Chapter 1: ˖˚⊹ ꣑ৎ
Notes:
Warnings for this chapter:
Crying
Feeling really bad
Coming out
Transphobia
Homophobia
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"What I had left here, I just held it tight
So someone with your eyes
Might come in time to hold me like water
Or Christ, hold me like a knife."
—Who We Are by Hozier.
“So~, what with that face?” Dazai drawled, smirking as he plopped down across from Chuuya. Instead of sitting like a normal person, he spun the chair around and straddled it backwards, arms draped over the backrest like he owned the place. Of course. That idiot never sat properly.
Chuuya exhaled slowly through his nose, refusing to look at him. He didn’t have the energy to deal with Dazai’s antics today. Not when his chest felt so heavy.
Albatross had left just yesterday. His parents got a new job offer in another city, and obviously they’d taken it—it was the smart choice, the right choice. Chuuya understood that. But understanding didn’t make it hurt less. His best friend was gone. Sure, they could still text, but that wasn’t the same as biking around town together, or laughing until their stomachs hurt, or just being in the same space.
And underneath that sadness… was something even more complicated.
Something Chuuya hadn’t told anyone. Not Albatross, not his parents. No one.
He didn’t feel like the girl everyone thought he was. In fact—he didn’t feel like a girl at all. And the weight of that thought, the strangeness of it, pressed on him every single day.
At first, he thought he was just broken. Crazy. Every time someone called him “girl” or “woman,” he felt that sharp wrongness in his stomach, but he pushed it down. Everyone said that now—especially since his period started. “Womanhood,” they called it, like it was supposed to be some glorious milestone. To Chuuya, it felt like a cruel joke.
Maybe, he thought, maybe he was just… a lesbian. That would explain things, right? Maybe he was just a very masc girl who didn’t like the whole “feminine” thing. But even that theory collapsed quickly, because—he didn’t even like girls. At least, not like that.
So the confusion deepened. And one day, he realized the truth hiding under everything: it wasn’t about attraction. It was about himself. He felt like a boy. He was a boy. But the world outside only ever saw him as something else. And that mismatch—having to live every day with it—was suffocating.
He couldn’t tell his parents. What if they didn’t understand? What if they hated him? So he kept it all locked away, shoved in a corner of his heart. Maybe it was just a phase, he whispered to himself. Maybe it would pass.
“…You know what I heard?” Dazai’s voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts. Chuuya blinked and looked over, frowning.
Dazai had gotten up again, spinning his chair around the right way this time before sliding closer to Chuuya’s desk. “Some people are, like… shipping us.”
Chuuya’s eyes widened. “…What the actual fuck.”
“I know, right? Ew!” Dazai laughed, throwing his head back dramatically. “They said we spend too much time together! Which—fair. But that’s only because I like proving I’m better than her at every game.” He pointed lazily at Chuuya, grin widening. “Not because I like her.”
Her.
The word pierced like a thorn. Chuuya inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his shoulders not to stiffen. Of course Dazai didn’t know. Of course he didn’t mean it like that. Still—it stung.
“In your dreams, asshole,” Chuuya muttered, keeping his voice steady.
“Oh, but the results don’t lie,” Dazai sang, tapping his chin as if recalling stats. “Anyway, I’d never date a girl like Chuuya! Too aggressive, too short—and definitely not my type.”
Chuuya’s temper flared, masking the ache in his chest. He shot Dazai a withering glare. “The feeling’s mutual, you dumbass.” He flipped him off without hesitation. “Now fuck off. I’m tired.”
Unbothered, Dazai leaned forward on the desk, tilting his head like a curious cat. “You have been tired lately. Sure slug is okay?”
“I’m fine. Now away.” Chuuya crossed his arms, sinking deeper into his chair like he could disappear into it.
Dazai just hummed, studying him with infuriating amusement. “Sit up straight, or your back’s gonna snap. And you’ll look even smaller than you already are.”
Chuuya let out a sharp huff, digging his chin against his arm defiantly. “I’ll do whatever I want.”
For a moment, the classroom was quiet. The only sounds came faintly from outside—the chatter of students in the hall, the slam of lockers, laughter drifting from the courtyard where most people were enjoying their break. The usual chaos of school life. Which was why it felt so strange that Dazai was here, of all places, instead of being surrounded by his friends.
Chuuya had told his own friends he’d join them later, but he hadn’t meant it. He had no intention of going. He just wanted to be alone, to sink into the silence, to nurse his thoughts without anyone bothering him.
But of course, Dazai wasn’t helping with that plan.
“Thinking about it…” Dazai’s voice broke the stillness, softer than usual, though his words carried that familiar smug weight. He was leaning forward, his arms folded on the desk, staring at Chuuya in a way that felt uncomfortably observant. “Chuuya is, if we talk about stereotypes, not very girly. Chuuya should be polite, more delicate, more…” He twirled a hand lazily in the air as if fishing for the word.
“Fuck your stereotypes,” Chuuya muttered immediately, shoving his face into the crook of his arms on the desk. He didn’t want this conversation. Not now, not ever.
“I mean…” Dazai continued anyway, voice dipping into thoughtful territory that was far more dangerous than his usual teasing. “There’s something about Chuuya that’s… weird.”
Chuuya stiffened, pressing his lips together against the desk. Weird. Yeah. Tell me something I don’t already know.
“Like,” Dazai went on, “the captain from the other grade—she’s super rude, right? But still… when I talk with her, I feel like—hm, I’m with a girl.”
Chuuya snorted into his sleeve without lifting his head. “Flirt.”
“Yeah, that,” Dazai admitted easily. “When I talk with her, I do feel like I’m talking to a girl. But when I’m with Chuuya…” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as though putting the thought together. “I feel like I’m with a guy.”
The words hit Chuuya like a bucket of cold water. His head lifted just a fraction, eyes flicking toward Dazai before he could stop himself. What the hell was he saying? Was this just another backhanded insult? Was Dazai just trying to get under his skin?
He expected to feel irritated, but instead—something warm bloomed faintly in his chest, a quiet, shaky happiness he didn’t dare name. Stupid. It was stupid. Dazai never made sense. But still… did he really feel like that around him?
“…Why are you looking at me like that, Chuuya?” Dazai broke the moment with a dramatic pout, leaning back slightly. “You’re scaring me.”
Chuuya blinked rapidly and forced his face back into its usual scowl, hiding the spark of emotion in his chest. “Just fuck off. I can be whatever I want to.”
“Uh, maybe it’s because the captain has something Chuuya doesn’t,” Dazai replied, a mischievous grin curling at his lips. His tone had shifted back to the familiar teasing that grated on Chuuya’s nerves.
Chuuya frowned. “…What?”
Dazai leaned closer, lowering his voice as if revealing a secret. “Boobs.”
…
A beat of silence. Then a chuckle. Dazai clearly thought he’d scored another easy jab.
Chuuya rolled his eyes, ready to snap back. But deep inside—buried under his annoyance—there was a strange relief. Girls his age spent so much time talking about wanting to be sexy, attractive, about chest sizes and curves and all the ways to be more “womanly.” But Chuuya? He didn’t want that. Not at all.
And the truth was… he felt good that his chest wasn’t noticeable. Really. Good, actually.
“Yeah, well, you know what you don’t have?” Chuuya shot back with a snort, lips twitching despite himself. “A brain.”
Dazai laughed, unfazed, clearly satisfied that he’d gotten a rise out of him.
But Chuuya… sat back, heart still quietly racing, the weight of those earlier words clinging to him like a secret he couldn’t shake. When I’m with Chuuya, I feel like I’m with a guy.
As always—because it was inevitable as long as Dazai existed—Chuuya somehow ended up, on a lazy weekend, in his bedroom, controller in hand, with that idiot sprawled beside him. It had become routine by now. Dazai would sneak into his house with the flimsiest excuse, make himself comfortable on his bed like it belonged to him, and they’d end up playing video games until someone’s patience broke.
Chuuya wouldn’t admit it out loud, but… sometimes it was nice. Dazai could be unbearable most of the time, sure—but when he was calm, when he wasn’t busy running his mouth, he was actually… cool to have around. A distraction. And God knew Chuuya needed one ever since Albatross had left.
Because lately, Chuuya had been feeling too much. Too many thoughts, too many emotions, a constant weight pressing against his chest.
And one of those things—one of the ugliest, most complicated knots inside him—was that he felt jealous of Dazai.
Not because Dazai was cooler. Or taller. Or because people laughed at his stupid jokes. Ew, no.
It was because… Dazai had been born a boy. Simple as that. He didn’t know what it felt like to be at war with your own reflection. He didn’t know how exhausting it was to hear the word “girl” thrown at you all day like it was a part of you you couldn’t scrape off. He didn’t know what it felt like to stand in front of a closet full of clothes and realize that every piece, even the ones you picked yourself, felt wrong.
Dazai had the little thing Chuuya wanted without trying. He didn’t have to hide, didn’t have to keep it a secret.
“Wake up, Chuuya. This is too easy if you don’t even try,” Dazai muttered, not even glancing away from the flashing screen.
Chuuya hummed in response, but there was no real energy behind it. His hands moved sluggishly on the controller. He wasn’t in the mood. His throat felt tight, the kind of lump you couldn’t swallow down, and his chest felt heavy, like someone had tied bricks to his ribs.
Obviously, Dazai won. Again.
The screen filled with his victory animation, and Chuuya just sighed, letting the controller fall limp onto the bed. He slumped against the footboard, gaze blank, not really seeing anything.
“Chuuya.”
A snap of fingers right in front of his face dragged him back.
“What is wrong with you?”
Chuuya blinked, slowly turning his head toward him. Dazai was closer than expected, his sharp eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I didn’t sleep well,” Chuuya said at last, voice low.
Dazai didn’t look convinced. His expression shifted—still skeptical, but tinged with something else. Concern? Curiosity? He paused, then asked, quieter than usual: “Uh… you look so weird lately. Like… Chuuya’s not planning on leaving me, right?”
Chuuya froze. “…No?” he said after a beat. “Unless my parents magically decide to move, which is almost impossible—they love here.” He forced a shrug, trying to sound casual.
Dazai exhaled through his nose, almost frustrated. “I don’t mean that.”
Chuuya frowned, confusion knotting his brow. “Then?”
Dazai just stared at him, silent. It wasn’t like him—normally he’d never pass up a chance to run his mouth, to poke fun, to explain in a hundred roundabout ways. But now… he just looked.
And something clicked in Chuuya’s mind. His stomach dropped. “Oh.” He swallowed, his voice trembling slightly. “No—what? I… I would never do something like that.”
Dazai tilted his head slowly, like he was measuring the truth in Chuuya’s face. “Chuuya can’t die. Does she know that?”
Chuuya scowled instantly, forcing the tension down. “Oh, now I need your permission for that too?”
“Yes,” Dazai said flatly, though his eyes gleamed with something complicated. “You’re my dog, Chuuya. And I’ll deal with dead pets.”
Ah. That bet. That ridiculous, endless bet. Of course he’d bring it up now.
“Look, I would never even try to take my life,” Chuuya said, rolling his eyes, though his voice was firmer this time. “I have no reason for that. My life’s—eh—meh. But I have plans. So, no.”
Dazai blinked, quiet for once. Then, without warning, he reached forward and grabbed Chuuya’s hands.
“Uh?”
Before Chuuya could pull back, Dazai tugged his sleeve up, eyes scanning his arm. Then he did the same with the other. His grip was firm but not rough, almost careful.
“You better keep that promise,” he said at last, eyes unreadable.
Chuuya blinked, caught off guard by the seriousness in his tone. For once, it wasn’t a joke.
Weird.
Really weird.
Chuuya didn’t understand—he never understood—why his parents insisted on making him wear dresses. It was the twenty-first century. Nobody cared anymore if a kid wore pants instead of a skirt. Why did he have to obey that rule so blindly? Why did his body have to be treated like it wasn’t his?
He clenched his fists against the fabric of the skirt, hating how smooth it felt beneath his palms. It wasn’t even an ugly dress. It was pretty—dark blue, with a neat line at the waist and a neckline that dipped just enough to expose too much skin. Not indecent, not against school rules… but enough to make him feel vulnerable. Exposed. Like everyone would be staring at him and seeing something he didn’t want to show.
Disgusted. That’s what he felt.
The teacher had said the rules were simple: don’t show too much skin, and otherwise wear what you like. Chuuya had imagined wearing pants, maybe even a button-up, something neutral that would let him feel like himself. But no. His parents had looked at him, dismissed his suggestion, and decided for him. Decided what he would wear, as if his opinion didn’t matter.
And here he was, sitting stiffly on a wooden bench near the stand where he was supposed to present. He was hugging himself, staring at the floor, trying to make his breathing even. He just had to talk about a book, explain its themes and the author’s life, and repeat it for each grade that passed. Easy. Simple. He wasn’t afraid of speaking in public.
But doing it like this? In these clothes, in this skin?
That was the painful part.
And to make things worse, his partner for the activity was Dazai. Because of course, the moment the teacher mentioned pairing up, Dazai had grinned, raised his hand, and declared, “I’ll be with Chuuya!” And the teacher hadn’t even questioned it.
Now he was trapped with him.
“Up, partner, I have arrived!” Dazai’s voice cut through the noise of students milling around.
Chuuya didn’t look up. He tightened his arms around his torso, shoulders curling inward. “We still have like ten minutes.”
Dazai plopped down beside him, folding his long legs carelessly, taking up more space than necessary. “Ah, yes, but we have to be ready! Like—which side do you want? Left or right?”
“Whatever.”
“Did you study the author’s biography?”
“Yes.”
“And—”
“I know my part. Now shut the fuck up,” Chuuya snapped, lifting his head just enough to glare at him.
For once, Dazai fell silent. He tilted his head, studying him. “…You look… decent,” he murmured.
“Shut up, Dazai.”
“I mean it. It makes—”
“Don’t you understand?! Shut up!” Chuuya’s voice rose suddenly, sharp as glass. He whipped toward him, trembling with anger that wasn’t really anger. “I’m not in the mood for your fucking jokes or whatever! I don’t even want to be close to you. So save me from the suffering just today!”
Dazai’s lips parted, his usually smug face slack with surprise. His eyes widened, confusion flashing in them. “…Uh. I was trying to be kind.”
“Don’t try. Just shut up.”
There was a pause. Dazai blinked at him, looking—for once—lost. “Are you okay? I just wanted to give you a compliment—I know it’s weird, but…”
“You know what? Do the fucking presentation alone! I—” Chuuya shot up from the bench so fast the skirt swished around his legs. His throat burned, his eyes blurred with tears he couldn’t stop. “I can’t. Just God, shut up!”
And before Dazai could move, he stormed away.
…
He wasn’t sure how he got there, but the next thing Chuuya knew, he was inside the bathroom, locked in a stall, sitting on the cold lid of the toilet. His hands pressed hard against his face, trying to muffle the sobs that broke out despite him biting down on his lip.
His cheeks were burning. His chest hurt. His throat ached with the effort of holding back sounds he didn’t want anyone to hear.
He just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t breathe. He felt like the walls were pressing in, like he was drowning in something he couldn’t name.
Like he was going to die.
Like disappearing would be easier than feeling this way.
…
Two sharp knocks on the stall door made him flinch.
“Chuuya,” came Dazai’s voice. Muffled, cautious. “If someone sees me here, they’re gonna kill me—I can’t be in the girls’ bathroom. Come out, let’s talk, yes?”
“No!” Chuuya’s voice cracked, raw. “Get out, get away! Leave me alone…”
There was a beat of silence. Then softer, almost pleading: “Chuuya, please.”
He didn’t move. He stayed curled up on the toilet lid, arms tight around himself, trembling. Dazai would get tired eventually, right? He always did. He’d leave, wander off to find some other stupid game to play, and Chuuya would be left alone again.
So he waited.
He scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to erase the wetness, but more tears just slipped free, burning trails down his cheeks. His chest kept tightening and tightening, like something inside was pulling him apart. He bit down on his lip to silence the sound, but a soft sob still escaped.
It hurt.
It hurt so much.
Why couldn’t it stop? Why couldn’t he just… be? Just exist the way he knew himself to be, without everyone looking at him wrong, calling him the wrong things, forcing him into boxes that never fit? Why couldn’t they just see what he truly was?
