Chapter Text
The Library at 4:47 PM”
where time slows, the air thickens, and unspoken feelings claw under the skinh، the clock ticks like a bomb above the dusty library shelves.
It’s quiet, as always, except for the hum of the fluorescent lights and the occasional thwap of a textbook being shut too hard by an irritated sophomore. The air smells like paper, printer ink, and anxiety—midterms season in full, glorious swing.
Chuuya Nakahara doesn’t belong here. Not really. He already finished his English essay. His chemistry notes are color-coded and cruelly neat. He doesn’t need to be here.
But Dazai Osamu is.
That’s reason enough.
Chuuya pretends to study. He’s flipped the same page in his notebook seven times, rereading the word metaphase like it’s going to rearrange itself into marry me, Dazai Osamu. His head is bowed, hair curtaining his face in soft red waves, the tip of his pen tapping out a rhythm only his heart understands.
Two tables away—casually sprawled in a chair like gravity doesn’t apply to people this smug—Dazai is slouched with a book open, headphones in, one knee bouncing lazily. He’s not reading. He’s skimming, which is just reading but hotter somehow. One hand twirls a pen between his fingers, like he’s flirting with the damn thing.
Chuuya peeks up. Just a glance.
Just to check.
Just to confirm that the universe still hasn’t realigned to make Dazai less beautiful.
Spoiler: it hasn’t.
Dazai looks up.
Right at him.
Chuuya flinches, jerks his head down, panics internally.
A second passes.
Two.
He risks another peek.
Dazai’s still watching him, eyes unreadable, face tilted slightly like Chuuya’s a puzzle he almost wants to solve.
Their eyes lock.
Chuuya’s heart launches itself into his throat like, oh? are we dying now? sick.
He quickly snaps his gaze back to his notebook, jaw clenched, fingers white-knuckling his pen.
But inside?
Inside he’s a forest fire. Blazing. Wild. Every nerve ending chanting he looked at me, he looked at me, he looked at me.
He should leave. He should get up and pretend he has better things to do than silently pine after someone who probably doesn’t even know his name.
But he can’t.
Because Dazai stands up.
And walks over.
Holy sh—
Chuuya sits up straighter, like he’s not sweating through his collar. Like his entire world isn’t folding in on itself. He pretends to focus on his notes—yes, metaphase, his one true love—but Dazai stops beside his table and taps once on the wooden edge.
“Hey,” Dazai says, voice all low charm and too-easy confidence. “Nakahara, right?”
Chuuya looks up slowly, like prey realizing the predator speaks fluent poetry.
“Yeah?” he replies. Flat. Careful. Not blushing. Not! Blushing!
Dazai’s smile is lazy. Catlike. Dangerous.
“You always sit in that corner,” he says, motioning vaguely behind Chuuya. “Figured I’d finally ask—do I have something on my face, or are you just mad-dogging me for fun?”
Mad-dogging.
Chuuya almost dies on the spot.
“I wasn’t—” he starts, then huffs, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t looking at you, jackass. I was looking past you.”
Dazai hums. “So you admit you knew exactly where I was sitting?”
Chuuya’s eye twitches.
“I’m observant, not obsessed.”
“Oh?” Dazai quirks a brow. “You sure?”
Chuuya stands. Not tall—never tall—but solid. Unshakable. Crimson. Freckled. Glowing with barely leashed fury and humiliation. A mix that’s practically perfume to someone like Dazai.
“Do you always harass people when they’re minding their own business?” Chuuya snaps, grabbing his notebook.
“Only the cute ones,” Dazai replies without missing a beat, then looks almost surprised at himself.
Chuuya stares.
Blink. Blink.
Did he just—
He storms off before Dazai can see the way his ears go red.
People always think Dazai Osamu doesn’t notice things.
That he’s too busy being loud, or lazy, or lobotomized by choice. That he drifts through school with a smirk and a death wish and not a single real thought behind his eyes.
But here’s the truth:
Dazai notices everything.
He notices the new posters taped to the hallway walls before anyone else does. He notices when teachers are one bad morning away from snapping and when classmates are lying through their teeth about being “fine.”
He noticed when his friend started eating less.
He noticed when the librarian started crying silently behind her desk last spring because she wasn't wearing a ring anymore.
And—
He noticed him.
The redhead.
Nakahara Chuuya.
The kid who wears his uniform like it’s battle armor and carries himself like he’s five inches taller than he actually is. The one who always chooses the seat closest to the exit but furthest from people. Who walks fast in the hallways like he's afraid if he slows down, someone will catch him feeling.
