a tree.”

Dazai scoffed, “Tried hanging. Too painful.”

Mori shot him an unappreciative glare, as if to say you’re not helping your case. Dazai shoved his hands in his pockets. The air felt stuffy, suddenly too warm in the confinement of the classroom. “Fine, call Odasaku and he’ll pull me from school again. You can’t exactly get to know me if I’m in the psych ward.”

“How about this,” Mori shifted positions, offering a compromise, “I’ll walk you to the guidance office this period. We won’t call your parents, so long as you go to a few sessions.”

“One.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“Deal.”

They shook hands to seal the deal.

Electric, electric, electric.

“I’ll write you a note to excuse you from the next period. Alright?” Dazai shrugged, annoyed. Mori stood up with a groan, his joints popping with the motion. He gestured towards the door, “Shall we?”

--

The counselor was blah blah blah and Dazai felt very blah blah blah and all he wanted to do was spend a night hanging out with his best friend except—

“We were supposed to get Mori-sensei to sign off on our club!”

“I told you,” Akiko narrowed her eyes as she spoke, “Chūya already left.”

Dazai leaned against the school’s back doorway, “What do you mean, he left?”

“I mean he grabbed his things and left. Seemed really upset. What did you do?”

“Why do you think I did something? That’s unfair.”

“Because, if it were literally anything else, he’d be waiting for you to commiserate with him. What did you do?”

“Nothing!”

Akiko glowered accusingly.

“God, why does everyone have a stick up their ass today?”

“What did you do? Don’t tell me—” she stopped mid-sentence, an epiphany. “Are you serious?”

“It was for his own good,” Dazai shrugged on his jacket, heading towards the path to walk home. Akiko followed.

“You can’t just change someone’s grade—” she hissed.

“Well duh. That would be too obvious. I just made a few teeny tiny adjustments. He wasn’t that far off—”

“You promised us you wouldn’t!”

“Have you met Chū’s dad? Sorry that I didn’t want to see my best friend spend the next week crying because his dad’s temper went too far—”

“I get it,” Akiko interrupted, “you were trying to help him, Dazai, I get it.” She reached out, grabbing his shoulder, stopping Dazai mid-step. “But this isn’t okay. You betrayed his trust—our trust.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“It is. Either one of you could get expelled for this.”

“But it’s not Chūya’s fault! This isn’t fair!”

“Neither is what you did. That wasn’t fair or okay.”

“So what am I supposed to do now?”

Akiko pursed her lips. It smelled like rain. “Apologize?”

“I don’t want to apologize when I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Except you did do something wrong. And you put both of you at risk. Do you not see how serious this is?”

“Fine,” Dazai let out a frustrated growl, “I’ll apologize. If it’ll get you both to calm the fuck down.”

“That’s a shitty apology.”

“Well, this is a shitty reason to be angry at someone,” Dazai snarled. They continued walking, the storm clouds moving nearer.

“Like it or not, our anger, Chūya’s anger especially, is valid. You’re really going to have to work to make this up to him.”

Dazai hung his head dejectedly, “I’ll apologize.”

“For real?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, “for real.

“Good.”

They reached the crossroad where Akiko split off.

“I really am sorry I lied to you,” Dazai scuffed his sneakers against the asphalt beneath them, deciding better against his pride. Apologies never were his strong suit and he already felt icky on the inside for saying the words aloud.

“Thank you for the apology,” Akiko nodded approvingly. “Chūya might not be so easy to forgive.”

“Tell me about it,” Dazai pouted, “guess I’ll just have to do what I do best and bother him until he lets up!”

“Genius idea,” Akiko replied sarcastically, “fool-proof.”

“Thank you, I try.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Bye ‘Kiko. I promise not to kill myself tonight! See you!”

Akiko left in the direction of her house as Dazai turned the opposite way. He thought about Chūya, about the anguish in his eyes. Guilt twinged in his chest. He had to make things right. For Chūya’s sake.

--

The rest of his walk home, Dazai felt restless. The image of Chūya’s betrayed expression was ingrained in his mind. It was only a short walk, but felt like hundreds of miles away without his best friend by his side. Dazai had made Chūya angry in the past countless times. There was that time Dazai told Chūya’s crush that he liked her. Or the time Dazai doodled all over Chūya’s history homework. He was constantly poking fun at the other one’s height and didn’t have any form of an “off” button, making his annoyances a constant nuisance. Still, Chūya never stayed angry at him for that long. Granted, Chūya had never looked as hurt as he did during math class. The guilt was insurmountable. As much as Dazai tried to ignore it, he knew he had betrayed Chūya’s trust with his actions.

When he made it back to his house, he slumped on the couch, feeling defeated. Rain pelted their windows, the storm finally reaching its peak. Oda noticed Dazai’s dejected demeanor almost immediately.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” Oda asked, taking a seat next to his son. Dazai groaned.

“I pissed off Chūya.”

“You always piss off Chūya,” Oda commented plainly and without judgement.

“Not helping,” Dazai muttered unenthusiastically.

“Sorry,” Oda backpedaled. “What happened?”

“I um. I did something I promised I wouldn’t do.”

“Which was?” Oda prodded. Dazai sucked a harsh breath between his teeth.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Dazai,” Oda warned.

“Nevermind,” Dazai spat bitterly. He moved to get up, only stopping as Oda placed a hand on his shoulder.

Oda knew how Dazai got whenever he did something he should not be doing. In lieu of opening up about what he did wrong, Dazai would clam up, refusing to say a single word about the source of the issue. Oda tried his best to be patient with him.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me. How can I help?”

Dazai, much like a stray cat, eyed Oda warily. “I don’t know what to do,” he eventually relented.

“Have you tried apologizing?” Oda asked. Dazai shook his head.

“I don’t know how. I mean, I know how apologies work. But I suck at them.”

“It doesn’t hurt to give it a try. Do you feel sorry for your actions?”

“That’s the thing,” Dazai pulled his knees up to his chest, “I feel bad for making Chū upset, but I don’t feel bad about what I did. I don’t think it’s a big deal.”

“But Chūya does?”

“Yeah. He just looked so upset—so hurt and I feel awful that I made him feel that way.”

“I think apologizing is a good idea.”

Dazai looked down at his lap, “Yeah, okay. But—” he hesitated.

“But?”

“What if. What if he doesn’t forgive me?”

“Why do you think he won’t?”

“He just seemed so upset. It—I—ugh I don’t know. I don’t want him to hate me forever.”

“You’ve been best friends for years. I don’t think your friendship is delicate. Maybe you’ll go through a rough patch, but really all you can do is apologize and try to do better. You can’t control how he’ll react, but you can put in the effort to tell him you’re sorry.”

Dazai nodded. He knew his father was right on this one. No matter how much he would rather not, he owed Chūya an apology.

“Okay. Thanks, dad. Can I try to talk to him now, before dinner?”

Oda rubbed his back lovingly, “Sure thing. Dinner will be ready around six. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Love you, bud.”

“You too,” Dazai got up, shrugging on his jacket and pulling up his hood.

“Oh, and Dazai?”

“Hm?” Dazai hummed, getting ready to leave.

“You know you can tell me what you did. I won’t be angry at you.”

Dazai hesitated. “I—” Biting the inside of his cheek, he sighed, “It’s nothing. I’ll see you in a bit.” He walked to the door, braving the storm resolutely.

Chūya became their next door neighbor shortly after Dazai was adopted at age seven. By eight, they were best friends. Back then, Chūya’s mom was alive. His father was sober and everything was different. So much simpler when they could spend all day playing pretend without a care in the world.

Things were different now.

Thankfully, there was no car in the driveway, meaning Paul was still at work. Being around Paul was always uncomfortable, so Dazai did his best to avoid running into him.

“Chūya!” Dazai shouted, banging on the front door, “Chū! I want to talk! I know you’re home—I can see your light on! Chūyaaaaaaa!” The rain pelted, fat drops sliding off his waterproof jacket and hood.

The door slammed open before Dazai could knock on it again. He was greeted by red hair—not the one with curly, unruly locks though. No, Kōyō’s hair was so bright, it was nearly pink. She wore it tied up in a prim bun. Alongside, she was dressed in a bright pink crop top with a jean mini skirt and fishnets. Dazai felt a little underdressed comparatively in his boring school uniform and jacket.

“What did you do?” She crossed her arms and glared in lieu of a greeting.

“How do you know I did anything?! Slander!”

“The only one who could make Chūya this upset is you. What did you do to my little brother?”

“I didn’t do anything to Chūya,” Dazai defended himself. It wasn’t a complete lie—he didn’t actually do anything to Chūya, just to his grade. “Now will you pretty please let me in?”

“So you can hurt his feelings even more? Absolutely not. Now leave.”

Dazai wedged his foot in the doorway before it could close all the way, “No. I—look. I didn’t do anything to Chūya, but something I did upset him. Please—just let me talk to him.”

“Are you going to apologize?” Kōyō asked, voice thickly laced with skepticism.

Dazai looked down at his feet sheepishly, “Yeah.”

Silence hung heavy for a moment too long.

“Dad will be back in thirty minutes. You get fifteen.”

“Deal.”

Reluctantly, Kōyō stepped aside, swinging the door open for Dazai to make his way in. Without much thought, Dazai removed his shoes and jacket before running up the steps to Chūya’s room. The house, like Dazai’s, was small and quaint. When Chūya’s mom was alive, it perpetually smelled like freshly baked cookies. Soft blankets and throw pillows decorated the couches and armchairs. Kōyō did her best to keep the house tidy, but it was never the same after their mom passed. The scent of fresh cookies was replaced by beer and liquor. Soft blankets became withered with age and the home morphed into a house. Chūya and Dazai never talked about it.

“Chū!” Dazai banged on Chūya’s door. Much to his dismay, the door was locked. “Chūya! I just want to talk, will you please let me in?”

No response.

“I’m. I just. I wanted to um. To say. I wanted to tell you that I’m. I’m. I’m really. I’m really really really sorry for upsetting you. I didn’t mean to hurt Chūya’s feelings.”

No response.

“I thought I was helping. But I wasn’t. I hurt your feelings and betrayed your trust and I feel really bad about that. I didn’t think and that was stupid of me. I’m really sorry.”

No response.

“Please—I’ll do anything to make this up to you. Just say the word—”

The door flung open, revealing red-rimmed ocean eyes and blotchy cheeks.

“Tell Mori-sensei what you did.”

“But—you might get in trouble—”

“I don’t care. Tell him the truth and tell him to fail my test.”

“I did this so you wouldn’t fail. So your dad can’t yell at you and your grades—”

“I don’t give a fuck why you did it, shitty Dazai. I want you to fix it.”

Dazai grimaced, then exhaled deeply, “If I. If I tell Mori-sensei, will Chūya forgive me?”

“Only if you promise to never do stupid shit like this again,” Chūya scowled harshly.

“Define ‘stupid shit.’”

Chūya groaned, “Backing out of promises. Doing things that affect ‘Kiko and I without our permission. That kind of stupid.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Dazai nodded vigorously, “I can do that.”

“You swear?”

“I do. I promise, tomorrow I’ll tell Mori-sensei the truth and I’ll never pull this shit again. Even if I think it could be better in the long-run—”

“Dazai,” Chūya snapped.

“Right,” Dazai nodded, “I really am sorry. I’ll tell Mori-sensei it was my fault. If you get in trouble, you can say—”

“I’ll deal with it on my own. I don’t need any more of your ‘help.’”

“Right. Right. I’m going to fix this.”

“Whatever.”

--

The next school day could not come fast enough. Dazai picked at his dinner, barely touching it before rushing to bed. Not that he managed to get any rest.

Running off of two hours of sleep and three energy drinks, Dazai hurried to school early in the morning. He told himself he wanted to talk to Mori-sensei about everything as soon as possible—which was true. It also would not have been a lie to say he was afraid of Chūya ignoring him on the entire walk to school.

Classes started at seven, so Dazai arrived promptly forty-five minutes early. He reached his math classroom, taking a deep breath before knocking and entering. Mori sat at his desk, engulfed in a stack of papers. Dazai cleared his throat. His teacher looked up, startled.

“Osamu-kun,” he greeted warmly, then with a joking lilt, added, “or should I say Shūji-kun?”

“Mori-sensei,” Dazai wrang his hands together uneasily. Gone was the careless, antagonistic teen. In his place was an anxious child wracked with uncertainty. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Mori frowned, directing all his attention towards his student.

“And what might that be?”

Dazai twitched nervously, “Let’s say, hypothetically, a student did something wrong. Or like, something that everyone else thought was wrong, but wasn’t really that bad.”

“Like?”

“Like um. I don’t know. Messing with a test or something.”

“As in, changing a grade?”

“Something like that. Hypothetically, they thought they were helping their friend. But the friend didn’t want help and the student did it anyways, so now the friend is mad and wants the student to come clean about what they did. Hypothetically, would the friend get in trouble?”

“Hypothetically?”

Dazai nodded. Mori sighed, shifting positions.

“Hypothetically, I would have to report both of them to the principal’s office for cheating. They could both get suspended or expelled.”

“But the friend wasn’t involved! They didn’t want this to happen!”

“Rules are rules, Dazai. Now is there something you’d like to tell me?”

Dazai clammed up, mouth slamming shut as he shook his head, entirely silent.

“Dazai—”

“Forget this,” Dazai scowled. He went to leave the room. Mori got up, stopping him with a tug of the wrist.

Hot, electric current. Searing pain because

because last night

last night he—

and his wrist really hurts.

Dazai cringed in pain, yanking his wrist out of Mori’s grip, “Don’t touch me.”

Mori immediately recoiled, an apology etched on his face, “Forgive me. Please, have a seat.”

Reluctantly, Dazai sat down at the desk nearest. Mori sat on top of the desk next to him.

“When I was in school, I used to let my friends cheat off of me,” Mori started, nostalgia seeping his gaze, “I thought it made me cool, thought that I was helping them, had their back.” Dazai frowned. He had a feeling he knew where this story was headed. Mori continued. “It worked for a while, the entire year actually, until final exams. They tightened monitoring and my friends couldn’t cheat off of me anymore. As a result, all of them failed.” Dazai kept his eyes focused on his lap. “I don’t doubt you were trying to do a good thing, Osamu. But even good intentions can come with consequences. I thought helping my friends get good grades made everyone happy—but they couldn’t rely on me like that. It wasn’t fair to anyone. Do you understand?”

“I was just trying to help,” his chest tightened, welling with dejection.

“I understand.”

“This isn’t fair, Mori-sensei. Chūya’s dad is mean! If he brings home another bad test, his dad’s gonna make him miserable.”

Mori stared at his student, eyes softening, “I know you were just trying to help.”

Dazai sniffled. He hated this. Hated the guilt, the weakness. The way everything felt so overwhelming. His cheeks heated up, face reddening as his eyes grew misty. Everything hurt. “I just want Chūya to be okay. I don’t want him getting in trouble for something that was my fault.”

“You’re a very bright student, Osamu,” Dazai sniffled again, “I’m sorry this is the way things have to be.”

“They don’t though!” Dazai snapped, “You’re the teacher, you make the rules!”

“I’m afraid that’s simply not how this works—”

“Bullshit!” Dazai yelled, “You have agency, Mori-sensei. I wasn’t trying to do anything wrong, but I did. If anyone should get in trouble or expelled, it should be me. Report me to the principal but please—please leave Chūya out of this. I’ll do anything.”

“We,” Mori paused, considering, “the school is in need of some more tutors. I took a look at your transcript, it’s very impressive.”

“What are you getting at?”

“If you agree to a few things, I’ll let this slide.”

Dazai’s eyes widened, “What?”

“You’ll agree to tutor Chūya for the rest of the semester.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll check in with me every week after school to inform me of his progress.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ll walk you to the nurse once we finish here to get your wrist checked out.”

Dazai bristled, “There’s nothing wrong with my wrist.”

“As you so eloquently put it,” Mori smiled slyly, “that’s ‘bullshit.’”

“I’m fine.”

“Then that means we will have a lovely walk to the nurse’s office and she’ll give you the stamp of approval to go about your day.”

“I’m not taking off my bandages,” Dazai said defiantly.

“You will if you want Chūya to stay out of trouble.”

Dazai grew exceptionally quiet, “If the nurse sees. She’s going to call my dad.”

“Osamu, hurting yourself is never the right answer—”

“How do you know that’s—”

“Just a lucky guess.”

Dazai cradled his wrist close to his chest.

Mori stood up, offering a hand to Dazai, “Let’s get to it.”

--

“Chibikko! ‘Kiko!” Dazai bounced excitedly, approaching his friends during lunch, “How are you on this fine Tuesday afternoon—”

“Cut the crap, Dazai,” Chūya snarled, “unless you’re here to tell me about your conversation with Mori-sensei, I’m not interested.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” Dazai beamed, “that’s exactly what I came by to discuss!”

“Okay?” Akiko replied.

“Chūya, I am happy to report you have officially gotten a ‘D’ on your test.”

“So what? We getting expelled or something?”

“Nope~”

“He’s gonna call my dad?”

“Nope~”

“What the hell deal did you strike?”

“Well, I have to tutor you for the rest of the semester.”

“Of fucking course.”

“And I need to meet every week with Mori-sensei to let him know how you’re doing.”

“Anything else?” Akiko raised her brow skeptically.

“That’s it!”

Chūya narrowed his eyes with a harsh glower.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Go ahead and ask him if you want,” Dazai shrugged. Chūya shoved his sandwich in his mouth. Akiko eyed her own food, then looked back up at Dazai.

“Did you bring lunch?”

“What?”

“Lunch,” Akiko repeated.

When was the last time he actually ate? He sort of had dinner the night before, maybe half of it.

“I forgot,” he answered simply.

“Idiot,” Chūya and Akiko said in unison. They both slid him food, Akiko a few rice balls and Chūya a pack of apple slices.

“Thank youuuuuu~” Dazai trilled, taking an apple slice and chewing it happily. “Now that I fixed everything, are you still mad at me?”

Akiko and Chūya exchanged a look.

“No,” Akiko said at the same time as Chūya said, “Yes.” Akiko and Chūya exchanged another look. Dazai frowned.

“But I fixed it.”

“Yeah, but you still did it,” Chūya retorted, “you betrayed our trust.”

“But I fixed it!”

“Only because you wanted us to forgive you!”

“Well, yeah! What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s selfish, Dazai. You’re selfish!”

“I apologized! I fixed it! What else do you want from me?”

“To say it was wrong,” Chūya snapped.

“But it wasn’t,” Dazai looked painfully confused.

“You lied! And broke the rules!”

“It was to help you!”

“Right, keep telling yourself that,” Chūya scoffed, fed up, “I bet you were just bored and got sick of cutting yourself—”

“Chūya!” Akiko stepped in, “Stop—”

Dazai’s face fell, expression growing blank as Chūya continued his rant.

“Why’d you have to drag me into your shitty, self-destructive bullshit? I’m so sick of this Dazai! I’m sick of you!”

Dazai ignored the way his face began to heat up. Idly, he picked at his apple slices before pushing the rest of the food away.

“I’m not very hungry.”

“Fuck—” Chūya started, regret pooling in his chest as he realized all that he had said, “Wait. I didn’t—shit. That was messed up. I was just angry, I didn’t mean it.”

Dazai stared at his bandaged wrist.

“If I forgive Chūya, will he stop being mad at me?”

Chūya exhaled, looking away, “Okay. I didn’t mean what I said.”

Silence enveloped the trio. Dazai’s food sat untouched. “I’m going to the nurse to lie down,” Dazai whispered, voice small, “I don’t feel well.”

“You should eat something,” Akiko coaxed. Dazai shook his head. He stood up, gave the food back to his respective friends, and left.

--

Dazai left school early, claiming to have a migraine. Oda knew better.

“What’s going on, bud?” Oda asked as he picked up his son. With his work hours being as erratic as they were, Dazai was lucky he was free.

“Don’t feel well,” Dazai muttered, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the window of the car. They drove.

“Did you and Chūya work out what was going on?”

“Yeah,” Dazai mumbled, “we’re even.”

“Okay,” Oda said warily. To Oda, being “even” didn’t exactly sound like the best way to approach conflict-resolution. They drove in silence. As they arrived back home, Dazai went straight to his room, closing the door behind him.

It hurt. Chūya’s words stung and Dazai did not know how to process that and switchblades are better company than friends anyways.

His wrists ached. He knew the school would be calling his dad soon to tell him what Mori and the nurse saw. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to care much at all.

It was not until dinnertime came and passed without a sign from Dazai that Oda went to check on him.

His wrist was bandaged and he laid under the covers of his bed, buried like a burrito.

“I brought you some dinner,” Oda said after knocking and letting himself in. Dazai turned to face the wall.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve got to eat something,” Oda said. Dazai did not reply. “Your school called. They told me about the self-harm, how you’ve been relapsing.”

Dazai stayed quiet.

“Can I see your wrist?”

The question shirked him away, not unlike a startled stray kitten.

“Did something upset you?” Oda tried a different approach. Dazai did not reply. “Come on, bud. Talk to me. I won’t be mad, I promise.”

“Chūya. He. He said something mean.”

“What did he say?”

“I deserved it though! I was being a brat and—”

“What did Chūya say to you?”

Dazai did not answer and Oda tried his best not to push.

“Did you talk to Chūya about what he said? Let him know it upset you?”

“It was my fault. Everything is my fault.”

“Dazai—”

They were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

“I’ll just be a moment,” Oda said before exiting the room to check on the door. Within a matter of minutes, two pairs of feet were clamoring back down the hall. Oda walked Chūya into Dazai’s room before announcing, “I’ll give you two some time to talk.”

Oda closed the door quietly behind him as he left, leaving Dazai and Chūya engulfed in oppressive silence.

“Hey,” Chūya whispered. Dazai nestled further under the covers. “Can we talk?” Dazai did not reply. Chūya continued, “What I said was really not cool. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“Chūya was right,” Dazai coughed quietly.

“No, I was wrong,” Chūya replied, “I was just mad. But I shouldn’t have been a jerk about it and I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who was being a jerk,” Dazai sniffled, turning to face Chūya. “I didn’t think about you or ‘Kiko’s feelings. I deserved it.”

“No, you didn’t think about us, and that’s not okay. But you didn’t deserve the nasty comment I made. That stuff,” he eyed Dazai’s bandaged wrist, “it’s serious and I shouldn’t have made fun of it.”

Dazai did not reply.

“Have you. Since. Have you recently like. You know?” A soft nod. “Does Oda-san know?” He shook his head. “Will you tell him? Please?” Dazai curled in further on himself.

“I’m fine.”

“Please,” Chūya tried again, “let him take a look. Just to help clean it.”

“I said I’m fine,” Dazai snipped, growing irritated. Chūya let out an exasperated exhale.

“Dazai, stop.” The shift in tone was startling, leaving Dazai looking more like a deer in headlights. “Please just talk to your dad.”

“If I talk to Oda,” Dazai sniffled, “will you stop being mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you anymore,” Chūya admitted, “I just want you to be okay.”

“Okay,” Dazai averted his gaze, “I’ll talk to him.”

“I’ll go get him—” Chūya started to leave, only stopping as a weak hand reached out to grab his sleeve.

“Chūya?”

“Hm?”

“I really am sorry.”

“Thank you.”

--

Despite the hiccup at the start of the week, the next few days went by without issue. Dazai let Oda patch him up and agreed to go to an extra therapy session in the middle of the week. The trio bounced back quickly from the altercation and soon enough, they were ready to ask their teacher about helping them start their club.

“Philosophy club?” Mori raised a brow in intrigue.

“Exactly!” Dazai beamed, “You wouldn’t have to do much but you’re welcome to philosophize with us.”

“And who would be the club president?” Mori asked.

“Why, Chūya of course!~” Dazai trilled.

Mori looked at Chūya with a curious expression.

“Yup,” Chūya agreed uneasily.

“Are you sure?” Mori asked, “Being club president is a lot of responsibility.”

“I’ll be okay,” Chūya scratched the back of his head nervously. “‘Zai and Kiko said they’ll help me if it gets too much.”

Mori nodded approvingly, “I am a lover of philosophy and it warms my heart to see young people eager to talk about it. Very well then. When would you like the club to meet?”

“Mondays,” Akiko said, “if that’s okay?” It was one of the few days all three of them happened to be free.

“Monday will work,” Mori nodded agreeably.

“Hooray!” Dazai cheered, “I’m soooo excited! Thanks, teach!”

“And now it’s time for you all to run along and get to class.”

“Bye, sensei. Thanks again!” Akiko called out. Chūya waved. Dazai prepared to head out, stopping as Mori pursed his lips.

“Dazai, would you mind staying for a moment?”

“Oh, sure. I’ll catch you guys later,” he waved to his friends as they left. Dazai and Mori were left alone in the room. “Did you want to ask me something, teach?”

“I spoke with your father on the phone. He told me about some of your. Struggles. With your mental health.”

“Of course he did,” Dazai rolled his eyes. “So what now, teach? You gonna treat me like broken glass like everyone else?”

“How would you like me to treat you?” The teacher posed with an inquisitive expression.

“Like normal, I guess,” Dazai frowned.

“That can be arranged,” Mori smiled.

“What do you mean?” Dazai asked skeptically, “Nobody treats me normally. I’ve tried to kill myself more times than I can count. It’s no surprise people act like I’m fragile.”

“You’re not fragile though,” Mori pointed out, “you may be troubled—”

Dazai snorted, “That’s a way to put it.”

“I mean it, Dazai. You’re a very bright young man and I don’t think it’s fair for us to tiptoe around you the way it sounds like other teachers do.”

“Yeah,” Dazai kicked his sneaker into the base of the desk, “I get it. I’m unstable. It doesn’t mean they should treat me like a freak.” Mori looked at Dazai with eyes a mix of empathy and pity.

“I’m sorry that’s how it feels.”

They stayed in stoic silence as Dazai stewed.

“To me, you’re just Dazai.”

“Just Dazai?” Dazai asked.

“Just Dazai,” Mori affirmed.

They shared a quiet smile.

“Does this mean you’re not going to treat me any differently?” Dazai asked uneasily, fiddling with his bandaged wrist.

“Why would I?” Mori replied, “I don’t see any reason to treat you any way other than as my student.”

“Even though I’m like. ‘Troubled?’”

“Even though you’re troubled, I promise, I will always treat you as you.”

Another moment.

Another shared smile.

Another—

The late bell rung.

“I should um. Get to class.”

Mori nodded solemnly, “I suppose you should.”

Dazai did not leave.

“Do you um. Do you think I could come here during study hall?” Dazai had not intended to ask the question, but it slipped out regardless.

“You don’t wish to study during your break?” Mori asked.

“I’d rather sit and chat with you,” Dazai shrugged, “not that I’m interested in anything you have to say, old man.”

Mori laughed aloud at the commentary, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to let you come by here and there.”

“So I can come?”

“Of course. Perhaps we could even play some Chess.”

“I love Chess,” Dazai cooed excitedly. Mori snickered at the reaction.

“I had a feeling you would.”

“You’re so on, old man,” Dazai cackled excitedly.

“No more insults for you,” Mori ushered Dazai out of the room, “it’s time to leave before you get in trouble.”

“I’ll just say I was with teach, and they’ll let it slide,” Dazai said.

“Oh really?”

“Yes, really,” he grinned with a meerkat-like expression.

“We’ll see about that,” Mori huffed, “run along now.”

Dazai waved excitedly, “Bye Mori-sensei. I’ll see you later!”

“Goodbye now.”

Chapter Text

Chapter V: next

Yokohama, March 2022

Wake up, make coffee. Choke down a semblance of breakfast, check-in with the therapist, clean, sort, organize, toss out. Forget, forget, forget, forget, forget.

Dazai stares down at his wholly unappealing eggs as if they themselves are a personal offence. Historically, his cooking acumen is limited; that much is evident. Poking and prodding the limp eggs and questionably hard rice, he entertains the idea of eating his sad excuse for breakfast. The endeavor of a meal is not particularly appealing to him, but this is a game he knows all too well. One skipped meal turns into three and before long, another relapse would be on the horizon.

With all this in mind, he takes a bite. Two, then three. The eggs taste like ass, the rice is just barely edible, but his efforts persist. Before things got bad, he had a boyfriend who cooked for the both of them. Regrettably, he is now on his own, no caring boyfriend in sight. He misses aspects of the relationship, specifically the part where someone else manages the cooking and meal choices of the day. Though it is a terribly selfish reason to miss a relationship, the truth stands.

Intrusively, he wonders if Chūya still enjoys cooking. As kids, after their mother died, Kōyō made most of their meals, but Chūya was always eager to help out. Sometimes, Dazai was jealous of this. He, too, wished he could have learned how to cook at a young age. He wonders if he would be in this borderline disorder relapse territory if Oda had taken the time to teach him how to cook properly. Except Oda never taught Dazai to cook and Oda is now dead and everything is irreparably damaged. He sips at his coffee, disgustingly sweet to compensate for the bitterness he feels inside. The house is too quiet, too sad, too lonely and as Dazai sits, he grows petrified in the silence.

Everything is fine. He tells himself it is fine, that everything will be fine. The dish, barely edible and half-finished, is cleared off.

He should play some music. The ratty old record player remains unharmed despite his Hulk-like tirade from a few months back, so once his spot at the kitchen counter has been thoroughly cleaned, Dazai makes his way to the living room where the dusty player sits. It takes a while to sort through Oda’s collection of tunes, but Dazai eventually settles on one of Oda’s favorite Prokofiev’s. The music sings out, the piano gently underscoring his melancholic heart. The music swells and the aching chasm it intended to bridge is merely widened.