Why did it have to be a secret?
“Chuuya… are you crying?”
His breath caught. He didn’t answer. He pressed his face deeper into his hands, willing Dazai to disappear.
“Please.” The knock on the stall door was softer this time, a hesitant tap. “Come out… you don’t have to do the presentation, whatever. I’ll do it. Just… please, come out.”
Chuuya stared at the metal door, eyes blurry, tears sliding silently down his chin. His throat ached as he whispered a sigh. “…Why do you care?”
There was a pause. Then, Dazai’s voice, strangely steady: “…Chuuya never cries. Chuuya’s always strong and okay. But she’s been acting weird. And I’m… worried.” His voice dipped, low enough to almost break. “Worried she’s gonna do something reckless.”
Ah.
So that was it.
Dazai thought he was going to take his own life.
Really, was he worried? The idea was almost absurd. If he was, poor him—he didn’t understand. Chuuya wasn’t planning anything like that. He didn’t want to disappear forever. He just wanted to stop feeling wrong in his own skin. He just wanted to stop pretending to be something he wasn’t.
And for one wild second, he thought: maybe I could tell him.
But no.
Dazai would laugh. He’d twist it into a joke, make it another weapon. He couldn’t risk that.
So instead, Chuuya pushed himself up on shaky legs. He took a deep breath, forcing his shoulders back, even as his body trembled. He unlocked the door and swung it open.
Dazai was right there.
Chuuya immediately wiped at his cheeks, erasing the evidence as best he could. His voice came out rough, defensive. “What now.”
Dazai looked at him quietly. For once, there was no smirk, no glint of mockery in his eyes. Just… softness. “…Why are you crying?” he asked, his tone low, careful.
Chuuya sniffled and looked away, hugging himself tightly. “Nothing important.”
“Come here.”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes, suspicion prickling instantly. “…What?” He stepped out of the stall slowly, staring at Dazai like he expected some kind of trap. And then—
Dazai hugged him.
Chuuya froze. Literally froze, stiff as a board, every muscle locked. His brain short-circuited, refusing to compute. Dazai? Hugging? Him? Voluntarily?
“What the fuck,” Chuuya muttered, his arms glued to his sides, not moving an inch. His voice cracked somewhere between panic and disbelief. “Oh, ho, what the fuck?”
Dazai’s arms tightened slightly around him, pulling him just enough to make it harder to pull away. His voice dropped into a whisper, warm against Chuuya’s ear. “It’s called a hug. And slug looks like she needs one.”
Chuuya swallowed hard, his throat tight, and for a moment he just stood there stiffly in Dazai’s arms. It felt too strange, too unexpected, but the warmth around him was… grounding. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his own hands and wrapped them around Dazai’s back—loose, as if afraid he might be burned if he held on too tight. His voice came out hoarse, uneven.
“I’m not gonna off myself. It’s not about that.”
Dazai swayed them slightly, side to side, like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if Chuuya wasn’t seconds away from crumbling again. “Then?”
Dumb. Always dumb.
“I… I just feel…” Chuuya’s chest squeezed, and he let out a shaky breath, searching for something—anything—that didn’t sound like the truth pressing on his tongue. An excuse. A lie. “…Insecure.”
“Uh.” Dazai leaned back just enough to study his face, his dark eyes scanning him like he was trying to read every hidden thought. “Well, don’t be.” He shrugged, careless as ever, but there was a weight behind the words. “I’m sure there are plenty of boys out there willing to like you.” A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Even though you’re annoying.”
Chuuya blinked at him, heat rising to his face. He scowled, trying to mask the strange twist in his chest. “You’re the one talking.”
Dazai’s smirk softened into a small, real smile, the kind that was rare on him. “Don’t cry. It’s weird.”
Chuuya huffed, pushing at him weakly, though he didn’t pull away completely. “…Dumbass.”
Dazai stared at him for a long moment, uncharacteristically quiet, his expression unreadable. Then, with a gentleness Chuuya wasn’t used to, he lifted a hand and brushed a strand of hair away from Chuuya’s damp cheek, tucking it behind his ear so he could see his face better.
“I know I call Chuuya names all the time,” he said, his voice low, “but she shouldn’t feel bad. She’s all I’ve said, sure… but also—she’s pretty.”
Chuuya blinked, stunned, and felt the warmth rush up to his face. His chest gave a strange squeeze. It was uncomfortable, almost painful, but in a way that made him want to cling to it.
Pretty.
He wished he could feel that way—he wished he could be what Dazai thought he saw. If only Dazai knew the truth. If only he could say it out loud, what was really happening inside him. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not with him.
“…Okay… just cut it, it’s weird,” he muttered quickly, his voice a little shaky as he sniffled and looked away.
“If you want,” Dazai said after a beat, rocking back on his heels, “I’ll do the presentation alone. Don’t worry about it—I’ll tell the teacher we worked together, and if she comes by looking for you, I’ll just say you’re in the bathroom or something.” He tilted his head slightly, like it was the most natural solution in the world.
“…Why?”
Dazai shrugged, then leaned down a little, his hand patting Chuuya’s head with awkward sincerity. “I know what it’s like to feel bad and still have to keep working like nothing’s wrong. It sucks.” He poked lightly at Chuuya’s temple. “And someone as small as Chuuya shouldn’t overwork—no, no.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “Thanks, I guess, you idiot. Just… start without me. I’ll… I’ll go later—when I don’t feel like a raisin.”
That made Dazai chuckle, the sound soft and unforced. He stepped back, spreading his arms in a little theatrical bow. “Okay. I’ll see you later, partner—”
Before he could finish, the bathroom door creaked open. “What is that boy doing here?! This is the ladies’ room!” a girl’s voice exclaimed sharply.
Dazai blinked, caught in the act, then plastered on his usual smile. “Ah, I’m sorry, sorry. Just leaving!” He shot Chuuya a quick wink, the kind that made it impossible to tell if he was serious or teasing, before slipping past the girl and sauntering out as if nothing had happened.
Chuuya exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. Typical. Always causing a scene. Always making things more complicated. And yet… his chest felt just a little lighter than before.
“Yeah, and she comes and tells me that it was my fault,” Shirase said, rolling his eyes dramatically as he leaned further into the couch cushions. His sneakers tapped lazily against the floor. “Like, she just needed someone to take the blame. But I gave my whole in that relationship, seriously.”
Yuan snorted into her soda can, clearly not impressed, while Chuuya sat across from them on the armchair, legs curled up loosely. His gaze was fixed in their direction, but his mind was wandering far from the words spilling out of Shirase’s mouth.
Not because he didn’t care—no. Shirase and Yuan had been there for him when no one else was. Back when he first entered the school, when people whispered, laughed, pushed, they were the ones who had pulled him into their circle and told him he belonged. And for a long time, that had been enough.
Later came Albatross and his friends, who’d filled his world with warmth in a different way. But now Albatross was in another city, chasing college dreams, and the others were working or studying far away. All of them… gone.
So he clung to Shirase and Yuan. They were his people. They had to be.
…And yet, Dazai’s face flickered through his mind. That idiot who always appeared where he wasn’t wanted. That idiot who somehow stayed. Dazai was complicated. He wasn’t really “his friend,” not in the easy, simple way Shirase and Yuan were. But then again, wasn’t he closer in other ways? Ugh. Chuuya couldn’t even untangle it.
Would Shirase and Yuan still accept him if he told them the truth? If he let the words finally slip—I’m not a girl, I’m a boy—would they look at him the same way? Or would everything change, shatter in a second?
“Did you hear the rumors, Chuuya?” Yuan’s voice suddenly broke through his fog, jolting him back.
He blinked, lifting his head. “What rumors?”
“That the soccer captain of second grade is dating another girl,” Yuan said, huffing a laugh. “Which was almost obvious. That girl has lesbian vibes.”
Chuuya blinked again, expression blank. He didn’t really care who dated who. Other people’s lives were background noise compared to the storm in his own chest. “…Ah. Cool.”
“Cool?” Shirase leaned forward, eyebrows raised like Chuuya had just insulted him. “No cool—who knows what kind of trauma she has about men.”
Chuuya froze, his stomach twisting. “…What the fuck? Trauma?” He sat up straighter, glaring at him.
“Yeah. All lesbians are just traumatized girls who fear men,” Shirase declared smugly, crossing his arms like he was sharing wisdom from the gods themselves.
For a second, Chuuya couldn’t even process it. Then he let out a sharp breath. “Okay, Shirase, where the hell did you even get that?”
“Oh, it’s basic psychology,” Shirase replied smoothly, too proud of himself to realize how idiotic he sounded.
Chuuya stared, incredulous. “…Uh. So, according to your logic, gay guys would be… afraid of women?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged, unbothered, as if it were obvious.
Every word, every shrug, every casual tone made Chuuya’s skin crawl. It was like listening to stones grind in his chest.
“And those people who say they’re… how was it called?” Shirase tapped his chin, pretending to think. “Ah! Trans something? Yeah, them. Just crazy people who want attention.”
Chuuya froze, the air sucked right out of his lungs. His chest tightened painfully, like someone had wrapped a fist around his heart and squeezed.
Yuan chimed in casually, nodding. “Because, trying to change what you are is impossible. Right, Chuuya? Basic biology.”
Silence pressed heavy.
Chuuya stared down at his hands, hidden in the folds of his sleeves. His throat burned, words clawing their way up, begging to be screamed—It’s not crazy. It’s not impossible. It’s me. But his mouth wouldn’t open. His voice wouldn’t work.
Instead, he forced in a breath. “…Yeah… impossible…” The word tasted like ash.
He lowered his gaze to the floor, blinking hard, praying they wouldn’t notice the tremble in his lashes or the way his chest caved just a little more under the weight of their laughter.
One of the most annoying things ever was his uniform. Why, in every damn school, did the girls’ uniform have to involve a skirt? Chuuya would’ve felt less miserable if he could’ve worn pants like anyone else. It was such a simple solution—pants for everyone, end of problem. But no. And as if that wasn’t enough, as if the universe hadn’t already been cruel enough, he had to deal with his period too. Because apparently existing wasn’t enough of a crime—he had to be punished for being born.
Lord.
He felt so… frustrated. So tired. Sad. Angry. A tangled ball of emotions that never went away.
Having to sneak away to change his pad during breaks didn’t help either. It always made him feel disgusting, sick of his own body. Like he was being tortured for something he hadn’t chosen. He hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Why couldn’t he just have been born a boy? Why couldn’t his reflection, his body, his life match the way he felt inside?
So, here he was, hiding in the library at lunchtime. The one place where he could melt into the table and pretend for a few minutes that the world didn’t exist. People didn’t usually come here during lunch. If they did, at least they were quiet.
But of course, if the universe existed just to spite him, then so did Dazai.
“What is Chuuya doing here?” That unmistakable voice cut through the air, pulling him back to reality.
Chuuya’s stomach twisted. Of course. His only peace—ruined.
“I saw your dumb friends asking for you,” Dazai continued, dropping into the seat beside him without a shred of hesitation. Without even asking. Like he always did.
Chuuya shifted away, resting his cheek heavily against his palm. “Hm.”
“Lately, Chuuya has been so quiet. Which is super weird. When I first met her, she was loud, fiery—always ready to fight me,” Dazai leaned closer, peering at him with exaggerated curiosity. “Now she’s boring.”
Chuuya hummed under his breath, eyes fixed on the table, refusing to rise to the bait.
“She doesn’t even want to play with me anymore,” Dazai added, softer this time. “And I got a lot of new games just for her… such a shame.”
Chuuya blinked, looking at him sideways. “…You did?”
Dazai nodded firmly. “Obviously. I want to beat Chuuya in every game, remember?”
A sigh escaped him, long and heavy, and he rolled his eyes. “I’m just not in the mood lately…”
“Some reason you want to share with me?” Dazai batted his lashes dramatically, like always.
“No.”
“Why are you avoiding your friends?”
“I’m not avoiding them,” Chuuya shrugged, forcing casualness into his tone.
“Did you fight or something?”
“No.”
Silence fell between them. Not the peaceful kind. The heavy, suffocating kind. Chuuya stared at nothing, a faint cramp twisting in his stomach again—reminding him of everything he didn’t want to think about. Damn period. Damn skirt. Damn everything. Damn universe for giving him a body he hated.
He was exhausted. Too exhausted to even argue with Dazai the way he used to. Some days he snapped too quickly. Some days he just left before their usual back-and-forth could even start. Most days he was just… tired. Tired of crying into his pillow at night, tired of staring at the ceiling until exhaustion forced him to sleep, tired of carrying a secret too big for him.
Tired of being confused. Angry. Sad.
And so, so alone.
No one seemed to understand. No one seemed like they could understand.
He felt…
…different.
…wrong.
…like he was sick, broken, out of place in his own skin.
He just wanted it to stop. Just for a little. He wanted to tell someone. He wanted someone to look at him and see him for what he truly was. For who he truly was. A boy.
His throat felt tight. Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.
“…Dazai.” His voice was barely a whisper.
“Hm?” Dazai tilted his head, curious, eyes sharper now.
Chuuya swallowed hard, his heart thumping in his chest. Was this a mistake? Was he really about to do this? “Do you…” He took a shaky breath, his palms damp. “Do you think…” He sighed, frustrated at himself for stumbling, for hesitating.
Dazai frowned slightly. “What? Calm down, I don’t bite.”
Chuuya huffed, rolling his eyes even though his chest was trembling. “If I, hypothetically,” he made the word sharp, defensive, “told you… I’m not a girl… what would you say?”
The silence that followed was unbearable. Chuuya could hear the faint ticking of the library clock, the distant murmur of voices from the hallway. His heart hammered so loudly it drowned everything else.
Dazai just… stared at him. Then his brows furrowed. “…That you’re not a girl. You’re my dog.”
Chuuya clicked his tongue, heat rushing to his cheeks. “So funny.”
But Dazai didn’t look amused. He raised a brow. “Seriously. I’d say you can be whatever you want—like a helicopter, if you want,” he chuckled softly, a little awkwardly. “Not my business.”
Chuuya swallowed hard, looking down at his lap. That was… better than nothing. Better than rejection. But still not enough.
And then—
“Wait. Why?”
Chuuya’s heart lurched. His lip trembled as he bit it. His throat felt dry. God, what was he supposed to say? Here? Now? What if Dazai just got weird, what if he mocked him, what if he told someone? What if everything changed?
A lump grew in his throat, thick and heavy.
He couldn’t.
He just couldn’t.
Chuuya was drowning in his own misery. His house felt too big, too silent—an empty shell with no one inside but him. His parents were out for the whole afternoon, and the stillness pressed against him like a weight. He felt it building in his chest, that restless ache that always ended the same way.
So he cried. Again.
Tears came without asking for permission, sliding hot down his cheeks until he was too tired to let them fall anymore. He wiped them away, sniffled, then dragged himself to the kitchen, grabbed the first leftovers he saw—cold rice, half of a piece of chicken—and shoved them down just to feel full. Back to his room, back to his bed, phone in hand, scrolling endlessly. Nothing made him laugh. Nothing distracted him. Another cramp twisted in his lower belly, sharp and cruel.
And just like that, the tears came back. Because every cramp was a reminder.
A painful reminder.
That he wasn’t who he wanted to be. That his body betrayed him every month. That there was no escape.
The doorbell rang, sharp, unexpected. He froze, dragging his sleeve across his face. His first thought was parents. Maybe they’d forgotten something, maybe they were back early. But when he opened the door, it wasn’t them.
It was the devil. In a teenage body.
“Hi! I brought you happiness!” Dazai declared, standing there with a grin way too big for someone carrying a flimsy grocery bag. From it, he proudly pulled out a box of ice cream like it was a treasure chest. “Now let me in before this melts and your life is ruined.”
Chuuya sighed, pressing his forehead against the doorframe for a second. Really? Now? “…Just for the ice cream.”
Dazai’s laugh rang out, bright and careless, and before Chuuya could protest, the idiot had already slipped inside like he owned the place. Of course, he didn’t wait to be invited. Of course, he walked straight to Chuuya’s room.
Chuuya closed the door behind him, grumbling under his breath. He paused in the kitchen to grab two spoons, trying to make sure his face wasn’t blotchy anymore. His skin still felt tight from the tears, sticky in places where they had dried. Whatever. He wasn’t going to give Dazai the satisfaction of pointing it out.
