Chapter Text
seven years earlier
The studio was dim, the faint glow of a single red lamp barely illuminating the scattered sheet music and instruments. Dazai sat slumped at the piano, fingers hovering over the keys but unable to press a single note. His eyes, shadowed with exhaustion and something darker, stared blankly ahead.
He tried. He really did.
Every night, after everyone else had left, he returned here, hoping for a spark—anything—that would pull him back from the void. But the notes he struck sounded hollow, the melodies felt lifeless, and the lyrics that came to mind tasted like ash.
Dazai’s hands dropped onto his lap. The notebook beside him was filled with pages of scribbled words and crossed-out lines, abandoned songs that never saw the light of day. He hated all of it. Hated himself for not being able to create like before.
Dazai’s eyes wandered to the notebook lying open on the stand. Page after page of words that meant nothing to him. Words that sounded like the voice of a ghost who had forgotten how to feel.
Frustrated, he slammed his fist on the piano keys. The sharp pain shot through his hand, but the frustration was deeper than physical pain.
He closed his eyes and tried again. But this time, he didn’t even make it through the first few notes before his fingers.
The wound wrapped tightly in bandages on his left hand throbbed, a constant reminder of the fight that had left him broken. The wraps had grown—now creeping up to cover his wrist, even spreading onto his right cheek. The pain was physical but nothing compared to the ache inside.
He thought about Chuuya, how the younger man could pour himself into every lyric, every strum of his guitar. Raw emotion spilled from Chuuya’s hands like wildfire—wild, chaotic, real. Dazai’s music was the opposite. Clinical. Precise. Dead.
He had no right to influence Dazai's life like this, he had no right. Dazai didn't even know why he was thinking about it that deeply, especially because they weren't friends, they weren't anything.
Dazai annoyed him just because he was bored and nothing more. they hated each other, but why was he always in his mind?
They hadn't even known each other for that long.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door creaked open. Kouyou appeared, eyes sharp but weary.
“You’re still here,” she said softly, though her voice held a firm edge. She usually would avoid him, she'd rather drink her tea cold than to talk with him, so why was she there?
Dazai didn’t turn. “Where else would I be?”— but he the question he wanted to make was different — why are you here?— but it was left unsaid.
She stepped inside, glancing at the scattered sheets and the worn notebook. “You should rest. You can’t keep pushing yourself like this.”
Her eyes weren't warm, as the eyes of someone worried; they were sharp, cold, calculated.
He scoffed quietly. “Rest doesn’t fix the emptiness.”
Kouyou’s eyes softened for a moment. “That emptiness doesn’t have to be permanent.”
Pity? Dazai hated the idea, so just ignored the slight softening.
He finally looked at her, pain flickering in his gaze. “You don’t understand. Nobody does.”
Kouyou’s jaw clenched. “Maybe no one should. You’re dangerous when you’re like this.”
Oh, here she goes. That's why she approached him, uh? Dangerous — a monster — someone who hurt everyone around him. It was funny how she thought she could protect chuuya like this.
For her, he was inhuman, someone to keep away.
“You’re losing yourself, Dazai,” she said softly, eyes fierce. “Don’t drag Chuuya into this.”
Dazai smirked, his dead eyes making everything look worse: he could easily pass for some kind of demon. "So that's why.. Let me tell you something: you aren't his mother or relative."
Kouyou's expression hardened — "I know, doesn't change that you are still a damn psycho."
"Do you want me to tell everything you did to new artists? Oh... how will chuuya react when he'll find out that his mentor tried to-?" — Dazai's voice was cruel and raw, he was tired, but he was interrupted by kouyou.
“enough.”
"C'mon, you're just as bad as me, if not worse.”— Dazai's voice cooed, they both knew it was a lie, nobody was worse than him, but dazai knew how to make people lose their temper, make them shake.
The tension thickened as silence stretched between them, neither willing to break it. Kouyou turned and left, she looked like she saw a ghost.
"demon"— she muttered before leaving the door.
Dazai exhaled sharply and returned to the piano, fingers lightly tracing the worn keys. The room felt colder now. He pressed a single note—a dull, aching sound.
Outside the door, footsteps again. This was his lucky day, right?
Mori’s voice was smooth, unnervingly calm. “Dazai.”
The CEO stepped inside, not caring about knocking, his tailored suit impeccable, but his smile held no warmth. “You’re wasting time. This... stagnation isn’t just hurting you. It’s hurting the company.”
“I want you to stop wasting your potential. This isn’t just about music. It’s about control. Influence. Power.”
Dazai’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not a product to be pushed.”
Mori’s smile sharpened. “No, you’re a genius. A weapon. And weapons are meant to be wielded.”
Dazai’s hands clenched into fists. “I’m not your puppet.”
Mori’s gaze didn’t waver. “We all have strings, whether we admit it or not. It’s how you survive. How you win.”
"You know," he began softly, "it’s unlike you to vanish like that."
Dazai didn’t answer.
Mori leaned forward. “You’ve always been the kind of person who runs toward pain, not away from it.”
Still no response. Dazai’s eyes flicked toward the piano keys, focusing on the black ones, before returning back to Mori's face.
“Even I underestimated how much Chuuya matters to you.”
Dazai’s fingers curled slightly. It wasn't good, it wasn't... Mori couldn't know, it was wrong, so wrong... He did not care about him, he was just to stop Dazai's boredom, right? He hated him.
Mori smiled thinly, not out of warmth, but satisfaction. “He’s the key, isn’t he? I can tell. The way your work collapsed the moment he stopped needing your approval. The moment you stopped being essential.”
A muscle twitched near Dazai’s eye. He was right, dazai knew it. Chuuya was the only that treated dazai like a person and not a damn dog who followed orders, that treated him like he was human, not a genius.. a teenager.