In some ways though, the music helps. It reminds him of cozy nights in, summer storms, reading a book on the couch as Oda wrote only a few paces to the left of him, the music underscoring their silent interactions. Those moments, the memories were pretty. His chest aches, tightens as he yearns for the past, for a sliver of before, before, before—

Except that

that means

before is when

back when—

And Dazai does not want that, did not want that, never again wants that—

The coffee cup he forgot he was still holding slips from his hand amidst his stupor, clamoring to the floor with an unceremonial Crash!

Another broken dish.

He cannot even bring himself to feel exasperated. With a sigh, Dazai gets up, careful to avoid its ceramic shards. The mug was nothing special thankfully. A plain, free gift or whatever for some school fundraiser from way back when. Maybe for Philosophy club. He is unbearably grateful for its lack of significance, unsure if he could handle losing yet another piece of Oda memorabilia.

(Everything is his fault.)

Barely eight in the morning means the day is young and once Dazai finishes cleaning up the mess he has made, he is faced with the present moment in time.

The house.

Obviously, realistically, he should sell it. Previously, he was financially stable. Then, he stopped working on account of his mental health. Now, the medical bills have piled up, topping the cost of the funeral, his living expenses, and more and more he has had to choose between food on the table or therapy—the distinct lack of either potentially leading to a relapse, meaning more missed work, more expenses, the vicious cycle continues.

This means he should sell the house. He knows this is the smart decision—the right decision. Oda would want him to do this. Would want him to put his mental well-being first. Oda was kind like that. A caring father who always put his child’s needs before his own, even at his own expense.

The thought of the act of placing the house on the market, awaiting a buyer, touring it, parading the home around as nothing more than a building of four walls and a ceiling, it hurts. The imagined sight of a rusty, weathered For Sale sign makes him gag. Emptying the surviving knick-knacks, throwing the furniture in a storage unit, tossing out everything else along the way—the thoughts are physically painful.

“What do I do, Odasaku?” Dazai asks aloud, quiet, and to no one. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this without you. I don’t want to be alone.”

His phone lights up, as if on cue, as if to say—

Are you back in town? How are you feeling?? If you need any help, I’m here!!

Atsushi.

Lips quirk, a touch of bittersweet sadness to his smile. He appreciates Atsushi, the only friend from high school not previously exiled from his life. Not that there were many friends to hold onto. He had Chūya and Akiko back then and they were enough. Of course, he also had—

But now

now he doesn’t

because

because back then—because now—because—

Another text.

And if you need help going through things LMK! I’m free today!

Atsushi has always been too kind for his own good.

Yeah, I’m in town. Could use some help, he texts back, a conscious effort to sound casual, as okay as possible. As if any part of him is okay and any part of this is casual.

Plans are solidified and Dazai finds himself with approximately two hours to kill.

Watering the plants is one of his favorite hobbies as of late. Requiring little to no effort, the task is easy, rewarding. It gives life to plants and Dazai, who has taken so much from so many, feels the slightest bit pardoned with the act. There is no use in bothering with a coat, though it is arguably too chilly for only bandages and a t-shirt. Part of him likes the cold. Cherishes the pin-pricking chill, the way it makes him feel like he is being stabbed alive.

The perennials—he thinks that’s what they are—are sprouting up the slightest bit, poking their heads out of the dirt, eager to explore the world around them. He takes his time, watering each plant and flower with diligent care.

“Must be cold without a jacket.”

Familiarity courses his veins. His heart clenches.

“It’s not so bad,” he turns towards Akiko, forgoing a greeting, “I like the cold.”

“I guess some things never change,” she smiles fondly, distantly, longingly. They have spoken exactly one time since Dazai’s re-entrance to the world post-psych ward. Namely for Dazai to utter an apology similar to Chūya’s. Akiko had been on a time crunch then, so they have not exactly had the time to catch up.

“How are you doing?” Akiko asks carefully.

“I’m okay.” A somewhat honest answer. Dazai is sort of okay. He is doing better than he was. Better than expected. His dad is still dead and he still feels very much alone, but things are better still.

“That’s good, I’m glad.” Awkward, tense, foreign. “Have you decided what you’re doing with the house?”

“Um,” heart constricting, mind racing, faintly dizzy, “I think I’ll have to sell it.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“I don’t have the luxury of wanting these days.”

A nod brimming with understanding, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah.”

The idea of parting with his childhood home feels like spikes stabbing at his chest. His heart aches at the thought, at abandoning his memories of Oda, his father, the most special person to him. Dazai may not have visited the house for a decade, his father always volunteering to come to him in Tokyo, but there was a potent sense of respite in knowing there would always be a place he could come back to. There would always be a home, no matter how far he strayed. He missed being home.

“I think Chūya might have mentioned it, but if you’d like help going through things, we’re only a knock away.”

“Yeah. Thank you. I might um. I might need some extra hands. Atsushi’s coming by today. Ango tomorrow. I’ll um. I’ll text you.”

It feels nearly miraculous to utter these words, the promise of texting, of keeping in touch, of reaching out for help.

“Okay,” Akiko nods, “don’t be a stranger, Dazai.”

That’s a difficult request for the man who forcibly removed his friends from his life after—

when—

because—

“I’ll try. Thank you.”

With that, Akiko offers a wave goodbye, heading to her car, which Dazai presumes to be her original destination. “Oh, and if you need a ride anywhere, to get groceries or anything, just let me know.”

“Thanks ‘Kiko,” the nickname slips out without permission, but if it bothers her, she does not let it show as she offers another wave, heads in the car, and drives off.

Dazai does not drive. Yet another thing his ex-boyfriend did for the both of them. Despite managing to secure a license that has yet to expire and inheriting Oda’s worn-out car, Dazai avoids the activity at all costs. In that, he genuinely appreciates Akiko’s offer. Want aside, he may have to take her up on it.

With too much time on his hands, Dazai finishes watering the garden and returns to the mountainous task at hand: cleaning out Oda's things. He starts with the clothing, precarious piles of “donate” and “keep” cluttering the queen-sized mattress in Oda’s bedroom. A problem arises as the “keep” pile triples the size of the “donate” pile. His apartment in Tokyo is tiny and certainly his shoebox closet cannot handle the addition of all these clothes. Granted, he has wasted enough time trying on each garment (basking in Oda’s scent, wishing he could melt it into a candle) that he is unsurprised by the doorbell.

Tugging on Oda’s plush navy pullover, he makes his way to the door.

“Hi!” Atsushi greets with zeal.

“Hey,” Dazai waves, hoping his eyes are not as red as he factually knows they are. “Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem!” Atsushi replies, ever the kind one. “Where um, where do you want to start?”

Dazai eyes the interior of the home as he leads Atsushi inside.

“I um. I think—” he looks around.

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

Everywhere he looks and everything that needs to get done and Oda is dead, dead, dead, and—

“Oh no—don’t cry, it’ll be okay!” Atsushi does his best to comfort as Dazai’s eyes grow wet and redder than before. “It’s alright, we can take it slow! We don’t have to do anything that upsets you!”

Atsushi is far too anxious to be good at comforting anyone, but he tries his best. Dazai falls into the couch in the living room, leaning over until his head is in between his knees. Hyperventilating was not part of his plan, but air will not enter his lungs, no matter how deeply he tries to breathe.

“Um, it’s okay! Just uh—deep breaths! You’re okay!”

The additional layer of anxiety emanating off of Atsushi’s frame is not helping.

“Do you need anything? Do you have like—oh! Do you have panic attack meds? I remember you used to have those—”

Now that is useful.

“M-my room—” Dazai stutters, “night table.”

Atsushi races to the other room, not sparing a moment. He returns moments later with a small orange bottle full of little yellow pills. Dazai greedily swallows a pill with a water bottle he conveniently left out on the coffee table. Though the meds take a little to kick in, psychologically the act of swallowing a pill helps calm him down. He tries not to think too hard about the implication of that reaction.

Atsushi’s leg bounces up and down until he forces himself to take a seat on the other side of the couch. They wait together for twenty minutes or so before the meds begin to do their job. Dazai feels a wave of calm wash over him. His heart beats less irregularly and the haze clouding his vision begins to dissipate.

“I’m so sorry,” Dazai apologies almost immediately once he can feel his toes and fingers again.

“No, it’s okay! You don’t need to apologize!” Atsushi is quick to interject, “Your dad just died, of course you’re emotional about it. That’s understandable.”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—”

“You didn’t! I’m not! It’s okay, I promise.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Atsushi reassures. “If it’s too much, we don’t have to go through stuff today. We can wait—”

“No, it’s okay,” Dazai says, “I was just um. Before this, I was trying on his clothes. Going through them, you know? And I guess I didn’t realize how much it would like. Affect me.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Atsushi nods, “I get what you mean. That’s a lot. We really can wait if you—”

“No, seriously, it’s okay. I don’t mind going through things now.”

“I just don’t want to push you—”

“I’m fine,” Dazai wipes his eyes, “I’m really okay.”

Silence ensues.

“So um. Where should we start?”

Dazai looks around, “Something simple.”

“Okay.”

“Books. And VHS tapes and DVDs. Let’s start there.” He places his hands on his knees. Hoisting himself up, he leads them to the first of many, many bookshelves. They stare at the task dauntingly. “Alright,” Dazai clasps his hands together, “let’s get to work.”

--

Kōyō is working late at her boring socio-political office job (which Chūya knows very little about), leaving Chūya and Akiko at the house by themselves. Their relationship is fascinating. Close, like siblings, but guarded. No longer thick as thieves, the way they once were. Maybe it was the fracturing of their trio, or the things Chūya once said that he cannot take back, no matter how hard he tries. Whatever it was, something pulled them apart. Now though, willingly or not, Dazai is back in the picture. They can no longer dance around the past, painting pretty pictures of before as if those things never happened.

Chūya has the afternoon and evening off and Akiko is working night shift, which does not start for a few more hours. Chūya helps her unpack groceries as they decide on dinner.

“Noodles and stir-fry?” Chūya asks inspecting the haul.

“Sounds good to me,” Akiko agrees. A moment passes as she glances out the window.

“What?” Chūya raises his brow.

“Do you think. Maybe we should make some for Dazai?”

Like when they were kids and he would forget his lunch and—

“Like invite him over for dinner? Sis would freak.”

“Pink doesn’t have to know,” Akiko shrugs. Chūya gapes, flabbergasted.

“Since when do you lie to my sister?”

“I don’t lie to her. I just wouldn’t mention it.”

“So lying.”

“Come on. Dazai needs friends right now and we have plenty of food to spare. You know how he is about cooking and eating when he’s depressed.”

“Maybe things have changed. Ten years have passed.”

“My point still stands.”

“Dazai’s a grown-ass man. He can make his own dinner,” Chūya rebukes, though it is half-hearted, not fully believing his own words.

“Sure, but he’s grieving. I think it would be a nice way to let him know we’re here for him—”

“I already offered to help with the house. Is that not enough?”

“Forget it. It was just a thought.”

Chūya begins prepping the ingredients before mumbling, “We can bring him some.”

“Hm?”

“I’m not ready to have him over for dinner yet, but we can make some extra and give him a Tupperware or whatever. Okay?”

Akiko perks up, “Great.”

They cook in silence. Akiko chops the vegetables as Chūya brings the water to a boil.

“You seem surprisingly okay with his sudden reappearance,” Chūya remarks. Akiko shrugs.

“It just. I don’t know. I’m upset Oda died, like, really upset. But having Dazai back in our lives, even in such a limited capacity, it feels right. I’ve missed him. The tree of us. Our trio.”

They place the vegetables in the broth.

“How come you never mentioned that to me?”

“That I miss us?”

“Yeah. That. Have you told sis?”

“Oh, god no,” Akiko snorts, “I try to avoid all mentions of Dazai in front of her.”

“I guess that’s fair.”

“But um. I don’t know. I guess I never brought it up because I figured it would make you sad. I saw the way you waved to Oda-san when you two crossed paths. After. You know. You looked miserable. I didn’t want to be constantly bringing up subjects that upset you.”

“Oh,” Chūya replies numbly, “I guess that makes sense. That’s considerate. But I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t talk about it. That sounds lonely.”

“It’s fine,” Akiko quickly dismisses, “anyways, he’s back now and it’s not like we can avoid the topic for much longer.”

“I guess not,” Chūya hums, setting a timer for the food. “But I doubt he’ll talk about. You know. And all.”

“Probably not,” Akiko agrees. She begins washing the prep tools and dishes they used. “I think it’s okay if that doesn’t come up for a while. I doubt any of us are actually ready for that conversation, if we’re being honest.”

“Yeah, probs not.”

Chūya reaches over, drying the dishes once Akiko places them on the rack. “I’ll bring the leftovers,” he volunteers. Akiko takes a moment before speaking up.

“I’d like to go as well. It doesn’t hurt if we both bring it over.”

“I um,” Chūya stammers, “sure. I guess not.”

They finish cleaning up the kitchen and start setting the table for the two of them. The familial domesticity is a comforting habit they fall into even with Kōyō’s absence.

Dinner is uneventful as they lean on easy conversations. The happenings of work, the party ‘Tross invited them to, other weekend plans. Another conversation purposely devoid of Dazai.

Once they finish cleaning up and dishing out a decent portion in a Tupperware container, they head outside to the next house over.  Earlier, Akiko had noted Atsushi’s car in the driveway. It is no longer there. Only Oda’s beaten old car remains. The chill outside makes Chūya regret not wearing his hat.

A knock. Within a few moments, there are footsteps, followed by the door creaking open.

Dazai stands on the other side, eyes red and cheeks puffy. He sniffs. “Oh. Hi,” a small wave is offered, “is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Akiko answers, concern etching her lilac eyes, “are you okay?”

A humorless laugh, “Never better.”

“We um. We brought you some food,” Chūya displays the rectangular prism of Tupperware, “figured you wouldn’t be in the mood to cook.”

Just like when they were kids. When everything was easier. When everything was

“Oh. You didn’t have to do that.”

“We know,” Akiko replies, “we had plenty of leftovers though. Have you eaten dinner?”

He shakes his head, ignoring how late it is.

“Saves you the trouble of cooking,” Chūya says.

Dazai accepts the Tupperware gratefully.

“I really appreciate it. Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble,” Akiko responds. They hover in the doorway an awkward moment longer, not quite terse but by no means comfortable.

“I guess we should go—” Chūya starts as Dazai says, “Do you want to come inside for tea?”

“Sure!” Akiko answers before Chūya can protest. “Tea sounds lovely.”

“Great! Come on in. It’s chilly out there.” Chūya throws a scolding look Akiko’s direction, which she promptly pretends not to notice. “Odasaku kept a bunch of teas. We have peppermint, oolong, some black teas, chamomile—”

“I like peppermint,” Akiko suggests.

“Me too,” Chūya says.

“Peppermint it is. I’ll put on a pot.”

Dazai prepares the kettle as Chūya and Akiko sit down in the living room. The room is small and clean, though there are notably less knick-knacks and framed photos decorating the space than either of them can recall from childhood. Chūya assumes Dazai’s reign of terror following his dad’s passing has something to do with it.

There is also a large bin near the bookshelf across the room. DONATE is written neatly on a piece of tape plastered to its side. There is little inside the bin, only a handful of books, tapes, and DVDs.

“The kettle was already warm,” Dazai explains as it squeals surprisingly soon, “I feel like I’ve been living off of tea today,” Dazai jokes. Akiko eyes him like a worried mother.

“Did you eat today?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dazai replies with nonchalance, “Atsushi brought some Bentos for lunch.”

It’s too late to be eating dinner and Dazai has yet to reach for the noodles they brought, but no one remarks on it.

“Okay, that’s good.”

They sip at their tea as the silence spreads like sin.

“Do you have any honey?” Chūya asks.

“Oh! Sorry, forgot to offer I um—sorry I’m a little scatter-brained.”

“No, you’re fine.”

“Yes, dad has honey, sugar, milk—well maybe not the milk, that might be expired. But um, yeah we have—”

“Just honey is good.”

Dazai returns to the living room with a small bear-shaped honey jar in his hand. Chūya takes a generous amount before passing it to Akiko. She takes some, then offers it to Dazai. He forgoes the honey, returning it to its proper place in Oda’s kitchen cabinets.

“I didn’t realize you like your tea with honey in it,” Dazai points out to Chūya.

He nods and responds gruffly, “Yeah. It’s too bitter for me plain. I’m surprised you’re not taking yours with sugar or anything.”

Dazai shrugs, “I really only put sugar in coffee.”

In high school, he put heaping amounts of sugar and milk in the coffee Oda would let him drink from time to time.

Until that comment from

when

he said

and so

Dazai stopped putting sweetener in his drinks. Dazai stopped a lot of things.

But

but now

now was

now was different

things were different.

Dazai can put sugar in his coffee, if he wants.

“—zai? You good?”

Dazai does not recall spacing out, but apologizes to Chūya all the same.

“Sorry. Got distracted.”

“It’s okay.”

More silence. Painful, pitiful, pertinent silence.

“If it’s too much to have us over, we can go,” Chūya offers.

Dazai nearly trips over his words, “Don’t leave!” Regaining composure, he coughs, “Sorry. I mean, no, it’s okay. It’s no trouble.”

“You sure?”

Quietly, “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“It must be lonely,” Akiko says, “being here by yourself.”

“Um yeah. It is.”

“Have you been sleeping okay?” Akiko asks.

“Not really,” Dazai shakes his head, “I haven’t really been uh. Sleeping. Much. A few hours here or there.”

“That’s not good,” Chūya remarks, “like, not sleeping is super bad for you.”

“Yeah. I know,” Dazai stirs his tea with his tiny spoon. The fact that he has mugs enough for all three of them is impressive. “I can’t really help it. I just—it’s really painful. Everywhere I look, I see dad.”

“I can imagine,” Akiko says through a frown. “Maybe you should stay with someone. Atsushi? Or maybe Ango again?”

“I’d really rather not stay with Ango,” Dazai responds, “and I don’t really get along well with Atsushi’s boyfriend.”

“But if you’re not sleeping—” Akiko starts. She’s interrupted as Dazai shakes his head.

“I can manage.”

“I really think you should stay with Ango,” Akiko presses the subject further. Dazai shakes his head again, stubborn.

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?” Chūya asks, equal parts curious and irritated.

“It’s no better than being back here,” Dazai mumbles, “just shit company alongside the flashbacks.”

Because they dated for years. Years during which Dazai was present. Years of arguments and uncomfortable dinners and

“Stay with us.”

Chūya needs to learn how to keep his damn mouth shut.

“What?” Dazai blinks rapidly.

“With us,” Chūya repeats himself, lacking any and all filter, “we have a spare room. I’m still in my bedroom and sis and Akiko share the master— Kōyō’s old bedroom is free.”

“You want me,” Dazai enunciates slowly, “to stay with you?”

Akiko’s eyes are bugging out as she stares at Chūya, looking at him like he has grown three heads.

“Yeah. Yeah, you can just stay for nights. To like, sleep there. You can have breakfast or whatever with us and then do your thing at your dad’s house during the day.”

“You want me to stay with you. And ‘Kiko. And your sister who hates my guts.”

“Chūya—” Akiko starts, but is quickly interrupted.

“You said you’re not sleeping. When does not sleeping turn into not eating? Then you’ll stop showering and getting out of bed and I can’t—” he stops, head spinning, reeling at the memories, “I can’t let you do that again.”

I can’t let you waste away.

“Oh.”

A long, empty quiet passes during which no one speaks.

Then, “Your sister loathes me.”

“I know.”

“I’ll keep her in check,” Akiko offers, though clearly still hesitant, “she’ll be mad, but she’ll get over it.”

“This is way too much for me to ask of you guys,” Dazai says, attempting to deny the offer.

“Good thing you’re not asking it of us,” Chūya says smugly, “it’s an offer.”

“I’ve been crying every five minutes. You’re going to get sick of me real easily.”

“You’re grieving,” Chūya replies, “I get it. And maybe sis will be less hard on you if she sees how miserable you are.

“I’m really weird about food.”

“We know,” Akiko responds.

“And I get really bad nightmares—”

“Dazai, stop,” Chūya says calmly, “stop making excuses and just—give it a try. Worst-case, sis gets mad and we send you back a whopping twenty feet to your dad’s house.

“I really don’t want to be a bother—”

“You won’t,” Akiko assures, finally sold on the idea, “please, let us do this for you.”

Like a stray approaching a dish of fresh food from the kind apartment tenant, Dazai approaches the offer. He sniffs and eyes it, in case its poisoned. Then, when no one’s looking, he takes a bite.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “just for this week.”

--

Explaining the extra person in their living room to Kōyō goes—

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

not well.

“Come on, Pink. It’s just for a few nights—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Sis, he’s harmless.”

“What is the matter with you people? Why the hell did you bring him over here?”

“Because, I already told you,” Chūya snaps, “he’s having trouble sleeping. How would you feel if you were in that house all alone?”

They argue upstairs, in the master bedroom, as if Dazai cannot hear the entire thing through the vents. Damn old house.

“You say he’s harmless, he fucking wrecked you, Chūya,” Kōyō seethes. “When he left, after all that happened with—”

“We’re not talking about that.”

A groan, “He left and you were miserable after that. You weren’t eating properly or taking care of yourself. I was so worried—”

“I was only like that for a few days—”

“It was longer.”

“No, it wasn’t. Quit conflating.”

“Yes, it was. Stop gaslighting.”

“Okay, okay, break it up,” Akiko intervenes, “it’s just for a few days, love. I just want his sleep schedule to be regulated again, so he doesn’t have a complete breakdown.”

“He is going to have a breakdown though,” Kōyō argues, “and it’s going to be under our roof and if he does something to himself or any one of us—”

“Dazai’s never hurt us,” Chūya retaliates, “he’s hurt himself, but he’s never laid a hand on one of us. If anything, I’m the one who’s hurt him.”

When he found out

about

and

and he should not have

but he

they were young and stupid and did not understand and

it was wrong that was wrong and

and he should not have hit him and

he still feels guilty about a lot of things, but especially that.

Chūya still feels guilty about that.

“Please. Give him a chance.”

“Why does it feel like I’m the only one who hasn’t lost their fucking mind?” Kōyō snaps. “Dazai left you both ten fucking years ago.” It is rare for Kōyō to curse this much, which is how they know she is royally pissed. “He abandoned you and I had to clean up the mess. Do you not get how hard that was? Not just for me, but for the both of you?”

“Things are different now,” Chūya rebuttals, “that was years ago like you said. If Dazai wants to dip again, we will handle it differently.”

“You thought he died. You were calling hospitals and funeral homes—”

“I understand, Pink, I do,” Akiko attempts to coax her girlfriend, but Kōyō is borderline inconsolable.

She practically sobs as she fights back, “No, you don’t! You don’t get it! You don’t get what it’s like to see the ones you love ripped apart by,” she raises her voice so it can be heard extra loud and clear, “an ignoramus asshole with no regards to human decency.”

“You think we haven’t seen loved ones be ripped apart?” Chūya hisses, “We grew up with dad. Akiko and I grew up with fucking Dazai, who was a mess all of the time.”

“That’s what I’m saying—”

“Can I please have a say in this?”

They all turn, stopping in their tracks as Dazai appears in the doorway. His eyes are even redder than they were earlier in the night, voice hoarse, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“You’ve got two fucking minutes,” Kōyō grants, pulling herself together with a sniffle.

“I’m sorry I left,” Dazai gets right to it, “without a word. I’m sorry I couldn’t maturely handle everything that was happening. When—when everyone found out about—” he freezes, closing his eyes and muttering something under his breath before continuing, “when all that happened, I was not okay. I was not in a good place. I was an unstable teenager who needed out. I know the way I acted wasn’t okay, and I really scared the shit out of you all, but please understand it wasn’t out of malicious intent. It was ignorance and selfishness and not knowing how to handle difficult things. I was hurting. But none of that was malicious. I’m not here to ruin anyone’s life or take away your girlfriend or your brother, Kōyō. I’m just sick of seeing my dad’s corpse every time I close my eyes. I’m sick of the nightmares and the mourning and the grief. Will staying here make it go away? Probably not. It might make it a little easier though and I’m so so tired. I just want some sleep. Please. I’ll stay out of your way and will leave every morning when Chūya goes for his jog. I won’t come over until night. You won’t need to cook for me or do anything like that. I promise, I’ll make myself as scarce as possible.”

There is more silence, more tension, more discomfort, more—

“I have ground rules.”

A collective sigh of relief.

“You don’t talk to me and I don’t talk to you,” Kōyō starts. “Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“If you eat any of our food, you chip in for groceries or replace what you took.”

“Okay.”

“Sis, money is tight for him—”

“No, it’s fine. I can do that.”

“Dazai, you don’t have to. My sister is being unreasonable.”

“If it makes her feel better,” Dazai sighs, “I’ll manage.”

Kōyō’s eyes narrow as she continues, “You leave when my brother goes out for his jog and you come over at nighttime, at ten.”

“Okay.”

She eyes his bandages, expression a mix of grim repulse and horror, “What you do to yourself in your own time is your own business, but you don’t do anything under our roof. You hear me? If any one of our kitchen knives or razors or anything else is out of place, I will blame you and I will kick you out and send you to the hospital immediately.”

Dazai flinches at the harsh, directness of her words.

“I have a therapist,” he attempts to explain, “and a psychiatrist and new meds. I haven’t hurt myself in a really long time.”

“You slit your wrists when you attempted suicide in January.”

“That wasn’t the same as self-harm—”

“Yes, it was. You’re basically a walking content warning of a human who should be censored for existing—”

“Sis, stop.”

“Pink—”

“Anything else you want to say to me?”

Kōyō gets up in his face, despite the fact that Dazai, at his full height, towers over her. “You get one chance. If you fuck this up, you’ll never be allowed to step foot in this house ever again.”

“I understand.”

--

As weird as it feels to be staying at Chūya’s childhood home, he finds it even weirder to be sleeping in Chūya’s sister’s old bedroom. Back when they were kids, Dazai was never allowed in Kōyō’s bedroom. He barely had a chance to peek at it as he walked to Chūya’s room, which was always his primary destination.

Like everything she owns, the walls are painted pink, bedspread is pink, everything is pink. The root of Akiko’s nickname for her makes perfect sense. The room is mostly untouched, though it looks like there were half-hearted attempts to turn it into an office, at one point or another. A modern desk and chair sit haphazardly against the wall, looking distinctly out of place. Far too mature for the butterfly tchotchkes and fairytales littering the bookshelves, the rose shaped rug and magenta bed skirt.

Dazai, as promised, does not make himself too comfortable. He has only brought a backpack with his toiletries, including his meds and toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss. He has a spare outfit, a charger, and a book, all of which he keeps in the backpack. Well, except for the charger, which he does use to charge his headphones, the other thing he brought. Making himself as small as possible, he pushes himself into the corner of the room, where her cream colored headboard meets the wall at a ninety degree angle. He pulls his knees up to his chest and hums.

It's that tune

that song that he used to—

“Stop,” he says to himself quietly, “just stop.”

He stops humming.

There is a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Chūya enters. His face falls as he sees Dazai curled up, looking disturbingly small for someone so lanky.

“I’m really sorry for all of that,” Chūya refers to the argument from before.

“It’s okay,” Dazai shrugs, “I deserved it.”

“No—no what she said to you was out of line. I’m going to talk to her in the morning—”

“I didn’t know my leaving hurt you that badly,” Dazai interrupts.

Chūya stares, stunned, “Well, yeah. You were my best friend. I thought you died.”

“But you said. You said you hated me.”

“I don’t remember that,” Chūya wracked his brain, searching through hazy summer days of loose lips sinking ships.

"I do," Dazai says resolutely, “you told me you hated me. To never speak to you again.”

“I didn’t mean any of that stuff—”

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“How was I supposed to know you weren’t dead?”

They stop, a standstill.

“I didn’t mean to hurt Chūya.”

“And I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But we did.”

“We did.”

An ugly empty fullness spreads between them, bloated, uncomfortable, wrong. Incredibly, fantastically wrong.

“Thanks for sticking up for me tonight,” Dazai pivots, “even after everything. And for offering to have me stay overnight. I really need sleep.”

“I can tell. The bags under your eyes have their own bags.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Chūya chuckles. “Ignore what sis said about the food, I’ll cover you. I don’t want you to go hungry.”

A shrug, “Nothing I’m not used to.”

Chūya shoots him a look, “Don’t joke about that.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

A sad, shared look.

“Have you been okay about. You know. You said you have a therapist now—”

“It hasn’t been easy,” Dazai explains, “eating. And it’s hard because money’s been tight. But I’m trying.”

“Seriously, if you don’t have the funds or if you’re just hungry or whatever, please take something to eat. I will deal with my sister.”

“Okay. Thanks, slug.”

Chūya nearly flinches. The nickname burns and he nearly sets a boundary against it but

but

he cannot bring himself to. Cannot bring himself to tell Dazai they are no longer the same as they once were. That they are not best friends any more.

Maybe one day he will tell him. But not tonight. Tonight, Dazai needs sleep.

“You’re welcome. Have a goodnight. And wake me if you need anything.”

“Thanks. Goodnight.”

Chapter Text

Chapter VI: Waffles!!

Yokohama, September 2012

“I’d let them all die.”

“‘Zai, that’s not one of the choices.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“No—the choices are the train either kills your five closest friends and family members, or 500 civilians,” Akiko explained.

“Well there has to be an option where everyone dies.”

“I’m surprised you wouldn’t just choose to save your family and friends,” Chūya huffed.

“Is that what chibi would do?”

“I don’t know,” Chūya frowned, “I can’t imagine letting you and ‘Kiko die like that. But also I wouldn’t want to be responsible for 500 deaths. Honestly, I should probably save the 500 lives. That’s the ethical thing to do.”

“I disagree,” Dazai piped up, “I think one life is worth the same as 100 lives.”

“So you would let 100 people die for the sake of one person?”

“You’d let one person die on behalf of 100?” Dazai retaliated.