When he stepped into his room, Dazai was already sprawled on his bed like a cat, the box of ice cream resting on his lap. Chuuya sat down beside him with a huff, handing over one of the spoons.
“So?” Dazai asked cheerfully, tearing the box open. “Isn’t Chuuya going to complain about me showing up unannounced? Call me names, maybe throw me out?”
“No. That takes too much energy.” Chuuya sank back against his pillows, eyes blankly following the soft pink swirls inside the container.
“Hm.” Dazai’s hum was too knowing. He took a spoon, dug into the ice cream, and then glanced at Chuuya with one of those tilted smirks. “Is Chuuya sure she isn’t depressed?”
Chuuya snorted softly, shaking his head. “No, I’m not depressed. Don’t worry. Really.” His voice sounded flat, even to himself, but he didn’t look away from the ice cream.
“I’m just worried,” Dazai replied, almost too casual. “I haven’t beaten Chuuya in every game yet, and I need her alive for that.” He scooped up a bit of ice cream and waved it lazily in the air. “Besides… no one wants Chuuya to disappear.”
Chuuya blinked, startled. The words weren’t meant to be deep. They weren’t wrapped in any kind of seriousness—yet somehow, they landed. A warmth flickered faintly in his chest, so small but enough to cut through the fog for a moment. Dazai was an idiot, yes, but an idiot who noticed. An idiot who was worried.
Even if he had the wrong idea, even if his reasons were dumb, even if it was wrapped in Dazai’s usual nonsense—he was the only one who had mentioned anything about Chuuya’s behavior lately. The only one watching closely enough to care.
And strangely, Chuuya didn’t feel annoyed by it. He felt… seen. A little less invisible.
Quickly, he wiped the corner of his eye before any tears could escape, tilting his head down to hide his face. God. How could he still cry when he had already cried so much these days?
“Open.”
Chuuya frowned and turned, confused. “…What?”
Dazai was holding out a spoonful of ice cream right in front of his mouth, smirking like a kid. “Say ‘ah’,” he teased.
Chuuya rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. Still, he parted his lips and opened his mouth, indulging him because honestly? He didn’t have the energy to argue. The cold sweetness hit his tongue, and before he could even swallow, Dazai chuckled.
“Dumbass,” Chuuya muttered after gulping it down.
He blinked, then froze when he saw Dazai scoop up another bite with the same spoon and pop it into his own mouth, perfectly content.
“I have another one!” Chuuya said quickly, glaring. “I already used that one. Don’t be weird.”
Dazai burst out laughing, head tipping back. “What? We’ve shared things before.”
“Because you’re a weirdo.”
“We literally shared a lollipop once,” Dazai pointed out, blinking innocently. “That’s literally sharing saliva.”
Chuuya made a face, gagging dramatically. “Ew. Why did I do that?”
Dazai bumped their shoulders, the softest nudge, as he scooped up another spoonful of ice cream and shoved it into his mouth with that lazy satisfaction only he could pull off. Chuuya huffed, rolling his eyes but still reaching for the clean spoon he’d brought, digging out a little bite for himself. They ate like that—shoulder to shoulder, spoons scraping plastic, the faint hum of Chuuya’s desk fan filling the quiet.
It wasn’t bad.
In fact, it was… calm.
The first bit of calm Chuuya had felt in days. The weight in his chest didn’t vanish, not fully, but it loosened, like Dazai’s stupid presence had distracted his brain just enough. At least his thoughts weren’t spiraling into chaos right now. At least he could breathe without it hurting. And the ice cream was good—sweet, soft, cold on his tongue.
Dazai always had this weird obsession with ice cream. Chuuya didn’t fully get it—sure, everyone liked ice cream, but Dazai claimed he could eat it every single day, every single meal if given the chance. That was a little much.
…And yet, Chuuya thought as he glanced sideways at him, maybe it wasn’t about the ice cream at all. Maybe it was about the way Dazai always showed up with something small, something distracting, something that said I was thinking of you.
Sometimes, Chuuya felt like Dazai was closer to him than his so-called real friends. He remembered things, stupid little things that even Chuuya forgot he’d said—like what character he always picked in fighting games, or that one anime side-character he admitted to liking. Months ago, Chuuya had once offhandedly mentioned a keychain he wanted but never bought; on his birthday, Dazai had tossed it at him with a grin, like it was nothing.
Dazai was annoying. But Dazai noticed things. He always noticed when Chuuya was off—whether it was just because of a bad test score or, like now, something deeper. He always noticed when no one else did.
And yeah, his jokes were terrible, but they were never cruel. Not really. He’d tease about his height until Chuuya’s blood boiled, sure, but he never touched on anything that would actually cut. He never made a joke about Chuuya’s body, or his hair, or the way he looked. The closest was that boob joke a few weeks ago, but honestly? That had rolled off Chuuya like nothing. It was harmless.
…Dazai was just annoying. Annoying and relentless and—
Maybe… maybe he was also Chuuya’s friend?
“My mother’s throwing some kind of party next week,” Dazai murmured suddenly, like he was admitting something he hadn’t decided if he wanted to share. “She said she wants to meet all my friends and stuff… do you wanna come?”
Chuuya blinked. His spoon paused halfway to his mouth. A party?
Friends?
Was that… confirmation?
He swallowed the mouthful of ice cream, throat oddly tight. “…Uh, I’d have to ask my parents, but… I guess,” he muttered. “Is there, like, a dress code or something?”
“Nah. Come however you want,” Dazai shrugged, scooping again.
Chuuya hummed softly. Okay. Friends. They were kinda… friends. Weird to think. He didn’t know why the thought of telling Dazai his secret kept circling his brain, scratching at him like an itch. He’d already accepted the idea that no one would ever see him the way he really was. That he’d live his whole life like this—angry, silent, tired. But his mind wouldn’t stop whispering maybe Dazai would understand. He didn’t know why.
“Eat, I brought this for you,” Dazai whined suddenly, nudging him with his elbow. “Don’t make me do all the work.”
“Uh? Yes, I’m eating,” Chuuya muttered, shoving a spoonful into his mouth. “Shut up.”
Dazai sighed loudly, overdramatic. “What’s in Chuuya’s mind?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s in your mind?” he pressed again, leaning against him like dead weight.
Chuuya huffed, turning away, spoon hovering near his lips.
“You know what’s in my mind?” Dazai continued, tapping his spoon against Chuuya’s like they were fencing.
“I don’t care.”
“That it’s weird,” Dazai said anyway, quieting just a little. “Ever since I started taking antidepressants—”
Chuuya froze, spoon slipping back into the box. He turned, eyes wide. “You… take antidepressants?”
Dazai blinked at him, eyebrow raised. “Yes? I literally told you that—ah!” He gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “You don’t listen to me. Betrayal.”
Chuuya winced. “…Geez, sorry. My mind’s been… everywhere. What were you saying?”
Still pouting, Dazai dug his spoon into the ice cream again. “That it’s weird. At first I was nauseous, then it was like… suddenly I had too much energy, which was strange, because I used to have none.”
Chuuya nodded slowly, unsure if he should say something or just let him talk.
“And my mind is… quiet now,” Dazai added, tapping the spoon against his lip. “That part of my mind is quiet.”
Chuuya stared at him, trying to process. He felt a small, guilty pinch in his chest—how many times had he zoned out on Dazai’s chatter and missed something like this? He’d thought it was just nonsense. But this… wasn’t nonsense.
“That’s good, right?” he said finally, shrugging. “Means the meds are working.”
Dazai hummed under his breath. “…Yeah, but it doesn’t feel like me. It’s like something’s blocking what I used to feel. And that makes me feel… in the wrong place.”
Chuuya sighed softly, bumping their shoulders together. “You’ll get used to it. The meds… they help you. They’re supposed to.”
“I know.” Dazai pulled a face, like a child forced to eat vegetables. “The doctor was super emphatic about my brain being unbalanced. But honestly, I always thought that was just normal. Feeling like that. And now… I don’t think about it the same way. My head’s full of other things instead.”
“Good,” Chuuya muttered. “Means you’re feeling normal now. Like you would if your brain wasn’t trying to be dark and angsty.”
Dazai blinked, then burst out laughing, nearly spilling the ice cream. “Dark and angsty, huh? That’s one way to put it.”
They stared at each other for a long second, the kind of stare that felt heavier than it should. Chuuya’s lips twitched into a small, almost nervous smile at the sight of Dazai’s grin. He wasn’t sure if this changed something—did it? Dazai had just admitted to taking meds, and yeah, that probably meant he’d had his own slumps, his own shadows, those thoughts that crawled in when the lights went out.
But Chuuya wasn’t going to treat him differently for that. No way.
That idiot was still an idiot.
It didn’t change anything. Because Dazai hadn’t chosen to suffer from whatever mess his brain threw at him. That wasn’t his fault.
…
And then, traitorously, Chuuya’s thoughts turned inward.
Would Dazai think the same if he told him?
No. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t say anything.
It wasn’t safe.
But… but what if it went well? What if, for the first time, someone actually saw him for who he really was? Finally. Just him. Even if it was just Dazai.
The thought was so heavy it made his chest ache.
But what the hell was he even supposed to say? Just “I’m a boy”—like that? How did people explain this? He should’ve googled it before, written down some kind of script, anything. Because just picturing the words out loud made his whole body burn with shame, with fear, with this wild, embarrassing vulnerability.
And what if Dazai laughed? What if he turned it into a joke? Chuuya didn’t think he would—not about this—but the universe loved to prove him wrong.
…
He shoved a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, cold sweetness numbing his tongue, like it could give him courage. Then he swallowed, chest tightening. “I need to tell you something…” he muttered, voice smaller than he wanted it to be.
Dazai only hummed softly, still eating his ice cream like this was any other afternoon.
God. Lord. Lucifer.
Anyone. He needed divine intervention for this.
“I… first,” Chuuya narrowed his eyes sharply, trying to hide the shake in his voice with anger, “if you dare laugh, I will punch you senseless.”
Dazai blinked, spoon pausing midair. “Ah… okay…” He tilted his head, raising one brow, curiosity flickering.
Chuuya looked down at his spoon. Empty. He sighed shakily. “I am… serious. Dead serious now.”
“Alright,” Dazai said, leaning back, tone lighter but his gaze steady. “Serious mode.”
Chuuya glared at him briefly, then swallowed hard, the air too thick in his lungs. His heart thudded uncomfortably against his ribs, and his palms were sweaty even though he wasn’t even holding anything.
“I… I know I might not look like it or… whatever… I… uh… the point is… and… I…” The words tangled like barbed wire in his mouth.
“Chuuya,” Dazai interrupted softly, setting his spoon aside and placing a warm, steady hand on Chuuya’s shoulder. His voice wasn’t mocking, wasn’t sharp—it was careful. “I’m not understanding a word. Please. Breathe.”
So Chuuya tried. He inhaled deep, held it, exhaled. Tried again. It didn’t help much, but it kept him from choking completely. His throat still felt raw, tight. “Look. I’m… I’m—” He stammered, lips trembling. “I would be really… really happy if you… if you…”
Dazai leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing but not unkind. “…If I?”
Chuuya squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving as he forced the words out. “If you… refer to me…” He sucked in a sharp breath that sounded almost like a sob. “As… a boy.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
God.
He’d said it.
Jesus.
He’d actually said it.
The words were out, hanging in the air like fragile glass, and all Chuuya wanted to do was snatch them back, pretend they’d never left his mouth.
Dazai blinked once. Then again, slower. “…A boy?”
Chuuya’s throat tightened painfully, but he nodded—tiny, stiff, like the movement itself was made of stone.
Dazai stared at him then. Not smirking. Not mocking. Just staring, eyes unreadable, expression caught between curiosity and something else Chuuya couldn’t name. And Chuuya sat there, frozen, waiting for the ground to open beneath him.
Needless to say, the ground did not open and swallow him whole. No miracle saved him from the suffocating silence or from whatever would come next. And “whatever” turned out to be Dazai making the weirdest face—eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed, like he was trying to solve some complicated riddle written in a language no one had ever spoken before. That alone made Chuuya panic even harder, his stomach dropping to his knees.
What if Dazai didn’t get it? What if he just—
Then Dazai blinked very, very slowly. “A boy. So… Chuuya is a boy—wait.” He suddenly leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Your name is still Chuuya? Because if not, you should say that now before I embarrass myself.”
“Yes…” It came out hoarse, barely a breath. That was all Chuuya could manage.
Dazai took a long inhale, then exhaled like he was processing an equation. “Cool. Yes. Yes. It makes sense… boys usually spend time with other boys—it makes sense,” he nodded solemnly, as if that conclusion explained everything. “Uh…”
Chuuya could still hear the thundering beat of his own heart echoing in his ears, each thump so loud it drowned almost everything else out.
“So… that’s why Chuuya said she—he,” Dazai caught himself, cheeks flushing pink for the first time in maybe forever. “That’s why Chuuya said he doesn’t look like… a boy, right?” His gaze fixed on him, uncharacteristically focused.
Chuuya nodded slowly, still stunned that Dazai was actually… understanding this. Understanding him. And so easily—like the world hadn’t just shifted under his feet.
“Oooh.” A smile spread across Dazai’s face, wide and a little mischievous. He grabbed the ice cream box, pushed it to the side, and then suddenly stood up, stretching as if inspired by some brilliant idea. “We can try to fix it.”
“Uh?” Chuuya blinked up at him, completely lost now.
“I sometimes cut my own hair,” Dazai announced proudly, wagging his brows. “I think I can cut Chuuya’s.”
Chuuya’s jaw nearly dropped. “Wait, wait, wait… like this? You just—you aren’t going to… ask or… judge me?” He made a face, torn between disbelief and relief.
Dazai frowned like the question itself offended him. “First, why would I judge you?” His tone was almost sharp. Then, with a shrug, “Second, ask what? I already asked enough.”
Chuuya stared at him for a long, long moment, the weight of his chest pressing down but… not suffocating this time. Because Dazai wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t mocking. Wasn’t walking away.
He was still here.
“Get up, let’s get your hair done by the amazing and great Osamu Dazai,” Dazai declared theatrically, tugging at Chuuya’s wrist and pulling him up with no room for protest. His grin was shameless, almost too bright for the heaviness still weighing down Chuuya’s chest. “Why hasn’t Chuuya already cut it?”
Chuuya’s legs wobbled, weak as if he’d been running instead of sitting. He nearly stumbled right into Dazai’s chest before forcing himself upright, face burning. “…My parents don’t like that I have short hair. You know, it’s not… girly.”
Dazai blinked at him, surprised for only a heartbeat, then tilted his head with that casual air that made everything seem so simple. “But you’re not a girl—you haven’t told them?” He paused, but when Chuuya said nothing, Dazai only shrugged, unfazed. “Oh. Anyway, we can do it just short enough not to be a problem in any case.” And with that, he started dragging Chuuya toward the bathroom like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Chuuya couldn’t wrap his head around it. How could Dazai be so… normal about this? So light? As if it wasn’t a massive deal, as if it wasn’t terrifying, as if it wasn’t something Chuuya had been choking on for months. Dazai had thought for maybe five seconds before nodding and deciding it was fine—was it really that easy? Could it be?
“Wait here,” Dazai said, patting his shoulder before darting out of the room. He returned moments later, lugging a chair, which he placed squarely in the middle of the bathroom. “Sit down, please.”
Chuuya obeyed, mostly because he was too overwhelmed to argue. He sank into the chair, brows furrowed. “Why are you doing all this?”
“Because Chuuya wants to look like a boy—and, sadly, short hair is a super ‘normal’ boy thing, so I wanna help,” Dazai said plainly as he rummaged through the cabinet. His voice wasn’t teasing this time—it was almost… gentle. “Ah, here!” He laughed in victory when he found a pair of scissors.
Chuuya’s throat tightened. His chest squeezed like a hand pressing down on it. Not because it was cruel or dismissive—just the opposite. Because it was kind. Stupidly kind. Dazai really did see him as a friend, didn’t he? Chuuya lowered his gaze, blinking hard, trying to shove down the sting of tears. The panic still buzzed in his veins, but it was ebbing now, replaced by something equally dizzying: the realization that he wasn’t completely alone.