Mori stood slowly and moved around the desk. He didn’t raise his voice—he never had to. “You think you’re hiding. I see what this is. You’re punishing yourself. And for what? For being smarter? Sharper? For using the tools I gave you?”
Dazai spoke then, hoarse. “He’s not a tool.”
Mori chuckled, like a father indulging a foolish child. “Oh, Dazai. Everything is a tool. Art. Reputation. Pain. You, even your bandages—you use them to tell a story. And that boy? He’s part of your story now. Whether you like it or not.”
He leaned down, voice just above a whisper. “But don’t forget. You’re part of his, too.”
The room darkened around them, the ceiling light flickering for a second—Dazai didn’t move.
Mori straightened. “You can stay like this if you want. Starve yourself emotionally. Let your songs rot in that little notebook of yours.”
He turned back toward the window, hands behind his back. “But Chuuya’s getting restless. He’s wondering where you went. Why you disappeared. Maybe he’s angry. Maybe he thinks you abandoned him. All that passion with nowhere to go.”
Silence.
“You could make him hate you,” Mori added. “Drive him away for good. Or you could use it. Channel it. Let it bleed into something magnificent.”
Dazai’s voice was a whisper. “I don’t want to hurt him.”
Mori smiled without turning around. “You already did.”
Dazai stared back, a storm raging behind his calm facade. Mori turned, pausing at the door.
“Oh, and Dazai,” he added with a sly tilt of his head, “Chuuya’s getting restless. Maybe working together will inspire you both.”
The door clicked shut.
Alone again, Dazai’s mind churned. Chuuya. The boy whose music was pure fire and chaos—the exact opposite of Dazai’s cold, calculated perfection. Dazai hated that he needed him, and hated more how much Chuuya’s raw emotion made his chest ache.
___________
Days later, finally dazai "returned", he was never gone, just hiding from the world, from chuuya, from himself.
The silence between Dazai and Chuuya was suffocating.
Dazai returned suddenly, appearing pale and withdrawn, eyes shadowed like a man who’d seen too much. His bandages had multiplied, covering his hand, wrist, and now half of his face. He barely spoke.
Chuuya avoided looking directly at him, but couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering to the fragile form leaning against the studio wall.
They shared the same space but were oceans apart.
Days passed with only the sound of Chuuya’s guitar filling the room. He played relentlessly, furious melodies born from frustration, pain, and confusion. Dazai sat nearby, silent, gaze fixed on the floor or the piano.
One evening, Chuuya’s fingers faltered. The guitar string snapped under his aggressive strum. He glared at Dazai, who said nothing.
Finally, with a quiet, broken voice, Dazai murmured, “Wrong string. Start again.”
Chuuya’s scowl deepened. “You’re impossible.”
Dazai didn’t reply.
The tension was electric but spoke louder than words. Both hungry for connection but terrified of vulnerability.
Kouyou’s warnings echoed in Chuuya’s mind: Don’t trust him. He uses people. He’ll use you too.
But the gentle way Dazai had guided his fingers last week haunted him more.
_________
Mori was a shadow looming over them, pulling strings expertly.
He watched their fractured dance, knowing exactly when to push and when to pull.
One evening, after a tense rehearsal, Mori approached Dazai in the empty hallway.
“You’re slipping, Dazai. Don’t forget who you are. You’re a legend. The industry’s golden boy.”
His eyes were telling a story: there would be consequences of he didn't do anything.
Dazai’s voice was hollow. “What if I don’t want to be?”
Mori’s smile darkened. “Then you’ll die forgotten.”
That night, Dazai sat alone, the weight of expectations crushing him. The music he loved was now a battlefield. The man who controlled the stage held his life in his hands, and Chuuya was caught somewhere in the crossfire.
________
Days passed in a blurred loop of cold mornings and colder nights. Chuuya stayed close but distant, a constant storm barely contained beneath his calm exterior. The more Dazai withdrew, the tighter Chuuya’s walls became.
They shared meals in silence. Passed each other in the halls without words. But the silence spoke.
It screamed of things neither dared to say — fear, guilt, anger, and something dangerously close to hope.
One night, Chuuya sat on the edge of the couch, guitar resting in his lap. Dazai slumped beside him, eyes glassy, bandages now crawling down his arm like ivy. His gaze was still lost but it looked like he wanted to be there, needed to stay there.
Chuuya strummed a soft, tentative melody, it was nothing special, it looked like a lullaby in all honesty.
What chuuya didn't expect was another thing: Dazai’s head slowly leaned on his shoulder.
For a long moment, Chuuya held his breath. He didn't want dazai to move his head accidentally, to do anything to make him move, he was happy, so happy that his heart felt like bursting — but he kept playing nonetheless, not for himself, but for dazai, who was humming.
A comforting hum, the closest thing to music that chuuya heard from dazai in the past weeks.
The music wove between them, a fragile thread connecting two broken souls.
________
Present
Backstage was chaos—screams from fans, flashing cameras, reporters shouting questions. But in a quiet corner, wrapped in the dim glow of stage lights, Chuuya held Dazai close.
Dazai buried his face in Chuuya’s hair, trembling as if the world might rip him apart. The exhaustion was etched into every line of his face, but Chuuya didn’t care. He held on tighter.
“I’m tired of hiding,” Dazai whispered, voice cracking. “Tired of pretending.”
Chuuya pulled Dazai close, voice rough but steady. “You’re my ruin, Dazai.”
Dazai’s grin flickered. “And you’ll be my undoing.”
Chuuya’s fingers tangled in Dazai’s hair, fingers burning with need and frustration.
“Then ruin me too,” he whispered.
“I plan to.”
They kissed, a collision of desperation and promise, the kind of kiss that could burn everything down, and for moment.. the stadium sounded silent.