“Well, yeah. That’s the moral thing to do.”

“Okay. Look me in the eye and tell me I’m not worth as much as 100 people.”

“That’s not what I mean—”

“Except it is~”

“Stop putting words in my mouth, shitty-Dazai.”

“What do you think Mori-sensei?” Dazai turned his attention to their club supervisor. It was their first official club meeting, which was spent walking through various thought experiments.

“I think you’re an anti-utilitarian, Dazai-kun.”

“What’s that mean?” Chūya asked.

“It means Dazai-kun doesn’t believe in doing things for the ‘greater good.’”

“Yes, exactly!” Dazai agreed easily, “Like, do you both remember that one story about the utopia that only existed because of one child’s suffering?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Akiko replied, “and we could choose to live in the utopia with no pain or strife, or we could choose to leave.”

“I would leave,” Dazai exclaimed, “because I don’t believe a society of pure joy deserves to exist off the back of one person’s suffering.”

“But it’s a utopia,” Chūya fought back, “there would be no war or famine or crime. I get it’s fucked that one person would suffer, but we’d save so many lives. What do you think ‘Kiko?”

“I’m not sure,” she chewed on her nail, a bad habit she developed in fifth grade and never managed to shake. “You both make valid points. But I guess I might be with Chūya on this one. I don’t think I can justify a world of crime and inhumanity on behalf of one person.”

“You both are hypocrites,” Dazai stuck his tongue out.

“Am not!” Chūya barked. “Just because some of us don’t want to see a world of grief doesn’t make us hypocrites.”

“You’d let someone suffer for the sake of ideals. That’s fucked up.”

“It’s for the greater good,” Akiko shrugged, “agree to disagree.”

“You people confuse me,” Dazai shook his head in exasperation.

“Sounds like the perfect stopping point,” Mori clapped his hands together. “We can resume this debate next Monday.”

The trio gathered their things, standing up and preparing to head home for the day.

“Chibi! We still on for studying tonight? I’d invite ‘Kiko but she hates me.”

“I do not hate you, nitwit! You’re just a pain to study with.”

“Same difference.”

“Yeah, after dinner I can come by. Does that work for you?”

“Yup~ Perfect.”

“You three get home safe,” Mori called after as they left the classroom. Dazai poked his head back in the room for a moment.

“By teach! See you in class tomorrow!”

“Goodbye Dazai,” Mori waved.

With a skip to his step, Dazai chased after his friends, catching up to them easily. “Man, I love philo. That was so fun! This was a good idea!”

“Yeah, I guess it was kind of fun,” Chūya nodded along.

“What do you want to do next week?” Akiko asked.

“We could watch a movie?” Chūya suggested, “Something philosophical.”

“Yeah! Or we could play a game or something. Maybe sensei will have a good idea,” Dazai said.

“You seem to really like Mori-sensei,” Akiko remarked, “I’ve never seen you get along this well with a teacher.”

“Mori-sensei’s different,” Dazai answered, “sure, he’s a boring old geezer, but he actually gives a shit. I like that.”

“That’s fair,” Chūya said.

The walk back was chilly, but enjoyable. They reached the halfway point where Chūya and Dazai waved goodbye to Akiko.

“Okay so dinner, then tutoring,” Dazai mused aloud. “Did you want to stay overnight?” Code for: Is your dad causing problems?

“Nah, I think I’ll be okay,” Chūya responded, “it’s been chill this week.”

“That’s good! If anything changes, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks.”

They separated for dinner, parting as they reached their own homes.

“I’m back!” Chūya called as he walked into the house. It was quiet. Worryingly quiet. “Sis? You home?” He wandered through the house, stopping at the sight of the living room.

Broken bottles and general disarray. His dad slumped over on the loveseat, barely coherent.

“Dad?” Chūya called out uneasily. There was no reply. “Are you okay?”

Footsteps clamored down the stairs, Kōyō hurrying into the room. She motioned for her brother to join her in the kitchen. He followed.

“What happened?” Chūya whispered as they entered the other room.

“I don’t know what set him off,” Kōyō sighed, running her well-manicured nails through her bangs, fiddling with her messily braided hair. “He was cleaning and it was sudden. Maybe he found something that reminded him of mom. I don’t know, but he freaked. Ran straight to the liquor cabinet and started throwing things. I don’t think he broke anything that we can’t replace though.”

“Are you okay?” Chūya asked carefully, concerned.

“I’m fine, lad. I’m just thankful you were out of the house for it. He’s sleeping—well, passed out I guess, but I don’t know how he’ll be when he wakes up. You should stay with a friend.”

“But what about you? I can’t leave you alone like this.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“But—”

“Please lad. Stay with Akiko or Dazai tonight. I promise I’ll be okay.”

“And you’ll um. You’ll leave if things get bad?”

“Yes. I promise.”

The two of them were more similar than he cared to admit, stubborn to their core.

“Okay, fine,” Chūya agreed haphazardly, “I’ll stay at Dazai’s. But if anything goes wrong or if he gets mean, then come over. I know you don’t like Dazai, but Oda-san would never turn you away.”

“I know. I’ll be careful.”

Chūya gave his sister a quick hug before heading up to his room to grab his things.

--

Dazai was not all too surprised to open the door and see Chūya with a backpack full of sleepover things, rather than a notebook or two. Wordlessly, Dazai let him in. They pattered down the hall to Dazai’s room in silence, only speaking once his bedroom door was firmly shut.

“Was it bad?”

Chūya shivered, “I missed the worst of it. But the living room was a wreck. Sis thinks he found something while cleaning that upset him.”

“That makes sense.”

“It just really sucks. He was doing so well this week, trying to be involved in our lives and shit. Almost like he actually cared.” Disappointment laced his timbre.

“That’s shitty.”

Dazai struggled to comfort others, while Chūya struggled to be comforted. In the end, Chūya neverminded the unusual symbiosis. Nothing was worse than being upset only to be hit with an optimistic Hallmark greeting card reply from someone too cheery for their own good; Dazai’s blunt demeanor suited the situation in a way Chūya appreciated.

“I know your sister thinks I’m annoying as fuck, but she can stay over too if it’s bad.”

“Thanks,” Chūya replied, “I told her that earlier but she’s afraid of leaving dad on his own. Doesn’t want him doing anything stupid.”

They readjusted themselves, getting comfortable on Dazai’s bed as they talked.

“You can stay here as long as you want,” Dazai offered, then amended, “so long as you can stomach obscene amounts of curry.”

Chūya smirked, thankful for the dose of humor his best friend had to offer. Dazai never acted like Chūya was made out of glass, he always treated him the way he would treat anyone else. Chūya took the normalcy as a symbol of respect.

“Let’s start with tonight and we’ll see how he is during the week.” Chūya was eager to be out of the house, but dreaded leaving his sister alone with him. There was always a lingering feeling that something bad was going to happen.

“Dinner won’t be ready for a bit. What do you wanna do?”

Chūya considered. As much as he needed to study, what he would rather do was play video games to take his mind off of everything.

“We should study,” he sighed, reluctant as the words exited his mouth. Dazai eyed him carefully.

“But…?”

“But I’m not sure I can focus.”

“That’s fair.” Dazai kicked his feet back and forth against the bed frame. “We can talk? I can distract you with tales of my woes,” he swooned dramatically.

Chūya rolled his eyes. “Your entire existence is a ‘tale of woe,’” Chūya mocked.

“Rude.”

“I’m pretty sure you direct quoted that. You complain about everything. You’re so woeful!”

“Chibi-Chūya’s being so mean to me~” Dazai trilled, fake tears welling in his eyes. The familiar teasing helped Chūya feel at ease, better, lighter, warmer. He was still worried, but he was with Dazai. He was at Dazai and Oda’s and everything would be okay.

--

Despite the redundant food choices, Chūya adored dinners with Oda. Where his own father was stiff and fake, Oda was kind and genuine. He was a simple man of few words, but he always did his best to treat Dazai’s friends as his own kids. As the two pattered into the kitchen, Oda greeted them each with a pat on the head. Chūya lapped up the affection as Oda ruffled his hair in a familial manner.

“Hey you two. How was school?”

“Can Chūya stay over tonight?” Dazai asked, ignoring the question. Granted, his own ask was more of a formality than anything else. There was no world in which Oda would turn away Chūya—or any stray at that.

Oda looked at Chūya, worry in his eyes. “Of course,” he answered kindly, “is everything alright at home?”

“Dad’s just…acting up.”

Oda had a rough idea of what went down at Chūya’s household. Even with his limited knowledge of it all, he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Reporting them to child services would throw them in foster care, where a good family was a delicacy. More likely than not, they would be split up, something which petrified them. Kōyō was an adult anyways. It was a case of the beast they knew versus the one they did not. Everyone silently agreed that the one they knew was the safest option. Being their neighbor also meant Oda could keep an eye on them, offer a bed and warm meal when things got bad. Their father never got physical with them as far as Oda could tell, even during his aggressive outbursts. That was one of the reasons Oda stayed quiet about that matter.

As much as Oda wished he could take them in, he could barely afford to take care of one teen on his meager salary. Growing up, Oda lived in a broken home. He understood the pain and stressors and anxiety that came with having a functional addict for a parent. All he could do was strive to be a father-figure to them, to care about them and love them unconditionally.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Oda replied genuinely, “your sister is welcome to join us too—”

“Thanks for the offer,” Chūya cut him off, “she wants to keep him company.” Babysit, he thought to himself.

“I understand,” Oda nodded. There was a beat before he gestured to the kitchen. “Food’s ready. I’m sure Dazai already warned you, it’s curry.”

“He didn’t have to tell me,” Chūya smiled, “I had a feeling. Call it a lucky guess.” Oda ruffled his hair once more before heading into the dining room, where Dazai had set the table.

“Thanks bud,” he rubbed Dazai’s shoulder with parental affection. Dazai practically preened at the gesture.

“It’s no problem!”

Oda served their fills, making sure to give them both generous portions. They were teenagers, after all. They needed the extra energy.

“This is really good!” Chūya said, diving in as Dazai ate slower, as if distracted.

“You okay, bud?” Oda asked at Dazai’s uncharacteristic quiet.

“Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking.”

“About?” Chūya prodded.

“Suicide!” Dazai answered cheerily. Oda did not like that answer.

“Dazai—”

“But dad doesn’t like it when I talk about that stuff.”

“Neither do I,” Chūya grumbled, “it’s too morbid.”

Dazai returned to his food. He made a conscious effort to eat most of it.

Conversation picked up as Oda asked them about their brand new club.

“It’s been going really well!” Dazai chirped proudly, “Chū is a great president!”

“As if,” Chūya snorted, “I don’t even do anything. And we’ve only had one meeting!”

“Yeah, you do! You picked the thought experiment we talked through.”

“Only ‘cause you and ‘Kiko wouldn’t shut up about it. All I did was read the prompt from Mori-sensei’s textbook.”

“Still! I know for a fact you’re an excellent leader.”

Oda chuckled at the odd ways his son displayed acts of friendship and care. Dazai struggled to relate to others and oftentimes was looked at as strange or “unlovable” as Dazai put it. Oda knew better.

“What type of things did you talk about?” Oda asked, curious. The only club he had joined as a kid was journalism, and even that was totally different these days.

“We talked through a thought experiment about a train!”

“What’s a thought experiment?”

“It’s like—imagining different scenarios and talking through how you would respond to them.”

“Yeah,” Chūya added, “like the one we talked about today was about a train that could either kill your best friends or a bunch of civilians. Who would you save?”

“Sounds dark.”

“That’s what makes it so enticing!” Dazai said enthusiastically. “Mori-sensei has a book with the best prompts. Even though he’s a math teacher. He just really likes philosophy.”

“Yeah, they’re interesting,” Chūya parroted.

“I’m glad to hear you two are getting along so well with your new teacher.”

“He’s an old geezer, but he’s cool,” Dazai remarked.

“How old is he?” Oda asked.

“Forty. Turning forty-one soon.”

Chūya shot Dazai a look, “How did you find that one out? You stalk the guy or something?”

A shrug, “I just asked.”

“Oh.”

They continued munching on dinner until everyone was content.

“I’m done!” Dazai announced. Oda was pleased to see the dish was nearly empty. Chūya’s too.

“Same,” Chūya said.

“Alright,” Oda nodded his head approvingly, “you can leave your dishes in the sink. I’ll run the dishwasher tonight.”

“Thanks dad!”

“Thank you, Oda-san.”

“It’s no problem. If you need me I don’t start work until nine.”

The boys nodded, put their dishes in the sink, and clamored back to Dazai’s room.

“Alright! Time to prove ‘Kiko wrong. I’m a GREAT study partner! Right Chū?”

“Uh-huh. Sure, ‘Zai, whatever you say,” Chūya replied sarcastically.

“I mean it. You’re going to ace next week’s test!”

“Wait—we have a test next week?”

“Um, yeah? Do you seriously not pay attention to anything Mori-sensei says?”

“Like you’re any better,” Chūya huffed. Dazai dismissed the remark, got his textbook out, and poked Chūya in the ribs. “Hey!” Chūya choked back his ticklish giggle.

Dazai snickered at the reaction. He loved how ticklish Chūya was. After a little more fooling around, the two got their notes together and set to work studying. Rather, Chūya studied as Dazai “supervised.”

“No, X would be 49.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Here,” Dazai walked through the path to the solution on a piece of scrap paper. “See? You have to subtract that first.”

“Oh. But how do you find Y?”

“Simple!” Dazai mapped out his thought process further. Chūya shook his head. “Does it not make sense?” Dazai asked, “I can explain it another way—”

“No, that’s not the problem,” Chūya moped, “when you explain it, it makes perfect sense. I feel like an idiot because I can’t get there by myself.”

“What does Chūya mean?”

“I mean, I’m too dumb to get this shit on my own.”

“Chūya’s not dumb. He’s one of the smartest guys I know.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I mean it,” Dazai countered, “I wouldn’t hang out with you if you couldn’t keep up with me.”

“Half the time I can’t. Not when you and ‘Kiko start talking all smart and shit.”

Dazai didn’t say anything for a while. When he did speak, it was soft, gentle, “I don’t mean to make Chūya feel stupid.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I wish you could see how smart you actually are. Everyone else is just stupid—not Chūya.”

“I appreciate that. But you don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not! Stop being stubborn!”

Chūya returned to his worksheet, brow furrowing in between problems. He sighed a strained exhale before giving the sheet to Dazai to review.

“Not bad.”

“You better not be lying to me—”

“No, really. You did pretty well. You only got a few wrong.”

“Wait. Really?”

“Yep~ I knew you could do it!”

Chūya blushed pink at the praise.

“Hey, Dazai?”

“Hm?” Dazai looked up from their notes.

“I know you said we’re cool, but I really am sorry for that shitty comment I made.” He eyed the bandages. “Have you like. Recently.”

A bristle, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But if you’re—”

“My dad’s making me go to extra therapy. I’m fine.”

“It’s okay if you’re not—”

“Let’s get back to studying.”

“Dazai—”

“You got number three wrong. I’ll show you—”

“Will you stop changing the topic?”

“No. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I just—” Chūya let out a defeated groan, “I don’t want you to feel alone.”

Dazai’s lip jutted in a pout, “I don’t cut myself because I feel alone.”

“Then why—”

“You don’t have to worry about me, chibi. I’m okay.”

Resigning to conversational defeat, Chūya knew better than to push too hard. How Chūya struggled with comfort, Dazai struggled with accepting care. Kindness stung, it burned, hurt as much as it helped. Chūya also knew trying too hard would push him away, especially if it was a subject he was not ready to discuss.

“Alright, you stinky mackerel,” Chūya relented, “but if you change your mind and want to talk about it—”

“I won’t, but sure. Whatever makes chibi feel better.”

“You’re impossible.”

--

When Kōyō was alone. Alone with him.

Things

they were—

It hurt, but she never cried.

It hurt, but she never showed.

It was better this way—for everyone—things were better.

Things were—

A knock.

It was late, but not terribly so. He was asleep, passed out again on the couch.

She knew it wasn’t her brother, he wouldn’t knock on the door to his own house. The only people who ever actually knocked on their door were the mailman, Dazai, and—

“Akiko?”

“Kōyō-san! Hi.”

“Just Kōyō is fine.”

“Right. Hi Kōyō.”

“Hi.”

A beat.

“So um,” Kōyō never found herself nervous, and yet—

“I um, I was worried about Chūya. He said your dad had an episode and then he stopped texting back. Dazai doesn’t have a cellphone and the house phone was busy, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something awful was happening.”

Something awful was happening. Kōyō knew that better than anyone.

“He’s asleep now—dad,” Kōyō exited the house, joining Akiko in the slight chill of night. “Chū’s phone must have died, he’s always forgetting to charge it. He’s at Dazai’s.”

“Good. That’s a relief. And he’s—you’re both okay?”

No.

“Yes. We’re okay.”

“I was so worried,” a pause, “why aren’t you with them?”

“Somebody has to watch over dad.”

Akiko’s brow knit at the remark, “You’re a kid. That’s not your responsibility.”

Kōyō chuckled, “That’s sweet of you, Akiko. But I’m an adult now. I need to look after my baby brother—”

“But what about you?!” Neither expected the outburst. She continued, “This isn’t fair to you. What if he gets violent?”

“I can handle being tossed around,” it slipped out before she realized.

“Does he do that? Hurt you?”

“No,” Kōyō was quick to object, “not really. It was only a few times. But not Chūya. Never Chūya.”

“Kōyō—”

“You have school in the morning. You should get some rest.”

“I don’t want you staying here by yourself. Not while your dad is like this—”

“It’s really okay—”

“It’s not. Your well-being matters.”

“I can handle it.”

“That doesn’t mean you should.”

A stoic silence.

“My parents are pretty relaxed about guests. If you’re not comfortable at Dazai’s, stay with me.”

“I couldn’t possibly ask that of you.”

“It’s no problem! We have a spare room and everything.”

Kōyō’s heart warmed at the offer, at the lilting concern dancing in lilac eyes. “I appreciate the offer, truly. But I can’t leave my father all alone like this. I swear I’ll be fine.”

Fine, fine, fine. That was Kōyō: just fine.

“Do we have each other’s numbers?” Akiko asked. Kōyō considered.

“No, I don’t think we do.”

“Let’s fix that,” Akiko smiled, a warm, soft thing. She pulled her blue Razor flip phone from her pocket. Kōyō grinned shyly, reaching for her own black Nokia.

“Now, if things get bad, you text me. Okay?” Akiko lectured.

What will you do about it, love? What will you do?

“Thank you. I will.”

“And if you ever need someplace to crash, you and Chū are always welcome. Or just you. I don’t think it’s weird, even if you’re one of my best friend’s sister.”

“You’re very kind, Akiko. Thank you.”

With one last exchange, Akiko waved and returned to her car. Kōyō stared down at her phone, then back at her house. She felt positively pink.

--

Dazai spent his free periods with Mori, pleasantly surprised to find out that Mori’s scheduled synced well with his own. Dazai would come with a book and excuse about needing someplace quiet to focus. Then, he’d spend the whole time chattering away, picking Mori’s brain on one subject or another.

They played Chess, talked about their current readings, Mori gushed about his daughter and briefly mentioned his ex-wife who lived across the country. Dazai raved about his dad. Some days were quieter, more subdued. Days where Dazai’s depression got the best of him were often spent in silence. Dazai would come into the classroom, head hung with an aura of ennui. Mori would eye him sympathetically and ask if he wanted to go to the nurse and lie down.

“I’d rather be here.”

“It makes me happy to hear that, Dazai-kun.”

Some days, Dazai would scratch at his bandages and Mori just knew what was going on. Days like today.

Mori frowned as he took note of the gesture.

“Really, Osamu, you shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I believe you know exactly what I’m talking about.” Dazai squirmed. “Perhaps we should take another stroll to Guidance?” Mori suggested. Dazai scowled.

“I’m fine, old man. Drop it.”

“People who are fine don’t hurt themselves—”

“It’s none of your business what I do to my body.”

“As your teacher, I care about your well-being, so I’m afraid it is my business.”

Dazai did not reply, glaring daggers in the ground.

“I’ll give your father a call tonight—”

“No!” Dazai hissed, “Odasaku has so much to worry about. We can’t afford anymore therapy. Please don’t call him.”

Twinges of empathy and pity sank in his teacher’s wine eyes, “You can’t afford therapy?”

“I’ve been going three times a week but we have to cut back to two if we still want food on the table,” Dazai answered, voice low as he picked at his bandages. “I’m doing better. I know it’s bad, but I’ve been doing a lot better. Please believe me.”

“It’s not a matter of believing you,” Mori replied, “it’s about your safety.”

“I am safe,” Dazai frowned.

“Hurting yourself is never the answer.”

“Can we please drop it already?” Dazai huffed irritably. “I’m doing the best I can. Okay? I’m trying.”

“I don’t doubt that. But you deserve better. You deserve to be healthy and happy—”

“I’ve never been happy, sensei. That’s not going to change now that you’re in the picture. I’m just as miserable as always.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“I have to go to lunch.”

Dazai turned to leave, only stopping as a hand wrapped around his wrist. Dazai recoiled.

“Don’t touch me.”

A pause, a moment, regret.

“My apologies. I’m just worried about you, Osamu.”

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” Dazai bit back coldly, “I’m doing perfectly fine.”

Mori shot his student a pointed look. There was a breath, another lapse.

“Will you talk to me when you’re upset?”

Dazai blinked, confused, “What do you mean?”

“I’d like to be a resource for you. Someone you can talk to when you feel the urge to do something harmful. Can we try that? Will you try and talk to me?”

Dazai cradled his wrist. He looked at the ground, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right,” Mori nodded, “I might not. Still, I’d like to try and support you. I’d like it if you tried to trust me. To let me be there for you. Can we try that?”

Dazai sighed, collapsing into the seat by the desk nearest to him, “What would I even talk to you about? I’ll sound crazy.”

“You’re not crazy,” Mori assured, sitting down at the desk next to him. “You can talk about your feelings, about the things that happen at school. I may not be a therapist, but I’d like to be a support system for you.”

“Even though I’m a freak?”

A perturbed stare, “Is that how you see yourself?”

A nod, “It’s just how I am.”

“Well, I promise I don’t see you as a ‘freak.’ You may be troubled, but you’re worthy of love and support.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then I’ll remind you as many times as you need.”

“I just—” Dazai looked down at his lap, “I feel so ugly all of the time. Like, I know I look fine—but inside, I feel hideous. And I can’t see my outside as anything beyond that.”

“Is that a reason you hurt yourself? So your outside matches how you feel inside?”

A shrug, “Sorta. Something like that. It’s more but I guess that’s part of it.”

“I for one, don’t find you hideous in the slightest,” Mori offered, “you’re a handsome, intelligent young man. There’s nothing ugly about you.”

“I wish everyone would quit lying to me,” Dazai hissed.

“I’m not lying to you, Dazai,” Mori cajoled, “I really mean it.” He placed a hand on Dazai’s shoulder, rubbing it softly, “What will it take for you to believe me?”

A snort, “A miracle.”

Mori nodded, understanding he could only get so far.

“Does it feel better? Talking about it?”

A shrug, “A little, I guess. Sort of.”

“Good. I want you to tell me when you’re upset. Come to me when you feel like hurting yourself. Can you do that?”

A shrug, “I don’t know.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Dazai looked up at his teacher, eyes wide and intrigued.

“But you have to promise not to talk about it with anyone.”

“Okay. I promise.”

“When I was your age, I struggled with my self-esteem. I had trouble relating to others and felt alone. At one point, I was even suicidal.”

“Why didn’t you do it? Kill yourself?”

“Ah, yes,” a gaze of fondness overtook his teacher’s expression, “I had considered it. But I met someone very special. A mentor of sorts. He showed me life was worth living.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever meet someone like that.”

Mori hummed, “You never know.”

The bell rang, signaling the end of free period. Mori placed his hand on Dazai’s own, squeezing it tightly, “If you’re feeling upset, promise you’ll come to me?”

Dazai chewed his lip awkwardly, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

--

He lied.

Because talking—it never helped.

And now he was thinking about it.

Which meant—

So he—

But part of him liked it. Liked the way cabernet stared into his soul, seeing all that Dazai did his best to hide.

He liked it. Loathed it. Accepted it.

But like everything else he sought comfort in, it still hurt.

--

They texted every day that week. Akiko had unlimited talk and text courtesy of her parents while Kōyō paid for her and Chūya’s phone bills with the money from her part-time job. She had no problem compensating for the days she went over her texting limits.

They talked about all sorts of things—Kōyō’s classes, work, Akiko’s studies, their home lives. It felt as though they could talk about anything. Despite being Chūya’s older sister, there was only a two year age gap between them and they realized they had a lot in commoon.

Akiko giggled at her phone for the third time during their lunch period.

“What’s so funny?” Chūya asked as Dazai picked at his food mopingly.

“Oh—nothing,” Akiko blushed.

“That expression certainly doesn’t look like nothing,” Chūya raised a brow. Then, he looked over at Dazai expectedly, “What do you think, ‘Zai?”

Dazai spaced out.

“Hello? Earth to shitty-Dazai?” Chūya called out, poking his best friend in the side. Dazai flinched.

“Hm?”

“What’s up? You look so spaced right now.”

“Oh. It’s nothing.”

“What is it with you people?!” Chūya threw his arms up in exasperation, “Why won’t anyone tell me anything?” Akiko giggled at her phone again. Chūya peered over her shoulder, reading the text recipient, “Who’s ‘Pink?’”

“No one!”

“Come on—stop keeping secrets from me! ‘Zai, isn’t ‘Kiko being unfair?”

“Hm.”

“Dazai?”

“Sorry—” he pushed his cup of ramen to the side, “just a little out of it.”

“A little? You’d normally kill for the opportunity to embarrass me,” Akiko replied, concerned. Dazai shrugged.

“You sure you’re feeling okay?” Chūya asked. Dazai shrugged again.

“What’s wrong?” Akiko asked, “You can talk to us. Promise.”

“Do you ever wonder like,” Dazai slowed as he spoke, “do you ever find teachers attractive?”

Akiko wrinkled her nose, “Ew. Gross.”

Chūya considered, “I guess some of the younger ones are kind of hot. Like that one sub for History last year—the one with the big tits.”

“But what about um. What about the guys? Do you ever find them hot?”

Chūya gaped, disgust evident, “What the fuck? Dude, that’s so gay. You’re kidding, right?”

Akiko looked away. Dazai scratched at his bandages.

“Right,” Dazai replied, “sorry. I’m just being stupid.”

“Good,” Chūya snorted, “but you’ve got to stop saying gay shit around me. I don’t want anything to do with fags.”

“Right,” Akiko replied numbly. She put her phone back in her pocket.

“Is that all you were thinking about?” Chūya asked, “Hot teachers?”

“Yep, pretty much~” Dazai trilled, returning to his typical cheer. Akiko eyed him warily.

“If there’s something on your mind—”

“Nope, nothing~” Dazai slurped down his noodles. “Chibi, you staying overnight again?” Chūya had stayed overnight a few times since his dad’s outburst, only stopping home to grab changes of clothes and the like.

“I’ll see how he is tonight, if that’s okay?”

It was the same answer he always gave.

“Sure,” Dazai replied, “whatever works.”

The same answer, same conversation, comfort in the routine of it all.

“Has your sister been with him?” Akiko asked.

Chūya nodded, “Yeah. I’m not happy about it, but she insists on being there for him.”

“I feel bad,” Dazai said with a depressed tone, “I don’t want her to feel obligated to stay with him because I annoy her.”

“It’s more than that, I think,” Akiko remarked. Chūya gave her a look. “Just. From what Chū has told us—it just sounds like she’s really worried about him. About your dad.”

Chūya agreed, “Yeah, she is.”

Dazai scratched at his bandages. Chūya caught the gesture.

“You sure you’re okay?” Chūya asked again.

Dazai scratched harder.

“What’s wrong?” Akiko asked. He ignored her, clutching at his wrist. “Did you do something?”

“No,” his voice came out as a pitiful whine.

“If you—” Akiko began. Dazai bristled, then cut her off.

“So, Chūya, my dad said he’s going to try making waffles tonight for a change. Shocker! Right?” Dazai switched topics abruptly.

With Dazai’s walls up, Chūya gave in to the conversational bait, “For real? I mean, I guess that’s good. I was getting sick of curry.”

“Come on—” Akiko was less satisfied by the topic change, “can we talk about—”

“You’re welcome to come over too, Akiko-chan~” Dazai trilled with a smile that never reached his eyes. “The more people to witness Odasaku try cooking something new, the better! You know how terrible he is with cooking and stuff~”

Akiko looked over Chūya’s way. They made eye contact. Chūya shrugged.

“Fine,” Akiko replied, shoulders slumped with defeat, “I’ll ask my parents if I can come by for dinner.”

“Hooray! Chibi, just let me know if you and your sister are joining too, ‘kay?”

Chūya flashed a quick thumbs up.

“It would be nice if your sister joined,” Akiko added, “we rarely see her.”

“Yeah, she makes herself scarce whenever this one’s involved,” Chūya jabbed his thumb Dazai’s direction. Dazai grinned sheepishly, glad to be on the new conversation topic.

“What can I say? Some people are just repelled by award-winning personalities and dashing good looks~”

Chūya rolled his eyes at the comment, “Sure,” he replied sarcastically, “whatever you say, stinky mackerel.”

Akiko laughed, perking up and amused by their antics.

“But yeah,” Chūya added, “I’ll ask sis if she wants to join. Maybe she’ll surprise us.”

“That would be so great, she’s fun to annoy~” Dazai careened.

“You’re a menace to society, you know that?” Chūya stated rhetorically.

“You know you love me.”