“So… let’s see…” Dazai murmured, comb in hand as he gently brushed through Chuuya’s hair from behind. His fingers brushed against Chuuya’s scalp every now and then, oddly careful, almost soothing. “What did your friends say?”
“Hm?” The sound left Chuuya’s throat before he could form words. His voice felt caught, trembling, useless.
“When you told them,” Dazai clarified softly. “That you’re a boy, I mean.”
Chuuya froze for a second before answering, his voice low and hesitant. “…I haven’t told anyone. I mean… just you.”
At that, Dazai’s hands stilled. The comb hovered mid-air, and the silence stretched long enough for Chuuya’s heart to race again. Had he messed up? Said too much? Was this the moment Dazai finally acted weird? His body went tense, bracing for the worst.
But instead of pulling away, Dazai moved around to stand in front of him. He crouched slightly, meeting Chuuya’s startled gaze with a small, almost tender smile. Then, without warning, he leaned down and wrapped his arms around Chuuya, pulling him into a hug.
Chuuya froze on the spot, his body stiff as a board. “Uh…?”
“Why didn’t you say that before?” Dazai asked softly, his voice muffled against Chuuya’s shoulder.
“Uh, it’s important?” Chuuya croaked, swallowing hard. He didn’t understand why this was the reaction.
“Yes, it is,” Dazai murmured, one hand moving up and down his back in a slow, absentminded caress.
Something in Chuuya cracked. He exhaled shakily, his resistance melting just a little, and allowed his arms to come up, hugging back—loosely, awkwardly, but still there. “…It’s weird—that you hug me.”
“Get used to it.”
“…Uh?”
“I like to hug my friends,” Dazai said matter-of-factly, holding him a little tighter as if to prove the point.
Chuuya closed his eyes, letting himself lean just a little more into Dazai’s warmth. It felt unnatural—wrong, almost—to do something with him that wasn’t bickering, snapping, or outright yelling. And yet, as Dazai’s arms stayed steady around him, the tight knot that had lived in Chuuya’s chest for so long started to loosen. It was disorienting. Like letting go of something heavy he didn’t even realize he’d been carrying.
And that made him feel bad. Not bad in the sharp, cruel way he was used to. Bad in the way that comes when someone touches a wound you’ve been hiding and it aches but heals all at once.
Lord. He was trying, okay? But…
“Is Chuuya okay?” Dazai’s voice broke through his thoughts, close and worried. Chuuya hadn’t noticed how much he was trembling until Dazai shifted back, his tone suddenly sharp with realization. “Why is Chuuya shaking—oh.” His hands cupped Chuuya’s face gently, holding him still. His eyes widened. “No, no, why is Chuuya crying?”
Chuuya turned his head slightly, trying to pull away, but Dazai’s palms held firm against his cheeks. He couldn’t even make out Dazai’s expression anymore—everything blurred under the hot film of tears clinging to his lashes. His throat ached as he tried to mutter, “Uh… get off…”
“Don’t cry.” Dazai’s voice cracked, full of urgency but soft at the edges, trembling in a way Chuuya wasn’t used to. “Did I do something wrong? Tell me—I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m—”
“No… dumbass, I just—” The words stumbled out, heavy with emotion. Chuuya swallowed hard and let out a small, broken sob, squeezing his eyes shut again. His hand balled into a fist and he tapped it lightly against Dazai’s chest, more a plea than a punch. “Why… why are you being so kind? Isn’t… aren’t I weird?”
For a moment, silence. Then Dazai blinked, and his expression softened in a way that made Chuuya’s chest twist tighter. He leaned down until their foreheads touched, his breath warm against Chuuya’s face. His thumbs brushed slowly over Chuuya’s damp cheeks, as if he were trying to wipe away every trace of hurt.
“Chuuya is weird,” Dazai said, voice low and sure, almost like a vow. “But not that kind of weird. At least he’s not boring. That’s what matters.”
The air left Chuuya’s lungs in a shaky exhale. His body felt too small for all the emotion swirling inside him, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking, his voice raw, barely above a whisper: “…you don’t mind I’m… uh…”
“What?” Dazai tilted his head, still pressing their foreheads together. He huffed softly, as though the answer was obvious. “You are Chuuya. And I will beat him in every game.” A faint smile tugged at his lips, earnest and boyish. “And he’s my friend.”
Chuuya sniffled, his chest aching, but for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel unbearable.
Dazai pulled him close again without hesitation, his arms wrapping firm and warm around Chuuya’s smaller frame. He swayed them gently side to side, like he was trying to lull away the storm trembling inside him, and buried his face into Chuuya’s hair with a sigh that was almost fond. “There, there… calm down. Don’t be weird,” he murmured, his voice muffled against the strands. “I don’t like when Chuuya cries. My dog shouldn’t cry—he should be wagging his tail, being happy.”
A choked little noise escaped Chuuya’s throat, half protest, half something else he couldn’t name. His instinct screamed at him to push Dazai away, to curse at him for the ridiculous words, for the nickname—but his body betrayed him. He stayed still, let the warmth seep in, and simply breathed, the tears sliding down his cheeks in stubborn streaks he couldn’t stop.
“…Thank… you,” he whispered, the words breaking unevenly, too fragile for someone who always tried to sound sharp.
Dazai pulled back just enough to blink down at him, eyebrows raised like he was genuinely confused. “Why? I haven’t even cut your hair yet.”
Chuuya sniffled, shaking his head quickly. “No… not for that. For… for accepting me.” His voice cracked on the last word, and his throat tightened so hard he almost regretted speaking. He hated how small he sounded, how much it revealed. “I know it’s… hard. And I…”
“It’s not hard.” Dazai didn’t let him finish. His reply came instantly, firm and almost impatient, like the idea itself was absurd. His hands tightened on Chuuya’s shoulders, grounding him, and his gaze was steady in a way that made Chuuya’s stomach flip. “It’s not hard because Chuuya’s not my friend because he is or isn’t a boy—or a girl. He’s my friend because he’s Chuuya.”
Chuuya froze, lips parted, breath caught somewhere in his chest. The words hit him with the weight of something he hadn’t known he needed—simple, obvious, but truer than anything he’d heard in weeks, maybe years. He blinked rapidly, another tear slipping free, and all he could do was clutch the fabric of Dazai’s shirt tighter, holding on like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
“I can’t go in there,” Chuuya muttered, stopping at the doorway of the men’s bathroom. His voice was flat but his arms were crossed tight against his chest, like they could shield him from the stupid situation Dazai was dragging him into. He gave him a sharp look, trying to burn the idea out of his head. “You do realize I’m not supposed to, right? I’m still stuck with this—” he tugged at the hem of his skirt with a grimace “—uniform.”
“Just come in. There’s no one here, it’s too early,” Dazai insisted, lowering his voice but not his grin. He leaned closer, pouting exaggeratedly. “Come oooon. We have to be quick before someone else shows up.”
Chuuya let out a long, suffering sigh and glanced around the hallway like a criminal about to break into a bank. No one. Yet. His heart was hammering anyway. If anyone saw… they’d talk. They always did. Still, he stepped inside, muttering under his breath, “I’m going to regret this…”
Dazai didn’t give him much time to argue. He shoved his schoolbag right into Chuuya’s chest, making him stumble back a step. “Here. Take this.”
Chuuya caught it, frowning at the weight. “What the hell are you—”
“Get in the stall.” Dazai’s voice was rushed but weirdly excited, like he was revealing some kind of prank. “There’s an uniform inside the bag. Change into it.”
Chuuya blinked at him, baffled. “…I already have an uniform, Dazai. Are you drunk?”
“It’s a boy’s uniform, stupid. I even talked to a teacher…” Dazai pushed at his shoulder until he was inside the stall, ignoring his resistance. “It’s one of mine, from before. It might be a little big but—whatever, we’ll fix it later. Hurry.”
Chuuya’s heart skipped, his breath catching. “…Wait. What?”
“Please, Chuuya,” Dazai whined through the stall door, as if he were the one suffering. “Don’t overthink it, just try it.” And before Chuuya could snap back, the door clicked shut.
Chuuya stared at the metal door in front of him, confusion, shock, and something else swirling in his chest until it felt heavy and hot. That idiot… that absolute idiot had actually gone and gotten him a boy’s uniform. Had talked to teachers, apparently, had thought about him—all so Chuuya could maybe, just maybe, feel like himself for once.
His throat tightened painfully. His first instinct was to laugh, the second to cry, but what came out was a shaky exhale as he leaned against the wall. “Damn it, Dazai…”
With trembling hands, he set the bag on the toilet lid and opened it. The sight of the uniform inside—neatly folded, smelling faintly of fabric softener and closet dust—made his stomach flip. He couldn’t stop a small smile tugging at his lips, stupid and breathless, before he rolled his eyes at himself. Ugh. Dumb.
Why was he grinning like an idiot?
Still, he couldn’t help it. He stripped off the skirt quickly, like it was burning his skin, and then the blouse. His fingers fumbled with excitement as he pulled out the pants, the shirt, the blazer. He slid into them one by one, heart racing faster with every button, every zip. The fabric hung a little loose on him, but it didn’t matter—it was a boy’s uniform.
When he finally caught his reflection faintly in the stall’s metal lock, a grin stretched across his face. He leaned back against the wall, breathless, one hand pressed over his chest to steady his heartbeat.
And then… the smile faltered. His hand lingered.
His chest wasn’t flat. The blazer didn’t hide it completely. His throat closed again.
Useless.
It was useless. No matter the pants, the shirt, the tie—people would still see that. They’d laugh. They’d point. They’d call him names. It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t… enough.
His chest ached, not just physically, but deep inside, heavy like stone.
“Chuuya? Are you ready?” Dazai’s voice cut through the fog. “We’ve only got a few minutes before class.”
Chuuya bit down on his lip. “…I can’t,” he whispered.
“What? Is it the tie? I’ll help you with it, just open the door.”
If only it was just the tie. He forced himself to pull the door open a little anyway.
Dazai slipped in immediately, shutting it behind him like it was natural to squeeze into the small stall with him. His eyes scanned Chuuya up and down, then lit up. “It fits you! Pants are a bit big, but nothing too bad,” he said with a proud little nod. “You look good.”
Chuuya’s arms wrapped around himself instinctively. “No. I can’t wear this.”
“Why not?” Dazai tilted his head. “It looks fine—”
“They’ll laugh,” Chuuya muttered, voice cracking against his will.
“Why would they laugh? There’s nothing funny about this.”
Chuuya shook his head, staring at the floor, words tumbling out low and bitter. “You don’t get it. I don’t look like…” he trailed off, biting down hard on his lip.
“You do,” Dazai countered instantly. “You’ve got the uniform, the short hair—I don’t see anything girly in you right now.”
Chuuya’s throat burned. “But they will. They’ll look and—” He opened his arms in frustration, gesturing toward his chest. “…This. This isn’t… manly. Everyone will see.”
For a second, silence. Then Dazai blinked, and without hesitation, stripped off his sweater and shoved it into Chuuya’s hands.
“…What.”
“Wear it,” Dazai said simply, like it was the most obvious solution in the world. “It’ll hide it.”
Chuuya stared at him, sweater in hand, heart thundering so loudly it was almost deafening.
It did hide it. The sweater really did hide it—he checked ten thousand times in the cracked bathroom mirror after finally stepping out of the stall. He tugged at the hem, adjusted the tie, brushed his hair down flat, turned from side to side. Again and again. Yes. He looked… different. Not perfect, but close—close to something he had always wished for. Something that felt like him.
For a brief, dizzy moment, Chuuya actually smiled at his reflection.
But the moment didn’t last.
When they finally pushed the door open and walked into class, all that confidence melted. The air felt heavier in there. The stares cut sharper than knives. Of course people talked. Whispered first, low hums behind hands. Eyes darting, pointing. Then louder.
Of course they didn’t understand it as easily as Dazai had.
They still knew him as her. The version he hated, the one that had been forced onto him every damn day. A girl.
And Chuuya couldn’t even blame them, not completely. He knew it might take time for people to adjust, but standing there—every nerve in his body lit up with dread—it felt unbearable. He wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to fear. He was Chuuya Nakahara: strong, loud, quick with his fists, never backing down from anything. But this? This was different. This was terrifying.
And then, of course, Shirase had to open his mouth.
“What is this, Chuuya?” He gestured at him with a frown so sharp it was almost mocking. “The hell are you wearing? Did we have to come with costumes today or what?” He scoffed, loud enough for others to chuckle behind him.
Chuuya’s hands clenched, nails digging into his palms, but he forced a deep breath in. Don’t snap. Don’t give him the satisfaction. His voice was steadier than he felt when he said, “No. It’s not a costume. It’s the uniform I’m going to use from now on.”
Shirase’s eyebrows shot up like Chuuya had just told him he sprouted wings. He leaned back in his chair, staring at him with exaggerated disbelief. “The boy’s uniform?” His tone dripped with derision. “Chuuya, you do know that’s for boys, right? Because you’re not one. You’re a girl. That’s obvious.” His lip curled. “What the hell are you even playing at?”
“I’m not playing anything.” Chuuya’s throat was dry, but he stood his ground, arms crossing over his chest like armor. “And I’m not a girl. I’d like you to refer to me as a boy from now on. Because that’s what I am. That’s what I’m comfortable with.”
Lord, it was hard. His lungs felt like stone, every word sticking in his throat before it finally came out. Coming out—literally—was the hardest damn thing he had ever done.
Shirase blinked. His face twisted. Then he laughed. Loud. Cruel. It echoed. It stung.
But Chuuya swallowed hard. He could deal with this. Shirase was an idiot. He’d understand eventually, right? If he was really Chuuya’s friend, he would. He had to.
“You can’t be serious,” Shirase said finally, shaking his head like he was being forced to deal with a bad joke. “Chuuya, you were born a girl, and you’ll die a girl. You don’t get to change that.”
Chuuya’s fists tightened. He tried to shrug, like it didn’t sting, though his heart was pounding so loud he thought it might crack his ribs. “This is what I am, Shirase.”
“No,” Shirase scoffed, rolling his eyes like Chuuya was a child. “Don’t kid yourself. Basic biology, you know? At the end of the day, you’re just… what? A fake man? Which is basically a woman with a bad disguise.” He stepped closer, smirking. “You can’t change what’s between your legs, Chuuya.”
Chuuya’s face twisted in disgust, heat crawling up the back of his neck. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re disgusting. Idiot.”
But Shirase just kept smiling—one of those plastic, mocking smiles that had no warmth in it at all. “You don’t even look like a boy. Honestly, if this is a costume, it’s a pretty bad one.”
“It’s not a costume, Shirase,” Chuuya bit out, anger finally cutting through the fear.
“Sure, sure.” He let out a laugh and turned back toward his desk, shaking his head. “Whatever you say. Just do us all a favor and take that crap off before you embarrass yourself more than you already have.”
The words hung in the air like poison. Chuuya stood there, throat tight, nails digging half-moons into his palms, feeling every single eye in the room burning into him.
…After finally calming down enough, Chuuya forced himself to sit through the rest of class. He scribbled in his notebook, nodded when called, but his mind was fog. Every whisper behind him felt sharper, every laugh—whether it was about him or not—made his chest squeeze.
Apparently, Dazai had already gone behind his back and talked to Oda-sensei over the weekend. And Oda, of course, had talked with the other teachers. Which meant that when the bell rang, instead of freedom, Chuuya got the dreaded, “Nakahara, can you stay a moment?”
He did. But his stomach twisted the whole time.
The classroom emptied out, voices and footsteps echoing down the hall, until it was just the three of them. Chuuya sat stiff in his chair, hands shoved deep into his pockets, pretending he didn’t care. Pretending it was easy. Pretending this wasn’t eating him alive.
Oda leaned against the desk in front of them, calm as always, that steady tone in his voice—the one adults used when they thought they were being kind but couldn’t quite hide the doubt underneath. “I just wanted to know how things have gone today.”
He’d asked Chuuya to stay after class, but of course Dazai had tagged along too. Last class before lunch, and honestly, Chuuya didn’t even want to think about the cafeteria. His gut told him that was going to be a battlefield.