Yeah. Dazai noticed him a while ago.
Weeks? Months?
He’s not sure. Not anymore. It just feels like... Chuuya has always been there.
Like background noise that slowly turned into a song you can’t stop humming.
---
At first it was funny.
Chuuya glaring at him during lectures like Dazai personally murdered his family. The quick glances, the awkward flinches, the way he’d slam his locker shut if Dazai even breathed in the same corridor.
Cute. Entertaining. Predictable.
But then it kept happening.
Day after day, week after week.
And Dazai started to wonder:
What is that look, exactly?
It’s not quite hate. It’s not fear.
It’s too intense for curiosity. Too soft to be disgust.
It’s— It’s something.
And Dazai’s nothing if not nosy.
So he starts playing the game.
He watches Chuuya back. Starts walking into the library when he knows Chuuya’s there, just to see if he’ll squirm. He’ll walk past his desk, linger, pick a seat near enough to feel the static.
It works. Every time.
Chuuya folds into himself. Blushes. Pretends to be annoyed. Throws on this tsundere armor like Dazai can’t see straight through it.
Dazai pretends he doesn’t notice the way Chuuya holds his breath when they make eye contact.
Pretends he doesn’t notice the way his name sounds like a swallowed prayer when Chuuya says it under his breath.
Pretends a lot of things.
But he noticed.
Oh, he noticed.
And he kind of, smacks his head into the wall internally, for--um, being interested. Maybe, that's what his brain says. It's not like he listens to it. Hah.
---
He didn’t mean to say the “cute” thing yesterday.
Not really.
It slipped.
Slipped the way honesty sometimes does, through cracks in sarcasm and ego.
“Only the cute ones.”
Like it was a joke.
Like it didn’t hit him in the chest a second after it left his mouth.
Chuuya’s face—gods, his face—went rigid.
Like he'd been slapped and kissed at the same time.
And then he fled.
Dazai should’ve let it go.
Should’ve laughed it off, gone back to his book, his playlist, the thousand things he uses to distract himself from himself.
But he couldn’t.
Not after that look.
Not after realizing that this boy, this side of his fiery personality—this soft, shy, secretive boy—isn’t just watching Dazai from afar.
He’s memorizing him.
Like Dazai’s something precious.
Like he’s worth looking at.
That thought is... dangerous.
More dangerous than Chuuya could ever know.
—
Chuuya Nakahara doesn’t mean to smile.
He’s trying to be serious. There’s a test in three days, and Ms. Hanekawa is scribbling equations on the board like she's mad at them. People are groaning. The room smells like whiteboard ink and stale teenage dread.
But Chuuya…
He's smiling. Just faintly. Just to himself.
Because the words in his notebook aren’t math.
They're his heart.
Soft, scrawled lines of poetry—written in a kind of trance, each line pulled from the ache in his chest. His fingers move on autopilot, dancing with ink. He doesn’t hear the lesson. Doesn’t hear the whispers. Doesn’t even hear the door creak open—
Until someone walks past him.
And everything tightens.
His pen pauses mid-word. He knows that scent—cologne and shampoo and boyish smugness. He doesn’t need to look up. His soul looks up.
Dazai Osamu.
God’s cruel joke. Tall and lazy and grinning like he owns the sky. The class clown with messy hair and sleepy eyes, who somehow turns breathing into flirting.
He walks to his seat three rows up.
Chuuya still doesn’t look up.
But his face is already heating up again. Ugh. Traitorous, dumb, soft heart. It’s been two days since the library. Since Dazai called him cute. (Probably joking. Definitely joking. Right? Right.)
Chuuya’s still recovering. His dignity? Not so lucky.
So he does the only thing he knows how to do—write it out in scribbles.
‘ He smiles at me like he knows what I’m not saying. I think I could die. Maybe I love him? I think I already do. What should I do? If I could kiss the sun without burning, it would feel like him. God, I love his laugh.’
He scribbles. His cheeks are pink, but his face stays neutral—until—
“Chuuuuyaaaa Na-ka-ha-ra”
Oh no.
Here she comes.
Misa.
Disaster in a headband. The kind of girl who peels the wings off butterflies and giggles while doing it.
Before he can tuck the notebook away, she’s there, plucking it off his desk like it’s hers.
“HEY!” Chuuya protests, snatching for it.
Too late.
“Oooooh~” she coos. “What's this? Love letter? Oh my god, are you blushing?!”
Chuuya tries again to grab it, voice low. “Give it back, Misa.”
But she holds it up. Opens it.
And reads.