--

“Hey sis,” Chūya greeted his sister as he walked through the front door. Their father had managed to pull himself together enough to make it to work and was still out of the house.

“Hi lad,” Kōyō waved as Chūya removed his shoes, setting his backpack down near the doorway. He removed his jacket, hanging it up on the coat rack.

“Do you have dinner plans?” Chūya asked casually. Kōyō raised a brow suspiciously.

“Nothing in particular, no,” she replied, “why do you ask? Want me to make something special?”

“No. But uh, Dazai invited us over again. Oda-san is going to try making waffles—he could probably use a hand from a responsible adult. A more adulty adult.”

“Is he now?” Kōyō hummed, tidying up the living room as they spoke.

“Yep! Akiko’s coming too, so you don’t have to put up with Dazai by yourself.”

Kōyō chuckled good-naturedly, “I suppose one dinner wouldn’t hurt.”

“Really?!”

“Sure,” she agreed, “as long as dad isn’t. You know.” Chūya nodded.

“Right, okay, cool! I’ll call their home phone to let them know. I’m glad you’re coming!”

It was a relatively quiet evening, as their dad called and explained he was caught at work and would be back late. The siblings heaved a sigh of relief. Not only did this buy them time, but it was a sign he was getting back on track after the setback of the week. Paul coped with his feelings two ways: with a bottle and by throwing himself into work. The latter was significantly easier to manage.

As dinner time rolled around, Chūya and Kōyō meandered over to their next-door neighbor’s house. At the same time, Akiko’s parents dropped her off in front of the house. They waved goodbye and drove off.

“Hi!” Akiko waved enthusiastically, “Kōyō! It’s good to see you, I’m glad you could make it.”

The young adult offered a shy smile, “What can I say? I like waffles.”

Chūya waved to his friend before knocking on the front door three times. They were greeted by Oda.

“Hey you three. Dazai’s finishing up in the shower. Come in.” The group removed their shoes and hung up their jackets, then headed towards the kitchen.

“I was told you could use some extra hands, Oda-san?” Kōyō offered. “Or as my brother so eloquently put it, an ‘adulty adult?’”

Oda laughed aloud, then rubbed the back of his head with a nervous laugh, “That would be a big help, I’m not the greatest at baking from scratch. Or uh. Baking at all.”

Kōyō smiled, “No problem. I’m happy to help.” She was fond of Oda, feeling similarly about him as Chūya did. She longed for a kind and caring father, someone like Oda who put his kid’s feelings first, who treated Dazai’s friends as if they were family. It was one of the reasons envy spurred in her each time she witnessed the way Oda treated his son.

The sound of footsteps filled the room as Dazai pranced down the hall. His hair was damp and messy and he was dressed in blue sweatpants with a gray hoodie on top of a long-sleeve shirt to compensate for the lack of bandages.

“Hi!!” He greeted excitedly, practically bouncing with the nervous energy of a golden retriever puppy. “Kōyō-san!! If it isn’t my favorite—”

“Save it,” Kōyō rolled her eyes. Dazai giggled, thoroughly amused.

“Dad,” Dazai turned to his father, “how much help do you need? I want to show ‘Kiko and Chūya the new computer game Ango gave me.”

“Well, I really only need one or two people to help and Kōyō-san offered.”

“I’ll help too,” Akiko announced, “you can show me the game after dinner.”

“Oh,” Dazai replied, “you sure?”

“Yep!”

“Okay! See you two in a bit,” Dazai waved cheerily as he and Chūya left to go to Dazai’s room.

“Thanks for agreeing to help,” Oda addressed Kōyō and Akiko. “Honestly, it’ll be less of a mess with Dazai distracted. Gotta love that kid, but oh boy is he a walking tornado.”

Akiko chortled. She exchanged a look with Kōyō. Kōyō smiled.

--

Making waffles from scratch with Oda was an experience. The man could hardly tell the difference between powdered sugar and flour. Thanks to Kōyō and Akiko, they narrowly avoided disaster on numerous occasions.

“So we need—two cups of flour,” Oda read from the cookbook diligently. It was one Ango was letting him borrow for the occasion.

Akiko and Kōyō reached for the flour at the same time, hands grazing, electric, electric, electric.

“Oh, sorry!” Akiko pulled her hand away, “Go ahead.”

Kōyō blushed, “No, you can go.”

“It’s alright,” Akiko gestured again, pinkening, “you’re better at measuring than I am.”

“If you insist,” Kōyō reached over, grabbing the measuring cup. She measured the flour and passed it to Oda.

“And I need four teaspoons of baking soda—no, powder.”

Akiko frowned, “Which is it?”

“Powder,” Oda reiterated.

“Are you sure?” Kōyō checked.

“What’s the difference?” Oda asked sheepishly. Akiko face-palmed.

Kōyō peeked over his shoulder at the book, “it says baking powder.”

“You SURE?” Akiko asked skeptically, “because that’s a significant difference—”

“I promise! I aced literature, I’m a great reader,” Kōyō shot back harmlessly, smiling at their playful jesting.

“Yeah,” Oda pointed to his spot in the cookbook, “baking powder.”

“Alright,” Akiko laughed, “I believe you two.” She reached over to the ingredients, not realizing Kōyō already had the measuring spoon in her hand. Once again, hands touched.

“Sorry,” Akiko apologized, averting her gaze.

“It was my fault,” Kōyō also looked away.

“You can um. Again, you’re better at measuring.”

“Right. Sure. Here you go, Oda-san,” she used the measuring spoon and measured the baking powder before handing it Oda’s way. He continued mixing the dry ingredients together in one bowl.

“Are we adding cinnamon and sugar?” Akiko asked, perusing the kitchen and looking through the pantry, “Dazai likes cinnamon.”

“Yeah, we can add some,” Oda agreed.

“We should add nutmeg too,” Kōyō added.

“Good thinking,” Oda said. Akiko located the ingredients and brought them over to the kitchen table.

“We need one tablespoon—no, no sorry, one teaspoon of salt.”

“For a writer, you sure are bad at reading,” Kōyō snickered teasingly. Oda’s face flushed in embarrassment.

Akiko passed the salt to Kōyō for her to measure it. She measured and gave it back to Akiko to pour into the bowl.

“And we need two tablespoons of sugar,” Oda read.

Kōyō reached for the sugar. Though in the process, she tripped, knocking into the container of flour. White powdery mess contaminated the air, flurrying all over Akiko. Kōyō could hardly contain her laughter as Akiko gaped, covered in flour.

“Oh my god.”

“I’m so—” Kōyō couldn’t stop laughing, “I’m so sorry, oh goodness—”

“You wanna play dirty?” Akiko threatened.

“It was an accident!”

“Uh-huh. Sure~” Akiko mocked playfully. With an impish grin, she scooped up a tablespoon of flour and blew it all over Kōyō.

“Oh no,” Oda tried to hide his laughter, but could not fully suppress his chuckling at the sight.

“You did not—” Kōyō tried to wipe the flour from her pink floral dress, but only made it worse.

“You started it—” Akiko was cut off as more flour was flicked her way.

What started as an accident morphed into a full-fledged war, the two girls squealing as they dumped more flour on each other. Salt, baking powder, cornstarch, it all went flying. Nothing was safe.

Oda tried to take control of the situation—namely by moving all the ammo as far as he could, but it was useless. At one point, he stopped trying to end the disaster, far too amused by it all. They all laughed and yelled and absolutely no waffles were made.

By the time Chūya and Dazai emerged from Dazai’s room, the kitchen was a disaster. There was a cracked egg on Kōyō’s head and Akiko was caked in flour. Oda stared at the mixing bowl, unsure if they even had the right ingredients at this point to make the batter.

“What the hell happened in here?” Chūya asked.

Akiko and Kōyō practically cackled, pointing fingers at each other through the laughter. “She started it!” They cried out in unison. Kōyō was a typically reserved person. She kept to herself, smiling when amused, but never offering a full-blown belly laugh. Chūya gawked at his sister’s reaction. She beamed, her entire being radiating joy in spite of the surrounding mess.

Dazai pouted at the sight, “You had a food fight without me? How rude.”

Oda glanced around the room, giving up on their failed creation, “So, who wants takeout?”

Chapter Text

Chapter VII: He

Yokohama, March 2022

Staying with Chūya’s posse proves challenging. Better than being haunted by his father’s walking corpse, but difficult in its own right. Tossing and turning, Kōyō’s old bed, now-turned guest bed is comfortable, but not the same as his own bed back in Tokyo.

His alarm rings out, an obnoxious generic pop tune signaling the come of morning. Dazai groans, more than aware of how much he dreads the day. On autopilot, he sits up in bed and reaches into his backpack. Swapping sweats for khakis and a blue polo, he changes.

As much as he planned on protesting breakfast, his body retaliates, stomach growling loudly. Joints popping, he stretches and brings his things downstairs. Breakfast, then it time to get back to work at the house, out of the way before Kōyō catches sight of him.

Dazai tiptoes down the stairs, flinching at each creak of the old house. He reaches the ground floor and the kitchen, feeling a certain way as Chūya is there to greet him.

“Hungry?” Chūya offers while making eggs.

“A little,” Dazai replies.

“Good. I made enough for two.”

Dazai eyes the food warily, “And you’re sure your sister won’t be upset about this?”

“You need to eat. She’ll get over it.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

The food is plated and served. Chūya digs in as Dazai picks at his own at a much slower pace.

“Sleep okay?”

“Yeah.” It is not a total lie, he is sleeping better than at his dad’s house, “Thanks again for letting me crash here.”

“You’re welcome.”

They eat in silence.

“Is it weird? Living with Akiko and your sister?”

“Not anymore,” Chūya answers honestly, “it was strange at first. It felt kind of wrong after I. The way I. You know. And with our dad.”

“Yeah.”

“So um. At least I’m not homophobic now.”

“Cool. That’s good.”

“I’m um. I’m actually gay.”

“Oh. Okay.”

They continue eating.

“I’m gay too,” Dazai offers, “but I guess you already knew that.”

“You’re not bi?” Chūya wonders aloud.

“I don’t think so? Maybe I’d swing for a super butch lady, but um, yeah. I’m into guys. Well, and non-binary people. So maybe I should call myself queer? I don’t know. I just like dick and masc-presenting humans.”

“I’m not too good with all the gender stuff,” Chūya admits, “I get pronouns mixed up easily. I don’t really understand the non-binary thing but um. Yeah, I guess I’d call myself gay. I’m not against non-binary people, though! Like, live your life and be whoever you are, that’s none of my business.”

“Yeah. I guess it can be a little confusing if you’ve never experienced dysphoria or anything like that.”

“Dys-what?”

“Dysphoria,” Dazai replies, “it has to do with gender identity. Like, feeling you don’t belong in the body you have or the gender you were assigned at birth.”

“Oh. Do you get that?”

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

A pause.

“I might be non-binary.”

Chūya’s eyes widen at the statement, “Wait, seriously?”

A shrug, “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. But I’m kind of confused now and mourning so like. I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

“What does mourning have to do with it?” Chūya asks with genuine puzzlement.

“It doesn’t really. Just that um, I don’t really have the bandwidth to give it the thought it requires.”

“Okay. I get that.”

Dazai finishes his plate, surprised and dismayed by his appetite.

“You want more?” Chūya asks. Dazai shakes his head.

“I’m fine, thanks. I should probably get going. Ango’s coming by today.”

“That’s good. I should go on my run.”

“I still can’t believe you run.”

“Is it really so hard to believe I enjoy a bit of exercise in my life—”

“Yes! I mean sure, you were good at gym class, but you never once expressed interest in joining sports or anything.”

“Yeah, well my doctor said I need more exercise.”

Dazai laughs, “I’m pretty sure they’re required to say that once you reach twenty-five.”

A snort, “Yeah, probably. Anyways, if you ever want to join, let me know.”

“I’d rather kill myself.”

“Shitty-Dazai I swear to god—”

For a moment

a single moment

everything felt

it felt

like

as if

as though things were

that maybe

maybe they were like

before.

Maybe things were like before and they could argue like before and they could banter like before and they could be like before.

Maybe.

Maybe—

Footsteps.

“What is he—”

“Relax, sis. Dazai is on his way out.”

Kōyō scowls, “I’m taking a shower,” she announces, “leave by the time I get done. And don’t come back until—”

“Ten. I know.”

“Good.”

Kōyō marches off. Chūya rubs the sides of his head, “She’s such a handful sometimes. Sorry about her attitude.”

“It’s fine. I just. I wish she’d tell me why she hates me so much.”

“She’s never liked you,” Chūya comments, “you were always getting me into trouble.”

“Yeah, but like. After. That. Something changed. And I get it was my fault that—”

“Woah, no,” Chūya cut him off, “what happened wasn’t your fault.”

“You’re still angry at me for it though.”

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

“How I feel is complicated,” Chūya settles on.

“Right.”

Silence.

“I’m going to um. Head to my house.”

“Yeah. I’ll go on my jog.”

Nothing is the same, nothing is the same, nothing is the same.

--

He goes through things and it

it feels

he feels

he feels

There is an exquisite emptiness that he feels inside. A hollow shell, an empty, melancholic existence.

Dazai feels empty.

When he

He remembers, he remembers, he remembers.

He remembers the way

how that touch that touch, that touch, that touch.

He remembers that touch. The voice. The whisper.

The gifts.

The little toy dinosaur plushie that still sits under his bed.

(It is not their fault. The dinosaur is not to blame. It isn’t, it isn’t.)

Dazai sorts. He should be sorting Oda’s things, but Ango’s doing that so he is in his own room, the childhood bedroom, sorting fractured remnants of everything that once was, everything that should have been disposed of by now.

He holds the dinosaur plushie, hugs it tight. Remembers what it first felt like to be given it. By—

He remembers how happy it made him. How special he felt.

Dazai was special.

He was special, he was special, he was special.

Dazai is no longer special and the dinosaur no longer makes him happy.

He holds it.

Holds it close and tight and refuses to let go.

Dazai refuses to let go.

“Dazai? Can you come down for a minute?” Ango calls up, interrupting his reverie.

Dazai delicately puts down the plushie, resting it on his bed.

“What’s up?” He asks in lieu of greeting as he enters the living room. Ango leans against a dark wooden desk in the corner of the space, studiously staring at several notebooks in front of him.

“I was going through his desk and found some old notebooks. Some are journals by the looks of it. Others might just be for his writing. Anyways, I figured you’d want to see them.”

The best part of having a writer for a father is being able to keep the written word even after they’ve passed.

Dazai snatches up the notebooks greedily, inspecting them all. The bent, worn-out spine. Discolored covers and faded ink. Some are dated as far back as the early 2000s, while others are less than a year old. Dazai holds them close.

Close, close, close.

Holds it close and refuses to let go.

Dazai refuses to let go.

“Thanks,” he replies, “I’ll look through them tonight.”

As he goes to drop the notebooks off in his room, he is stopped by a hand grasping his wrist. The touch is light be he is—

Touch, touch, touch—

He is back in

back when

with

with the

he

he is there he’s there he is

And Dazai is not here.

Dazai is very far away.

Dazai is—

“Are you okay?”

Dazai is blinking and he is returning to reality and

“What?”

“I asked what you wanted for lunch.”

Dazai yanks his wrist out of Ango’s light hold.

“I’m fine.”

“Dazai,” a stern tone that borders a lecture.

“There’s food in the kitchen. Anything is fine.”

The answer does not sit well with Ango, “Are you eating?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you have for breakfast?”

“Interrogating me? Really?”

“This is serious. You’re not a teenager anymore—”

“Oh, so it was okay then? I was allowed to starve myself because—”

“That’s not what I’m saying. Starvation affects adults differently than children. It was never a good thing or an okay thing, but it’s much more dangerous the older you get—”

“I said I’ll have lunch and yes, I did have breakfast. Will you drop it?”

“I—”

A glower.

“Fine. But only if you keep eating.”

“I will, I’m fine, it’s whatever.”

Before Ango can complain further, Dazai is heading to his room, closing the door.

He spreads the notebooks out, inspecting each one with diligence and care.

In a way, it feels like a violation to peek at them, to read the snippets of one or paragraphs of another. But Dazai yearns. He yearns for his father in the flesh, and words are the next best thing.

Except. There were thoughts. Thoughts he must have had after—

And Dazai feels it would be invasive to read what was clearly not intended for himself.

But he misses

and he wants

and begs for

needs

craves

affection, Dazai craves his father’s affection.

It was lonely. He thinks about the past few years, only seeing his father in their once-a-month trips Oda would take to Tokyo. What was he doing in between? Where did all the time go? How was it spent?

(Why did he waste so much time?)

Dazai reaches over to his bed, which houses the pile of clothing from Oda’s closet that he could not bear to part with. Without thinking, he tosses on a navy blue pullover, cherishing the scent, the soft fabric, the everything. Dazai cherishes Oda’s everything.

The tears do not register until they dampen the bedspread below, dark splotches spreading like an infection. Dazai stands up and wipes his eyes. He returns to the floor and looks back at the notebooks. He tries to pretend he has stolen them from his father, like the snot-nosed brat he is. That his dad is in the other room, looking for his notebooks that his son so crudely took from him.

(He is not.)

He flips through the books aimlessly, not bothering to read more than a few sentences at a time.

“Today was…”

“I thought…”

“If only…”

The words and sentences fly over Dazai’s head, as he can barely focus on them. He keeps thinking about

About everything.

About the reason why—

Why is Chūya being so nice to him? After all this time, after all that has happened. It makes little sense to Dazai. Akiko has forgiven him, which he understands because she understands. But Chūya?

Everything is different.

Kōyō hates him with a vigor that seems unwarranted. Back then, when they were kids, she was irritated by Dazai. She did not like him, but dislike never conflated with resent. Something has changed and it is all very confusing. Everything has changed.

Everything is different.

Lunch is ready far too soon for Dazai’s preference. There is crab and vegetables and rice, all of which should sound appealing. It feels wrong being consumed in his childhood home. A house meant for curry and ramen and half-made waffles almost exclusively.

They sit in the kitchen in complete, utter silence.

Dazai pokes at his food, willing it to go away. Ango eats his own, slowly, careful of the steam.

“How’s cleaning out your room going?” Ango asks as Dazai finally chews on a piece of crab. It tastes like cardboard.

“Fine.”

“Find anything interesting?”

Yes.

“Not really.”

They return to uncomfortable silence.

Ango finishes his food as Dazai is barely a third of the way into his own dish as he pushes the bowl to the side of the table.  

“Thanks for making lunch,” he says as he stands up.

Ango is displeased, “You need to eat more than that.”

Dazai shrugs, “I’ll save it for later. I’m not hungry.”

Despite the urge to put up a fight, Ango lets him have this. Dazai grabs some plastic wrap from the pantry and wraps up his dish, placing it in the refrigerator for a time when hopefully his favorite food will taste less like ash.

“I should get back to it.”

“Right,” Ango nods, “I have to leave in a little bit. I’ve gone through the China cabinets and most of his desk. Is there anything else you need help with?”

“Thank you. Maybe um. His bathroom?”

Because Dazai does not need any more access to orange bottles of tiny little pills, no matter what they do.

“Right.”

Ango seems to pick up what Dazai’s putting down, nodding without commenting on the ask further. Wordlessly, they split up, Dazai returning to his bedroom as Ango proceeds to the master bathroom. Dazai had been avoiding going in there, not scared of anything Oda-related, just afraid of his own urges. Between scales and pills and razors, there was nothing good that could come out of raiding his father’s bathroom.

He does not get any further with going through his dad’s notebooks, or his own things for that matter. Instead, he sits and stares. Touches the notebooks, but does not open them.

He stares and stares and stares.

--

Sort. Sort. Sort. Dazai goes through one memory after another. Stuffed animals and old clothes and school books. Dazai does his best. Ango has since left, leaving Dazai on his own, to his own devices. All is fine at first. Or, as fine as things can be. The task of raiding his childhood bedroom feels insurmountable and he moves slowly, going through one item at a time. The problem is every item has memories. All are different and painful, even the pretty items with pretty memories cherished deeply. Dazai feels his heart clench, splintering.

There were so many gifts. So many precious little things. Special little gifts that made little Dazai feel incredibly special.

He finds one thing, then another, and another. Soon enough, dinnertime approaches and Dazai is still sorting through trinkets. He has not left his room to use the bathroom or get a snack. He is stuck. Stuck and lost in one memory after another. In that time when—

when he—

and they—

together they—

The arcade. They went to the arcade and he won that plastic dinosaur to go along with the plushie and Dazai felt like the happiest kid because he was loved, was loved, was

He kept it a secret from Oda. From his friends.

He kept a lot of secrets. He was full of them. So full with secrets, that he could barely stomach anything else.

Dazai needs to eat dinner. He and his body both recognize this.

But.

But being around everything, everything from before and—

He needs to eat. He should eat. Somehow inside, Dazai wants to eat.

But he cannot. The mere thought of his leftovers makes his stomach roil, churning in protest. This is how it always starts. Relapsing. One skipped meal turns into three turns into calorie-counting and disappointed glares at scales that tell painful truths, that reveal he is no longer a scrawny, underdeveloped teenager. That reveal he takes up the space of a full-grown adult. It’s a truth he can barely stomach alongside the leftovers he has no business thinking about.

He should probably call somebody. Ask for help. See if someone will take pity on him, share a meal together. His thumb hovers over Atsushi’s name in his phone. Something prevents him from clicking the little green call button. Maybe it is the disorder, the voice telling him everything is fine, he can stand to skip a few meals. Because he is too big. Dazai is no longer small and pretty and he needs to fix that

before

because he

he will be disappointed.

He’ll criticize him again and his body because it is too big, too ugly, Dazai is too big and ugly and a waste of space, a waste of oxygen. Dazai is—

Somehow, he manages to press call. Atsushi picks up at the first ring.

“Dazai!” He greets kindly, “Is everything okay?”

No.

“Um. I need help.”

“Okay! I can come by. Should Ryū come too? Do you need extra hands?”

“Not um. Not with that. Not with the house.”

“Oh. Okay. What do you need help with?”

I can’t eat, I can’t eat, I can’t eat.

“I’m having trouble with dinner.”

Atsushi immediately understands the hidden meaning behind those deceptively simple words.

“I can come by! Should I bring takeout or ingredients?”

Dazai shakes his head, then remembers they are on a voice call and the gesture will go unseen. “No,” he replies, “I have crab and noodles. Do you like that?”

“Sounds yummy.”

“There’s enough for both of us.”

“Okay! I’m finishing up something but can be there by seven. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. Seven is good. Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome!! I’m glad you called.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

“See you.”

--

Dinner is quiet between Chūya and Akiko and Kōyō. Kōyō silently fumes about the unwanted stray coming over at ten, once again. She loathes the idea, his very presence. But Chūya is too good of a person to not offer a place to spend the night. Chūya may not forgive and forget, but he pushes onwards, sees a future. Kōyō does not. Her vision is clouded by the past, by all that’s happened, by secrets she would never dare to utter aloud. Kōyō keeps secrets. She keeps secrets and fumes.

They are eating chicken with vegetables, courtesy of Akiko. The silence is deafening.

“How was work?” Akiko eventually asks the room. Kōyō stays quiet, still seething.

“It was fine,” Chūya answers.

More silence. Silence, silence, silence.

“How about you, Pink?” She turns to her girlfriend, “How was work?”

“Fine.”

They continue eating in silence. It is upsetting, suffocating, all-encompassing. Chūya feels himself drowning in it. There is little he can do to make things better, to go back to the way things were before Dazai re-entered the picture.

“It’s only for a little bit,” Chūya speaks up, addressing the elephant in the room, unable to take the staunching quiet any longer.

"He's a leech," Kōyō snaps, "he'll stay until he's sucked the life out of our home."

“You're being unreasonable—”

“Me?” Kōyō gapes, “I’m the unreasonable one? You two invited him into our home without even considering how I feel—”

“He needs us—” Akiko tries. Kōyō cuts her off.

“It’s been ten years! He’s lost the privilege of needing you!”

“I get it. Things ended badly,” Chūya starts, “but he’s back and we can’t just ignore that.”

“Why aren’t you angry at him?” Kōyō snaps, “He hurt you. You were miserable when he left. You were upset when he came back—don’t tell me you’ve actually forgiven him?”

She has a point. Chūya was furious when Dazai re-entered the picture. In January, he would not have been caught dead letting Dazai into his home, back into his life.

“Dazai needs us.” The grudge has somehow been let go and nowadays, he cannot imagine a world where he turns away his once-best-friend.

“Whatever,” Kōyō hisses, clearly not interested in fighting a losing battle. She stands up, bringing her emptied dish to the sink. Akiko and Chūya exchange a look, but say nothing.

The rest of the night passes quietly. Chūya keeps to himself, texting Albatross and his other friends. Akiko heads to work and Kōyō shuts herself away in the bedroom. True to his word, Dazai does not slip in through the backdoor until well after ten. He is quiet.

“There’s leftovers from dinner, if you’re hungry,” Chūya says as they make eye contact.

“Thanks. I ate with Atsushi earlier.” It’s not a lie, Dazai did eat. Not much, but Chūya has no need in knowing that.

“Okay. Help yourself if you get hungry.” Chūya is kind. Far too kind for a vulture like Dazai.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, before I forget,” Chūya starts, “‘Tross invited us to a party this weekend, so we’ll be out late. I’ll leave you my key if you still want to come by.”

“Oh. That’s okay. I can stay at my house then.”

“Are you sure?” Will you be okay?

“Yeah, I’ll be good~”

“You’re um. You’re welcome to come too,” Chūya loves to shoot himself in the foot. “‘Tross extended the invite, if you want.”

Dazai cannot recall the last social gathering he attended. Does a funeral count?

“That’s okay. I’m not really up for a social event. I wouldn’t want to impose either,” he explains.

“Okay,” Chūya replies simply, “but if you change your mind, let me know.”

They stand in an uncomfortable silence.

“Do you need to shower or anything?” Chūya asks, breaching the quiet.

“No. Or um. Yeah, I guess I should. I just need to brush my teeth. Wash up. If that’s okay?”

“It’s fine. The bathroom’s free.”

“Cool, thanks.”

They parted ways as Dazai left for the bathroom and Chūya returned to his bedroom.

Dazai showers with the lights off. It is dark and a pain in the ass, but it is the only way he knows to combat the dysmorphia. The voice that lies and screams and whispers and makes him feel vile in the most heinous of ways. And because of all of this, the inconvenience of stubbing a toe in the dark pales to the other option. He knows exactly where he has placed his shower supplies—soap, shampoo, conditioner. As he showers, his mind and thoughts drift.

To the house

Oda

Chūya

The dinosaur plushie

His room

The little trinkets and presents and secrets and and and and and and and

And Dazai thinks

He thinks

He thinks about

about the way things

how things

how they

were

before

Before.

With him. With him, with him, with

He thinks about the way things were with him and

It scalds. The water.

Scalding as he scrubs harder and harder and

It will not come off. He cannot get it off. Dazai is scrubbing harder and harder and it will not come off it will not (what? What will not come off?) it will not and it burns and his scars swell and muscles ache and he cannot stop—

He falls to the floor of the tub, curling into a ball as small as he can be. He wraps his arms around his knees, buries his head and whines. He whines at the pain, at the memories, at the phantom touch of

of

of

of

he

he is

he is crying and

and he cannot

It burns. Scathing hot, skin rubbed raw. The pain is inherently a blessing and a curse. The most relieving sensation, despite how deeply he loathes it.

He wants it all to stop. Wants it to go away, away, so very far away. Dazai feels far away. He feels foreign in his scalding skin. Unlike himself. Unlike—

A knock.

“Dazai? Are you okay in there?”

How much time has passed?

He does not answer, cannot answer, cannot—

Frantic, “Dazai?”

“Fine,” the word hurts, but he manages to spit it out.

“Are you sure? The light is off—”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Chūya calls through the door, “let me know if you need anything.”

Chūya walks away as the warm water runs out. Dazai stays in his spot as buckets of ice pour on his back. As the frigid chill overtakes. His entire body, his system spasms from the dramatic temperature drop. He knows it cannot be good for him, that he should make it stop, that he should stop—but he cannot. He cannot because, like an addict, pain is the only thing that soothes his fractured soul.

--

When Dazai leaves the shower, Chūya is concerned. He gives him space, deciding not to push until a little later. In the meantime, he busies himself with a bit of spring cleaning. The Friday night is young and he is not ready for sleep to take claim, far too fidgety for that.

Starting with his desk, he decides paper is easiest to sort through.

Old bills and statements, some scribbled and crossed out to-do lists. The task is mind-numbing, easy to lose himself in until—

Saving his yearbook is not something he recalls doing. Staring with wide eyes of dread

because inside means

it indicates

the past

and the past

what a treacherous place that is.

There is this little nagging voice in the back of his head. One which screams of danger, to run away to—

A knock at the door.

“Chūya?” The voice is uncharacteristically meek, “Can I talk to you?”

Chūya is pulled from his reverie, “Sure,” he answers, “come in.”

The door knob twists and Dazai opens the door, letting himself in. He is clad in a bulky sweater and joggers that look half a size too large on him. Chūya wonders if they belonged to Oda.

“Are you okay?” The question is unnecessary, one which Chūya feels obligated to ask on principle alone.

“I’m um. I was just,” he stutters, searching for the right words, for the perfect lie. “I couldn’t sleep.” Too many thoughts which scream and envelop.

“You can hang out here for a bit, if you want.”

“Thanks,” Dazai meanders to the bed casually, taking a seat. “What are you doing?”

Chūya eyes the yearbook, just out of Dazai’s view. He slides it back into his desk. “Just going through old stuff. My desk’s a mess.”

Dazai nods, then gets quiet again.

“Did you want to talk about anything?” Chūya asks.

“Um,” a long pause, “I just um. Was feeling self-destructive. My therapist suggested being around people when I like. Have urges.”