“Cool,” Chuuya muttered, shrugging and glancing away. “Of course it’s not perfect, but…” He trailed off, lips pressing together. His voice wasn’t shaking, at least. Small victories.
“Our classmates are jerks,” Dazai announced bluntly, arms crossed, standing a little too close like he was Chuuya’s guard dog. “They’ve been calling him names, saying harmful crap, being absolute motherfuckers.”
“Language, Dazai,” Oda sighed, though his voice was more weary than scolding.
“Sorry, Odasaku,” Dazai said with a shrug that wasn’t sorry at all. “But that’s the word. They are motherfuckers.”
Oda exhaled through his nose, staring at them both for a long, measured moment. Then he nodded slowly. “I see. In that case, you can tell me the names of the students, and I’ll personally talk to them. I won’t admit any kind of bullying in this class. I expect my coworkers to do the same.”
Chuuya’s throat tightened. He shifted in his seat, restless. “It’s just—”
“I can write a list,” Dazai interrupted immediately, already reaching across Oda’s desk and snatching a pen and sheet of paper like it was a mission. “Here. Look. Watch.” He stuck out his tongue slightly in concentration as he started jotting names down, muttering under his breath.
“Dazai, there’s no need,” Chuuya murmured, heat prickling at his ears. He kept his voice low, almost pleading. “They’re just… confused, that’s all.”
“Confused?” Dazai muttered, not even glancing up, his pen scratching fast across the paper. “Confused doesn’t mean they get to treat you like garbage.” His frown deepened. “Odasaku is just gonna talk to them. That’s it. Not like he’s gonna expel them or anything.”
Chuuya blinked at him, caught between wanting to argue and—God, was that his chest tightening again?—wanting to just… let Dazai fight for him. Because no one else ever had.
Thankfully, they decided to skip the cafeteria altogether and hide away in the library. Risky move—technically, eating in there was forbidden—but Dazai had a talent for bending rules until they obeyed him. Somehow he always managed to find a quiet corner, tucked behind shelves that no one bothered to patrol. And, like magic, no teacher caught them.
Chuuya sat cross-legged in the chair, lunchbox on his lap, but his appetite had vanished hours ago. His stomach felt like knives twisting, every little memory of laughter and stares gnawing at him. He picked at the bread of his sandwich without taking a bite.
“Chuuya doesn’t look happy,” Dazai murmured, leaning sideways until his shoulder pressed lazily against Chuuya’s. His voice was teasing, but his eyes flicked down, watchful.
“Well, Chuuya is being judged in the mind of every one of his classmates and teachers right now,” Chuuya muttered, his tone sharper than he intended. He kept staring at the sandwich, untouched, as if it held answers.
Dazai let out a long sigh, tilting his head. “We have to start somewhere… if you’d never said anything, well…” He trailed off, huffing quietly, as though the rest of the thought didn’t need to be said.
“I don’t know… I mean…” Chuuya tilted his head back against the chair, letting his eyes trace the ceiling as if it was easier than looking at Dazai. His throat tightened around the words. “Thank you for all this.” His voice dropped. “Really.”
“You’re welcome.” Dazai bumped their shoulders together, playful, like it was nothing—like it wasn’t heavy.
“But it’s not easy, Dazai,” Chuuya said, shrugging one shoulder, finally flicking his eyes sideways to him.
“It’s day one, Chuuya.” Dazai’s grin softened, less smug, more real. Slowly, under the table where no one could see, his fingers brushed against Chuuya’s hand. And then he laced them together, easy, casual, as if it wasn’t the boldest thing in the world. “Besides… I’m here. I need a happy Chuuya—a Chuuya who’ll still play with me. And I’ll do anything I have to so he comes back.”
Chuuya blinked, startled at the sudden warmth in his palm, at how much steadier it made him feel. “You and your damn bets.”
“I’ll beat Chuuya in every game,” Dazai said smugly, but his voice was gentler, softer than usual. “But it’s no fair if Chuuya is not Chuuya. And I play fair.”
Chuuya let out a small, reluctant chuckle. “You wish. You’re a cheater.”
“What? No!”
“You’re full of bullshit.”
“I’ve never cheated in a game.”
“You have.”
“Chuuya is just a bad loser.”
“Ha, no.”
“You are.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Their eyes locked, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air. And then, like a string snapping, both of them cracked up—Dazai laughing freely, Chuuya quieter, but genuine. For a few seconds, it felt lighter. Easier.
Dazai leaned in until his head rested comfortably against Chuuya’s shoulder, stealing his space without asking. His voice dropped to a whisper, just for him. “I’m not much, but I’m here, Chuuya.”
And for the first time that day, Chuuya let himself believe him.
When Chuuya was about to slot his key into the door of his house, a sudden realization hit him so hard it made his chest squeeze. His hand froze on the knob. If his parents saw him wearing the boys’ uniform, there was no “discussion,” no “understanding.” Things would get bad—really bad. His throat went dry, and for a second all he could hear was his heartbeat pounding like a warning bell.
He panicked.
Slowly, he turned his head. Dazai was just a few steps behind, humming some tune under his breath, like he hadn’t a care in the world. Completely useless.
Chuuya’s stomach twisted. He had his regular girl’s uniform stuffed in his bag, but he couldn’t exactly strip in the middle of the street, and Dazai’s house was way too far. His brain scrambled through possibilities and landed on the only one he had.
Uh.
Chuuya grabbed Dazai’s wrist without warning and tugged him sharply to the side. Dazai let out a surprised little noise but followed anyway, stumbling along as Chuuya pulled him toward the narrow gap between his house and the neighbor’s. They ducked behind a scraggly bush, shielded just enough from prying eyes. Chuuya dropped his bag onto the dirt with a thud and yanked off the sweater he was wearing.
“Uh, you can keep it if you want,” Dazai said, raising an eyebrow, clearly amused.
“No, I can’t. Take it.” Chuuya shoved it into Dazai’s chest, a little too hard. “Now be useful and cover me while I change.”
Dazai blinked, still half-grinning. “Change?”
“Yes.” Chuuya’s voice came out sharp, almost a hiss, as he gestured wildly at the uniform. “If my parents saw me like this, they would kill me.” His face heated with panic and frustration, hands moving too fast as he tried to explain. “So just—turn around!”
For once, Dazai didn’t argue. He just blinked, spun on his heel with exaggerated obedience, and hummed again. “Okay, okay… but you have to tell them someday.”
“Not now.”
“Okay…” Dazai dragged out the word like he didn’t believe him but wasn’t pushing—yet.
Chuuya was already stripping the shirt off his shoulders, his movements frantic, and pulling the stiff blouse of his regular uniform over his head. The fabric felt heavier than usual, suffocating in a way. He stuffed the boy’s shirt into Dazai’s arms without looking. “I can’t have it either. If I put it in the laundry, they’ll know.”
“So you’re gonna change every day at school?” Dazai asked, glancing over his shoulder just enough to see Chuuya scowling at him.
“…I guess.” Chuuya muttered, buttoning quickly, chest tight with the weight of it all.
Dazai huffed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Fine. Then I’ll bring you a clean uniform every day… The things I do for my dog.”
Chuuya whipped his head toward him, face flushed. “Shut the fuck up.”
But Dazai just grinned, tucking the stolen shirt under his arm like it was a secret pact, like this was all a game he was willing to play for as long as Chuuya needed.
Let’s say that after a whole week surrounded by jerks who never shut up—Shirase rolling his eyes, Yuan brushing everything off like Chuuya was just playing dress-up for fun—and after the exhausting routine of hiding everything before going home, changing in the school bathroom like it was a crime, Chuuya had honestly forgotten that Dazai had invited him over that Sunday.
He literally only remembered when his phone buzzed with a message that morning.
Mackerel:
Don’t forget to come!
Get all dolled-up.
Chibi.
Chuuya blinked at the screen, his stomach flipping. Crap. He had to ask his parents. And that alone was a risk.
Still, he pushed himself to do it, trying to sound casual, almost disinterested, when he asked if he could go. He braced himself for a long interrogation or a flat-out no. But… to his surprise, it went well. They said yes. Permission granted. Relief hit him so strong he had to stop himself from showing it too clearly.
The gathering was at 2 p.m., which gave him enough time to get ready—and enough time for his nerves to grow claws and scratch at his insides. The problem wasn’t just what to wear. The problem was his mother.
She insisted—again—on that pretty blue dress she adored, the one that made Chuuya’s skin crawl the second it touched his hands. She practically shoved it at him, eyes soft with expectation, and Chuuya hated how his chest tightened with guilt when he had to refuse. It took nearly an hour of pushing back, of repeating himself, of listening to her sigh and start up the same speech she had given a hundred times in the past weeks.
Why had he let Dazai cut her hair? Why was she trying so hard to look different? Didn’t she understand how pretty he looked before?
Chuuya gritted his teeth through it, nodded at the right times, let it wash over him like a storm he couldn’t stop—but in the end, he won. No dress. No compromise.
Instead, he dressed in what he wanted.
It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t special—he didn’t dare go too far, didn’t want to give his parents another reason to complain. But it was his. A short-sleeved black button-up, soft brown pants, polished black shoes. He added the little things that made him feel more himself: the familiar choker at his neck, a ring, a bracelet.
He still hated the way his chest was noticeable under the fabric, how the shirt clung just slightly where he wished it didn’t. He tugged at the hem, fidgeted with the collar. It wasn’t perfect. But it was okay. He could deal with okay.
His mother drove him to Dazai’s house, chatting idly the whole way while Chuuya sat stiff, his mind buzzing too loud to listen. The car slowed to a stop, and his pulse quickened. Okay. He could do this.
It wasn’t his first time seeing Dazai’s parents, but… kind and warm weren’t exactly words he’d ever use for them. Polite, yes. A little cold, sometimes. He stepped out of the car and walked up to the door, heart thudding.
When it opened, Dazai’s mother stood there, perfectly composed. She looked at him for a moment, eyes narrowing in thought, like she was trying to place him. “Oh, you must be… a ginger boy?” she murmured, almost to herself. Then, aloud: “What is your name?”
“Chuuya. Chuuya Nakahara,” he said, bowing slightly out of habit.
“Ah! Chuuya,” she chuckled softly. “Sorry—I thought you were a boy for a moment. My mistake.”
“I am, Mrs.,” Chuuya said, blinking at her, forcing his voice to stay steady.
She stared at him for a beat too long. “Oh, yes? Didn’t Osamu mention that…?” She tilted her head, puzzled. “But we have seen you before.”
Chuuya swallowed, throat dry. “I am, Mrs.,” he repeated, firmer this time.
Her brow arched, a flicker of something in her expression—surprise, maybe, or curiosity—but then she simply shrugged, letting it slide off her shoulders. “Please, come in. Osamu is waiting in the living room.”
Chuuya exhaled slowly, a quiet sigh of relief escaping before he could stop it. One step done. One battle survived.
Dazai’s house was… too much. Always had been. The kind of place that screamed money from every polished surface. Chuuya had been there before, but today it looked even more dressed up—flowers in expensive-looking vases, a faint scent of fresh polish in the air, little details that made the space feel more like a museum than a home. Chuuya shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked down the long hallway, shoes clicking softly against the glossy floor, until he found the living room.
There, sprawled on the couch like he owned the world, was Dazai. He had that face again—that blank, off expression that made it look like he was far away in his head, not even present. Across from him, sitting with the kind of posture that spoke of confidence, was a girl Chuuya didn’t recognize.
For a second, Chuuya hovered at the doorway, nerves crawling up his throat. But then he took a breath, squared his shoulders, and let the words slip out. “When can I throw you into the pool? You know, mackerels should be in the water.”
The corners of Dazai’s mouth twitched—then his head snapped up, eyes locking onto him. Just like that, his whole expression changed, lighting up as if someone had flicked a switch. “I’m a land mackerel,” Dazai declared as he sprang up from the couch. His grin widened the moment he really looked at Chuuya. “And oh-hoo, you look way too good for a slug.”
Chuuya’s cheeks warmed before he could help it. He rolled his eyes, huffing, “Idiot.”
But the idiot just grinned harder, practically glowing, like he had been waiting for Chuuya to walk in. “Ah, let me introduce you…” Dazai gestured lazily toward the girl sitting across from where he’d been. “Yosano Akiko. She’s a friend.”
Chuuya shifted his attention, polite even through the little knot of tension in his chest. He stepped forward, offering his hand with a small smile. “Nice to meet you. Chuuya Nakahara.”
Yosano stood immediately, moving with practiced grace, and chuckled. “A pleasure,” she said, shaking his hand firmly. “Osamu has talked a lot about you. I really think he—”
“Seems like you two get along,” Dazai interrupted smoothly, shooting her a sharp look before she could finish.
Chuuya blinked, curious at the cut-off, but let it slide.
“She’s the daughter of one of my father’s friends,” Dazai added quickly, waving his hand as if brushing off the weight of those words. “We’ve known each other since we were little. But she studies at another school.”
Chuuya nodded slowly, lips quirking. “Ah. Such a torture we’ve had to endure, huh?”
Yosano chuckled, and there was something delicate but undeniably genuine about the sound. “Osamu is so annoying. My father was even like, oh, you should try to win him over.” She made a face and gagged theatrically. “This attempt of a boy? Please. I’d rather marry a rock.”
The bluntness caught Chuuya off guard, and he let out a laugh before he could stop himself.
“EY!” Dazai cried, throwing his arms up dramatically. “You’re my friends—why are you ganging up against me?” His pout was so exaggerated it was ridiculous, like a stage actor about to faint from betrayal.
Yosano rolled her eyes and shook her head with practiced elegance, before turning her sharp gaze back on Chuuya. “Anyway, you’re… adorable,” she said, tilting her head slightly, as though examining him like some curious specimen. “Has anyone ever told you—” her lips curved into a sly smile, “—you’re kinda androgynous. You could pass as a girl easily.” She chuckled lightly, almost like it was meant to be casual, though there was a gleam in her eyes that showed she was gauging his reaction.
Chuuya blinked, his mind tripping over itself for a moment. The words stung and soothed at the same time. At least Yosano had addressed him as a boy, not questioning it, not dismissing it outright like Shirase had. That was… good. Really good. People were beginning to see him as he wanted, at first glance even. Recognition, even if partial. Still, “androgynous” wasn’t the look he was chasing. He didn’t want to hover in some in-between space. He wanted—needed—to be seen fully. Solid. Unquestionable. But… maybe it was a start.
His body moved before his brain did; instinctively, he crossed his arms over his chest like a shield and tried to lower his voice when he answered. “Ah, eh.” It came out awkward, hesitant, and his throat tightened.
Yosano caught the flicker in his eyes and lifted her hands in quick defense. “It’s a compliment—ish,” she added, almost rushing her words. “Don’t get me wrong. I meant it as one.”
Chuuya forced a small nod, forcing air out of his lungs. “Oh. Okay. Thanks, I guess.” His voice was a little firmer, though it still carried that edge of uncertainty he hated.
Dazai, of course, didn’t let the silence linger. He swooped in, pressing a dramatic sigh from his chest. “Chuuya is a too pretty slug, I know.” His hand rested on his forehead as if the thought alone was too burdensome. “But we should be talking about me. I’m the star today.”
That broke the tension like a pin through a balloon. Yosano and Chuuya exchanged a glance, both lips twitching before chuckles spilled out, quiet but real.
“We still have to wait for Ranpo,” Dazai mused, tapping his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “I’m not sure if Kunikida is even going to come.”
Yosano gave a casual shrug, folding her arms. “He’s probably just a little late.”
Dazai shook his head, eyes wide as though it were unthinkable. “He’s never late, Akiko.”
“Who knows,” she shot back smoothly, like she enjoyed poking holes in his supposed certainty.
Meanwhile, Chuuya blinked a few times, a little lost in the shuffle of names. The unease must’ve shown, because Dazai leaned toward him, his voice softening. “Don’t worry, Chuchu, all of them are friends of mine from before I got to our high school.”
“Because this thing got expelled,” Yosano added mischievously, sticking out her tongue.
Chuuya’s head tilted sharply. “Why?”
For once, Dazai didn’t grin or deflect immediately. He and Yosano exchanged a quick glance, something heavy flickering in the silence. Then Dazai sighed deeply, shoulders dropping. “Expelled is… a strong word. Not technically right.” He fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve, looking anywhere but at Chuuya. “I just did something I shouldn’t and decided to move to another school, that’s all. They didn’t expel me—they just… recommended it.” His smirk returned, but thinner this time, almost painted on.