“He smiles like he knows what I’m not saying.”
Her voice is too loud. Too smug. And now—
The whole class is looking.
“OH MY GOD,” she laughs, clutching her chest like it’s the most hilarious thing she’s ever heard. “LITTLE CHUUYA’S IN LOOOOOOVE~!!”
Laughter. Some mock, some amused. Someone whistles.
Chuuya’s ears burn. His mouth opens—closes. He feels sick. Cold-hot-sick.
And worst of all?
He knows Dazai is watching.
His heart crumples into a fist inside his chest. He’s frozen, humiliated, until—
THUMP. BAM. SCREEECH.
A desk collapses.
Everyone jumps.
Suddenly, Dazai is on the ground, a mess of limbs and chairs, grinning like a feral cat who planned this fall from the womb.
“Oops,” he says, dizzily. “Gravity’s flirting with me again.”
The class erupts. Hard laughter. Misa squeals and drops the notebook on the floor, abandoning Chuuya mid-meltdown to check on the king of distraction.
“Oh my god, Dazai-saaaan~ are you okay?!”
Chuuya says nothing. Moves without speaking.
He crouches. Grabs the notebook from the tile. There's a dirt mark smeared across the front and the page is bent, the poem forever scarred by the chaos.
He doesn’t cradle it.
He doesn’t touch the page again.
He shoves the notebook into his backpack without looking at it.
He leans back in his seat.
Arms crossed. Eyes forward. Jaw locked.
On the outside, he’s the picture of don’t-care-don’t-bother. Unshaken. Unphased.
But inside?
He’s screaming.
He wants to melt into the floor. Crawl out the window. Run into traffic.
His pulse is loud. His skin is still hot. The words she read echo like a cruel ghost.
Worst of all—he knows Dazai saw. Saw everything
And Chuuya can’t—won’t—look at him. Not once. Even if dazai probably doesn't know it's about him.
He stares at the whiteboard like it’s life or death. Pretends he doesn’t hear the whispers. Pretends it’s fine.
(It’s not fine.)
Then—
Thmp.
Something small and light bounces off the back of his head.
He startles. Looks over his shoulder.
Three rows back, his friends pretend not to be looking. Badly.
Tachihara raises both hands and mimes a silent “You okay?”
Higuchi gives him a bright, positive thumbs-up with an encouraging little grin.
Gin offers a quiet, understanding smile, eyes soft beneath her bangs.
And Akutagawa, ever the grumpy gargoyle, doesn’t smile—but he’s looking. Which is saying a lot.
Chuuya blinks.
He looks down at the desk, then back at them.
He nods.
It's not that bad right?
—
Chuuya Nakahara was doing so well.
He survived the class. Didn’t scream. Didn’t throw his desk or move to another country. All excellent accomplishments considering that earlier, a girl weaponized his feelings and read his very real, very painfully heartfelt stupid scribbles out loud like she was auditioning for Mean Girls: The Musical.
He made it to lunch with his dignity barely stitched together. Head high. Shoulders back. Zero eye contact with Dazai freaking Osamu.
Not. A single. Glance.
Because if he does—if he dares—he’s sure his face will scream “I WROTE A POEM ABOUT YOUR SMILE AND I THINK ABOUT YOUR STUPID HANDS AND STUPID EYES ALL DAY THANK YOU VERY MUCH.”
So he sits down at his usual table with all the grace of a cat pretending it didn’t fall off the windowsill.
His friends, to their credit, don’t ask why he looks like a kicked puppy. Yet.
Tachihara immediately shoves half a sandwich in his mouth and talks around it. “Yo, Misa’s like… the human version of soggy fries. Like, she had no reason to do you like that.”
“Zero provocation,” Higuchi says, deadpan, sipping her juice. “Chuuya just breathing and existing and writing his little love diary—”
“It was not a love diary,” Chuuya growls, stabbing his chopsticks into his bento like it owes him money.
Gin gives him a pat on the back. It’s gentle, but the kind of gentle that says we saw. We got you. You’re still cool.
Akutagawa doesn’t say anything, but he is chewing very aggressively like he’s pretending his rice is Misa’s face, so. Points for effort.
“I mean, if she liked Dazai, she could’ve just said it,” Higuchi continues, flipping her hair. “What’s with the hostage situation? Girl needs therapy and a chew toy.”
“She needs holy water,” Tachihara mumbles.
“An exorcist,” Gin adds, serene.
“Fire,” says Akutagawa flatly.
They all nod solemnly like it’s a group prayer. Chuuya doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth does twitch, and that’s as good as a win.