“You still self-harm?” The question tumbles out, no filter and Chūya is kicking himself for how insensitive it sounds. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that—”

“I do. Not a lot, but sometimes. When the world becomes too much. I try not to though. If I tell my psychiatrist, she ups my mood stabilizer and I’m not keen on that.”

“So you lie to her?”

“Not really,” Dazai answers, “I try to be truthful. But I do some self-harmy stuff I don’t talk to her about.” At Chūya’s worried expression, he backpedals, “Nothing too bad. Picking at skin. Scratching. Gross things like that.”

“I don’t think that’s gross.”

“Chibi is too kind.”

The conversation lulls.

“You said you’re in therapy?”

“Yeah. Are you?”

“No,” a pause, “do you like it?”

“Yeah. It helps.”

“And you talk about like. Stuff that happened?”

“We do.”

“That’s good.”

Chūya wants to talk about it, yearns to speak of the world unsaid, of the realm spanning ten years in the making. A decade of shattering and reforming and distance and empty, empty, empty.

“Is it hard, being home?”

“Yes. It’s one of the reasons I left and never visited.

“Oh.”

Chūya feels alone. It feels so much like before. Not

Before but—

“I missed you guys. You and ‘Kiko.”

Then why did you run away? Why did you leave?

Why did you abandon us?

“You didn’t have to leave.”

Dazai looks down at his feet, as if they are the most fascinating thing in the room. “I did.”

“We could have made something work—together—”

“There’s no use dwelling on the way things were,” Dazai cuts Chūya off, “my therapist is trying to help me not get lost in the what-ifs.”

There are multitudes. Infinite possibilities of how their friendship could have panned out, if only Dazai had let it. If only Chūya was more understanding if only—

“You’re spiraling,” Dazai remarks, catching Chūya mid-fall.

Chūya is spiraling. Lost in the “what-if” and what “should be” siloed from the way things are. Lost in regret.

“You didn’t even try.”

Dazai recoils in his dejection.

“It’s complicated.”

“Bullshit,” Chūya snaps, “you didn’t have to leave us.”

Dazai grows quiet. He pulls at his bandages, tugging with an unrelenting vigor.

“Can we talk about something else?”

“How long are you going to avoid this—”

“I’m not avoiding it. I’m just feeling really self-destructive and I don’t want to do anything stupid.”

“What do you mean?”

Dazai glances down at his bandages. Chūya gets the picture. Though frustrating, and Chūya feels a certain type of way about it, he drops the subject.

--

Albatross knows how to throw one hell of a party. A mechanic’s salary is nothing to brag about, not that it ever seems to deter Albatross from throwing the biggest shindigs in town. His one-bedroom apartment is equipped with a roof deck where the real fun takes place.

Chūya, Kōyō, and Akiko make their way to the event in atypical silence. It is Kōyō’s turn to be the designated driver, a fact that does nothing to lighten her mood. She has no interest in babysitting her drunk baby brother and girlfriend. Regardless, she swallows her pride as they turn into the parking lot. A twinge of empathy for the building neighbors clutches at her chest as she hears the music booming from the complex. With an unenthused sigh, she parks the car and exits. She grabs her girlfriend’s hand, misery palpable. Nobody speaks on it.

“Thanks for being the DD” Chūya attempts small talk.

“It’s my turn,” Kōyō replies coldly. Akiko and Chūya lock eyes.

They walk in conversational silence, backdropped contrastingly with the crescendo of their nearing destination’s music.

The rooftop is packed. There are tables of food and drinks, couples feeling each other up, dancing, and a cacophony of sounds, music and speech alike.

“‘Tross!” Chūya shouts over it all, catching his friend’s attention. Blonde, typically shaggy hair is slicked back and he wears sunglasses despite it being late at night.

“Chū! You made it!” The unsurprisingly drunk Albatross swings his arm around Chūya’s shoulder, pulling him into a half “bro-hug.” Chūya laughs, clapping Albatross on the back. As they let go, Albatross leans in to hug Akiko. He hesitates at Kōyō, not going in for a hug, but not shying away either. “Hug? No hug? What are we feeling?”

“A handshake will do,” Kōyō replies, prim as ever.

“Word!” Albatross shakes her dainty hand vigorously. Kōyō has always been particular about physical touch, and after the time he crossed a boundary by mistake, Albatross has made it a point to check in before touching her. Though she never admits it, Kōyō is grateful for the sign of respect. Not everyone is as understanding as Chūya and his friends.

“You guys want a drink?” Albatross pitched, gesturing to the crowd overlooking the makeshift bar.

“Looks crowded,” Akiko remarks.

“Oh, that’s no problem,” Albatross replies. Chūya rolls his eyes as Albatross presses through the crowd, calling out, “Move it people! Move it! We’ve got royalty comin’ through!” Akiko snickers, clasping her girlfriend’s hand tightly as they follow. Upon breaking through the crowd and getting situated with their drinks, they choose a corner with a few abandoned chairs to lounge on. Kōyō sips on her coke as the others drink cider and beer. Normally, she has no reason to make such a fuss about being the designated driver, but tonight she finds herself irritated while drinking coke that borders flat.

“What’s good my guys and gals?” Albatross looks the pique of relaxed, his drink in one hand, body draped lazily across his chair. He resembles a model in a painting more than the host of a raucous party. “What have you ladies been up to?” He pins the question on Kōyō and Akiko.

Akiko replies on behalf of them both, “Oh, you know. Same old,” she sips at her cider, cringing internally at its sweetness.

“How’s the hospital gig? Still saving lives?”

“You can say that,” Akiko chuckles, some awkwardness underscoring her tone, “people live. People die. That’s just the way it goes, I guess.”

“No offence, ‘Kiko, but it’s a party. That shit’s morbid,” Chūya cut in.

“Oh please,” Akiko rolls her eyes, “like you’re any better.” Kōyō sighs at the spat, sipping her drink with petulance.

“Something on your mind?” Albatross asks innocently, eying Kōyō’s stiffness and unenthusiastic silence. Kōyō shakes her head. “Come on, K,” Albatross pushes, “talk to me. I’m more than willing to lend an ear.”

“You’re drunk,” Chūya snorts.

“Drunk AND a good listener!” Albatross says pointedly.

“It’s nothing,” Kōyō deflects. Albatross fixes a look.

“There’s no way in hell I’m buying that. Spill. What’s on your mind?”

Kōyō eyes Chūya, then her girlfriend. She purses her lips, a decision forming in her mind. Kōyō is not often the cause of chaos, preferring to camouflage, remain under the radar. Tonight is different. Everything is different.

Her eyes light up with a touch of sadism, “We have a new roommate.”

“Oh shit, really?” Albatross asks. Akiko and Chūya sit on the edge of their seats, protests forming on their lips.

“Sis—” Chūya starts, only to be interrupted.

“You do recall Chūya’s friend, Dazai?” Kōyō asks, lilting tone dripping, oozing in sarcasm. The sardonic nature of the tone goes unnoticed to Albatross, who is gullible on the best of days, currently too drunk to notice.

“Oh shit—Dazai’s rooming with you?” He turns to Chūya, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh,” Kōyō says with a pout, “you didn’t already know?”

“No, this is the first I’m hearing of it—” Albatross is cut off as Akiko hisses at her girlfriend.

“Come on, Pink, we’ve already apologized. Let this go.”

“What?” Kōyō spits bitterly, “He asked what was upsetting me. I answered.”

“I know you’re annoyed at us—” Chūya starts, cut off again.

“Annoyed? I’m hurt, Chūya. I feel hurt and disrespected.”

“It’s just for a little while—”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you two went behind my back—”

“I’m uh,” Albatross looks around nervously, “I’m gonna sit this one out. Do some host-things for a bit.” He gets up and flashes finger guns, “Don’t kill each other.”

Akiko groans. Kōyō and her brother are too busy having their own staring contest.

“He needs us,” Chūya defends, not unlike a broken record, “I couldn’t just ignore that.”

“You could have consulted me.”

“Please,” Akiko urges, “I don’t want to make a scene. Let’s talk about this tomorrow—at home—”

Chūya chugs the rest of his drink. He gets up and goes for a refill.

--

The party continues through the night, a flurry of flashing lights, sounds and songs and sights. Chūya finds it easy to lose himself in the swirling wonders of liquid courage, especially being a lightweight. He pours drink after drink, set on being hammered by the end of the night.

“Maybe you should slow down,” Adam suggests. His night is mostly spent with Doc, seeing as they are both sober, though Chūya makes it a point to join them.

Through slurring words, “Nah—I’mfine. I can handle it.”

“Sure, sure,” Doc replies flippantly, clearly not buying the excuse.

The world spins on axis and Chūya is reminded of the first time he ever drank. It was with Akiko and Dazai—of course. They were rebellious teenagers, raiding Chūya’s dad’s liquor cabinet while he was on a business trip. Chūya had gotten smashed and Dazai—

The thoughts of Dazai and back then make Chūya’s heart ache, missing who they were, what they were. Craves the closeness, for something other than haphazard apologies. Chūya misses their escapades, he misses the silly adventures and bonds thick as thieves. He misses—

He sends a text:

u up?

A response arrives in a matter of moments:

cnt sleep

This is a very, very bad idea. He knows Dazai is grieving and they are both probably confused, but Chūya cannot help but want, yearn for touch and memories and—

Kōyō and Akiko are nowhere to be found and in retrospect, that should put an end to this silly idea.

It does not.

On the phone:

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“You home?”

“You’re drunk.”

“So’re you.”

Dazai’s laugh is pretty and twinkling. Oh, how Chūya has missed it.

“How’d you know?” Dazai asks, equal parts confused and impressed.

“You’re voice.”

“Really?”

“And I couldn’t imagine you sober and alone after everything.”

A scoff, “You got me.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking alone.”

“You shouldn’t be drunk calling me.”

“You’re right. I should be with you.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Do you want company?”

He should say no. Chūya should not be asking and Dazai should say no and—

“Yes. Please.”

--

Many things that should not happen, happen. Dazai and Chūya should not spend the night together. They should not drink in a dead man’s house, and they should not fuck in a dead man’s bed.

Everything feels good.

Everything feels perfect.

Everything feels right.

A drunken haze of ecstasy, bliss, air decorated by moans and skin feathered with kisses. Shy smiles and blushing cheeks, whispers and fluttering eyelashes.

Lovely, lovely, lovely—

And then.

A switch. A shift.

The hands roaming Dazai are no longer Chūya and the penis in his mouth is no longer Chūya and the safe person he is with is no longer Chūya and Dazai is no longer safe. Safety shattered, a spider webbed mirror of crystalline fractures revealing him, him, him underneath. Dazai is with him and being touched by him and sucking on him and he wants to die. Dazai is choking and wants to die and—

He coughs, spitting out Chūya’s dick. (Chūya, Chūya, Chūya, Chūya, Chūya, it belongs to Chūya.)

He expects a slap, maybe some light strangulation, anything to put him back in his place—

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Concern is not part of the script. Not when Dazai did something wrong. Not when he misbehaves. Not when he has been bad.

Tears prick at his eyes and discernment is no longer feasible. Where is he?

“Hey, breathe with me, shitty Dazai. It’s just me. It’s Chūya. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

But Dazai is not going to be okay because Dazai fucked the fuck up. Dazai’s going to get in trouble.

The crying is relentless and Chūya feels all the more helpless. He tries to coax Dazai down from the metaphorical ledge, tries to ease Dazai back into a semblance of calm. But

he is unable to.

Everything is useless.

Dazai is distraught. He cries and hyperventilates and shakes and nothing is working.

Akiko misses Chūya’s call, Oda is dead, and the closest person to them that Chūya can trust just so happens to be—

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Kōyō sounds more upset than enraged over the phone. Yet, by some miracle, she agrees to come over. He assumes Akiko is sleeping, his sister not wanting to wake her being four in the morning and all, Akiko’s sleep schedule is screwed up enough as-is from her night shifts at the hospital. Why Kōyō herself answered her phone is a mystery.

“You said there was a crisis?” Kōyō says in lieu of greeting at the front door.

“I don’t know what’s going on with him,” Chūya slurs, far too intoxicated to be useful. “He’s freaking out.”

Though he is no longer naked, Chūya is still topless and Kōyō has an idea of the events that have taken place.

“Where is he?”

They head to the bedroom, Oda’s bedroom, where Dazai, unlike Chūya, is still naked. He hyperventilates. His bandages are the only barrier protecting scarred skin from prying eyes.

“Dazai, can you hear me? It’s Kōyō.”

A small whine escapes his lips, but no further acknowledgement.

“Let’s try breathing together. It’s alright if you mess up.”

The voice is higher pitched but achingly familiar, nonetheless. It reminds Dazai of—

“Dad?”

“It’s Kōyō,” the woman replies, assertive but not unkind, “I need you to try and breathe.” Following her instructions, he tries. “Tell me five things you can see.”

Shakily, he lists off one item after another. They count down through his other senses until they get to—

“Tell me one thing you can taste.”

Dazai stumbles out of the bed, not even making it to the bathroom before retching all over the floor. Dazai curls into a ball next to his own vomit as he cries.

Without complaint, Chūya approaches Dazai, “It’s okay. We’re not mad.”

Kōyō is not angry. She has blanched thoroughly.

She is trapped in a memory and

And

And

And

“Sis? Sis, you there?” Chūya returns to his sister, waves a hand in front of her stricken face. She blinks and comes to.

“What?” She asks in an unexpected daze.

“I said I’m going to clean up the mess. Can you watch him for a minute?”

“Oh. Yes. Apologies.”

Chūya nods, exiting the room to grab cleaning supplies. He is surprisingly nimble for being as drunk as he is.

Carefully, Kōyō eyes Dazai. He is curled up in a ball, a little too close to the vomit for comfort.

“Dazai?” She poses, approaching the stray, “Do you need help getting back on the bed?”

He does not reply. Kōyō approaches him, careful to side step the sick. She places a hand on his shoulder, frowning as he flinches away violently. “Let’s get you back to the bed.”

He freezes, petrified. Something to the effect of fear in his eyes is unbelievably familiar. Her voice softens, tone surprisingly gentle as she asks, “What are you afraid of?”

“I—” Dazai chokes out, “I made a mess.”

“We’re not mad at you for that.”

“He hates messes. He hates when I stop. He hates when I—when I—when—”

“When you what?”

Silence.

Then.

“I didn’t finish him.”

Kōyō’s heart stutters at the implication. No more words slip through constricting vocal chords. There are footsteps as Chūya makes his way back with the cleaning supplies in hand.

“Can you help me move him?” Chūya asks his sister.

She’s quick to reply, “I don’t think he wants to be touched.”

“Yeah—but we have to clean up.”

“It’s fine,” an abysmally quiet voice speaks up. On wobbly legs, Dazai manages to stand and somehow, with a bit of assistance, maneuvers to the bed. He flops onto it, burying his paling face in the plush blankets.

Kōyō stares, gripping the long sleeve of her pajama shirt tightly. Her knuckles turn white with the pressure.

“You okay?” Chūya asks his sister, worry creasing his features.

“Dazai’s fine. I’m going.”

“But—”

Kōyō gestures towards the passed out frame on the bed. She stands up and makes her way to the door.

“Are you okay?” Chūya asks again, conviction wavering.

“Just fine.”

Kōyō leaves.

--

Dazai is more than used to hangovers. More than used to waking up without remembering where he went to bed. That does not mean he enjoys them. He awakes, disoriented in Oda’s bed, next to Chūya—

When did Chūya get there?

His head pounds and nausea settles as he regrets however many bottles of sake he demolished. Skipping dinner did not help his case. Chūya, for his part, sleeps like a rock, oblivious to the shifting and twisting of Dazai’s form in the large bed. Eventually, the nausea becomes too much to handle. He stumbles towards the bathroom just in time to vomit in the toilet bowl. Not much comes up, unsurprisingly. He clutches his empty stomach, nauseated beyond belief.

“You threw up?” A groggy voice calls from the attached bedroom.

“Yeah,” Dazai replies. He slides back down the wall, sitting on the ground with his knees pulled up to his chest. With a sigh, he rests his face on them, lips puckered in a pout, head tilted to the side. Chūya cautiously walks to the doorway, making an appearance. He sways a bit as he stands, also hungover.

“How’re you?”

“Shitty,” Dazai coughs out with a wry grin.

Chūya laughs unhappily, “I’m not much better.”

Silence settles a few minutes before Dazai asks, “What happened last night?”

“I—” Chūya stops. He just barely fishes out inklings of memories from the vault of his mind, “I came over.”

“Right.”

“And um. I guess we hooked up or something?”

It would explain why Dazai is naked.

“How far did we go?”

“I don’t—I don’t know. I don’t remember,” Chūya answers honestly. Dazai chews on the inside of his lip. With significant effort, he forces himself into standing position and makes his way to the bedroom. Chūya follows.

“I’d rather be clothed for this conversation,” Dazai explains, feeling distinctly vulnerable as he opens up the closet, grateful to toss on one of Oda’s oversized sweaters. It was big on Oda and hangs down low on Dazai’s slender frame.

Chūya, agreeing with this logic, sets to work throwing on his shirt from the previous night. He wishes his outfit was comprised of sweats rather than a crop top and jeans.

“Oh. You got upset,” Chūya frowns at the thought, the memory.

“About what?” Dazai asks.

“While we were. Like. Hooking up. I guess something upset you. I—I called Kōyō—”

“You called your sister? To what, console me?!”

“Akiko didn’t pick up—I was drunk and desperate, okay?”

“Yeah, I mean, okay. Not logical, but whatever.”

“God, you’re such a chore. I tried my best.”

“Not saying you didn’t.”

“Anyways. She came by. You threw up. She left and you fell asleep.”

“You cleaned up my vomit?”

“Yes.”

“How sweet.”

“Shut up. It was out of respect for Oda-san’s floors.”

Dazai flips back on the bed, exhaustion eating away at the fibers of his being. Everything hurts, aches. It feels like he got hit by a bus. “How do you remember all of this? Weren’t you also drunk?”

“Yeah, but I ate. Did you?” Pointed silence. “There you go.” A pause, “Speaking of food, what do you want for breakfast?”

Dazai squirms at the thought. “I’ll pass. Thanks.”

“You have to have something—”

“I’m going to throw up.”

“You said you didn’t have dinner last night,” Chūya retaliates.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Dazai.”

A concession, “Fine. Eggs over rice.”

“Do you have the ingredients for that?”

“Yeah. We should.”

We.

As if.

Because.

Almost like—

“Go shower, I’ll cook.”

A pause, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Breakfast is awkward. They pick at their meals in unenthusiastic silence. After a few minutes, the topic is broached.

“Why did you call your sister?”

“I was kind of desperate.”

“Because I was upset?”

“Like, super upset. You were freaking out.”

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault.”

A pause.

“We shouldn’t have hooked up,” It’s Dazai who speaks to the elephant in the room.

Chūya nearly cackles in discomfort as he replies, “You don’t have to tell me twice.

They eat their eggs in silence.

“Does this change. Things?” Dazai asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to make things weird—”

“It’s us, Dazai, what part of this isn’t weird?”

Chapter Text

Chapter VIII: fish!!!

Yokohama, October 2012

“The Aquarium?”

“Dad loves it there!”

“Really?”

“Yep~ He likes to look at the fishies with me.” Dazai sat with his friends in their shipping container, talking about Dazai’s somewhat-surprise plans for his dad’s upcoming birthday. “And you guys are like—like his second and third kids. You should totally come!”

“Are you sure?” Chūya asked uneasily, “I feel kind of weird crashing your dad’s birthday party.”

“My dad doesn’t have too many friends,” Dazai explained, “but he loves my friends. It’s a surprise party and I know the people who will make me happy, make him happy!”

“How’s it a surprise if he knows he’s taking you to the Aquarium?” Chūya asked.

“He knows we’re going, but Ango’s helping me book a room and invite people and get a cake and stuff. He doesn’t know about any of that! Well, I asked him if a few friends could come on our trip so he sort of knows you two would be coming. But it’s still kinda mostly a surprise!”

“That’s sweet,” Akiko remarked, “who else have you invited?”

“You two, Ango obviously, and oh! My new friend Atsushi!”

“Who’s that?” Chūya wondered.

“He’s a freshman transfer student. We met in the library last week. He’s shy but I like him a lot!”

“I’m excited to meet him,” Akiko smiled fondly, glad to see her friend was branching out.

“Your sister is welcome to come too,” Dazai added, gesturing to Chūya.

“Cool. I’ll let her know.”

“That would be so cool if she could come!” Akiko gushed. Chūya gave her a look. Dazai raised an eyebrow. “So that I’m not the only girl,” Akiko clarified, clearing her throat. “She’s fun to hang out with.”

Chūya accepted the answer easily, then added, “Dad’s been acting up lately, and her car’s at the shop, so she hasn’t been able to go many places. I think it would be good for her to get out of the house.”

“Has it been bad?” Akiko asked, concern brimming in her violet eyes.

“It hasn’t been great,” Chūya shrugged, “he’s just so volatile lately.”

“Good word,” Dazai remarked.

“Thanks. It’s just like, every little thing sets him off.”

“That’s shitty,” Dazai empathized, “I wish we could do something to help.”

“Is what it is,” Chūya sighed. “Someone has to take care of that old bastard. Plus foster care would really suck. Sis is an adult and all, but she doesn’t want to leave dad to rot on his own. And I guess, neither do I.”

“That makes sense,” Akiko said, expression forlorn. “I just wish it didn’t come at your expense.”

“Same,” Chūya said. The mood dampened with the subject. “Sorry for making everything all depressing,” Chūya apologized.

“No, it’s okay,” Dazai assured, “not your fault your dad is a piece of shit.” A pause. Then, excitedly, “This is why you and Kōyō have to come! MY dad loves you guys like how he loves me. ‘Kiko too, obviously. And I’m sure he’ll feel that way about Atsushi once we hang out! It’ll be so rad!”

“I’ll ask my parents then,” Akiko grinned, her mood picking back up. “And Chū, tell your sister as much as I love you guys, I’d really appreciate another girl around.”

Chūya chuckled, “Alright, I’ll let her know.”

“It’ll be great!” Dazai chirped, “He’s turning thirty-five, that’s kind of a big deal.”

“I always forget how young Oda-san is,” Akiko said, “my parents are in their forties.”

“Yeah,” Chūya said, “my dad turns fifty next year.”

“Odasaku found me when he was really young,” Dazai said, voice distant, “I sort of ruined his life.”

Akiko and Chūya shared a look of alarm, “What are you talking about?” Akiko pried.

“Just that. I don’t know. He was only twenty-five. He had his whole life ahead of him. Then I came along and suddenly he was a single dad with barely enough money to put food on the table.”

“He didn’t have to keep you, you know,” Chūya interjected, “or like, adopt you I mean. He could have sent you to an orphanage or something. He chose to become a dad instead.”

“And Oda-san adores you,” Akiko contributed, “he wouldn’t want things any other way.”

A downcast expression, “I guess you’re right. I just hate feeling like I got in the way of his dreams.”

Chūya frowned, “You haven’t”

“He’s always wanted to be a writer,” Dazai elaborated, “but he can’t support himself and a mentally ill teenager on a writer’s salary.”

“It’s not your fault you have…you know,” Chūya tried to choose his words carefully, but failed, “problems. It’s not your fault you have problems.”

Dazai did not respond.

“We’ll make sure your dad sees how loved he is,” Akiko affirmed, “the party will be a blast.”

“Thanks,” Dazai sniffled, “you guys are the best.”

--

“You’re going to the Aquarium for Oda-san’s birthday?” Paul eyed his kids skeptically. “Isn’t that a bit childish?” He held a beer can in his hand, not drunk yet, but well on his way. Chūya swallowed, hoping his anxieties weren’t too obvious. He despised the way his dad weaponized his emotions.

“He really likes it there,” Chūya said.

“And who’s paying for this little,” Paul took a sip of his drink, “trip?”

“Oda’s friend Ango is covering it I think,” Chūya said eagerly, “so you won’t have to worry about paying for us.”

“I’m sure we can get a ride with Oda-san and Dazai,” Kōyō mentioned.

Their dad maintained an unamused expression.

“Nonsense,” Paul took another drink, “I’ll give you a ride.”

“It’s really no trouble,” Kōyō politely pushed back. “I would drive but Albatross is still working on my car.”

Paul scowled, “You’re that ashamed of your old man? I work my ass off for you ungrateful shits—”

“Exactly!” Chūya interrupted, “You already do so much for us. We don’t want to trouble you.”

“I’ll drop you two off and pick you two up,” Paul mumbled, “I want to meet this ‘Ango’ guy. I have some questions for him.”

“About what?” Kōyō asked, confused.

“I wanna know where he’s getting the money for all this shit.”

“He works for the government,” Chūya shared.

“Uh-huh,” Paul pursed his lips, voice skeptical, “and how does he know Oda? His name sounds familiar.”

“I don’t know how they met,” Chūya answered honestly, “but they’re friends. I think he helped take care of Dazai when he was a kid.”

Paul hummed. He did remember that. He remembered how strange he and his wife found it for two grown men to be taking care of a child together next door.

“And I presume Ango is unmarried?”

Kōyō’s expression hardened, “Are you implying something?”

“It’s just. Odd. For two unmarried men to be so close like that.”

“They’re best friends,” Chūya argued, “Dazai and me are best friends and you don’t have a problem with that.”

“That’s different,” Paul finished his drink, placing the can not-so-gently down on the beaten up wooden coffee table, “you’re young. You both have crushes on girls. Oda—that man, I’ve never once seen him bring back a woman for dinner.”

“He—maybe he keeps his dating life private,” Kōyō suggested, “that’s none of our business.”

“I’m your father. If you’re going to be hanging around faggots, it is my business.”

The room dropped in temperature.

“You like Oda-san!” Chūya cried, “Why do you just now have a problem with him?”

Paul groaned, standing up with a stretch and yawn, “I have a bad feeling is all.” Then, as if a switch flipped, he changed tunes, “that’s enough gossip for one night. Go set the table, dinner will be ready soon.”

--

“Dude. ‘Zai. We have a problem,” Chūya grabbed Dazai’s wrist the moment he left his house.

“It’s—” a yawn, “too early for problems,” Dazai said tiredly, “can’t this wait ‘til later?”

“Not really,” Chūya said, then lowered his voice, “it’s about your dad.”

“What? What about Odasaku?” Dazai asked groggily.

“My dad thinks he’s gay.”

Dazai jolted out of his exhausted stupor, “What? Why? That makes zero sense.”

“Yeah, I know,” Chūya agreed, “it’s ridiculous, right?”

“Where did he get that idea from?”

“I don’t really know,” Chūya said, frustrated, “I think he was just looking for something to complain about.”

“Then it’s not a big deal?”

“No dude. It’s like, a major deal.”

“Why?”

“If my dad thinks your dad is gay, he’ll never let us hang out.”

“But he’s not gay. So we don’t have anything to worry about.”

“My dad won’t believe it until he has proof. He was talking about how weird it is for Oda-san and Ango-san to be as close as they are.”

“They’re best friends,” Dazai said, perplexed.

“That’s what I said. Dad doesn’t get it. He thinks it’s weird that they’re both single. That your dad never brings any women over. And honestly? That is kinda weird.”

“Chūya,” Dazai stopped walking, placing a hand on Chūya’s shoulder to signal him to stop. “My dad has to deal with me. A mentally ill, unstable teenage son. He doesn’t have the capacity to be dating right now. You said it yourself, I have problems.”

“You seriously don’t find it even a little weird?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, chibi. This is my dad we’re talking about. If he was gay, I’d be the first to know.”

“Yeah,” Chūya nodded, “I guess that makes sense. But like. I don’t know. I don’t think that’s enough for my dad.”

“What do we need to do to convince him otherwise?”

“I dunno man. I’m stressin’ hard about this.”

“Hey—don’t stress. It’ll be okay,” Dazai placated as they began walking back on the path. “Oh! I have an idea! Why don’t you ask your dad to stay for the party? I mean, not the whole time but like, long enough that he can get to know Ango.”

“I don’t know,” Chūya said glumly, “my dad’s not exactly ‘fun’ to be around.”

“Sure, I mean he sucks when he’s drunk, but we won’t have any alcohol and it’ll only be for an hour or so. Maybe less.”

“I don’t know about this,” Chūya said with reluctance, “I don’t want him to ruin the party. You know how my dad can be.”

“Yeah,” Dazai said with dejection.

Nearby, they saw a familiar figure come into view.

“Chū! ‘Zai!” Akiko called out with a wave. She ran towards them.

“Hey,” Dazai said, his usual cheer evaporated from his tone.

“What’s the matter?” Akiko asked worriedly.

Dazai locked eyes with Akiko, “We’re trying to think of ways to convince Chū’s dad that Odasaku’s not gay.”

Akiko’s face fell, “Oh.” Then she furrowed her brow, “Where did all this come from?”

“Beats me,” Chūya said, “he spent all night interrogating me and sis about it. But like, Oda-san’s not gay.”

“Right,” Akiko nodded.

“But dad doesn’t believe me, which means we need to come up with a plan to prove that Oda-san isn’t gay. He’s suspicious that Oda-san and Ango-san are so close, but both unmarried.”

“Why doesn’t your dad just ask him?”

“Dad hates gay people. If he thinks that’s what Oda-san is, even if he’s wrong, he won’t want to talk to him.”

“That’s shitty,” Akiko frowned.

“I mean, I get it,” Chūya said casually, “being gay is sick. But like, Oda-san’s not gay so he shouldn’t be such a dick about it.”

Akiko looked out, far off. Then, she suggested, “Why don’t you invite them both over for dinner before the party?”

“You think I should convince my dad to host dinner for them this week?”