That was new. Another piece of Dazai that Chuuya hadn’t seen before. Proof that there was more beneath the surface, shadows that didn’t show in his easy smirks. And it hit Chuuya—of course there was still so much he didn’t know. They’d only known each other for a year. Barely even friends until a few months ago. Still, curiosity gnawed at him, though he knew better than to press. If Dazai didn’t want to say, then… Chuuya would wait.
“Let’s go to my room in the meantime,” Dazai broke the pause after a moment, forcing cheer back into his tone. “The food won’t be ready for at least an hour, so…”
“You still sleep with that cow plushie?” Yosano’s grin stretched mischievously, her tone dripping with the intent to embarrass.
“No,” Dazai shot back instantly—too quickly.
Chuuya raised an eyebrow, catching the edge in his voice. “You did?”
“It was huuuuuuge,” Yosano cut in gleefully, stretching her arms wide for emphasis as she followed Dazai down the hall.
Chuuya’s lips twitched, and a soft giggle slipped out before he could stop it. The sound was small but warm, settling in his chest like something he hadn’t realized he needed.
It wasn’t the first time Chuuya had stepped into Dazai’s room, but that didn’t mean he knew it well. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d crossed that threshold, and the last time had been nothing more than a quick stop, barely a few minutes. So now, standing in the doorway for real, he let his eyes sweep slowly across the space, taking it in properly.
It was… unexpectedly neat.
A wide TV was mounted on the wall, gleaming in the soft afternoon light filtering through the half-drawn curtains. Posters covered the walls, but not in the chaotic, crammed-wherever-they-fit style Chuuya’s own room had—Dazai’s were arranged in some strange, deliberate order, spaced evenly, like they belonged exactly where they were. A large closet sat off to the side, sleek and closed tight, no clutter spilling out. The bed rested beneath the window, made up with white and blue sheets so crisp they almost looked unused. A simple desk bore his laptop, Dazai’s Switch, and a closed cardboard box shoved against the wall, as if forgotten.
And then—Chuuya’s eyes caught it.
On the desk chair sat a plushie. A cow plushie. Its big soft face and floppy limbs were entirely out of place in the otherwise tidy, almost minimalistic room.
Chuuya didn’t hesitate for even a second. He crossed the floor, scooped it up in both arms, and grinned. “It’s so cute,” he chuckled, hugging it against his chest and burying his nose in its soft fabric. “And soft.” The warmth made something in his chest loosen, and he held it just a little tighter, half to tease, half because it actually felt nice.
“Oh my, yes!” Yosano’s amused voice cut in from behind, her brow lifting slyly. “But where do you have Mr. Washington?”
Dazai visibly flinched, his whole face collapsing into a pout. “Broken,” he muttered, almost sulky. “A dog ripped his claw.”
Chuuya blinked at him, tilting his head. “What’s… him?”
“A crab,” Dazai sniffled dramatically, his voice thick with exaggerated grief. “I loved him.” He placed a hand over his chest as though recalling a fallen comrade.
Yosano leaned toward Chuuya, stage-whispering loud enough for the whole world to hear. “He means it literally. It was this red plush crab—he didn’t leave it for anything when he was younger. Lord, no one could even touch it.” She broke into laughter at the memory, eyes crinkling.
“Why are you trying to embarrass me?” Dazai whined, cheeks pinking, his hands flailing in mock fury as though he might strangle her where she stood.
Chuuya bit down on a laugh of his own, but it still slipped through as a grin. He looked at the cow plush in his arms and patted its head thoughtfully. “Nah, I think it’s not embarrassing,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual even as warmth tugged at his lips. “It just shows your possessiveness and clinginess.”
The words hung in the air, more pointed than he meant them to.
“Ah…” Dazai blinked, caught off guard. His expression faltered into something unreadable, almost too raw, before his usual grin slipped back into place like a mask.
Yosano clapped her hands, laughing again. “Yeah!” she agreed, clearly delighted to gang up on him.
Chuuya squeezed the cow plush against his chest once more, trying not to let himself think too hard about the strange flicker in Dazai’s eyes.
Suddenly, Dazai twitched—just the faintest flinch, but enough to make Chuuya notice. He tilted his head, sharp as if catching a frequency no one else could hear. “Oh, someone arrived—I'll come back in a sec,” he said quickly, and without waiting for a reply, slipped out of the room.
Chuuya blinked after him, frowning slightly. What ear he has… I didn’t hear a damn thing. The house was too big and too quiet, and the silence that followed his departure seemed to stretch unnaturally.
Slowly, Chuuya’s gaze turned to Yosano. She had moved to sit on the edge of the bed, posture straight but her face unusually heavy. No witty remark, no chuckle, just a sigh that seemed to settle in her shoulders.
They sat in silence for longer than Chuuya expected. Eventually, with the weight of it pressing against him, he crossed to the desk and lowered himself into the chair. The cow plushie was still there, soft against his lap, and without thinking too much, he hugged it to himself like a shield.
When Yosano finally spoke, her tone was different—low, careful, edged with something like concern. “It’s not my place to say it,” she began, eyes on the floor for a second before lifting to meet his. “But I’m his friend—and even though he texts me, I learned not to believe all he says.” Her expression softened, but her voice sharpened slightly. “So… how is he doing?”
Chuuya stiffened. The question caught him off guard. He blinked, then cleared his throat, buying himself a little time. “I think he’s doing okay…” he said slowly, giving a little shrug as if to make it sound less important than it felt. “He’s so annoying all the time, running here and there, teasing every living being.” He paused, fingers absently squeezing the plush. “I can’t say he’s happy, but… I think he’s okay.”
Yosano held his gaze for a long moment, her sharp eyes searching him as if she could measure the truth in his words. Then she gave the faintest nod, though her lips pressed together, unsatisfied. “At least.” The word was heavy, almost resigned, as if it wasn’t enough.
Chuuya shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, not sure what else to add.
The silence broke with the creak of the door. Dazai stepped back in, grinning like nothing had happened, followed by a tall blond boy with glasses who carried himself with an almost stiff, precise air.
“Kunikida-kun, please meet Chuuya,” Dazai announced, his grin wide, as though trying to smooth over whatever mood lingered in the room. “Chuuya, he’s Kunikida.”
Chuuya stood halfway, bowing slightly from his chair. “Nice to meet you.”
Kunikida inclined his head with a polite little smile, his movements neat, almost formal. “I’m sorry for the waiting—I promise this won’t happen again. My transport failed me—”
“Don’t worry,” Yosano cut in with a little huff, her seriousness from before suddenly replaced by her usual ease. “Literally, you don’t get late unless you’re dying.” She chuckled.
Kunikida adjusted his glasses with a push of his finger and nodded once. “Punctuality is a virtue.”
“Yeah, but you’re human,” Dazai sing-songed, and without ceremony, shoved Kunikida toward the bed so he plopped down beside Yosano.
Yosano blinked, then her expression morphed into exaggerated dismay. “Wait—I just realized this is gonna be literally a boys’ night and I’m the only girl.” She pouted, dramatic as ever. “Why are all my friends boys?”
Dazai giggled mischievously. “Aren’t boys the best friends of lesbians?” he teased, grinning like a child stirring trouble.
“Anyway!” Yosano rolled her eyes but laughed, tossing her hair back. “I have some half-friends at school, but—” she broke off with a theatrical sigh.
“Wait, the only girl?” Kunikida blinked, his brow furrowing. His eyes darted briefly toward Chuuya. “Wasn’t Chu—”
“Yes, the only girl,” Dazai cut in sharply, voice a little too quick, too pointed. He stepped between them, his grin tightening just slightly, and threw a wink at Yosano. “Consider yourself the exception, Akiko.”
Kunikida frowned, confusion flickering in his eyes as he looked at Dazai. “Really?”
Dazai shot him a look—a warning, almost.
Chuuya, watching from the desk with the plush still in his lap, felt a strange pang in his chest. His brows furrowed as he tried to piece together what had just happened. The air had shifted subtly, heavier, and though the others moved on with their banter, he couldn’t shake the sense that there was something unspoken threading under the surface.
Thankfully—or maybe not—Dazai once again excused himself and slipped out of the room, like a shadow vanishing through the hallway. The door clicked softly behind him, leaving Chuuya with Yosano and Kunikida.
And honestly? Chuuya didn’t know if that was okay.
They didn’t seem bad—Dazai’s friends. Not cruel, not hostile. Just… something felt off, lingering in the air like dust you couldn’t quite see but knew was there. Maybe it was the way their eyes sometimes lingered on him for half a second too long, or how their words carried tiny pauses, like they were weighing what to say.
Yosano had mentioned earlier that Dazai had talked about him before. And if Chuuya put the pieces together, it wasn’t hard to guess: whatever Dazai had said about him, it must have been back when everyone thought of him as a girl. That explained the slight tilt of their expressions, that tiny disconnect.
Of course. That was it.
It had only been a week since he came out to Dazai—and by extension, to the whole damn school. People needed time to adjust. He couldn’t blame them. He shouldn’t blame them.
So he told himself the same words on repeat, like a mantra pressed to his ribs:
Yes. Everything is going to be okay. Just wait. Give them time.
The door creaked open again, pulling him out of his thoughts.
“And, last but not least—Ranpo!” Dazai announced dramatically, sweeping back into the room as though he were onstage, gesturing toward the boy at his side.
“Actually, I’m the most important,” the newcomer smirked, voice brimming with smug certainty.
Chuuya blinked at him. Ranpo was… hard to ignore. His presence filled the room instantly, like he knew he belonged there and no one could argue otherwise.
“Of course,” Yosano chuckled, standing quickly, her face brightening. “Come here! I haven’t seen you in what—months?”
Ranpo tilted his head back smugly, eyes half-lidded. “Something like that. Osaka was… cool.”
“Wow, so specific,” Yosano snorted, wrapping her arms around him in a quick hug. “Idiot…”
Chuuya raised an eyebrow, watching the exchange. Something about Ranpo screamed smug bastard vibes, the kind of guy who said whatever he wanted and got away with it.
“So we’re complete,” Dazai clapped his hands once, satisfied. “We can start with the first activity of the day.”
Ranpo immediately flopped onto the bed as if he owned it, sighing like the weight of the world sat on his shoulders. “When do we eat?”
“In an hour,” Dazai replied smoothly.
“Ow…” Ranpo groaned dramatically, throwing an arm across his forehead. Then, mid-sigh, his gaze flicked to Chuuya, sharp and curious. “Oh, hi. I haven’t seen you before. You must be Chuuya.”
Chuuya straightened a little, clutching the plush in his lap without thinking. “Hi. Yes, nice to meet you.”
Ranpo didn’t bother to hide it—his eyes swept him up and down, openly, assessing. No tact, no attempt at subtlety. “Hm,” he hummed finally, smirking faintly. “You’re like I thought.”
Chuuya’s brow twitched. “Like… you thought?”
“I literally sent you all a picture,” Dazai interrupted, rolling his eyes.
“Shut up,” Ranpo huffed, crossing his arms as if he’d been challenged. “A picture isn’t the same as meeting someone. I was right anyway.”
Chuuya wasn’t sure if he should feel annoyed, curious, or wary. Maybe all three.
They lingered in silence for a while, the room filled only with the soft beeps of the TV as Dazai fiddled with the controller. He crouched on the floor in front of the screen, humming tunelessly under his breath, scrolling through menus with his usual restless energy. His legs were crossed, the controller loose in his hands, as if he had all the time in the world.
Chuuya, on the other hand, sat back on the chair with the cow plushie clutched to his chest, shoulders tense. He just hoped this didn’t turn into something awkward—or worse, humiliating. All of them clearly knew each other, their rhythm easy and familiar, and it left him feeling slightly like an outsider peeking into someone else’s group photo. And honestly, he wasn’t exactly in the mood for socializing these days…
“Karaoke,” Dazai announced suddenly with a wide grin, like he was unveiling some master plan. “I’ll pick two people for each round.” His grin stretched mischievously. “Time to show our skills.”
Kunikida made a tight-lipped face, already disapproving; Yosano let out an exaggerated sigh, puffing her cheeks in mock complaint; Ranpo only lifted an eyebrow, smirking faintly as if already plotting how to win even in karaoke.
Chuuya felt his stomach twist. Karaoke. Singing. It wasn’t that he disliked it—he actually liked it. Alone, in the shower, or when no one was around. But here? With people he barely knew, in Dazai’s ridiculously perfect house, with all eyes ready to judge?
What if his voice cracked? What if it didn’t sound… manly enough?
The thought coiled tight in his chest, sharp and cold. He squeezed the plush harder, fingers digging into the soft fabric, trying to steady himself. It was supposed to be fun. Just a stupid game.
“Okay, first round—Ranpo and Yosano!” Dazai declared, pointing like a judge.
The screen lit up with the familiar intro, the floating lyrics, and the first notes of Symphony.
Yosano’s eyes widened. “Wait—this one?” she gasped, her voice a mix of surprise and dread. “That’s too high!” She pressed her fingers lightly to her throat and groaned, sitting up straighter as though that might help.
Ranpo only smirked, rolling his shoulders as if warming up. “Don’t worry, I’ll carry you.”
“You? Carry me?” Yosano scoffed, though a smile tugged at her lips.
Dazai chuckled under his breath, tossing himself back onto the rug with his arms behind his head. “Ah, this is going to be good.”
Chuuya swallowed hard, shifting a little in his seat. His pulse hadn’t slowed down yet. Watching them joke so easily only reminded him he wasn’t sure if he belonged here at all.
Of course, there were a lot of jokes and laughter—Dazai was literally doubled over by the end of the song, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, wheezing like he was about to pass out. Kunikida, on the other hand, looked like his entire worldview had been crushed under the weight of Ranpo and Yosano’s performance; his expression was one of sheer sorrow, as if he had been forced to witness a war crime.
But for Chuuya? Honestly—it was funny. Genuinely funny. Watching Yosano’s voice soar, strong and rich, only for her to drop completely off-range on the next line. And Ranpo—well… Ranpo was clearly trying, but he sang with the kind of half-committed confidence of someone who thought being smug could replace technique. Chuuya wisely decided not to comment.
“I give you a…” Dazai sniffled, still breathless, tilting his head with exaggerated seriousness before breaking into a grin, “six out of ten.”
“Unfair,” Ranpo huffed, crossing his arms with mock offense.
Yosano tossed her hair back. “Six? For effort alone it should be an eight!”
“Life is cruel,” Dazai said solemnly, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. Then his smirk returned. “Next couple…” He tapped his chin, pretending to ponder before his grin widened. “Kunikida-kun! I bestow upon you the honor of singing with me!”
Kunikida actually swallowed hard, adjusting his glasses like he’d just been sentenced to death row. Chuuya couldn’t help but let out a small, muffled chuckle behind his hand.
And well… saying they sang well was generous. Kunikida was stiff as a board, completely out of time, his deep voice lagging behind the beat. Dazai, in turn, clearly could carry a tune, but every time he tried to harmonize with Kunikida it turned into a trainwreck. Their voices clashed horribly—like two songs being played on different radios in different rooms. And of course, Dazai couldn’t stop laughing halfway through verses, which didn’t help at all.
Still… Chuuya had to admit—though he’d rather swallow nails than say it out loud—Dazai wasn’t a bad singer. He wasn’t incredible, but his voice held enough control to sound decent, especially when he wasn’t cracking up.
When they finally collapsed back onto the floor, Dazai threw his arms open and sighed dramatically. “So, what score do you give us, Chuchu?”
Chuuya blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… a seven?”
“Yay!” Dazai whooped, pumping a fist into the air before spinning toward him with a grin. “Good. Now—who do you want to sing with?”
“Me?” Chuuya froze.
“Of course,” Dazai said, tilting his head, eyes fixed on him.
Chuuya hesitated, clutching the plush tighter. “…Whoever is fine, I guess.” He tried to sound casual, but his throat was dry.
Dazai narrowed his eyes knowingly. “Then sing with me.”
“You just sang!” Yosano protested immediately, groaning.
“And?” Dazai stuck out his tongue, grinning wickedly. “I’m the ruler here. Ruler’s privilege.”