He still doesn’t look across the cafeteria.
He knows where Dazai is—loud laughter, the sound of someone pretending to get stabbed with a plastic fork, general chaos. The boy’s surrounded by his usual suspects. Which is perfect. Far. Distracting. Not looking this way.
Until.
Suddenly.
“AKUTAGAWA!!”
Chuuya chokes on his rice.
A white-haired blur appears, scowling like a kitten trying to look intimidating.
“Jinko,” Akutagawa mutters with the tone of someone who just found gum on their shoe.
“It’s Atsushi to you,” the boy growls. “And you promised to stop being a jerk to the art club. You knocked over three easels. On purpose!”
Akutagawa, chewing calmly, says: “They got in my way.”
“They were in the supply closet!!”
Atsushi is seething. Then he plops down beside him, arms crossed, glaring death. The group stares. He’s just—in the group now?
The group stares.
Tachihara is the first to react. “Wait. Are you guys—?”
“Don’t,” both Atsushi and Akutagawa say at the same time, voices in sync, both equally mortified.
And THEN—as if summoned by the chaotic gods of sitcom timing—
“Ah, there you are, Atsushi-kun,” says a voice of deep responsibility and dread.
Kunikida. Tall. Stern. Holding a clipboard. A clipboard, at lunch. Who does that?
“I told you not to wander—” he pauses. Realizes he’s being watched by multiple high school delinquents. Glances around.
And then.
He sits down. "I'm supervising him. He always disappears. "
He’s followed immediately by—
“NAOMI!” Yosano cackles, waving her hand like she’s at a parade.
Naomi skips over and throws herself into a seat like she owns the cafeteria. “You won’t believe what I just saw! Misa tried to flirt with Dazai and tripped over a lunch tray.”
“Instant karma,” Gin whispers reverently.
“Divine justice,” Akutagawa says, solemn.
“Cinematic,” a voice adds under his breath.
“What the actual—”
“Don't question it,” Higuchi mutters.
Then, chaos incarnate swirls into view.
Nikolai.
Wearing a napkin as a cape and two spoons as sunglasses.
“I sensed vibes.”
And like Satan’s sequel—
Fyodor follows. Silent. Smile like a knife.
Chuuya’s brain explodes.
“Why are you HERE?” Tachihara asks, backing up like Fyodor has fleas.
“I follow Nikolai,” Fyodor says mildly. “He’s dangerous unsupervised.”
“THANK YOU!” Higuchi yells.
“You’re not exempt either,” Akutagawa mutters.
Then Ranpo drags in with Yosano, carrying eight different snacks and no tray. “I smelled chaos. It's interesting,I like it here. ”
And THEN—
“Is this seat taken?”
—comes a voice smooth as sin, rich as disaster.
Chuuya’s soul leaves his body.
Dazai Osamu.
Hair wind-blown, uniform wrinkled in a deliberate way, tray crooked, pudding already half-eaten. He grins like he owns the school. Like he owns the table. Like he owns every heart at it.
He sits.
Right. In. Front. Of. Chuuya.
And Chuuya—still halfway frozen—feels his mouth open slightly in horror.
Then.
Dazai reaches across the table.
Tilts Chuuya’s chin up with one finger.
Smiles.
“Chibi’s gonna catch bugs like that.”
Chuuya dies.
He feels his ears combust. His spine evaporates. The poem! The humil—THE TOUCH??!?
He. Was. Mortified.
Dazai’s finger is still under his chin. That smug smile. That face. That voice.
The fantasy? The love letters? The wistful poetry?
Dead. Buried. Cremated.
Because instead of romantic tension and sweeping cinematic declarations of love—
he gets this jackass.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!”
The table is silent.
Four seconds of stunned, blinking quiet.
And then—
“Oh my god,” Higuchi breathes. “He snapped.”
“Honestly fair,” Tachihara says, eating a grape like it’s popcorn.
“Relax, chibi, your face is gonna match your hair in a second.”
“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” Chuuya hisses.
Dazai grins, finger still lightly propping up Chuuya’s chin.
“But you’re so small and yell-y. It fits.”
Silence.
Chuuya blinks. Once. Twice.
Then he slowly, painfully, sits back like he’s physically restraining himself from flipping the entire cafeteria table.
“I swear to God,” he hisses, voice shaking with rage and restraint, “if you don’t shut your mouth in the next three seconds, I’m gonna rewire your jaw with my fork.”
“Oh no,” Dazai gasps, clutching his chest dramatically, “not the salad fork! Have mercy!”