“Yeah!” Akiko chirped, “You can have a nice dinner and show your dad there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Would you be okay with that, ‘Zai?”

Dazai shrugged, “Sure, I guess. If it’ll get your dad to lay off.”

“Okay,” they arrived at the school, “it’s settled. It’ll be our new mission!” Akiko beamed, “Let operation ‘Convince Chūya’s dad that Dazai’s dad is straight’ commence!”

--

“I’m sorry, what’s going on?”

“Chūya’s dad thinks you’re gay which means Chūya and I will never be allowed to hang out ever again so we have to go to dinner with him and Ango to convince him you’re straight.”

Kids say the darndest things.

“You want my boyfriend and I to get dinner with Paul to convince him we’re not dating?”

“Yes.”

Rubbing his temples to push away the impending migraine, Oda sighed loudly, with exasperation. “I love you, bud. I really do. But I don’t think this is the best idea.”

“Did I make you upset?” Dazai asked, voice small.

“No,” Oda assured, “I know you’re just trying to protect your friendship with Chūya.”

“I don’t want to hurt you—”

“I know. Maybe we can come up with a different plan. I don’t know how comfortable my boyfriend will be with hiding our relationship in that context.”

“But you hide your relationship all the time? How is this any different?”

“I know this is confusing—”

“I don’t get why chibi and his dad are making such a big deal out of this. I don’t see how being gay is anyone’s business.”

“It’s not. You’re right.”

“So what do we do?” Dazai asked with a huff.

“I’ll have a talk with Paul. I don’t want you or Chūya getting involved.”

“What are you going to do? Come out?”

“No. I don’t want to put you in any danger—”

“But I know how much you hate lying—”

“Don’t worry about me. You are my son and I am responsible for both of our safeties, not the other way around.”

Dazai fidgeted with his bandages, sinking further into the couch where he and his dad sat.

“And you’ll be careful? Talking to Chū’s dad?”

“Yes. I promise.”

--

“Dazai-kun, are you alright? You seem. Distressed,” Mori commented on his student’s demeanor. They were the only ones in the math classroom. Dazai stared quietly, vacantly at his half-eaten lunch.

“Sensei? What do you do when someone hates someone you love for existing?”

A frown, “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Like. Let’s say you love someone—like a family member—but something about them is different. That difference doesn’t bother you, but it bothers someone else you care about, so you keep it a secret. But maybe you’re sick of keeping secrets and everything is just really hard and stressful and—”

A hand rested on his shoulder, “Breathe, Dazai. You’re okay. You’re safe with me. Your secrets are safe with me.”

Dazai curled into his teacher’s side, eyes wet and red, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t want Chūya to hate me. But I’m so sick of hiding things and lying.”

“You can talk to me about it. Whatever it is, I won’t judge you for how you feel.”

A sniffle, “It’s um. It’s not about me. I don’t want to betray his trust.”

A nod, “I see.” Mori rubbed Dazai’s back, pulling him in closer, “How can I help you? No matter how hard this is, I want you to feel supported.”

“I don’t. I don’t know.”

The touch felt nice.

“I’d like to tell you a secret, Dazai-kun.” He didn’t way for a response. “I’ve always been—as you so eloquently put it—different. From my friends and family. I’ve hidden this side of myself for many, many years. Practically my entire adult life.”

“Does it get any easier?” Dazai wondered aloud, “Hiding that part of yourself?”

“Yes and no,” Mori responded, “it does get easier, in a sense. I care less about how others think of me. But I’m still acutely aware of my reputation as a teacher. One person, that’s all it takes.” They locked eyes. “All it takes is for one person to spill my secret and ruin my life.”

“You can tell me, sensei. I promise I won’t say anything to anyone.”

“You promise?”

“I—”

There interaction was interrupted by a knock on the door. On instinct, they pulled away.

“I’ll get that.”

Mori moved to open the classroom door.

“Is Dazai here?” Chūya asked anxiously, Akiko by his side. Dazai walked to the door.

“Chibi? ‘Kiko? What are you doing here?”

“What are you?” Chūya asked, confused.

“I needed some advice.”

“Oh,” Chūya nodded. “My um. My dad texted me. He wants to come to your dad’s birthday.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Did you say something?”

“Sort of. My dad said he was going to talk to your dad today.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“He—Odasaku didn’t want us to get involved.”

“Right.”

“Bye sensei—” Dazai collected his things, haphazardly waving to his teacher, “thanks for the talk.”

The secret was long forgotten.

Dazai followed Akiko and Chūya into the hallway.

“Did he sound mad? In the text?” Dazai asked, tone terse with stress.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t really tell.”

“What did you say?”

“I haven’t responded yet. I wanted to talk to you about it first.”

“Okay.”

They walked to Chūya’s locker, Akiko slowly drifting behind.

Chūya pouted, “So what do I do? Tell him to come?”

“I…I guess,” Dazai scratched his head with evident confusion. “If he wants to come, then I think yeah, you should tell him to come.”

“I’m just scared he’s going to ruin everything.”

“It’ll be okay,” Akiko said sympathetically, “Dazai and I will be there if anything goes wrong. There’s nothing to hide, right?”

--

The room in the back of the Aquarium was large, but not overwhelmingly so. Fish tanks lined the walls, tables with snacks and soda decorated the space. Oda’s eyes widened as he walked in. He turned to face Ango, who was beet red.

“Happy birthday,” Ango said softly. Oda looked around, confirming it was only them and Dazai in the room before taking Ango’s hand and giving it a squeeze.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”

Ango squeezed his hand in return, “It was Dazai’s idea. I just funded the operation. Made a few calls. You know.”

Oda smiled, warm like softened butter. He opened his arms in a big hug for his son and boyfriend. “Thank you both. This is very sweet.”

Ango gave Oda’s hand one last squeeze before pulling away. Dazai took the opportunity to snuggle into his dad’s embrace. Oda kissed the top of his son’s head before ruffling his hair affectionately. They broke apart.

“I’ll check out front to see if the others are here!” Dazai chirped before running out of the room, leaving Oda and Ango alone.

“Are you sure about this?” Ango eyed Oda, referencing—

“It’ll be good to have Paul here. I mean, I didn’t think we were renting a room or something, I thought this was more of a casual trip. But I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

“I hope not.”

“It’s just for this afternoon,” Oda reassured, “to get him off our tail.”

“Right. If you say so.”

Footsteps sounded before they could add anything else to the conversation. Dazai entered the room, followed by a shy boy with silvery hair and choppy bangs. The kid slouched in on himself, his mesmerizing heterochromatic eyes darting every which way.

“Odasaku! Ango! This is my new friend Atsushi. Atsushi, this is my dad and his best friend Ango!”

Atsushi bowed politely, “It’s nice to um—to m-meet you,” he stuttered soft.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Oda replied in a honeyed tone that instantly made Atsushi feel welcomed. It was a foreign experience.

“Thank you for coming,” Ango added.

“Atsushi-kun is new at school, but he’s super cool and funny,” Dazai rambled, singing the praises of his new friend. Before Atsushi could protest, Akiko, Kōyō, Chūya, and Paul all strolled in.

“My parents were really bummed they couldn’t stick around,” Akiko said after giving Oda a hug, “but they said happy birthday. Oh! And we got you this!” She passed a small gift bag Oda’s way.

“That’s very kind of you all. Thank you,” Oda grinned, awkward and genuine.

“Come on!” Dazai pulled Chūya his way while Akiko and Kōyō spoke to Paul and Oda, “I want you to meet Atsushi!”

Dazai poked Atsushi’s shoulder from behind. Atsushi startled with a yelp.

“Atsu! This is Chūya, my very best friend,” then in a hushed voice, “don’t tell ‘Kiko I told you that.”

“H-hi,” Atsushi bowed, “it’s nice to meet you, Chūya-san.”

“No formalities,” Chūya said not unkindly, “nice to meet you too, kid. Sorry you have to put up with this bonehead,” he nudged Dazai playfully in the ribs.

“Mean!! Chibi’s so mean to me!!”

After a few more rounds of introductions, the kids dragged Oda out to the main exhibits, leaving Ango and Paul to watch over the room.

“So, you planned all of this?” Paul asked, hands in pockets, leaning against the back wall. He was dressed in the epitome of casualness, in a t-shirt and distressed jeans. Ango, who could not be bothered to know the definition of casual, was standing awkwardly in his button down and olive slacks. They could not look more opposite.

“It was Dazai’s idea. I just helped bring it together.”

“I see.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“He is.”

A beat.

“You’ve known Oda for quite a while, it seems.”

Ango nodded in reply, “We’ve been friends since college. We were roommates, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yes, that’s how we met.”

A pause, “And didn’t you live with him when my family first moved into town?”

“To take care of Dazai,” Ango explained. “Oda was by himself and only twenty-five. He needed an extra hand taking care of his new child.”

“My wife and I always did find it strange for two grown men to live together like that.”

“Well, you know Dazai,” Ango chuckled, “quite the handful. He’s always been. It would have been far too much for Oda to handle on his own.”

“And the lack of having a maternal figure,” Paul added, “don’t you think that caused some issues along the way?”

Ango shrugged, “It’s hard to say,” was his honest answer, “Dazai was troubled—still is—but we’ve done the best we can.”

“I just,” Paul clasped his hands together, “I think two men raising a child together is inappropriate.”

“How so?”

“It. Well. It sends the wrong message to our children. If you know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do. Know what you mean.”

The sound of footsteps.

“Ango!” Dazai whined, “Is the pizza coming soon? I’m starving!”

“I’ll ask the staff,” Ango replied, taking his chance at a getaway.

“What were you and Ango talking about?” Dazai asked nosily.

“Just adult things,” Paul replied with a phony smile, “nothing for you to worry about.” He ruffled Dazai’s hair. Dazai made a face.

“Hey bud,” Oda entered the room, greeting his son. “Are you having a fun time?”

“Yeah, I’m having a blast! Atsushi and I got to look at penguins and then we pet the stingrays! It was so so fun. Are you having fun?”

“Of course,” Oda’s lips quirked into an awkward smile.

“It is your birthday,” Dazai added.

“And it’s been a very fun birthday,” Oda added, “thank you for planning it.”

Dazai gave his dad a hug before running off, back to his friends.

“He’s a sweet kid,” Paul remarked.

“He is,” Oda agreed.

“I was just telling your friend—Ando—”

“Ango.”

“Right. It’s a shame he doesn’t have a mother.”

“We do our best to get by.”

“I just. I can’t help but wonder if things would have been easier for him in a traditional household.”

“Like I mentioned when I stopped by the other day,” Oda began, “I think it wouldn’t be good for Dazai if I spent his childhood dating. Dazai was living on the streets at such a young age. He needs stability.”

“Surely he must be old enough to handle some change, I would think.”

“I—”

“You know, my cousin in France is thinking of moving out this way. She’s young, like you. A recent widow. Very beautiful. If you’d like, I can introduce the two of you—”

Oda swallowed, “I’m not in the market, Paul. I don’t think it would be good for Dazai.”

“Well—”

“Maybe Ango would be um. Interested.”

Paul perked at the suggestion, “Really? I’ll let her know—”

“Food’s ready!” Dazai yelled. The others came trickling back into the room.

“We should get something to eat,” Oda gestured to the table of pizzas, walking over before Paul could say anything else.

--

The rest of the party went off without a hitch. Chūya, Akiko, and Kōyō all got along well with Atsushi and despite Paul’s critical nature, the adults managed to chat about harmless topics they all seemed to agree on. By the end of the afternoon, everyone was sleepy from cake and running around.

“Why don’t you all head out,” Ango suggested to the group, “I’ll finish cleaning up with the staff.”

“We can help,” Oda offered.

“It’s no trouble,” Ango insisted, “Looks like your kid is about to fall asleep any minute,” Ango smirked, gesturing at Dazai who yawned dramatically. Oda laughed at the sight.

“I guess you’re right,” Oda walked over to Dazai, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, bud. You ready to head out?”

Dazai nodded sleepily, then asked, “Can we give Atsushi and ‘Kiko a ride home?”

“Of course,” Oda agreed. “Where is Akiko?”

They looked about the space.

“I think she and Kōyō ran off somewhere,” Chūya suggested, “probably found a cute boy to stare at.”

“Go find your sister,” Paul insisted.

“‘Kay,” Chūya ran off.

He checked the nearest halls to start. The ones with the sea turtles, then the frogs, and finally the jellyfish.

“Sis! I—” Chūya stopped before his sister heard him. The girls were sitting on the floor, staring at the vast tank of jellyfish. Akiko rested her head on Kōyō’s shoulder as Kōyō stroked her shiny black hair. Chūya felt as though he was interrupting something, seeing something he wasn’t intended to see.

“Sis,” he eventually said, walking over to the two. Reluctantly, the girls pulled away from each other.

“Oh. Hi,” Kōyō waved uncomfortably. Chūya shifted his weight from side-to-side. “Dad says it’s time to get going.”

“Alright. We’ll be there in a second.”

“Okay,” Chūya ran back to the event room. Akiko and Kōyō shared a look.

“I really um. Liked hanging out with you,” Akiko said, atypically nervous.

“I liked spending time with you too,” Kōyō said. Akiko blushed. “We should do this again.”

“Yeah! Totally!”

Another look.

They inhaled.

Exhaled.

Breathed each other in.

“Akiko. I—”

Akiko’s phone buzzed. “Oh, it’s my parents. We should probably head back, they’re expecting me home in a little bit.”

“Right,” Kōyō stood up, offering her hand to Akiko to help her up. Akiko took the hand graciously. She squeezed it tight.

“Did you um—were you going to say something?” Akiko asked, realizing her phone had cut the other off.

Kōyō shook her head, “No. No um, just wanted to say again how much I liked hanging out with you.”

Akiko smiled.

--

“You seem in a good mood, Osamu-kun.”

Another lunch period came, Dazai opting to spend it with his math teacher rather than his friends. He could not figure out what it was that drew him in to his sensei, but being there made him feel safe, connected. As if they were destined to be in each other’s lives. It felt good, knowing there was another adult out there who cared for him.

Dazai hummed to himself, then smiled, “I think it worked.”

“What did?” Mori asked.

“Oh. Just a plan. Now I can stay friends with Chū!”

Mori nodded, sorting the tests on his desk as Dazai ate his lunch.

“Was your friendship in jeopardy?” Mori asked. Dazai shrugged.

“Sort of. We’re fine now though.”

“Alright. That’s good.”

Dazai abandoned his lunch in favor of pulling out his sketchpad to draw. The pages were full of photorealistic drawings looking as if they were printed by a printer rather than drawn by a high school student. Mori stood up from his place at the desk, curious to see what his student was up to. He strolled over to Dazai’s side and peered over his shoulder.

“Oh my, you’re a very talented artist, Osamu,” Mori praised, genuinely impressed.

“It’s not real art,” Dazai hummed as he continued to sketch, “I’m just a human printer. Chibi’s the real artist between us.”

“Looks like real art to me,” Mori made his way back to his desk. He grabbed a sketchpad from one of the drawers, bringing it over Dazai’s way. “Feel free to have a look.”

Dazai picked up the book, abandoning his own as he began to flip through the pages. There was a series of still life objects, followed by anatomical illustrations.

Dazai raised his eyebrows, curious, “Is this like medical art?” Dazai asked.

“Something like that,” Mori answered. “I went to school for medicine.”

Dazai flipped through the rest of the pages. He crept towards the back of the sketchpad, brow knitting in confusion. “Is that—”

Mori blushed, quickly taking the sketchpad back, “How embarrassing—”

“Is that what it looks like?” Dazai pried, “Gay sex?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

“Can I…” Dazai hesitated. “Can I see it again?”

“I’m not sure it would be appropriate,” Mori said, cheeks bright burgundy.

“I already saw it,” Dazai remarked, “I’m just curious. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.” With reluctance Mori returned the sketchpad to Dazai. Dazai studied the pictures on each page. From erotic to the anatomical, he was mesmerized. “Do you find it interesting?” Mori asked.

“Yeah,” Dazai answered, breathless. He reached an anatomical drawing of a penis.

“Why do you draw so many penises?” Dazai questioned quietly.

“I find them intriguing,” Mori said.

“I know it’s weird to say this because I have one,” Dazai started, “but I think they look strange. Like little aliens.”

“They do look a bit unusual.”

“This one is really small,” Dazai pointed to another picture.

Mori smiled before taking back the sketchpad, “I think that’s enough anatomy for one day.”

Dazai pouted as the book was placed back in Mori’s desk drawer.

“I trust you’ll keep our little anatomy lesson to yourself?”

“My lips are sealed~”

--

“Sis?” Chūya knocked on his sister’s bedroom door. Their father was out at a work dinner, leaving the two of them alone in the house.

“Come in,” Kōyō replied.

Chūya entered, nervously glancing around the space. His sister sat in her desk chair, a copy of a fantasy novel Chūya didn’t recognize sitting on her lap. She glanced up at her brother’s entrance.

“Is something the matter?”

He shrugged, “Not really. Just um.” Hesitation. “I um. I wanted to know like.” A pause. “When did you and ‘Kiko get so close?”

Kōyō blinked in surprise, “What do you mean?”

“I saw you at the Aquarium together. You spent the whole day with her.”

“Oh, that,” Kōyō wiggled her eyebrows in jest, “lad, are you jealous?”

“What!? No! Why would you think that?!”

“I know it can be hard to share friends.”

“It’s not hard,” Chūya huffed, “I was just curious. That’s all.”

“I see,” Kōyō replied with a bemused expression. Then, seriously, “It’s not a problem, is it? That Akiko and I were hanging out?”

“No, of course not,” Chūya answered, “But like. Are you two friends?”

A shrug, “I suppose so.”

“Why didn’t either of you tell me? Are you the person she’s been texting non-stop?”

Kōyō replied, “We have been texting a bit. I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”

“No. ‘Kiko said she was messaging a friend from another school. Why would she lie about this?”

Kōyō shrugged, “Maybe she didn’t want to upset you.”

“Why would you two being friends upset me?”

“Because it crosses a boundary,” Kōyō explained, “it’s not something you’re used to. I’m sure Akiko has best intentions in mind. Don’t be too hard on her.”

“I won’t,” Chūya mumbled. “Still, I wish you two would have told me.”

“I’m sorry,” Kōyō apologized, “I didn’t mean to be so cryptic. I’ll try to be more open about our friendship.”

“You don’t have to. Do whatever. Just tell me if you’re going to start hanging out with my friends.”

“I can do that.”

Chūya lingered awkwardly in the doorway.

“Is there anything else?” Kōyō asked casually.

“You don’t um,” Chūya bit his cheek, chewing on it as he thought to himself, “You don’t think Oda-san is gay. Do you?”

Kōyō’s brow wrinkled as she thought about the question. “I don’t think so,” she replied. “Why?”

“I dunno. I just keep thinking about the stuff dad said—”

“Another person’s sexual orientation is not our business.”

“He’s my best friend’s dad. That is my business.”

“No, it’s not.”

“But—”

“Oda-san is an adult capable of making decisions for himself and Dazai. Regardless of his orientation, he has been nothing but kind to us. We owe him respect and privacy.”

“But dad says gay people—”

“Dad says a lot of inappropriate things. You don’t have to agree with every little thing he comes up with.”

Chūya frowned, “Are you pro-gay people or something?”

“I simply think what others do in their romantic and sexual relationships is none of my business.”

“Right.”

The air staled between them in stagnation.

“Regardless of our views on homosexuality, Oda has been like another father to us. Don’t be so quick to discount him from our lives.”

“Right. You’re right,” Chūya nodded in agreement, “I guess dad’s just been getting to me lately. I don’t want to hate Oda-san. Like you said, he’s basically another dad. I really care about him.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about. Trust that Oda-san will always take care of us and look out for us and everything will be just fine.”

--

Chūya, Akiko, and Dazai sat in the shipping container, a pile of snacks on the bed next to them. Dazai chewed a gummy worm as he spoke. “So, chibi? Did operation ‘Convince your dad that my dad is straight’ work? Does he believe us yet?”

“He hasn’t said anything to me about it this week,” Chūya said with a shrug, “and he knows I’m going over to your house tomorrow for tutoring. So yeah. I guess whatever Oda-san did at the party must have worked.”

“Good!” Dazai clapped joyfully, “Mission success!”

They munched on their snacks quietly for a bit before Chūya spoke up.

“Hey um. ‘Kiko?”

“Yeah?”

“I was talking to my sister and um. She told me you two have been texting.”

Akiko pinkened, “She told you that?”

“Yeah,” Chūya replied, quickly adding, “and I’m not like mad or anything. I just wish you didn’t lie to us about it.”

Akiko’s lilac eyes averted, “I’m sorry.”

“Why did you like. Lie?”

“I um. I just. I don’t know. She’s your sister. It felt weird.”

“Keeping it a secret makes it weirder,” Chūya countered.

Akiko continued looking at the ground, “I guess you’re right. I’m sorry, I didn’t want it to be a big deal. I really like having a girl to talk to that isn’t my mom. It’s okay if you don’t get it, I just didn’t want to upset you.”

“No, that makes sense, I get it,” Chūya said. “Just—no more keeping secrets.” His eyes darted Dazai’s way, “Both of you. Okay? You have to promise.”

Akiko closed her eyes, “I promise.”

Dazai nodded, “Promise.”

Chapter Text

Chapter IX: home

Yokohama, March 2022

Even though Chūya says it is okay, Dazai does not come by that night, nor the following night.

A week passes without a word from him before Chūya decides something needs to be done. His jog is wrapping up when he notices the light in Oda’s house is on despite nearing six in the morning, latest.

He knocks on the door.

Creaking open, the doorway reveals a baggy t-shirt and sweats, eyes dark and bloodshot. Dazai has eye bags for days and everything about him looks hollowed out.

“Hey,” Chūya greets awkwardly.

“Hi.”

Conversational silence envelops. Birds chirp and a chilly gust of wind presses through the fibers of Chūya’s workout clothes.

“Can I come in?” Chūya asks.

“Sure.”

The house is not a trainwreck, but it is not tidy either. There are dishes in the sink, piles of things all over, a general air of disorganization.

“How’s the um. The cleaning out going?”

Dazai shrugs, “It’s fine.”

It looks like Dazai’s about to fall asleep standing up.

“Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” Dazai yawns, “tired.”

“Why are you up this early? Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Another shrug.

“How was your jog?” Dazai pivots.

“Fine.”

Blinking blearily, Dazai yawns once more.

“You should really go back to sleep. Sorry for bothering you,” Chūya starts. Dazai shakes his head.

“You’re not bothering me.”

“You look exhausted. Are you sleeping?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sleeping.”

Chūya fixes him with A Look.

“Are you lying to me?”

Dazai fidgets. He picks at his bandages, a tell-tale sign of something unsaid.

“Dazai.”

“I’m fine,” Dazai snaps defensively. Chūya, though taken aback, does not relent.

“That’s bullshit. Your eyebags have fucking eyebags. You’re not sleeping properly.”

Dazai chews on his lip, then admits, “Fine. I’m having a little trouble sleeping through the night.”

“A little, as in, you’re having trouble staying asleep, or a little as in you haven’t slept in a week?”

Amber eyes avert.

“Dazai.”

“It’s just hard to sleep in this house.”

“So you don’t.”

“Yeah.”

Chūya rubs his forehead, massaging the space between his eyes, “Come on.”

“What?”

Chūya tugs Dazai’s wrist, “You’re coming back with me.”

“Why? What are you talking about?”

“You’re coming to my place to take a nap.”

Dazai’s brow furrows, “But your sister—”

“Can get the hell over it. You need sleep.”

“I don’t want to—”

“I don’t give a shit,” Chūya responds, “you need sleep. Seriously, going too long without sleep is straight-up dangerous. I’m not about to deal with you hallucinating shit.”

“Too late,” Dazai mutters not realizing he has spoken aloud.

“Wait, seriously?”

Dazai does not respond, jaw clenching.

“Jesus. Let’s go.”

Before any more complaints can be mustered, Chūya is dragging Dazai out of Oda’s house and into his own.

Of course, nothing in Chūya’s life can ever be easy, as evidenced by his sister making breakfast upon their arrival.

“Chūya,” she says pointedly.

“He’s not sleeping,” Chūya hisses, “I’m making him take a fucking nap.”

“You’re not his babysitter—”

“You know I’m right here, right?” Dazai says with exasperation.

“He’s not taking care of himself—”

“That’s obvious,” Kōyō jabs, “but he’s not your responsibility.”

“Again, right here,” Dazai repeats with a sigh.

“Go to my room,” Chūya orders, “or stay in Kōyō’s old room. Just get some damn sleep.”

“Whatever.” Too tired to argue, Dazai drags his feet to Kōyō’s old room.

Kōyō and Chūya continue to argue.

“He is not your responsibility,” Kōyō explains.

“He’s not okay.”

“Clearly,” she says with an uncharacteristic quiet. Then, frustrated, “That doesn’t mean it’s up to you to fix him.”

“I’m not trying to fix him! I just don’t want him to lose his shit because he’s not sleeping.”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“You know.”

A groan, “I get that you want to be a good person, Chūya. I really do. But taking care of Dazai cannot be your passion project.”

“That’s not what this is—”

“Then what is it? All you do is talk about him—”

“That’s not true.”

“When are you going to learn that some people just can’t be helped—”

“When are you going to learn that some people just need someone to help them?!”

“Whatever, Chūya. Whatever.”

Kōyō grabs her breakfast and takes it into the other room.

Chūya sits at the kitchen table, defeated, exhausted, and in desperate need of a shower.

--

Dazai does not want to admit it, but sleeping on Kōyō’s old bed happens to be the best sleep he has had in over a week. Not that his standards were so high to begin with.

Now, he sits in the kitchen, wrestling with himself over the late breakfast Akiko’s made him.

“Do your best to finish it,” Akiko had said when she handed him the bowl of miso soup and plate of vegetables and egg over rice.

Dazai cannot stomach the idea of finishing it.

“I’m not that hungry,” he protests weakly. Kōyō and Chūya are at work and Dazai already feels guilty for overstaying his welcome.

“Please give it a try.”

He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t—

“Okay.”

He takes a few bites, pleasantly surprised by how well the dish is made. Still, even the best tasting food is not enough to satisfy the disordered brain. Each bite reminds him of how worthless he is, of how much space he takes up, of how his body has changed, of—

“You’re spiraling,” Akiko calls him out.

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Dazai decides there is nothing to say to that and forces himself to take another bite of his food. Another. Another.

He finishes about half of the dish.

“The egg won’t hold, but I can pack up the rest of the rice,” Akiko says after Dazai has left his food untouched for about ten minutes. He wants to protest, but truthfully, even after his nap, he does not have the energy to argue.

“Thanks,” is all he says.

“You’re welcome,” Akiko replies. She brings the dishes to the counter to transfer into a container. “You know, my shift doesn’t start until late tonight. Are you still going through Oda’s things?”

“I am.”

“I can come by and help. If you’d like help.”

He considers the offer, genuinely wondering if this would be a good idea. They have not had much time alone together, him and Akiko, and it would be a lie if he were to deny how much he has missed her.

Even if the way things went

if back then

if things

if

and that

that conversation that conversation that

He was mad. Really, really mad.

And—

“Are you sure you want to?” Dazai asks uneasily, “I don’t want to pressure you into anything—”

“This is me offering to come by and help. There’s a difference.”

“Oh. Okay. If you’re sure.”

--

Whether or not either of them felt comfortable with being around each other, Dazai appreciates the extra set of hands.

At Oda’s house, they clean and fix and sort through the mess Dazai has barely managed to make a dent in. For two-person family with such little money, Dazai is surprised by how much stuff he and Oda managed to accumulate over the years. The status of the house’s cleanliness ebbed and flowed with Dazai’s mood over the past few weeks. Some days, it was neat and tidy. There would be a clear path forward for Dazai to complete in order to sell the house. Other days, like today, the place was messy. A path forward was messy and Dazai’s thoughts and feelings on just about everything too, were messy.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” Akiko remarks. “Not as bad as I expected at least.” The last time Akiko had seen the house was around the time of Dazai’s suicide attempt. Despite not being up to the standards of cleanliness, the home is still significantly cleaner than it had been.

“It’s not great,” Dazai stretches, yawning, still physically and mentally drained from lack of sleep, even with the nap on his side. “Thanks for agreeing to help. You can go through the garage. We probably won’t keep much of that stuff. I’ll sell the power tools or whatever, so you can keep them all together. I’ll finish going through my room. Or uh, I’ll try my best—it’s small but I still have a lot of shit somehow.”

“Funny how that works.”

Dazai offers a wry grin before clapping his hands together.

“Need anything before we split?”

Akiko shakes her head, “I’ll come get you if anything comes up.”

“Okay. Oh, and feel free to play music or whatever while you go through things. The record player is probably loud enough to reach the garage.”

“Cool, I’ll take a look.”

Dazai leaves for his room, while Akiko makes her way to the garage.

Despite being childhood friends, Akiko cannot think of a reason she would have spent more than a few moments in Oda’s garage. All the times Oda gave them a ride back to the house, they had only parked in the garage as opposed to the driveway if there was the threat of rain. Meaning, her interactions with the space were minimal. Unexpectedly, there is something nostalgic in visiting a familiar place where she has spent such little time. The smells of sawdust and must and memories of a dead man she would never be privy to.

Though her task is not overwhelming, she does not know where to start. The garage is small, a bit cluttered. Power tools hang on one side, miscellaneous, unfinished projects sit on the other. In the middle is a red car, probably from the early 2000s, which Akiko guesses has not been driven since Oda was alive. Akiko wonders if Dazai ever managed to get his license.

“Where to start,” she murmurs to herself, perusing the space.