Before anyone else could argue, he scrolled through the list, humming under his breath—and then hit play.
The moment the instrumental started, Chuuya’s stomach dropped. That song. That one. The one Dazai knew he liked. He remembered vividly—months ago—how Dazai had stolen his phone mid-walk, seen the playlist open, and mocked him mercilessly for having K-pop there… only to confess he liked the same group.
Of course Dazai would pull this now.
“Bastard,” Chuuya muttered under his breath.
The lyrics rolled on screen in Korean, and Chuuya’s head spun. Great. Just great. He didn’t even speak the damn language.
Dazai, naturally, jumped in first, half-serious, half-mocking, but still on beat. Then he turned to Chuuya, giving a sharp little gesture that screamed your turn.
Chuuya’s pulse raced. Instinctively, he tried to imitate the tone of the band’s singer—high and smooth—but he wobbled, off-key for a line or two before finally finding the rhythm. Relief washed through him as his voice steadied.
When the chorus hit, they both sang together—loud, slightly wrong, completely mismatched in pronunciation. But somehow… somehow, it worked. Not perfectly, but enough that laughter replaced tension. By the time they finished, Chuuya felt his chest loosen just a little.
Dazai flopped back dramatically, clutching his chest. “Oh-hoo! The slugs sing, and I didn’t know!”
Chuuya shot him a sharp glare. “Mackerels sing too—barely—wow.”
Dazai stuck his tongue out. Chuuya immediately mirrored the gesture. Dazai rolled his eyes. Chuuya rolled his back. And then—without warning—Dazai puckered his lips and blew him a kiss.
Chuuya froze, blinking like he’d short-circuited.
Dazai only laughed, loud and shameless.
Chuuya would’ve loved—absolutely loved—to skip the dinner. Or whatever this was supposed to be. Singing karaoke with Dazai’s friends had been fun; light, chaotic, the kind of thing that filled his chest with warmth even if he didn’t show it. But this? Sitting stiffly at a long table under the cold glow of the chandelier, with Dazai’s parents across from him?
God. He hated it.
The silence weighed heavier than the silver forks in his hands. He tried to focus on cutting the food on his plate, though his appetite had vanished completely. The knife squeaked against porcelain, and that small sound felt like it echoed in the cavernous room.
“I thought you had made more friends this past year,” Dazai’s father said at last, in that clipped, careful tone of his, slicing into his steak with mechanical precision. He didn’t even glance at Dazai at first—his eyes darted briefly toward Chuuya instead. “And who are you again?”
“Chuuya, sir,” Chuuya muttered quickly, his throat dry, his knuckles pale around the cutlery. He tried to breathe evenly, but it caught in his chest.
“That.” The man nodded once, unimpressed. Then he turned back to Dazai, as if Chuuya had ceased to exist. “Just one new friend?”
Dazai didn’t look up, didn’t even blink, just listlessly pushed the peas on his plate with the back of his spoon. “I thought friends were about quality, not quantity,” he answered flatly. A pause. “Besides, Oda-sensei and Ango-san couldn’t come. They’re busy with work.”
His father narrowed his eyes. “They aren’t even in your class. Oda-san is your teacher, Ango-san is Oda’s friend. That hardly counts.” His voice sharpened, like he was scolding. “I know what matters is having good friends, but…”
“Dear.” Dazai’s mother cut in, her smile taut, her tone strained. She shifted the conversation with practiced grace. “Better—how have you all been?”
Relief flickered briefly through Chuuya. At least the spotlight moved away.
“Very good, ma’am,” Yosano answered smoothly, polite and poised. “I’ve even started a small extracurricular course alongside school.”
“Oh, wonderful,” the woman said, nodding approvingly.
“School is going well for me too,” Kunikida added, posture straight, voice crisp. “I’m preparing for university exams, trying to build some connections early.”
“Very smart,” Dazai’s father said with the faintest trace of approval, finally lifting his glass of wine.
“Mm. Things go smoothly,” Ranpo chimed in, short and smug, barely lifting his eyes from his plate.
“As always,” Dazai’s mother said with a wry little chuckle, clearly used to that kind of answer from him.
Then silence fell again. Short, but thick, suffocating, the kind of silence that rang in Chuuya’s ears. He shifted in his seat, trying not to fidget.
“I don’t want to sound rude,” Dazai’s father said finally, dabbing at his lips with a napkin, tone deceptively polite. “But my wife and I have been… wondering.” His eyes flicked toward Chuuya, sharp and assessing, then back to his son. “We’re certain that the few times Chuuya-kun has visited before—he was a girl. We could be mistaken, but it’s…”
“Weird,” Dazai’s mother finished bluntly, her gaze narrowing.
Chuuya’s stomach dropped. He swallowed hard, lowering his eyes immediately to his untouched food, wishing he could shrink into the chair, vanish under the table—anything but be here. The back of his neck burned, his fork felt unbearably heavy in his hand.
But before he could even think of how to respond, Dazai spoke.
“Nope. Chuuya’s always been a boy,” he said casually, like he was swatting away a fly. He didn’t even bother to look at them, just shrugged, almost bored. “You just guessed wrong. You didn’t see him properly before.”
The sharpness of his tone left no room for discussion.
Thankfully—God, thankfully—the dinner ended after only a few more minutes. Chuuya would’ve gotten on his knees and thanked whatever divine being existed if it meant escaping that suffocating table sooner. Everyone had eaten faster than usual, plates cleared almost in silence, and the moment Dazai’s mother excused them, Chuuya practically bolted from his chair.
He didn’t even bother to hide it—he clung to Dazai’s sleeve like an anchor, following him down the hall, ignoring the weight of his own racing pulse. For some reason—strange and suspicious—Dazai’s mother called the others aside for “just a moment.” Chuuya didn’t question it. He didn’t want to question it. He just wanted to get away from that dining room.
Once inside, Dazai closed the bedroom door behind them with a soft click. He leaned back against it for a second, eyes shut, shoulders slumping as he let out a long, deep sigh—like he’d been holding his breath the whole meal.
Chuuya tilted his head, watching him carefully. “…Are you okay? They’ll come back any minute. You should leave the door open—”
“I’m sorry.”
Chuuya blinked, caught off guard. “…What?”
“For their questions. For all that,” Dazai muttered, finally opening his eyes. They looked tired, the light in them dimmer than usual, shadows tucked under his lashes.
Chuuya shook his head quickly. “It’s okay, really.” He tried for a little laugh, stepping closer. “They’re… cool enough, I guess. Not your parents, though—they’re scary as hell.” His chuckle was quiet but genuine.
That drew the faintest smile from Dazai, small and crooked. “Don’t hesitate when they say that kind of shit,” he murmured, voice low, almost warning. “If you hesitate, they’ll doubt you.”
Chuuya exhaled slowly, nodding. “Yeah, I know. It’s just… hard sometimes.” He shrugged, looking down at his hands. “I’m still getting used to being… called what I actually am. Out loud.” His words slipped softer and softer, like he wasn’t sure if he was admitting it to Dazai or to himself.
Dazai tilted his head, studying him. Then, with a small, knowing grin, he said, “The Chuuya I know would stand proudly and shout it at the world.” He winked. “That’s the Chuuya I want to fight with. The one I want to beat.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, scoffing lightly. “That Chuuya’s under maintenance right now. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
“He should hurry up,” Dazai pouted, lips curving down childishly. “…I miss him.”
The words landed heavier than Chuuya expected, sinking straight into his chest. For a second, his heart stopped, his breath caught. He stared at Dazai, unsure if he’d really meant it the way it sounded.
But before he could gather his voice, a sharp knock rattled against the door.
Saying school was easier with time was both a lie and the truth. It depended on the day. Some mornings Chuuya woke up convinced he could handle it all, and others he wished he could melt into the floor and disappear.
On one hand, things were improving—or at least shifting. The teachers were slowly getting used to calling him by his name, by what he truly was. Of course, it wasn’t always consistent. Some slipped up, some pretended not to notice, and in PE class he was still sorted with the girls’ group. That part always made his chest twist uncomfortably, though he tried—tried—to convince himself that maybe it made sense. Maybe. Just maybe, in some weird technical way. He told himself over and over that ignoring it was easier. Ignorance was happiness, after all. If he kept repeating it, maybe he’d believe it.
Most of his classmates were accepting, though. Slowly, awkwardly, but they were trying. That was what mattered.
But then there were others.
Chuuya had stopped caring about the strangers. Jerks from other classes who whistled or whispered as he passed by, idiots who thought they were clever. He ignored the crumpled slips of paper shoved into his locker, filled with words sharp enough to cut. He told himself he didn’t care. He could handle that. He was strong enough.
What hurt—what dug under his skin like glass splinters—was when it came from people who used to be his friends. People he’d laughed with, eaten lunch with, trusted. And weeks later, they still refused to see him, to call him what he was.
That stung.
That burned.
That really hurt.
“Still up with this, Chuuya?”
The familiar voice cut through the cafeteria noise, and Chuuya looked up from his untouched tray. Shirase stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, expression dripping with disdain. He had come to his table just for this. Again.
“How long will it take you to understand you’re not a boy?” Shirase sighed, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear.
Chuuya’s chest tightened, but he forced himself to breathe, to lift his chin and meet Shirase’s eyes like nothing was wrong. His grip on his juice box tightened. “…How long will it take you to understand I am a boy, Shirase?”
“I will when pigs fly,” Shirase barked a laugh. “I’m not trying to be mean. But do yourself a favor—this makes no sense. I know the trend now is to be, what was it? Trans? Transformer?” He scoffed, rolling his eyes as if the word itself was ridiculous. “Whatever it means. But stop trying to call attention. It’s embarrassing.”
Chuuya exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing a shrug, trying to hold the crack in his voice at bay. “You’re the only one calling attention, Shirase. Maybe try using your brain.” He lifted his juice, sipping casually, as if the words didn’t sting.
Shirase leaned forward, lowering his voice but making sure the bite in it stayed sharp. “I am using my brain. And news flash—a woman can’t just poof become a man.” He waved his hand dramatically. “That’s impossible. You’re just desperate for attention. You could get it in other ways, you know? Like being good at something. To start with.”
Before Chuuya could answer, a familiar lazy drawl cut in.
“Like being the biggest jerk in the room?”
Shirase turned, scowling. Dazai had slid onto the bench across from Chuuya with a tray in hand, already biting into his sandwich like he hadn’t just insulted someone. His grin was lopsided, eyes sharp. “Because if that’s the talent you’re banking on, Shirase-kun, congratulations—you’re a prodigy.”
“You, shut up.” Shirase’s glare sharpened. “This isn’t with you. This is a conversation with Chuuya.”
“Then maybe you should actually talk to him instead of talking at him,” Dazai said around a mouthful of bread. He swallowed, set his sandwich down, and leaned an elbow on the table. “Chuuya’s my friend. And if someone’s bothering him, guess what? I’ll be there.”
Something flickered across Shirase’s face—annoyance, maybe surprise, maybe both. Then he laughed, short and humorless. “Of course. You know what?” He nodded slowly, as if he’d just solved a puzzle. “Weirdos stick with weirdos. Makes sense. Should’ve figured the second you started hanging around this maniac.” He straightened, scoffing, and gave Chuuya one last look. “Good luck, Chuuya. I hope one day you stop fooling yourself.” He walked away, leaving his words hanging like smoke.
Chuuya’s grip tightened on his juice box until it crumpled.
Why didn’t Shirase understand? Why was it so impossible for him to wrap his thick skull around something so simple? It wasn’t rocket science—Chuuya wasn’t some alien, some strange creature that had to be dissected to be “figured out.” He was still human. He was still himself. The same laugh, the same temper, the same love for good food and music. The only difference was… he wasn’t what Shirase had assumed. He wasn’t a girl. That was all.
Why did Shirase treat gender like it was an iron cage, unbreakable, unchangeable? Like Chuuya had broken some holy law by saying out loud who he was?
Chuuya pressed his lips together until they hurt, the thought looping in his head until another detail bit at him. And what the hell did he mean by maniac when he referred to Dazai? Yes, Dazai was… Dazai—annoying, too smart for his own good, the type to flirt shamelessly just for fun. But he hadn’t done anything “crazy.” Just teasing, just joking. Just being himself.
Chuuya groaned softly and let his head fall forward, thumping gently against the cafeteria table. His hair slid into his face as he exhaled hard. “…It’s useless. He’ll never get it.”
A small hum rose from the other side of the table, light and careless. “It’s okay,” Dazai said simply, as if it was obvious. “That’s literally the sign you needed to stop being his friend.”
Chuuya lifted his head slightly to look at him through half-lidded eyes. “Uh-huh. And what did he mean by calling you a maniac? I mean—you are, but…”
Dazai only shrugged, as if the insult bounced off him like it didn’t matter. “If he talks so much shit, we probably shouldn’t pay attention to anything he says anymore.”
Chuuya groaned again, dropping his cheek against the cool table surface this time, voice muffled. “Why wasn’t I just born a boy? It would’ve been so easy…”
For once, Dazai didn’t immediately tease him. Instead, there was a soft huff, not mocking, not light. “I guess,” he murmured. Then, quieter, “But I think Chuuya is more of a boy than some people I know.”
That made Chuuya pause, blinking against the table. “…Yeah?” He tilted his head just enough to see Dazai take another bite of his sandwich. “Like who?”
“Shirase.” Dazai swallowed, gesturing lazily with his sandwich like it was the most obvious answer. “If we follow the most stereotypical definition of men, it always talks about maturity and character. Things he clearly doesn’t have. He literally needs to throw you down to feel bigger, which says everything about him. And he thinks someone else calling themselves a man affects his own manhood—which is ridiculous.” Dazai’s lips curled into something sharp. “He’s just masculinely fragile.”
Chuuya blinked, then snorted despite himself. “…Uh.”
“Think about it,” Dazai went on, shrugging again. “It’d be like me saying I feel threatened by you being a boy, just because you weren’t born a boy. Dumb, isn’t it?” He leaned back slightly, his grin crooked. “Gender is a construction, but it’s still… yours. Everyone’s. So what Shirase said? Dumb. Double dumb.”
The corner of Chuuya’s mouth twitched. He let out a little chuckle, soft but genuine. He could tell Dazai was trying—trying to frame it in a way that made sense, trying to build him a shield out of words and philosophy. And it wasn’t perfect, maybe it wasn’t even clear, but the effort… Chuuya felt it. He appreciated it more than he could admit.
He hesitated a moment before blurting, almost too quietly: “Can I ask why you got ‘expelled’ from your old school?”
That made Dazai freeze for a split second. He blinked once, his grin faltering before he looked down at his half-eaten sandwich. “…I’d prefer if you don’t.”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes, leaning up from the table. “Oh… okay.” He tried to lighten it with a crooked smile. “You didn’t steal or something, right?” he joked, nudging lightly.
Dazai just shook his head, no smile, no laugh—then took another slow bite of his sandwich, chewing carefully.
Something heavy settled in Chuuya’s stomach. There was something. He was sure of it.
When he first learned Dazai had been kicked out of that expensive, exclusive school, Chuuya had imagined dumb reasons—cheating on a test, sneaking into a forbidden room, skipping classes for weeks. Stupid, reckless, but still the kind of nonsense he could picture Dazai doing with a smirk.
But this reaction—this silence—made him realize it wasn’t dumb at all. Whatever it was, it was deeper. Darker. And for the first time, Chuuya wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.
"…Anyway,” Dazai murmured after a beat, his voice low, thoughtful, but still carrying that lazy nonchalance. “Back to Shirase’s shit. It’s dumb, still. Because if you being a boy means I am not—in some idiotic logic, of course,” he rolled his eyes dramatically, “then I would be, what? A girl?” He tilted his head, almost smirking. “And that’s… not a bad thing.” His shoulders lifted in another casual shrug. “Girls are pretty.”
Chuuya couldn’t help a chuckle, shaking his head at that. “Idiot. And what if it meant not being anything at all?”
“Then I’m nothing,” Dazai answered instantly, as if the thought didn’t even scare him. His eyes glimmered mischievously. “Wouldn’t it be kind of good if gender didn’t exist at all?” He leaned forward a little and winked, like he was letting Chuuya in on some clever secret.