“Who even are you?” Chuuya snaps. “Did someone leave the door to the mental ward open again?”
Dazai grins wide—too wide—leaning forward like he’s about to share a deep, personal secret.
“I’m the guy who can make your life so much more interesting.”
Chuuya visibly recoils like he just smelled rotten milk.
“Great,” he mutters. “So God did give me a personal demon. Figures.”
From the side, Tachihara is choking on a juice box. Akutagawa looks one wrong word away from stabbing someone with a spoon. Higuchi is mouthing ‘Don’t engage, don’t engage.’
And Gin just silently scoots her tray two inches away from the blast zone.
“You seriously came over here just to annoy me, or what?” Chuuya demands.
Dazai shrugs, shameless. “Nooo… I came for the food. But then I saw you. Being all short and angry. Like a little stress ball with legs.”
“You’ve got five seconds to leave before I make you part of this lunch tray.”
Dazai slaps the table in delight. “You threaten so pretty. I’m keeping you.”
Chuuya blinks. “What?!”
“As a mascot!” Dazai corrects, like he didn’t just drop the weirdest sentence of the century. “You know—like one of those angry little dogs that looks like it could kill a man but it’s still under twenty pounds.”
Tachihara’s wheezing. “He’s not wrong.”
“I WILL SET THIS TABLE ON FIRE WITH BOTH OF YOU TIED TO IT,” Chuuya howls.
“I bet you’d look adorable doing it,” Dazai beams.
“STOP—”
Dazai lifts a finger, face deadly serious for the first time. “No flirting, please. I’m fragile.”
Chuuya opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!”
Then turns to the whole table,
“WHY ARE ALL OF YOU HERE?! WHO EVEN ARE YOU PEOPLE?!”
Silence.
Just for a beat.
Then—
“I'm Atsushi,” says the white-haired one, raising his hand politely like they're in roll call.
“Shut up, Jinko,” Akutagawa mutters, already sliding a napkin like a blade across the table toward him.
Naomi, who is now live-streaming this like it’s a reality show: “I’m the fanservice!”
Kunikida is rapidly scribbling in a notebook. “I’m trying to bring order to this lawless cesspool of chaos—”
“I’m God,” Nikolai says, smiling sweetly.
Fyodor smirks and looks so pleased, "just make sure you don't say that infront of the principal, kolya."
“—and I’m ignoring that.” Kunikida does not break stride.
Chuuya sits down, suddenly too drained of energy, and looks at the almost-full tray of food, and mumbles under his breath. "I just wanted to eat my lunch."
“Sounds like someone skipped their nap,” Dazai says, satisfied.
"Don't talk to me."
"But chibi's so--"
"Don't talk to me. "
"No can do~".
Sigh.
—
No one really remembers when Dazai started following Chuuya around.
There was no big moment. No thunderclap in the hallway. No dramatic collision of bodies and binders.
One day, Dazai just showed up.
And then never left.
It started with small, irritating things. Sitting too close in the cafeteria. Asking to copy Chuuya’s homework and then not copying it, just staring at it like it was a piece of modern art. Poking his cheek with a pencil during math. Leaning on him in the library. Breathing too loud. Blinking wrong.
The first time he said “Chibi,” Chuuya knocked over a chair.
The first time he said “Chuuyaaaa~” in that drawn-out sing-song voice, three people ducked for cover.
Now, somehow, they’re friends. “Friends.”
That’s what people keep calling it, anyway.
Dazai clings. Chuuya yells. Dazai grins. Chuuya swears.
And they’re always—always—together.
Chuuya doesn’t remember agreeing to that.
---
Gin says it’s unhealthy.
Higuchi says it’s cute.
Tachihara says it’s gonna end in murder.
Akutagawa doesn’t say anything, but he once slid Chuuya a pamphlet titled “How to Recognize the Early Warning Signs of Psychological Collapse.”
Chuuya burned it.
---
The thing is, Chuuya used to like Dazai. Used to. (read: he still does. But it's soukoku, it's normal.) Before he ever spoke to him. Before Dazai started showing up like a human migraine in skinny jeans. Back when he was just a pretty face across the room. All mystery, all elegance, the kind of guy you write bad poetry about when you’re overtired and secretly soft.
And now?
Now he’s the human equivalent of a permanent marker stain.
He’s a walking chaos machine with no boundaries and a voice like he’s narrating a tragic play about himself.
Now he sleeps on Chuuya’s desk during study hall. Steals his pens. Says things like “Do you think the moon envies us, Chuuya?” while eating a cheese stick upside down.