She opts to begin with the easier tasks and work her way up, low-hanging fruit and all of that. She sorts power tools together that Dazai plans to sell. It makes sense—he lives in a tiny Tokyo apartment. He has no use for power tools. They are all in pretty good condition and Akiko makes a mental note to ask him about their listing price, in case Chūya wants to take on another project or bring them back to his shop. Assuming they use power tools at a mechanic’s shop—Akiko does not know.

After sorting the tools and placing them all carefully in a very large bin, Akiko moves to the half-finished projects. She wipes the sweat from her brow, surprisingly exhausted by the affair. The garage is stuffy and she is grateful for the chill of March that keeps the room from getting any warmer. She imagines if it were summer time, it would be sweltering.

The projects vary, unfinished shelves, the start of a bench, a large wooden crate, there is a bit of everything.

“I better ask if he wants any of these,” Akiko mumbles to herself, placing the projects in another bin.

The morning continues on like this, well into the afternoon. The garage is looking in far better shape when Akiko decides lunch cannot be put off any longer. Mentally praising herself for a job well done, she shifts to the kitchen where she raids the fridge, putting together makeshift meals for her and Dazai. She considers asking Dazai what he wants to eat, but has a feeling his answer would be “anything edible” so long as he is not the one cooking it. Chūya mentioned he would stop by after his shift for a late lunch together—which at this point is basically early dinner—so she figures she ought to go with the option that yields the most food for the least amount of effort. Therefore, Akiko sets forth to prepare crab fried rice.

Once the food is nearly done, Akiko makes her way to Dazai’s room. The door is slightly ajar. She knocks.

“Dazai? Lunch is almost ready.”

No response.

“Everything okay in there?”

Maybe he has headphones on and cannot hear her. Or he is distracted. Or—

She opens the door, showing herself into his room.

“Dazai?”

The man in question sits on the floor, pale as a ghost. His entire body trembles, dark cavernous eyes unusually wide. There is a notebook open in his lap, where his eyes are glued.

“You okay?”

No response.

Before Akiko can say anymore, Dazai covers his mouth and darts to the bathroom in the hallway, where he promptly vomits up all of breakfast.

Akiko makes a mistake. She picks up the book and flips it back to open. She reads.

--

Dazai forgot he kept a journal. He forgot a lot of things, actually. He forgot the way he would spend every single free period with

how everyday he would think about

the way he was constantly enamored by

He kept a few journals, this happened to be the first one he found.

The one that talked about

that detailed

how

how

how

how it tasted.

He talked about how it tasted and when Dazai read this, all he could taste was how it tasted and

it

the taste, the scent, it all lingered.

Everything about

about then

then

that memory

those memories

and there was nothing else

nothing else

nothing

nothing

there was nothing else that

that he could

that

and so

He does not mean to throw up, but now that he has started, he cannot stop. He is not in control.

Dazai was never in control.

He throws up again and again, choking on empty on wet on bile. Dry-heaving. Akiko does not come over to help him. She cannot.

She is staring.

Reading.

Remembering

lost in

in that

that memory that memory that memory those memories of those days when

Two weeks. It had only been two weeks. She tells herself this, it was just two weeks. She is fine. She has gone to therapy and has processed this and she is fine, is fine, is

Dazai is throwing up and Akiko is frozen in place and nobody moves or says anything and then—

“I’m sorry.”

Quiet.

“I was just overreacting,” Dazai coughs out from the bathroom. He rinses his mouth in the sink before making his way back to Akiko, who continues to stare, to be lost, be triggered, be

“Are you okay?”

She does not respond.

“Akiko,” Dazai tries again, “what do you need?”

No response. Dazai does not know what to do. He is the one who needs to be consoled, he is the one who breaks, he is the one who gets flashbacks who—

But Akiko needs him. She needs him and he cannot just stand there and do nothing. But Dazai is no good with comfort. He does not know his role or responsibility in all of this.

Dazai does not know what to do.

They stay in silence, Akiko pale and petrified and trembling, Dazai red with the residual tension of vomiting. Neither speak, there is far too much to be said. Instead, they stay still. Still, still, still, still, still. They stay still.

There is a knock on the door. It permeates the deafening silence.

“Dazai? Akiko?” Chūya’s muffled voice echoes in the emptiness, “You still here?”

No one replies. No one moves.

The door is unlocked, “I’m coming in.”

The sound of the door creaking open, further disrupting the silence.

Footsteps.

“Dazai? ‘Kiko?”

He reaches Dazai’s room down the hall, witness to shattered glass of childhood trauma. Akiko stands impossibly still as Dazai stares vacantly. No one moves or acknowledges Chūya’s presence.

It feels so much like

so much like

all too familiar

too much like then like what once was.

Too much like toxic vats of memorabilia. Of ruminating reminiscence, of before, before, all that wasted time of before and

and Chūya cannot

he cannot

breathe.

He cannot

cope.

Nobody can. Nobody can process, can breathe, can live in the wake of irreversible things. The trauma weighs down, the scale unbalanced by the mounting tension of everything that is and

there is no escape

there is no escape

there is no escaping this.

Chūya sees the journal that’s fallen from Akiko’s slack grip. He kneels down, morbid curiosity getting the best of him. Nobody stops him.

He looks, peers, sees,

reads,

and

and everything

it

it

it was bad. Now it is worse. Everything is worse and what the hell is Chūya supposed to do? How is he supposed to react to that? To comfort his friends from something as brutal as this?

He wants to talk about it.

He refuses to talk about it. They all do. Yet. This notebook

the unsaid has been said in the existence of this text alone. They say nothing, which says just about everything.

He does not know what to do.

They do not know what to do.

They were never taught how to manage this, how to confront or process or—

There is a ridiculously loud noise.

Chūya blinks, shaking off his stupor, “Is that the fire alarm?”

Akiko stirs, crying out, “Lunch!”

Dazai’s brain whirs back to life and it is as if time had stopped and is now reinstated. The clock ticks once more, the alarm blares, the storm has calmed, and late-lunch-nearly-dinner is burnt.

--

They sit around the dining room table littered with take-out containers, shrouded in more silence, in more not knowing what to do or say. Chūya, bravely, tries.

“What um. Did you make any progress?”

“Yeah,” Akiko says, voice void and face blank.

Dazai’s dark eyes are abysmal, bottomless pits of harrowing empty as he nods in response to Chūya’s question.

They need to talk about it.

They need to talk about it.

They need to talk about it.

“The food’s good.”

Dazai has barely touched his. Akiko’s bites are mechanical at best.

Chūya twitches. He has no idea how he is going to make it through this moment to the next, to the one not tainted by—

“I’m not very hungry,” Dazai admits, gaze averted as he places his chopsticks down, ignoring his noodle dish. Nobody prods, though they both feel the need to coax. Except there’s no bandwidth left, they cannot take care of a person who will not take care of himself.

Slowly, quietly, Dazai pads through the dining room into the kitchen, packaging up his meal, storing it in the refrigerator. Akiko and Chūya continue to eat, albeit unenthusiastically. It’s awkward and tense and even on the best of days, their relationship would be considered complicated. Now—

“It’s okay if you two want to go,” Dazai says half-heartedly, “you’ve done a lot for me.”

Akiko has half a mind to listen to his suggestion. Chūya is not as quick to agree.

“No, it’s okay,” he says, “we want to support you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” Chūya acknowledges, “but—I know.”

“I might um. Head out,” Akiko scratches at her arm, picks at the skin under her nails, fidgets, gaze still averted. “If that’s okay. I’m just. Tired.”

“Right,” Dazai nods, understanding, “that’s okay. You should get some rest before work.”

“Yeah,” Akiko scratches her arm a bit harder. Chūya frowns.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Chūya asks. Akiko shakes her head.

Abruptly, she stops scratching, “I think I want to be alone for a while.”

She stands up, tossing her somewhat finished container into the recycling bin. Approaching the door, she feel much farther away than a few feet. “I’ll see you.”

“Thanks again,” Dazai says, a pathetic attempt at enthusiasm failing with the first note of his timbre. Chūya waves.

“I’ll see you later.”

Akiko leaves.

The air shifts and though all is still quiet and everything is still left unsaid, it is a different kind of bad, a different kind of uncomfortable. Chūya and Dazai are left in the dining room, unsure what to do, how to proceed, how to function.

“That notebook—”

“Akiko was cleaning out the garage. Maybe you can go through the power tools.”

“You wrote about—”

“There’s not a lot of them, but I figure I can sell what’s there. Make some money off of them. If you want any, I’ll give them to you for cheap.”

“Dazai—”

“There’s like, drills and stuff too. Other handyman stuff I’m sure mechanics use. I don’t know how any of that stuff works so—”

“Dazai, will you stop?”

Dazai pulls at his bandages, pacing back and forth, “And um, there’s probably some other random junk in there. Stuff Albatross might like. You can take back whatever you want to the shop.”

“Seriously—”

His pace quickens and his breathing speeds up. He begins to scratch. With Akiko gone, he is allowed to break down again. He is allowed to be the victim again. He is allowed to be the one who got hurt, who still is hurt, who—“And um. There’s. There’s the car. I need to sell the car. You can help me with that, if you want. You don’t have to though. And uh. There’s uh. Um.”

“You need to slow down. Breathe.”

Dazai needs to be cared for. He knows it is wrong, knows it is not fair, knows he should not be like this but he does not know how to stop.

Dazai cannot breathe. His vision swims and everything is blurry as he thinks of

as he remembers

as

“You should probably go,” he says, blinking rapidly.

Chūya does a double-take, “I’m not leaving you. You’re clearly upset.”

“I’m not upset. Why would I be upset. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re upset because I brought up that journal—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s literally in your bedroom—”

“Please go.”

“Will you listen to me for two fucking minutes?”

“Go.”

“Dazai—”

“Get out.”

The scratching has escalated as his bandages shift, revealing reddened skin. He scratches and scratches and scratches. Chūya is at a loss.

“You’re bleeding.”

He is, but he does not care. It feels good. Feels better than he has felt all day. Feels better than the memory of—

He scratches harder.

“I want it to stop,” Dazai’s voice twitches, hitching in his throat feeling all the more selfish and wrong, “why won’t it stop.”

“What do you want to stop?” Chūya asks, concern constricting.

“I want it to go away.”

Blood seeps into his crookedly trimmed nails.

“It won’t go away!”

“I think you’re having a panic attack,” Chūya reasons. “You have meds for that. Where are they?”

“I—I don’t—I don’t know—”

“Your panic attack meds. Where are they?”

“They—they—” Dazai sways in place, looking only moments away from collapsing.

“Hey, steady,” Chūya reaches out, gently touching Dazai’s shoulder to keep him from toppling over. Chūya immediately regrets this as Dazai flinches violently, curling in on himself. “Sorry, you look like you’re going to pass out though. Let’s sit down.”

Numbly, Dazai manages to follow as Chūya leads them to the living room sofa.

“Where are your meds?” He asks again as they get settled on the couch, or as settled as they can be.

He remembers, “Room. My room. Backpack.”

“Will you be okay if I go and get them?”

A brief nod.

“I’ll be right back.”

True to his word, Chūya is only gone a few moments before returning with a glass of water and a small yellow pill.

“Here,” he offers. Dazai accepts the pill and water with shaky hands, swallowing quickly.

They sit in silence for seconds which feel like minutes like hours like lifetimes.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dazai eventually mumbles, lifetimes later.

“Okay. That’s okay.”

It is not. Not really.

Because they have to talk about it. They should talk about it. They cannot keep dancing around, ignoring—

But Chūya has lived his entire life amongst addicts, he knows when a topic is worth pushing and pulling back on.

“We don’t have to talk about it. Not now, at least.”

Dazai nods and whether it’s a placebo effect from the motions of taking medication or Chūya’s words, he seems calmer, more rational.

“I’m not going to make you talk about anything you don’t want to,” Chūya reassures. Dazai nods.

“Right. You wouldn’t—Chūya wouldn’t—” he pauses, “thank you.”

They sit and nothing else is said on it.

--

That night, Dazai comes by. Kōyō is permanently displeased, but chooses not to vocalize her thoughts and feelings. Maybe it is on account of his reddened eyes and weary disposition. Or perhaps she is simply tired of being shot down, ignored. Or maybe it is her own exhaustion after comforting Akiko through a near-catastrophic breakdown. Any and all of these reasons could be why Kōyō chooses not to put up a fight.

Dazai does not have dinner, despite being hungry after barely touching late-lunch. He cannot imagine eating, cannot imagine tasting anything after—

Stop, he coaches himself into dropping the subject the minute it enters his mind.

“Thanks again for um. You know,” Dazai says to Chūya as they get ready for bed. Chūya nods encouragingly.

“I’d rather you stay over and get some sleep than be a mindless zombie all week.”

“I’ll work on that,” Dazai says with a chuckle. He appreciates this taste of normalcy, the slivers of domesticity with which Chūya has granted him.

They separate, each going to their respective bedrooms.

Chūya cannot sleep.

He remembers the passage

the few words he saw

the words he read

that said

that explained

that detailed

that

It hurts. It physically hurts to think about it, to think about what Dazai went through. What Akiko went through. It hurts to know that he is the one out of the three of them to have made it out untouched.

Chūya feels incredibly guilty about this fact. About being okay. Chūya should not be okay. He should be the one who was hurt, who experienced that—

But he was not. And he did nothing.

Chūya did nothing.

No, worse than nothing. He blamed them.

His eyes sting with the notion. With the thoughts of his helplessness, his complete and utter uselessness—

He is doing better now, though. Chūya is trying to do better, to make things right.

Even if he sort of kind of resents Dazai in all of this. Even if it is not his fault, which, academically, Chūya knows.

He knows it is not Dazai’s fault.

He knows.

He knows.

Thinking about it all makes his head hurt.

He feels almost silly for holding his seventeen-year-old self accountable for the things he knows now. Except back then—

He knew it was wrong.

He knew. Still, he said nothing.

He—

It was a mistake.

It was a mistake.

Chūya is allowed to make mistakes.

He was a child who was allowed to make a bad judgment call and—

But what if—

If only he had—

Rumination gets him nowhere, yet it is all his mind feels capable of. Maybe if he ruminates enough, he will be a better person, there will be a better outcome, things will turn out differently, everything will be different.

If only it were so simple.

Chūya lies in bed, more awake than not. The hours tick by, from midnight to two to four and soon enough, it is time for his morning jog. Chūya groans, perturbed by his sleeplessness.

Wide awake, he gets up from bed and mechanically moves to locate his running clothes. There are sounds coming from the kitchen that pique his interest. Once he has changed, he goes to check them out.

In the kitchen, he finds Akiko alone with a bowl of cereal.

“Don’t you have night shift tomorrow? Er uh—tonight?”

“I just got back. They let me leave early since I—” a pause, “They let me leave early.”

“Oh.”

“Did you sleep okay?” She asks.

“Nope,” Chūya responds honestly.

“Yeah. It was um,” she trails off. Chūya prepares a protein shake as Akiko continues to nibble on her cereal.

They want to talk about it

they should talk about it

they just need to—

“Where do you go running? Is there a trail or something?”

“Not really. I jog on the sidewalks. Down by the water and cemetery, sometimes.”

“Do you like it? Jogging?”

“I guess it’s okay,” Chūya responds, “it’s pretty tiring. If it weren’t my resolution, I’d probably have quit a while ago. But don’t tell sis that, I don’t need her taunting me over another dropped hobby.”

Akiko’s laugh is light like lilies and lovely like light. Shockingly joyous for someone feeling so miserable.

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

Chūya shakes his protein drink, downs half in one go. Akiko finishes her cereal.

“What are you going to do now?” Chūya asks, “It’s still pretty early. You wanna go to bed?”

“I don’t know. I might watch some TV or something. Some stupid reality show could be nice.” Her tone is still empty. Not as bad as it was, but not yet back to her normal self.

“Good idea. There are plenty of stupid shows out there right now.”

A silence lapses. There is a long pause before Akiko chooses to speak again.

“I’m sorry that you had to see me like that, earlier. At Oda-san’s. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay.”

“I hope it didn’t upset you.”

“I mean, it did,” Chūya says, then clarifies, “but it upset me because of what happened to you, not because you were upset.”

“Right.”

Because what happened was more than bad, it was devastating.

“I wished I could have changed things, made it less awful for the two of you.”

“You know you couldn’t have.”

“I know. Still. That’s what I was thinking.”

A long stretch of silence.

“Is it hard? Being around him again?” Chūya references Dazai.

“Yeah. It is,” Akiko says, “I don’t know the right things to say or do. I don’t know what’s safe to talk about and what crosses a line. He spends all his time saying he’s fine, but he’s so clearly not. I don’t think there’s room for someone else and Dazai to be ‘not fine’ at the same time.”

“It’s always been like that,” Chūya remarks, “Dazai is the one struggling. Dazai is the suicidal one, or the hurting himself, or the one who stopped eating. We’ve always had to cater to him, to be okay enough to take care of him. That’s really hard. And not a fair expectation for fucking seventeen-year-olds. But I know it’s not his fault.”

“I don’t want to resent him, but part of me does. Part of me loathes the fact that he’s back in the picture. It’s the same part of me that was relieved when he left. I hate that I feel like this, but that’s just how it is.”

Chūya nods, he gets it. He understands the rifts being Dazai’s friend has caused in his life.

“It’s not fair for me to feel like this. I know these things weren’t his choice,” Akiko continues, frustrated.

“It’s not a choice, but they’re still real. Everything that happened, happened. Dazai might not have chosen to be suicidal, but he’s the one who stopped taking his meds. He’s the one who stopped eating. We have no control over how he reacted to the situation, whether or not that situation was his choice in the first place.”

“I know.”

“Give yourself some grace, ‘Kiko. You did your best.”

“Right. I know you’re right. Thanks.”

Chūya finishes his drink, then heads out the door for his run.

Dazai stands in the hallway.

--

Their conversation rings in his mind and Dazai cannot go back to sleep. He knows it is rude to eavesdrop and he really did not mean to listen in, but he could not help it and now cannot unhear the conversation.

It plays in his mind on repeat, reminding him of how much space he has wasted. How much time and care others have invested in him, only to be disappointed with the results.

He sits on Kōyō’s old bed, yearning for his own room back in Tokyo, for the one place he can call his. He lives alone, back in Tokyo, and is not used to being around so many people again. Though he is only in town until the house sells, it feels so much harder, so much longer. Maybe he needs a break. Maybe he needs to go back for a weekend.

That sounds like a good idea, heading back to Tokyo for a weekend.

Kōyō would be thrilled and the others would not have to take care of him, babysit him and make sure he is eating and sleeping. Dazai is a grown adult, he can take care of himself.

Yet, there is the voice of his therapist in the back of his mind, the voice that reminds him of things like support systems and relying on others instead of torturing himself over it all.

Oda used to be his support system. Oda and Atsushi and Sigma back in Tokyo. Dazai has people. Had people. Maybe it would be okay if Akiko and Chūya were on that list too. If he had two more people to add to his support system. Even if their most recent conversation rings out in his head, all too loud, all too real.

Maybe all of these things can exist at once. Maybe Akiko and Chūya can be part of his support system, and still overwhelmed and still unsure of how to handle him.  

But—

Dazai knows he is a stressor. More often than not, he is part of, if not all of, the problem. Dazai is the reason these kind people struggle to sleep properly. He is a reason for their anxiety. He knows this and feels incredibly guilty for it.

Maybe he needs more therapy. Since he has been in town, he switched to weekly telehealth sessions. Maybe he should do twice weekly. He is tight on money, but it might be worth it.

Who knows.

It is early morning and Dazai contemplates if he should head back to Oda’s house, get an early start to the day. The idea permeates the fog of stress that has been filling his mind and he prepares his things to head back before—

There is a knock.

“Dazai?” Akiko’s voice sings out from the other side, “Are you awake?”

Dazai puts down his things and opens the door in response.

“Yeah,” he answers.

“Sorry to bother you so early,” Akiko apologizes, “can we talk?”

“Sure.”

She enters the space as Dazai closes the door behind her. They sit together on the bed, quiet.

“I didn’t mean to shut down like that, yesterday,” Akiko begins. Dazai nods, keeping his gaze down at his lap. Though he knows he is not in trouble, he cannot help but feel like a small child being scolded for their naughty behavior. “I just—well, I shouldn’t have invaded your privacy and read that journal. I didn’t think, so I’m sorry about that.”

“You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“But um. When I did—what I did read, it was. Fuck. It was really triggering.”

“Yeah. I was triggered by it too.”

“I didn’t think. I don’t know. I didn’t realize you would like—”

“Write it all down?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Dazai shifts position before speaking, “Yeah. I forgot I kept journals. I think it was a coping mechanism.”

“You have more than one?”

“I have a few. Some are regular journals. Others are food journals. Things like that.”

“Oh. I didn’t. I didn’t realize.”

“Like I said,” Dazai sighed, staring up at the ceiling, “I forgot. I know it seems like a pretty big thing to forget, but there’s not much I really remember about high school. I mean, some things I remember really visibly. Others are just little flashes in my mind.”

“Trauma does that to us.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Dazai wants to argue. His instincts scream to say he is not traumatized. Dazai is fine.

He is fine.

He is fine.

He is fine.

“I’m—”

“It’s okay, to not be okay, Dazai.”

He is quiet. They are quiet.

“I’m thinking of going back to Tokyo this weekend. I’m unemployed so it’s not like I have to go back to a job, but I think I need a break. I don’t want you and Chūya worrying about me either.”

Akiko wants to protest, wants to say everything is fine, they are his friends, they should worry about him—

But she cannot bring herself to. Not now. Not while she is this exhausted.

“Right,” is all she says in response. “I think a break would be good for you. You’ve been in that house for too long.”

“Yeah. I um, I have a friend back in Tokyo, Sigma, they might be willing to stay with me in the house for a bit. Help me clean and get it ready. They work remotely so it would be easy for them.”

“So you wouldn’t stay here nights?”

“It would make Kōyō happy, I’m sure,” Dazai smirks humorlessly, “but um, yeah. I just feel really bad putting all this on you guys. You’ve been really supportive and I can’t do anything but make your lives harder—”

“You’re right that this isn’t easy,” Akiko speaks, choosing her words carefully, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t handle it. You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to. And Sigma’s really cool. I think you’d like them.”

It’s relieving in a way Akiko has trouble articulating, so she lets herself experience the emotion in private.

“I think it’s a good thing that you’re reaching out to others for support. Do they know about—”

“Sort of. A bit. Not everything.”

“Will you tell them?”

Dazai shakes his head, “Not unless I have to.”

“But—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

“Okay. But if you change your mind—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

One step forward, two steps back.

--

When Chūya receives a text message from Dazai saying he is going back to Tokyo for a bit, Chūya feels a certain sort of way.

Relieved. Chūya is most definitely relieved.

Anxious. Chūya is concerned.

Upset. Memories. There are too many memories of leaving, leaving, leaving without a

Resolved. Chūya feels like this is the best possible outcome of current events. Dazai needs space, but so do Chūya and Akiko and Kōyō. They need their own space too. Maybe offering nights to Dazai was too much, maybe they need to rescind the offer, not out of malice, but out of care for every involved party.

At least, that is what Chūya thinks when he sees Akiko before she leaves for her night shift. Then, she explains, “Dazai was thinking of staying back at Oda’s again. He’s going to invite a friend from Tokyo so he won’t be alone.”

Chūya is extraordinarily relieved.

“Good,” he says, “that’s a good thing. Right?”

“I think so,” Akiko nods, “I think this will give us space.”

“Do you want me to tell sis?”

Kōyō strolls into the room, fresh out of the shower. Her hair is tied up in a towel and she wears a silk pink robe with red camellias adorning the back. “Tell me what?”

“Dazai’s going back to Tokyo this weekend,” Akiko responds, not missing a beat. “He’ll probably be there for the week.”

“Really?” Kōyō does not bother keeping the intrigue out of her voice.

“And then he’s planning to stay in Oda’s house again with a friend. So you won’t need to worry about him staying here.”

The quiet is confusing. Chūya eyes his sister warily.

“Is something wrong?”

She shakes her head, blinking out of her stupor, “No.”

“I think—” Akiko is cut off by the sound of Chūya’s phone ringing.

“Sorry. It’s probably spam. Let me—” Chūya pulls his phone out of his pocket. His eyes widen.

“Who is it?” Kōyō asks. Chūya answers.

“Hi dad.”

Chapter Text

Chapter X: they

Yokohama, October 2012

“Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“I told you, teach, I have free period. Don’t tell me you’re too old to remember anything these days?”

“Are you sure you want to spend all your free time cooped up in here? You don’t want to spend time with your friends and classmates?”

“Chibi Chū and ‘Kiko aren’t in my free period. Everyone else sucks. Sometimes I crash chibi’s art class, but I’m not in the mood.”

“I see.”

Mori wiped down his chalkboard.

“The school homecoming dance is coming up soon,” Mori remarked casually, “will you and your friends be in attendance?”

A shrug, “Parties aren’t really my thing.”

“You never know, it might be fun,” Mori said, “no use discounting the activities of your youth.”

“You’re such an old geezer~” Dazai laughed brightly, a shimmering sound of fresh snowflakes and starlit skies.

“Don’t you have homework you should be working on?”

Dazai shook his head, “No. I finished it all. And yes, that includes that big-ass packet you assigned us for this week.”

“Impressive. Have you had time to meet with Chūya-kun to tutor him this week?”

“No, it’s only Wednesday. We still have time!”

Their weekly tutoring sessions were going well and Mori was pleased to see this reflect in Chūya’s grades. He was not a straight-A student by any means, but he was no longer struggling to get a passing grade in the class.

Mori approached Dazai and clapped a hand on his slender shoulder, “Very good job.” He ruffled Dazai’s hair as they locked eyes. Dazai pinkened before pulling away.

“I um. I should get going. I actually want to stop by the art room after all.”

“Ah yes. If I recall correctly, you’re quite the artist.”

Dazai grimaced, “Not really, no. I just make pictures. Chibi makes art.”

“Does he now?”

“Yeah!” Dazai perked up at the topic of his best friend, “He draws the coolest abstract things I could never even imagine coming up with! He’s super insanely creative.”

“How interesting,” Mori paced the classroom, leaning against the front of the teacher’s desk, his back to the hardwood of its frame. “I’d like to see his work some time.”

“Seriously, he’s probably the best talent in this stupid school.”

Mori chuckled at Dazai’s enthusiasm, then said, “You say you’re not an artist, but I’d like to see some more of your art. I only glimpsed at your sketchpad last time. Perhaps you could bring it by again during your next free period?”

Dazai eyed his backpack, sitting crumpled and forgotten on a neighboring desk. “I have my sketchpad with me now, if you want to see,” he mumbled under his breath.

“I’d like that very much.”

“It’s not art,” Dazai clarified once more, “so don’t go getting your hopes up, teach.”

Meandering to the desk, Dazai unzipped his backpack, pulling out a neatly kept black sketchbook. It had been a present from Oda for his last birthday. Despite the fact that Dazai loathed his birthday, Oda always tried to get him something special, do a little extra to make the day less painful. Though he would never admit it, Dazai appreciated the gesture.

Mori walked over to the desk. He hoisted himself up until he was seated on top of the desk next to where Dazai stood. They were close.

“Help yourself,” Dazai passed the sketchpad to his teacher, a nervous energy vibrating in his tone.

Gingerly, Mori opened up the book. He flipped from one page to another, immediately accosted by photorealistic drawings. Cats staring out windows, a man writing in a book, a setting sun, two boys kissing—

“Shit!” Dazai cursed, snatching the book from his teacher’s hands, “that was um. That was just an experiment. I forgot that was in there. I’ll rip it out—”

“No, no don’t do that. It was very good,” Mori eased, “they all are. You’re remarkably talented, Dazai.”

“I didn’t mean to show you gay shit. I know you don’t care but I promise I’m not gay.”

“It would be fine even if you were—”

“I’m not.”

“Alright then.”

A terse silence spread in the space, thick tension mounting like fog in daybreak.

“Can I see the rest of them?” Mori asked patiently. Dazai shook his head.

“I should get going.”

A frown, “Osamu, your drawing is nothing to be ashamed of. It may be looked down upon by others, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with two people of the same gender kissing. You’ve seen my drawings—”

“Are you gay?”

Because he implied recently that he was different but did that mean—

A pause, “I am.”

“Oh.”

Another lapse of silence.

“Is that like. Public knowledge?”

“Am I in the closet? Is that what you’re asking?” Mori offered a mischievous smile.

“Yeah. I guess,” Dazai confirmed.

“I am, for lack of a more accurate descriptor, in the closet, to some extent.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Do you want one?”

Mori hummed. He eyed Dazai, gaze lingering.

“I think we all want someone to love, and be loved by.”

Dazai did not respond.

“You said you’d like to get to the art room? You better be headed out before the period ends.”

As if snapping out of a daze, Dazai blinked, gaze flitting to the clock in the corner of the room. “Wow, it’s the period’s almost over? Time sure does fly! Catch you later, teach~”

“I’ll see you, Osamu.”

--

They returned to their food as Oda came back from the bathroom.

“It tastes wonderful,” Oda praised his boyfriend, leaning over to kiss Ango on the top of his head. Dazai was not bothered by the PDA, but found it entertaining to tease his dad over.

“Gross!” Dazai stuck his tongue out, “Get a room~”

“One day, you’ll have your own partner to act ‘gross’ with,” Ango lectured.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dazai rolled his eyes. “You’re both so gooey. It’s nasty.”

Secretly, he enjoyed watching his dad and boyfriend together. He saw how happy Ango made Oda and that was more than enough for him to support the relationship, even if from afar. It was better than they used to be, at least. Back then, before, things had been—

“I’m thinking of going to homecoming on Friday,” Dazai pivoted, bringing up the topic he had had on his mind ever since the conversation with his teacher.

“I thought you didn’t like dances?” Oda asked, biting a piece of his baked chicken.