He’s a disaster. And somehow, somehow, he became Chuuya’s friend.
Which would be fine if Chuuya’s heart didn’t keep doing stupid things like skipping a beat when Dazai ruffles his hair (which he shouldn’t do) or flopping like a fish when Dazai leans too close to read over his shoulder (which he absolutely shouldn’t do).
Which would be fine if Dazai didn’t pull crap like resting his head on Chuuya’s shoulder during class naps, then wake up and say, “You’re surprisingly comfy, Chuuya. Like a firm little beanbag.”
(Chuuya is going to commit arson. He swears it.)
“He’s going to combust.” Tachihara is watching Chuuya from a safe three-table distance, chewing his sandwich. “Look at the vein in his neck.”
“I can see it twitch from here,” Higuchi adds. “That’s not normal. He needs magnesium. And help.”
“Stop exaggerating,” Akutagawa grumbles, but he’s also watching with the quiet, morbid interest of someone observing a slow-motion car crash.
Chuuya's Notebook:
"HE. PUT. HIS. HEAD. ON. MY. SHOULDER.
I HATE HIM.
I HATE HIM.
I HATE HIM.
do I smell okay?
—-
The hall had emptied like lungs after a scream.
Chuuya stayed behind, stuffing papers into his bag with quick, frustrated hands. There was something oddly soothing about doing things alone — when the world quieted, when the weight of eyes lifted. A rare pocket of peace in a school that always felt too loud.
He liked these moments.
He needed them.
Until he wasn’t alone anymore.
He didn’t hear her steps. Just… felt them.
“Still hanging around like some sad puppy,” Misa said, voice coated in venom-sweet. “Should’ve known.”
Chuuya stiffened. Didn’t turn. “Not now, Misa.”
“Oh, not now,” she mocked, dragging the words. “Sorry, didn’t realize you were busy with your tragic little loser routine.”
He breathed in deep. Tension curling in his shoulders. “Leave me alone.”
“You think this school revolves around your feelings?” she snapped, stepping in closer. “You think you can parade around writing your sappy little homo poems, and we’re all just gonna pretend you’re normal?”
He froze.
Misa smiled like she knew she’d found the wound. “What, surprised I figured it out? Oh please. The way you stare at Dazai-san? Everyone sees it. It's pathetic.”
“Shut up.”
“No. You know what's pathetic?” She reached into her jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Chuuya’s heart stopped.
She unfolded it slowly. Like a threat. Like a countdown.
A poem. His poem. One he thought he’d thrown away. One he’d torn into pieces and tossed. But she had it.
His fingers twitched.
“I didn’t even need to read the whole thing. The first line? ‘His laughter feels like fire and forgiveness.’”
She laughed. “Are you serious? That’s not just gay. That’s cringe.”
Chuuya moved toward her, jaw tight. “Give it back.”
“Why? Gonna cry?” she sang. “You want your love letter? You want me to mail it to Dazai-san for you? Oh wait, I forgot — he’s not into freaks.”
“I said give it—”
“I mean, honestly. Do you really think someone like Dazai’d ever be into someone like you? You’re a joke, Nakahara. A walking stereotype. All rage and hair dye. Like a chihuahua with mommy issues.”
He stopped.
Something in him dropped — low, cold, heavy.
She wasn’t just mocking anymore. She was digging.
And she wasn’t wrong.
“Face it,” she continued. “You're the kid everyone whispers about. The one whose parents probably don’t even know what to do with him. No wonder you act like a tough guy. It’s the only thing you have left.”
His fists clenched.
“I’m not—”
“Oh, spare me the tough act. You’re just a fag with a crush who thinks he matters. But you don’t. You’re just an embarrassment who takes up too much space.”
He tried to walk away.
She grabbed his collar from behind and yanked him backward.
He staggered — off balance, dazed — and before he could turn, she shoved him into the lockers with a sharp crack. His back hit the metal hard enough to rattle.
“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?!” she screeched.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Chuuya barked, shoving her off instinctively — not even hard. Because she's a girl.
But it was enough.
She flew back a step, let out a snarl, and lunged.
Fingers tangled in his hair, she yanked his head backward, and Chuuya yelled—more in shock than pain.
Then came the push.
His feet scrambled, slipped.
He didn’t fall. Not yet.
She shoved again — and his foot hit the corner of his bag.
His balance snapped.
And the tile rushed up too fast to catch himself.
CRACK.
The impact was like thunder in his skull. His cheek hit first, scraping raw. His nose followed — a wet pop and the taste of blood flooding instantly into his mouth.
He lay there.
For a second.
Staring at the floor.
Hearing nothing but the rush of his pulse and the ringing in his head.
He tried to sit up — just a little.
And stumbled.
Barely brushed against her leg.
She screamed.
“HE HIT ME!”
Her voice tore through the hall like a siren.
“He hit me! Somebody help!! He attacked me!!”
Chuuya’s heart dropped to his knees. “No—what—?! I didn’t—I didn’t touch you!”
Footsteps thundered down the corridor.
A teacher appeared. Wide-eyed. Furious.
Blood down his chin. Her fake sobs. Her on the floor, clutching her arm like he’d tried to break it.
And him?
The freak. The angry, unstable, gay kid.
“You’re coming with me, Nakahara,” the teacher snapped. “Now.”
Chuuya stood, lips parted, voice locked somewhere inside him.
His nose was bleeding. His knees were shaking.
She smiled behind her tears.
“No—Sir, I didn’t—!” Chuuya started, stumbling up to his feet, dizzy from the fall and humiliated from the lies that were spreading like poison gas. “She pushed me—I didn’t hit her, I swear—!”
“Oh, now you’re a liar, too?” Mr. Gilbert’s voice cut through like a serrated knife.
It was Mr. Gilbert.
Of course it was.
The one teacher who always seemed to breathe a little easier when Chuuya got something wrong on a test. Who always raised an eyebrow when Chuuya walked in a few seconds late—even if the hallway had been flooded. The man who said things like “Some students think they’re above the rules just because they’ve got attitude.”
And now that same teacher stood between Chuuya and the truth.
Misa stood behind him, fake tears streaking down her cheeks, dabbing delicately with a tissue she had produced like she was in a goddamn drama club audition. The mascara smudged just enough to look believable. She sniffled like she was fragile glass.
Chuuya, in contrast, was a mess. Blood crusting under his nose, dust on his uniform, eyes wide and panicking. He looked—well—guilty.
“Mr. Nakahara,” Gilbert said coldly, holding a clipboard like it gave him moral superiority, “this is completely unacceptable behavior.”
“But I didn’t—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Mr. Gilbert snapped.
Chuuya flinched.
“I’ve had enough of your excuses. I’ve tolerated enough of your tantrums and loud unacceptable behavior, for far too long. I am well aware of your temper issues, so this isn't surprising. I'm disappointed,but not surprised. I’ll be sending home a notice that your parents will be required to sign. And yes, we’ll be placing a call home. You’re lucky Principal Fukuzawa isn’t the one seeing this, or there’d be a suspension on your record already.”
“I just—”
“Mr. Nakahara. Do not interrupt me.”
The words hit harder than the floor had.
Chuuya’s shoulders tensed, fists trembling at his sides—not from rage. No. Not anymore. From the burning, awful, disgusting injustice of it all. From the fact that no one believed him. From the fact that Misa, that plastic pretty face and venom-tongued girl, was still pretending to dab at her eyes while smirking behind the tissue.
His throat felt raw, like if he said one more word, it would come out a scream or a sob, and he didn’t know which would be worse.
So he went silent.
He didn’t even speak when Gilbert shoved the yellow discipline slip into his hands and told him to go home “to cool off before you cause any more trouble. And most importantly,think about his awful behavior.”
Didn’t speak as he shoved it in his bag, alongside his stained notebook and the crumpled piece of poetry that hadn’t even made it past the first stanza before everything went to hell.
Chuuya didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy. His legs moved on their own, heavy and numb.
Outside, the sunlight hit his face like an accusation. He tasted blood, felt the sting behind his eyes, but he blinked it away. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let anyone see this breaking.
Then, out of nowhere, a familiar voice called softly, breaking the suffocating silence.
“Chuuya?!”
It was Gin, eyes wide with concern.
"What happened?! Are you okay?”
Chuuya barely registered it. His throat felt raw, and his limbs trembled
Without a word, he quickened his pace, avoiding her gaze, brushing past like a ghost desperate to disappear.
The front door clicked behind him like a verdict, cold and final. Chuuya stood in the cramped hallway, boots dragging against the faded linoleum. The weight of the day pressed down, heavier than his backpack slung carelessly on one shoulder.
His mother sat at the kitchen table, the dim light casting long shadows over her face—a mask of quiet bitterness, her eyes cold pools that didn’t even glance up as he entered.
The silence stretched like a thick fog. Not a “How was school?” Not a “Are you okay?” Nothing.
Then, like a slow drip of acid, her voice broke the quiet—thin, sharp, and biting with quiet accusation.