“I don’t,” Dazai shoved his own food into his mouth, chewed, then swallowed. He continued, “I hate dances and parties and all that stuff. But sensei said I ‘shouldn’t discount my youth’ or whatever.”

“And you think he has a point?” Oda wondered. Ango listened attentively.

“Yeah I mean, maybe. He is an old geezer after all. I don’t want to become wrinkly and old without fun high school memories.”

“You have plenty of fun high school memories,” Oda countered, “you and Chūya and Akiko hang out all the time.”

“Yeah, I guess. But I also have all these memories of the hospital and psych ward. That’s not typical high school shenanigans.”

“No, I guess it’s not,” Oda agreed, “still, you shouldn’t have to force yourself to do something you don’t want to do.”

“What if I do want to get out of my comfort zone?”

“Then I think that’s an excellent idea,” Ango interjected. He looked over at his boyfriend, “It doesn’t hurt to try something new.”

Worry chewed away at the corners of Oda’s eyes. It was not that he wanted his son to hide from challenges, he was merely afraid of what would happen if something went wrong. Dazai was not good with crowds, nor with parties in general. He struggled with conflict management and if things went south at the dance, Oda would not be there to help him out. Even if he was only a phone call away, that by itself was not enough to appease his concerns.

“And your friends would go with you?” Oda asked.

“Yeah!” Dazai replied eagerly, “So if I freak out or something, you won’t need to worry! I’ll be in good hands.”

“I don’t know how I feel about this,” Oda answered honestly, finishing his dish.

“Mori-sensei will be chaperoning,” Dazai volunteered, “tell him to babysit me if it’ll make ya feel better~”

“Is he?” Oda asked, interest piqued.

“Yep~ He can keep an eye on me!”

“Sounds like he has a support system at the ready,” Ango whispered to Oda, as if Dazai was not directly in front of them, “this could be a good opportunity for him to branch out.”

“I just worry,” Oda replied. Dazai glared.

“I’m right here, you know.”

“Sorry,” Oda apologized, “when is the dance?”

“Friday.”

Oda fidgeted with the hem of his sweater. Then, with reluctance, gave a curt nod, “If you’d like to go, then we can sort something out.”

“Yeah??”

“Yeah. But I don’t want you going alone. Make sure Akiko and Chūya are coming too.”

“I’ll talk them into it!!”

“And I’ll call your teacher beforehand,” Oda added, “to make sure he can help if an emergency comes up.”

“Relax, what’s the worst that can happen? Someone spikes the punch?”

“Yes, exactly that,” Oda replied gruffly.

“Do they still do things like that in school?” Ango asked curiously.

Dazai shrugged, “Beats me. I rarely go to these things.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful?”

“I will, dad. Promise!”

--

“You want to go to the school dance?” The next day, Akiko gaped at Dazai’s wide, toothy grin.

“Yeah! I think it could be fun.”

“What part of homecoming has ever been fun?” Chūya posed seriously. They laid on the bed in the shipping container, their heads each touching each other as their bodies splayed out in different directions. It was late afternoon, just after school and all three happened to finish their homework early.

“I dunno. Teach suggested it.”

“You don’t have to go to a dumb dance just because your math teacher said so,” Chūya replied.

“But what if I want to go to the dumb dance?” Dazai countered.

“Why the hell would you want to go?” Chūya shot back, “Dances are stupid.”

“You’re just afraid of running into Shirase and Yuan,” Dazai retorted with a glare.

“‘Zai—” Akiko cut in. Chūya fumed.

“Don’t bring them into this!”

“You can’t avoid them forever—”

“I’m not avoiding them,” Chūya mumbled under his breath.

“Pretty sure it sounds like you are,” Dazai shrugged. Chūya scowled.

“Sue me if I don’t want my ex-friend group up in my business after they basically exiled me.”

“Chibi’s so dramatic,” Dazai waved his hand flippantly, “it wasn’t that bad—”

“It was humiliating!”

Yuan and Shirase were heads of student council, the committee in charge of organizing events such as homecoming. Years ago, in middle school, Chūya was part of a group of friends who called themselves the Sheep. They ditched school, smoked under the bleachers, and caused chaos everywhere they went. After a particularly bad run-in with some local authorities, Yuan and Shirase were forced to, as their parents put it, “do better.” They were talked into joining student council and began making an effort with their grades. Chūya felt as though he could not keep up.

When Chūya officially declined their invite to join student council, Shirase stole one of Chūya’s failed final exams and photocopied the teacher’s stern note on the back of it, which he then hung up all around the school.

Needless to say, their friendship was decimated.

“That was years ago,” Dazai pointed out, “if they haven’t grown up a little bit since then, I’ll be shocked.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to give the dance a try,” Akiko added, “and we’ll be with you. So even if we do run into those assholes, it’ll be three against two. No big deal.”

Chūya sat up from his spot and shifted positions, sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, “But if we do run into them—”

“Then I’ll deal with it,” Dazai said protectively, “and my dad said he’d call teach anyways to tell him to have my back in case something goes wrong. We won’t be alone in this.”

Chūya hesitated, trepidation in his tone as he spoke, “And you promise we can handle it? If we run into them?”

“Of course! I promise~” Dazai replied with a salute, sitting up in his spot.

Chūya groaned, “Fine. But I want it on record that I don’t like this idea.”

“Noted,” Dazai smirked, cashing in his victory.

“What do we wear?” Akiko asked.

“I dunno,” Dazai shrugged, “what do people usually wear to these kinds of things?”

“They get all dressed up,” Chūya replied, “it’s annoying if you ask me.”

“I don’t know if I have any formal clothes,” Dazai mused aloud, “but I don’t think I can afford anything new before tomorrow.”

“Well why don’t we check now?” Akiko suggested, “Let’s raid your closets!”

“What about yours?” Chūya asked.

“I can bring over a few dresses and try them on at your place,” she gestured to Dazai.

“A fashion show!!” Dazai cooed excitedly, “Chibi-Chūya can bring over some clothes too! If your sister wants, she can come by and critique everything—”

“She’ll make sure you have nothing to go to the dance in,” Chūya snorted at the suggestion, “but I am down for a fashion show. That sounds kind of fun.”

“Odasaku might be home but he won’t mind.”

“Alright, I’ll go home and get my things then we’ll meet at Dazai’s at six,” Akiko announced, “sound like a plan?”

“Roger that!”

--

“Too frilly,” Dazai remarked at the first dress Akiko held up.

“That one’s too boring though,” Chūya said about the dress in her other hand.

“What about this one?” She picked up a pink sun dress covered with daisies.

“Doesn’t really seem your style, but it’s cute,” Chūya said. “Looks like something Kōyō would wear, honestly.”

“It does remind me of her,” Akiko pinkened as she spoke, quickly looking away.

Dazai’s normally neat room was a mess. Clothes lay strewn across the bed, shoes and ties tossed about. A hurricane of fabric and accessories. Dazai and Oda had an agreement for Dazai to actively work on keeping his room clean, considering the cleanliness was one of the first things to go when his depression kicked in. By prioritizing the neat room on his good days, this meant any time the room got too messy, it was an indication of the depression sneaking back up.

Fun messes like an array of clothing coating the space, however, were always welcome.

“I have this button down,” Dazai held up a plain, slightly wrinkled black button-down.

“Do you have anything that’s not black?” Akiko asked. Dazai shrugged.

“I think I have a blue one somewhere in here—” he sorted through his closet, tossing more clothing onto the bed. For someone who wore the same three outfits nearly daily, Dazai had a surprising amount of clothes.

Chūya shoved aside a pile of Dazai’s pants to make room for his own bag of clothes. He pulled out a maroon button-down and khakis.

“What about this? Too preppy? Should I go with dark pants?”

“I like the shirt,” Akiko said, “but yes to dark pants.”

“Second that!” Dazai called out, practically buried in his wardrobe as he hunted for his blue shirt.

“Ooh! What about this one?” Akiko held up a violet dress covered in golden butterflies. It matched the butterfly hair clip she wore daily.

“That’s pretty,” Chūya said.

Dazai poked his head out from the wardrobe, comically shrouded by his clothing, “Cute! You should try it on!”

“Okay. I’ll be right back,” Akiko brought the dress with her as she went into the hallway bathroom to change.

“I’m gonna try on my outfit too,” Chūya said as he began to take off his t-shirt.

“Don’t worry, I won’t peek~” Dazai joked.

“Relax, I know you’re not gay, it doesn’t matter,” Chūya replied.

“Oh, I found it!” Dazai pulled out a midnight blue button-down from the back of his closet, which miraculously was not very wrinkled. “It’s only a few shades lighter than the black one, but it’s still a color so I guess that’s something.”

In the safety of his wardrobe, he began to change. Dazai was not terribly self-conscious of his body, but he was never the most comfortable with his bandages being on display.

To his luck, the shirt fit. His pants, however, were a bit too short and tight, awkwardly stopping at his ankles.

“I’m halfway to an outfit,” Dazai exclaimed with an embarrassed grin as he stepped out of the closet. Chūya stood in the center of the room topless, fiddling with the buttons of his maroon top. He turned over and looked Dazai’s way.

Dazai blushed, looking down at his bandaged ankles.

“I’ll um. I’ll look for longer pants.”

“Yeah, okay,” Chūya said, “shirt looks good though.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. It suits you.”

Chūya tossed on the button down as Akiko knocked on the door, “Is it safe?”

“You can come in.” The door opened, revealing Akiko’s dressed up form.

The dress fit her well. The top clung to her chest in a well-fitted manner as the bottom flared out from the waist. It was a tea-length dress that hung down to her calves.

“What do you think?” She gave the dress a twirl.

“Wow! ‘Kiko’s so pretty!!” Dazai beamed enthusiastically. Akiko’s cheeks rouged at the compliment.

“Looks good,” Chūya added, “I like the pattern a lot.”

“I think we have a winner then!!” Dazai cheered.

Akiko smiled shyly, “You don’t think it’s too much?”

“Nonsense,” Dazai said. “What shoes are you going to wear with it?”

“I have some heels. Or maybe I’ll just wear converse.”

“Converse would be so edgy. I like it,” Dazai remarked.

“I’m guessing you need new pants?” Akiko shifted the subject, giggling at Dazai’s ill-fitting attire.

“Heh. Yeah. Guess I had another growth spurt or something.”

“And yet you’re still too damn skinny,” Chūya rolled his eyes, “your metabolism is insane.”

Dazai shrugged, then searched his closet again for better pants.

“I have these,” he held up a charcoal pair that looked longer than the ones he currently wore, “Odasaku and I got them over the summer, so I think they’ll fit.”

“Give it a try,” Akiko suggested. Dazai went back into his wardrobe to switch pants.

“Oh, Chūya, can you take a picture of my outfit for me? I tried to get one in the bathroom but couldn’t get a good angle.” She passed her phone Chūya’s way.

“Yeah, sure.”

He took a few photos, then frowned.

“Did they turn out bad?” Akiko asked.

“No, um my sister is texting you.”

“Oh!”

Chūya passed her phone back.

“Sorry. I hope things aren’t still weird with like. You know.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Chūya dismissed.

Dazai stepped out of the wardrobe.

“How does this look?”

Chūya flashed a thumbs up as Akiko clapped excitedly.

“You look so dapper!”

“Why thank you,” Dazai offered a makeshift bow. “Is this fancy enough? Do I need a tie or jacket?”

“It might be chilly,” Akiko suggested, “so maybe if you have a nice jacket that would be good.”

“I don’t know if I have one that’ll fit,” Dazai hummed, “I’ll ask Odasaku. Maybe I can borrow an old one of his. I know this is all really lame or whatever, but I’m kind of excited.”

“Yeah, I like getting dressed up with you two,” Akiko beamed.

“I guess it’s not so bad,” Chūya shrugged.

They paused at the sound of a knock on the door. Dazai opened it.

“Hey dad!”

“Don’t you all look nice,” Oda remarked kindly. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour. Chūya, Akiko, you’re welcome to stay.

“I’ll ask my parents if I can stay,” Akiko said.

“I’m promised my sister I’d eat with her tonight while our dad is working late, so I’ll pass. Thanks Oda-san.”

“It’s no problem. If your sister doesn’t feel like cooking, she’s welcome to come over as well.”

“I’ll let her know,” Chūya nodded.

“Also, it’ll be curry. Sorry about that.”

“How did I know?” Akiko laughed kindly, “That’s no problem. My parents rarely make it.”

“And Odasaku knows how much me and my friends adore curry,” Dazai said jokingly.

With a playful quirk of his lips, Oda offered another apology before heading to the kitchen to start making dinner.

--

School dances are awkward and this one was proving to be no exception.

“What do we do?” Chūya asked uneasily.

“I uh. I don’t know,” Dazai replied, shifting his weight from foot to foot as they stood in the far corner of the gymnasium.

“We can get some snacks or drinks?” Akiko offered.

Dazai nodded, “I didn’t have dinner so I guess maybe I should have a snack.”

Chūya playfully thwacked Dazai on the back of his head, “You can’t just forget to eat dinner, idiot.”

“Sorry!” Dazai apologized with fake tears in his eyes, “Odasaku had an early job and I forgot he left me some food to microwave. I was distracted!”

“By?” Chūya asked.

“Prepping for the dance,” Dazai mumbled.

“Come on, idiots,” Akiko laughed, “let’s get something to eat.”

The three of them cautiously made their way to the food and drinks. Once they verified there was no Yuan or Shirase in sight, they picked up small paper plates and filled them up with snacks.

“Where do you want to sit?” Akiko asked.

The school gymnasium was decorated with ribbons, streamers, and banners with motivational expressions. There were tables and chairs spread throughout the space with room for a dance floor in the center.

Dazai pointed at the table farthest away from everything, tucked in the back. His friends agreed and followed him as he led the way. At the table, they were quiet. Tinny pop music blasted from the speakers, causing Dazai to flinch with every bass drop.

“Too loud?” Chūya asked. Dazai nodded. “Do you want to borrow my earbuds?”

“Maybe,” Dazai muttered, picking at his snacks, “I think I just need to get used to it.”

“I know loud noises aren’t your thing,” Chūya said caringly, “so if it gets too much we can go outside or hang in the hallway. Okay?”

Dazai nodded, looking a little pale and uncomfortable. He took a sip of his juice, staring at the table vacantly.

“If it isn’t my favorite trio,” Mori’s voice sounded as he made his way over to their castaway table. “Are you enjoying yourselves?”

“It’s uh. It’s okay,” Chūya answered on behalf of the group. Dazai looked as though he were going to be sick while Akiko flashed an uneasy smile.

“Dazai-kun, are you alright?” Mori asked with a worried tone.

“Fine, teach” Dazai muttered, forcing a smile. He bit down on his lip as he flinched with the new, louder song coming on.

“You sure you’re alright?” Mori asked a second time.

“I just um. It’s kind of like. I—” Dazai struggled to voice his need.

“It’s kind of loud,” Chūya interjected, “the music is hurting my head.”

“Can they turn it down?” Akiko asked

“I can certainly ask Hirotsu-sensei. I’ll be just a moment.”

“Thanks, sensei,” Chūya replied as Mori turned around and made his way to the “DJ” who was really just Hirotsu with an iPod hooked up to a speaker.

Dazai gave Chūya and Akiko looks of gratitude.

“I’m sorry I’m so weird,” Dazai apologized with a downcast expression. He picked at his bandages ferociously.

“You’re allowed to need things,” Akiko affirmed, “that doesn’t make you weird.”

“And we don’t mind your quirks,” Chūya reassured, “you’re totally fine.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Is that better?” Mori asked upon his return. The volume was noticeably quieter without being overt to anyone who didn’t know what was going on.

“Yeah, that helps a lot,” Chūya said as Dazai nodded slightly. “Thanks again.”

“It’s no problem,” Mori answered. A mildly awkward silence rang out.  

“This is boring,” Chūya eventually announced. “What are we supposed to do at dances?”

“I don’t know,” Akiko replied, “dance, I guess?”

“I don’t want to dance with our classmates though,” Chūya pouted, “that’s weird.”

“Teach, what are we supposed to do?” Dazai asked Mori with a frown, “I thought you said these things were fun.”

“They were, back in my day at least,” Mori answered thoughtfully. “My friends and I would get all dressed up and eat and dance. It was always a nice time.”

“Maybe we should dance,” Akiko suggested half-heartedly, “just give it a try.”

“That’s the spirit!” Mori chimed in jovially. “I have to do a lap, I’ll leave you three to it!”

“Guess it couldn’t hurt,” Dazai said, stretching as he stood up. Chūya, though still unamused, agreed and the three made their way to the dance floor.

--

Dancing turned out to be more fun than they originally anticipated. Though they kept to themselves in the corner of the dance floor, they had a good time making fun of each other’s bad dance moves as the music seemed to get progressively worse.

“I’m going to get something to drink,” Dazai announced, before heading back to their table. As he reached the food and drinks, he ran into the people they had been looking to avoid.

“You’ve got some nerve, dragging your group here, you bandaged freak,” Yuan sneered. Shirase smirked. They were dressed in flashy attire, Yuan’s dress covered in gaudy pink sequins matching her bubble gum pink hair, while Shirase wore a purple suit which could have been cool if he were anything other than a jerk.

“Picking on the kid with mental health issues? Real classy,” Dazai replied, unfazed.

“You know, when I heard you idiots were planning on coming to the dance, I figured it was a stupid rumor. There’s no way you’d be dumb enough to come to our event,” Shirase snarled.

“Aw, but I thought student council’s motto was ‘Everyone is welcome?’” Dazai shot back with a fake pout.

“Yeah, everyone who isn’t a loser,” Yuan spit.

“Right. Having bandages makes me a loser. Got it.”

“Oh come on, quit acting dumb,” Yuan snapped, “we all know you’re the reason Chūya became such a ret*rd.”

“Will you chill out?” Dazai hissed, “You’re really starting to get on my nerves.”

“That’s rich coming from you of all people,” Shirase snorted.

“Whatever. You’re assholes. Chūya chose us over you. Being jealous dicks isn’t going to change that.”

“You’re acting like such a fag,” Shirase responded, “protecting your little boyfriend like that.”

“Gross. I would never date someone so tiny,” Dazai laughed, still unaffected.

“God, you’re all such fucking weirdos!” Yuan bit back, “You’re so lucky we’re on school grounds right now, otherwise Shirase would beat the shit out of you—”

“Is that a threat?”

“Hey, cool it Yuan,” Shirase whispered, “we still have to do the. You know.”

“What?” Dazai prodded nosily, “You sound suspicious as fuck.”

“Just mind your own business, fucking freak,” Yuan said, backing off. Yuan and Shirase glowered at Dazai before turning around and making a dramatic exit.

Chūya came up to Dazai, worry creasing his brow, “What was that about? Did they give you a hard time?”

“Nothing I can’t handle~” Dazai said cheerily. He filled up his cup with punch, then gestured back to Akiko, “Let’s go back to the dance floor!”

--

The night passed smoothly, despite the hiccup with Chūya’s ex-friend group. Akiko and Chūya made fun of Dazai’s ridiculous dad-like dance skills while Dazai ogled at Chūya’s surprisingly skilled footwork. Akiko giggled as the Chicken Dance came on and Dazai and Chūya engaged in a passionate battle of chicken-mimicking. (Dazai won, being the most accurate chicken of the two, complete with fake flapping and squawking.)

Tired out, the three retreated back to their table with their bags and jackets.

“Oh, your dad texted me,” Chūya said, passing his phone Dazai’s way, “he wanted to check in on you.”

“I’ll reply!” Dazai texted his dad back as Chūya and Akiko chatted, smiling exhaustedly.

“This is actually really fun,” Chūya said, a bit sheepish, “I didn’t think we’d have such a good time.”

“You two boneheads make everything fun,” Akiko said playfully.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” Chūya yawned, standing up.

“Me too,” Akiko replied, “‘Zai, you cool watching our stuff?”

“Can do!” Dazai offered a salute. He handed Chūya back his phone and busied himself with his drink as they made their way to the restrooms. Dazai hummed, shifting positions in his chair. Dressing up was fun, but formal clothes were always annoying and itchy. He could never get comfortable. He shifted a few times, accidentally knocking into Chūya’s backpack—

There was a clink.

Dazai frowned.

The backpack, he knew for a fact, held spare changes of clothing for the three of them, an extra jacket, Dazai’s panic attack meds, some fidgets, and a plastic water bottle. They put the bag together with Oda to make sure the three of them would have what they needed for the night.

His frown deepened as he pulled out the bag, sifting through it.

“Sensei!!” A high-pitched voice yelled out, “Sensei, come quick!”

Dazai blinked, confused. It felt as though everyone at the dance was staring at him.

“Look!” Yuan pointed Dazai’s way, “That’s Chūya’s bag!” Mori approached. “I knew those weirdos were up to something!”

“What are you talking about—” Dazai started. He was interrupted as Shirase snatched the bag out of his hands. “Hey, give that back!”

“What is this?” Mori asked skeptically as he inspected the insides of the backpack.

“They’re sneaking alcohol into the school,” Shirase said matter-of-factly, “Yuan and I were doing our student council rounds when we saw Dazai taking the bottle out of the bag!”

“There’s no bottle in there—” Dazai said, growing panicked.

Mori pulled out a bottle of Vodka, looking deeply disappointed. The kids in the gymnasium gasped and whispered to each other. Dazai felt his cheeks heat up at the unwanted attention.

“Dazai-kun, is this true? Were you sneaking alcohol into the dance?” Mori asked, eyes narrowed.

“No! I swear, I didn’t bring anything!”

“Well duh,” Yuan laughed, “it was obviously Chūya’s idea. That’s his bag after all.”

“Chūya would never!”

Shirase waltzed Dazai’s way, whispering in his ear, “We all know his dad’s a no-good alcoholic. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree—”

Dazai does not punch people. So when Chūya and Akiko re-entered the gymnasium to see Dazai tackling Shirase to the ground, punching the shit out of his face, they knew something was seriously wrong.

“Alright, that’s enough—” Hirotsu stopped the music as he ran to the fighting duo. He pulled Dazai off of Shirase, who was screaming like it was the end of the world.

“He broke my nose! That fucking freak broke my nose!” Shirase shrieked.

“Dazai-kun,” Mori said sternly, “come with me.” He turned to Hirtosu, “Please get Shirase-kun medical attention. I’ll call Dazai-kun’s father and write up an incident report.”

“I—I—” Dazai looked up, as if pulled from a trance. “Fuck. Fuck I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—” he gasped for air, barely able to get a breath in. “My meds—” Dazai stumbled as Mori walked towards the exit. Another teacher, Hawthorne-sensei, tried his best to disperse the crowd. It did not work. Dazai screamed at Mori, “My meds are in there!”

“What the hell happened?” Chūya asked, incredibly confused. 

“I need my meds!” Dazai yelled again, not caring how much of a scene he was making on top of everything.

“Why does Mori-sensei have Chūya’s bag?” Akiko asked.

Whispers grew louder as the rest of the student body gaped at the events taking place around them. Dazai began to hyperventilate. He crashed to the ground on all fours.

He had failed.

Dazai promised Chūya things would be okay, that he could handle Yuan and Shirase, but he was wrong. Not only did they successfully frame Chūya, but Dazai got physically violent. That was not normal. Being self-destructive, he took his anger out on himself. Dazai did not hurt other people. He did not punch other people and more than anything, it was not supposed to feel good.

So why had he kept going?

“‘Zai? What happened?” Akiko knelt down next to him.

He had failed them. Dazai had failed Chūya and Akiko and now he was going to get expelled. He was going to get expelled and Chūya was going to get expelled and his meds were gone and Odasaku would hate him, Odasku would be burdened by him again because all Dazai did was fuck everything up and

and

and

and

and

and

He could not breathe.

He could not breathe, he could not breathe, he could not—

--

When Dazai came to, he was on a couch in the teacher’s lounge. Mori sat on a plastic chair across from him.

“What—” Dazai shot up in his spot.

“Easy,” Mori said gently.

“What happened? What’s going on?” A flicker of a memory, “My meds! I need my meds—sensei I need my meds, I need—”

“Here,” Mori passed Dazai a small pill bottle and glass of water, “Hawthorne-sensei confiscated the alcohol and returned Chūya’s bag. I kept your medication for you.”

“Chūya! Where is he? This wasn’t his fault—they did this! They did this!”

“Please, take your medicine and take some deep breaths. Chūya is not in trouble.”

With shaky hands, Dazai opened the pill bottle and took his medication. “He—he’s not?”

“No, he’s not,” Mori said calmly, “Tachihara-kun and Higuchi-chan came forward and said they saw several members of student council messing with Chūya’s bag. All of student council will be punished for this.”

Dazai heaved a sigh of relief, “So they’re okay? ‘Kiko and Chū are alright?”

“Yes, they’re just fine. Their parents are on their way to come get them.”

“That’s—that’s good. That’s—” Memories flooded his mind. The feeling of a fist connecting with a face and— “Oh my god. Am I getting expelled?”

“Dazai-kun—”

“I’m getting expelled, aren’t I? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—”

“Deep breaths—”

“I ruined everything. I always ruin everything! I should just die! I should—”

“Breathe, Osamu,” Mori said firmly, “you’re not getting expelled.”

“I’m—” a shaky breath, “I’m not?”

“No. I spoke with the principal and explained the situation. You’re getting a month of detention.”

“That’s it? I’m not getting expelled? Why?”

“Let’s just say we all agreed this was the best course of action.”

“So you—you protected me?”

A breath.

“I did.”

“Why?”

Prolonged eye contact.

It was hot.

The air was stuffy, thick, suffocating.

Dazai felt something.

“What happened was not fair to you or your friends,” Mori finally spoke, “and as much as I do not condone physical violence, I also do not tolerate bullying. Especially with incidents as serious as this.”

Dazai did not speak.

“How are you feeling?” Mori asked after several moments of quiet passed.

“Confused. I want my dad.”

“Your father will be here soon to pick you up.” A long pause. “I need to grab something from my classroom. How about we walk there together then get you home?”

Dazai nodded, the calming effect of his medication kicking in.

“Sensei?” Dazai spoke as they stood and headed to the door.

“Yes?”

“Thanks for having my back.”

A wry grin, “Of course. I care about you very much.”

They walked in silence to the math classroom. Mori closed the door behind them.

“What did you need to grab?” Dazai asked, shifting from side-to-side near the entryway of the classroom.

“I lied,” Mori admitted plainly.

“What?”

“I didn’t need anything from my classroom. I wanted to speak with you privately. Somewhere without the chance of another teacher interrupting us.”

“Oh. Okay. What did you um. Want to talk about?” Dazai fidgeted nervously. Mori walked over to him. He checked the blinds of the windows, ensuring they were all closed.

“Do you ever feel as though you’ve met someone who belongs in your life? Someone special?”

“I mean, yeah, I guess that’s how it feels with Chū and ‘Kiko,” Dazai said. Mori inched closer.

“I’d like to tell you a secret, Dazai-kun. Because I trust you. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. You can talk to me.”

“You have to promise to keep my secret between us. This is very, very important. Do you understand?”

“I promise, sensei. You can count on me.”

“I—”

They—

--

The weekend came and went and on Monday, everyone was back at school. Everyone except for Shirase and Yuan, who were suspended for sneaking alcohol onto school property.

Since the dance, things were off. Dazai was quiet, more reserved.

“You sure you’re okay?” Chūya pressed during lunch as Dazai zoned out, yet again.

“Uh-huh,” Dazai nodded, eye cloudy.

“You want to go to the nurse or something?”

Dazai shook his head, “I’m fine. Sorry. Just um. My stomach hurts.”

“Is this about the dance? You said you’re not really in trouble or anything, right?” Akiko asked.

“Not really. I mean I have detention but that’s it.”

“I still can’t believe they let you off the hook,” Chūya said, “seriously, what kind of deal did you have to strike to get away with punching someone?”

“I think they just feel bad because I’m ‘mentally unstable’ or whatever,” Dazai shrugged. “I have good grades and it would probably look bad if they expelled a mentally ill kid for defending his friends against bullies.” Dazai clenched and unclenched his fists. “I think maybe I will go to the nurse. I feel sick.”

“Do you need us to walk you there?” Akiko offered. Dazai shook his head.

“No. Thanks. I’ll see you guys later.”

Dazai left.

“This is weird,” Chūya said to Akiko as they continued eating lunch.

“Dazai going to the nurse?” Akiko asked.

“No, I mean the fact that Dazai punched someone and got away with it. I heard he broke Shirase’s nose.”

“I dunno. I guess Dazai does have an insane academic record. He’s like, the top kid in the school.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Enough about Dazai though. How are you?” Akiko prodded.

“What do you mean? I’m fine.”

“I mean, your ex-best friends literally tried to get you expelled. That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah but like—I’m fine. Nothing happened to me.”

“It’s still a lot. I know how uncomfortable Shirase and Yuan make you and I bet it was scary—”

“I’m not a little girl. I can handle it,” Chūya said stand-offishly.

“Alright, fine,” Akiko heaved a sigh, giving up.

“Sorry,” Chūya looked down at his food, picking at it, “I guess the whole thing did kind of freak me out. But I’m fine. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s okay.”

They ate in silence.

“Oh um, I have a question,” Chūya said with a furrowed brow.

“Okay,” Akiko replied.

“When um. When I was taking a photo of your outfit the other day and my sister texted you—she sent a winky face.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I just. I don’t know. I thought that was like—is that like—do girls send each other that sort of thing?”

“We uh—Yes! Yeah. Yes. We do! That’s normal. Do um. Do. Guys don’t?”

“Ew, no. Why would I send a guy a winky face? That’s some gay-ass shit.”

“I don’t think it’s gay.”

“Not when girls do it.”

“Oh.”

The bell rang.