“I got a call today.”
Chuuya’s heart slammed against his ribs. His hands clenched into fists. He said nothing. Didn’t want to. Didn’t dare.
Her eyes finally lifted to meet his, harsh and unforgiving. “Fighting again, I hear.”
Still, he kept quiet, hoping the storm might pass.
But it never did.
The slap came fast. It didn’t even sting right away. Just heat blooming across his cheek and the ringing silence that followed. Chuuya didn’t look at her. He’d learned long ago that looking her in the eye only fed the fire.
His mother stood over him like a stormcloud ready to break.
“You’re hitting girls now?” she hissed, her voice low and sharp, like a knife held just beneath the skin. “Do you know how disgusting that is? Is that what you’ve become? Are you proud of yourself?”
Chuuya didn’t speak. What would he say that she hadn’t already decided? What word could survive the furnace of her disappointment?
“You’re just like him,” she snapped, lips curling. “Just like your father.”
And that—that—was the one that landed. That one always landed.
Her voice rose in pitch, cracking with years she hadn’t dared cry out before.
“You think I don’t see it? The temper? The arrogance? You think because you walk with your chin high and your hair slicked back like you’re someone, that it hides what you are? You're his son. You’re the echo of every bruise I had to hide, every broken thing he left behind. I look at you, and all I see is him.”
Still, Chuuya didn’t speak. His hands were shaking. Quietly, beneath the kitchen table, he gripped the edge of his shirt until his knuckles turned white.
“Maybe if you stopped acting like a damn delinquent, people wouldn’t keep calling me from that school. I got another call today. Another embarrassment.”
He opened his mouth.
Finally.
“I didn’t touch her,” Chuuya muttered, voice hoarse and small.
“What?”
“I didn’t hit her,” he said louder now, lifting his gaze but not quite meeting hers. “She—she grabbed me. I was just trying to get away. She—” he broke off, his voice strangled.
His mother scoffed. Actually scoffed. “Of course. The world’s just out to get you, huh? Poor little Chuuya. Always the victim.”
“I’m not—” He stepped back, breathing shaky. “I’m not lying.”
“Lying?” she laughed, cold and cracked at the edges. “Why would you need to lie? You’ve already proven what you are. Violent. Useless. You always have to make everything difficult. I swear, if I get one more call—”
“I’m trying,” he whispered, fists curling at his sides. “I’m trying.”
“What?”
“I’M TRYING!” Chuuya’s voice cracked, shattered, a raw scream clawing its way out. “I’M TRYING, I’M REALLY TRYING—!”
His throat clenched, tears pricking like acid behind his lashes, but he swallowed them down. He wasn’t allowed to cry.
“I wake up every damn day, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape. I try not to be late, I try to be invisible, I try to shove the laughter and the whispers down deep where they can’t hurt. I try to study when the words make no sense, try to hold myself together when every push and shove wants to break me.”
His voice dropped to a fragile, ragged whisper. “I’m so tired. Tired of trying. Tired of being nothing but a mess that everyone hates. Tired of never being enough for you or anyone at all.”
The room held its breath. The weight of his pain pressed down like a noose.
Then she moved. Her hand crashed onto his arm—sharp and unforgiving—white-knuckling pain exploding under his skin. Before he could pull away, another brutal strike cracked against his back, the sting coiling tight and fierce like venom.
“Oh, cry me a river,” she spat. “You think I wasn’t tired? You think I wanted this life?! To be stuck raising a disgusting child alone, with a face that reminds me every damn day of the man who ruined my life?”
She took a step closer, the air thick with rage and years of fury. “You’re poison. You drag me down. You’re nothing but a goddamn mistake.”
His ribs ached where her hands had landed, but it was the words—the relentless, jagged words—that tore him apart inside.
His voice trembled, barely a whisper. “I didn’t ask to be born.” He didn’t even know he’d said it until he heard the words, bitter and quiet.
Her eyes widened—then narrowed.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have been.”
Her fingers dug into his arm, nails biting through skin, a fresh, stinging wound he didn’t dare scream about.
“I’m sick of you,” she hissed. “Sick of your anger, your stupid fights, your damn failures. Go get a job. Bring home money. Stop acting like a damn child. Now get out of my face. I don't want to see you again.”
Her words, every single one of them, sinked in the deepest pit of his heart. She tore his heart to the tiniest shreds. He didn't dare to cry that night because he was scared that if he did, he wouldn't be able to muffle it or control it down, and he was afraid that he'd lose himself once and for all.
So he buried it inside.
Like always, since he existed.