Chuuya arched an eyebrow, curious despite himself. “…Good?”
“Of course,” Dazai went on, waving his hand like he was building the theory out of air. “Because—if we follow Shirase’s thought,” he leaned back again, abandoning his sandwich entirely now, “and you being a boy somehow threatens the entire concept of boyhood, then—consequently—it threatens mine too, right? So that means I wouldn’t be a boy anymore either. But if I’m not a boy…” He tilted his head, feigning deep confusion. “…what’s a girl? We could say I’m not a girl by the ‘traditional’ meaning, sure, but if the very concept of gender collapses the second you exist, then I wouldn’t be a boy or a girl.” He paused, then took an exaggerated, dramatic breath. “In conclusion—we shouldn’t have genders. Thank you.”
Chuuya stared at him for a second, then blinked, then burst out laughing. “You’re an idiot.”
“But I’m serious!” Dazai laughed with him, but his gaze had that sharp, restless spark again. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? Shirase doesn’t even know what he’s saying, but the logic behind his crap already has holes big enough to fall into. It’s like gender’s this… slippery thing, hard to pin down. Even in literature, did you know that?”
Chuuya tilted his head, confused but amused. “Literature? What does that have to do with anything? Aren’t genres just… categories?”
Dazai wagged a finger, as if correcting a child. “That’s just one definition. Genre—‘genus’ in Latin—comes from the same root as gender. Both are about classifications, labels. But even in literature, categories are fluid. Poetry can be prose, prose can be poetic. Stories break rules all the time. And yet people still try to shove them into neat little boxes.” He smirked faintly, eyes glinting. “Sound familiar?”
Chuuya groaned softly and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “You’re unbearable.”
“Brilliant,” Dazai corrected with a grin. “And—since you look so fascinated—I’ll continue.”
“I didn’t say I was—”
“So, literature genres.” Dazai ignored him entirely, lifting his hands as if giving a lecture. “We’re taught there’s prose, poetry, drama—clear categories. But when you actually read, you realize… nothing really fits. A poem can have dialogue like a play. A novel can be poetic. Drama can be prose in disguise. The more you study, the more you realize the categories don’t matter, because people write whatever they want.” He tilted his head, eyes glimmering. “Sound familiar yet?”
Chuuya opened his mouth, then closed it again. “…Are you really comparing gender to school essays?”
“Not essays—genres, Chuuya,” Dazai said, pretending to be offended. “It’s more like… identity. You can be written as one thing, but the text itself might resist. Maybe it wants to blur lines, break expectations. The label is just… convenient. For teachers. For librarians. Not for the story itself. The story is not the genre, people created genres because they had to name everything, label it.” He leaned forward, smiling faintly, voice softer. “You’re the story. Not the label.”
Chuuya blinked, stunned for a moment, his throat tightening before he managed to scoff. “…That was disgustingly poetic for you.”
“Oh, I’m not done,” Dazai smirked, clearly delighted by Chuuya’s reaction. “See, there’s also the idea of sub-genres. A novel can be crime, romance, fantasy, or all three at once. No one loses their mind about it—they just shelve it wherever it seems to fit best. So if people can accept that books can overlap and bend categories, why is it so hard to accept that people can too?”
Chuuya swallowed hard, staring at him. “…You really thought this through.”
“Of course I did,” Dazai said smugly, flopping back in his chair. “I love tearing down rigid systems. Besides, people like Shirase only see the library label on the spine and think it tells them the whole story. They never bother to actually read the book.” His eyes softened slightly, his grin curving into something gentler. “But I read you, Chuuya. I know the story’s real. That’s what matters.”
For once, Chuuya didn’t know what to say. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, because—what the hell was he supposed to do with that? He felt his cheeks heat up, so he muttered the first thing he could think of. “…You’re still an idiot.”
“Mm, but your favorite one,” Dazai teased, winking at him.
Chuuya groaned, burying his face in his hands to hide the flush spreading across his cheeks. “…God, I hate you.”
Dazai chuckled softly, humming under his breath like he’d just won something. Then, Dazai tapped his chin as if considering whether to leave it there, then snapped his fingers. “Actually—gender is also like… music genres.”
Chuuya groaned immediately. “God, here we go.”
“No, listen!” Dazai insisted, grinning like a kid about to drop a terrible pun. “Everyone says rock, pop, jazz, classical… but then you have subgenres—punk rock, synth-pop, smooth jazz. And then you get bands that mix them all, and you’re left wondering, is this electronic or indie or experimental? And the answer is: yes. It’s all of them, and none of them, depending on who’s listening.”
Chuuya tilted his head, watching him. “…You just compared me to a music genre.”
“Not just a genre,” Dazai smirked. “A whole playlist. Unique, curated, impossible to replicate. If anyone tried to copy you, it would sound like trash.”
Chuuya blinked, lips twitching despite himself. “…You’re such a nerd.”
“Excuse you!” Dazai pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “I am a philosopher of modern times. A connoisseur of metaphors. A—”
“A complete nerd,” Chuuya interrupted, smirking faintly now. “Who apparently spends his free time comparing people’s identities to… libraries and playlists.”
“And doing it brilliantly,” Dazai countered, unfazed. “You should be honored. People pay thousands to hear me speak.”
“Sure they do,” Chuuya said, rolling his eyes. But the warmth in his chest betrayed him, and he quickly looked away, pretending to focus on his juice.
Dazai leaned closer, grin widening. “So, which is it? Am I your favorite book or your favorite song?”
Chuuya turned back, narrowing his eyes. “…Neither. You’re just background noise.”
Dazai gasped dramatically, but the sparkle in his eyes showed he was enjoying every second of it.
Notes:
The comment Shirase does about 'lesbians are just traumatized" is one I've gotten in my life, indirectly or directly. And it's so idiotic... god
Chapter 2: ✐ᝰ
Notes:
∧ ,,, ∧
( ̳• · • ̳)
/ づ♡Have second chapter and all, I spent too much for you to just wait eternally, besides, I'll be busy. So here!
(19,702 words ish).𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Warnings:
Coming out (again)
Dazai's typical suicide mentions.
Conversations about bullying
Referenced suicide attempt (this is the 'Suicide Attempt' tag, so don't worry, guys)
Teenagers talking about sex
Mori
Awkwardness.
Referenced/implied (past) sexual assault (it's hard to explain, but I'll put it here, just in case)
Chapter Text
"Darling, we sacrificed
We gave our time to somethin' undefined
This phantom life sharpens like an image
But it sharpens like a knife."
—Who We Are by Hozier
Thankfully—just one good thing—this school year was almost over and summer was so close he could almost taste it. That meant a lot of things: no more homework, the start of long vacations, and most importantly… months without having to deal with jerks whispering behind his back. That was huge. That was basically the best news he’d had in weeks.
But of course, the universe couldn’t let him breathe without adding one tiny—really tiny, except not tiny at all—problem. The parents’ meeting. The last one of the grade, where teachers handed out reports and gave the “end of the year” talks. And Chuuya? He was in full-blown crisis mode.
He hadn’t thought this through. He knew his parents would be at school that afternoon, and sure, technically, he could just wear the boys’ uniform like he had been doing for months now. But when his parents saw him? He would have to change back into the old one—the skirt, the blouse, the whole thing he didn’t even want to look at anymore. The idea made his stomach twist. It felt like giving ammunition to every single classmate who still doubted him.
And the worst part? He only remembered this detail that same morning, while buttoning his shirt. He blamed the end-of-year haze—no more classes, everyone just pretending to study while waiting for summer to arrive. He had let his guard down.
Now here he was, heart pounding, whispering at the door of the bathroom stall.
“Dazai, Dazai, wait.” His voice was tense, almost breaking. “What if my parents see me in this uniform?”
Dazai, who was lazily leaning against the tiled wall, blinked at him. He yawned like this was the least urgent thing in the world. “...Ah. Well,” he stretched, “you don’t actually have to sit through the reunion, you know. You can just stick with me. Let them talk to the teachers, pick up the reports, and then, when it’s time to leave, you sneak into the girls’ uniform just for the walk home.” He shrugged, as if it were obvious. “Easy.”
Chuuya gritted his teeth. “Easy, he says…” He swallowed hard. “Or I could just—no. I can’t tell them. Not now. Not here.” His voice went low, almost hoarse at the thought.
Dazai tilted his head, watching him closely for a moment, then nodded, the teasing spark in his eyes dimming to something softer. “Okay. Then we make it a game. Hide and seek.”
Chuuya blinked. “What?”
“You hide,” Dazai said simply, smirking again, “and they seek… but they never find. You tell them you’re busy with something when they arrive. They already know where your classroom is, so you don’t even have to be there. They’ll just talk to the teachers, and poof—done. Crisis averted.”
Despite everything, Chuuya let out a breathy laugh. “You make it sound so stupid.”
“It is stupid,” Dazai said, grinning, “but that’s the best way to deal with it.”
Chuuya sighed, then stepped inside the stall, shutting the door behind him. His hands moved with practiced familiarity, unbuttoning his shirt. “Fine. Then I’ll play your dumb game.”
As they had been doing for the last week, they went to their assigned classroom for that period—but, as usual, they didn’t actually do anything. Everyone had already mentally checked out, teachers included, so the room was a mixture of soft chatter, tapping on phones, and the occasional thud of a desk as someone tried to nap. Chuuya and Dazai sat side by side in their usual desks, both scrolling idly, half-bored and half-relieved at the nothingness of it all.
At least, until Dazai decided boredom wasn’t his thing anymore.
“Let’s play,” he announced suddenly, leaning his head against Chuuya’s like it was the most natural pillow in the world.
Chuuya glanced at him from the corner of his eye, lips twitching. “Uh, what?”
“You heard me,” Dazai sing-songed. “Play.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, though a faint smile betrayed him. “…Fine. What’s the dumb idea this time?”
“Hm…” Dazai unlocked his phone with a flourish, thumbs flying across the screen. “I found this game in Roblox.” His tone carried that smug little spark that always meant trouble. “It’s like… you know, the usual ‘find the keys and escape before the monster eats us’ deal. But better. Faster. Scarier.” He chuckled low, tilting the screen toward Chuuya. “Just click on ‘follow me.’”
Chuuya huffed. It had been a while since he’d played anything. The last months had been more about homework, tests, and the constant whispers he had to pretend he didn’t hear, more about standing his ground than enjoying himself. Gaming had slipped away with all that noise. But… today? He felt oddly lighter. Not perfect, but okay. Okay enough to humor Dazai’s nonsense. Maybe even enjoy it.
So, with a sigh, he opened the app and waited for it to load—slowly, thanks to the data he was leeching off Dazai. (In his defense, why bother setting up his own when it was literally the last week of school?) He finally tapped on Dazai’s user, and the game screen lit up.
“Piggy? Again?” Chuuya groaned, letting his head drop onto Dazai’s shoulder as the familiar cartoonish map loaded. “I already beat you there.”
“Nah, nah, nah,” Dazai murmured, grinning. “That was before. Ancient history. I’ve been practicing.”
“Practicing?” Chuuya raised an eyebrow, though his voice was muffled against Dazai’s uniform sleeve.
“Yup,” Dazai said, puffing his chest dramatically as if this was a world-class confession. “You won last time because I didn’t know the mechanics. Now I do. Now we’re even.” He tapped the screen twice with exaggerated confidence. “This is the first official match of our list. I’m going to prove, once and for all, that I can beat you in every game.”
Chuuya snorted softly. “You sound like a kid,” he muttered.
“Correction,” Dazai said, smirking at his screen. “A genius kid who’s about to destroy you.”
Chuuya sighed, fingers moving to ready his character anyway. “Dumbass.”
The thing with Piggy was that it wasn’t exactly a game where they could always go head-to-head. Each round, a map was selected, and so was the “Piggy”(randomly though)—the monster. The rest of the players became survivors, scrambling around to find keys, unlock doors, and escape before Piggy caught them. Which meant that sometimes both Dazai and Chuuya ended up on the survivor side, and in those cases, there wasn’t much to “compete” about. Their self-made scoreboard only counted if one of them was chosen as the monster—or if, in a survivor round, one of them died ridiculously early. Then the point went to whoever lasted longer, or to whoever made it to the end.
Needless to say, Dazai had his priorities crystal clear. If he was Piggy, then the rest of the players might as well not exist. He only wanted one target. He’d wander the map with slow, echoing footsteps, his avatar’s oversized weapon dragging behind him—until he spotted Chuuya. And then the hunt began. He ignored the other survivors screaming in chat, he ignored the ones running right past him; he chased Chuuya across the map with laser-sharp focus, cutting him off at corners, deliberately blocking doors just to frustrate him.
Of course, Chuuya returned the favor when the roles flipped. If he was Piggy, then his eyes zeroed in on Dazai like a hawk. He wasn’t as obsessive—he still caught other players here and there, almost as warm-ups—but he always circled back, always kept Dazai in sight, determined to be the one who took him down.
When neither of them was the monster, though, the pattern was… unfortunately predictable. Usually, the first one to die was Chuuya.
Not because he was bad at the game—he swore, swore he wasn’t.
But because of the lag.
It wasn’t his fault that Dazai’s so-called “top tier” data plan was apparently garbage. Every time Chuuya tried to sprint away from the monster, the screen froze, jittered, and by the time it caught up—bam, “YOU DIED” plastered across the screen. He complained loudly every time, accusing Dazai of sabotaging him on purpose with “crappy signal.”
Dazai only laughed, insisting that lag was just “part of the challenge.”
Still, Chuuya kept trying. Round after round, through groans and curses, through the occasional triumph when he actually managed to survive until the end. And by the time the period was wrapping up, the scoreboard stood at a suspicious 5–4. Dazai in the lead.
“Suspiciously,” Chuuya muttered under his breath as the results glared back at him.
“Fair and square!” Dazai grinned, throwing an arm around his shoulders like he had just won the world championship. “You’ll catch up someday, little slug.”
“Like hell I will—your stupid data is rigged!” Chuuya barked, making a few students turn around to see what the commotion was.
Of course, the teacher had already scolded them more than once throughout the hour. Mostly because Chuuya couldn’t keep his volume down. It was impossible to stay quiet when he was cursing Dazai’s name after getting killed mid-lag.
Dazai only basked in his misery, humming smugly as if he’d just discovered the cure to boredom.
The next period meant… another game. Dazai was relentless once he got hooked on something, and this time he introduced Flee the Facility. On paper, it was almost the same as Piggy—a monster, survivors, and the desperate scramble to escape—but the mechanics were just crueler. The “beast” carried a giant hammer, smacking survivors down and dragging them with a glowing rope to futuristic capsules, where they’d be trapped and slowly frozen. The rest of the players could still save them, but only if they were quick enough. It was a terrifying little loop of chase, capture, rescue, and repeat.
Their “competition rules” stayed the same: the match only counted if one of them was the beast and the other a survivor. Still, there were plenty of rounds where both ended up survivors, hacking computers side by side. The “hacking” was just a mini-game—clicking at the perfect moment when a little bar hit the highlighted zone—but Chuuya took it way too seriously, biting his lip every time the bar moved, cursing under his breath when he missed. Because if you failed? The game sent out an alert to the beast, showing exactly where you were.
And in those moments, Chuuya yelled.
This game had even worse lag than Piggy, and it was infuriating. Imagine this: Chuuya, finally managing to corner a player, landing a clean hit with the hammer—except the animation just… didn’t register. The survivor shook it off like nothing happened and bolted away as if mocking him. Or worse, when he did land the hit, the player would be down on the floor, and Chuuya would try to hook them with the rope, only for the command not to work. The player would keep wriggling, literally bouncing up and down in laggy desperation, until the countdown finished and they got back up, sprinting away. Chuuya had only a handful of seconds to pull it off, and most of the time, the lag ruined him.
“Are you kidding me?!” he’d roar at the screen, shaking Dazai’s arm. “I hit him, I swear! Your stupid signal is broken!”
Meanwhile, Dazai—smug, evil, borderline cheating Dazai—was thriving.
When he was a survivor, he took full advantage of Chuuya’s lag, swooping in to rescue every single player Chuuya managed to down. He’d dash in, unhook them from the capsules, wave, and disappear before Chuuya could blink. Sometimes he’d even let out a laugh under his breath, which only made Chuuya scream louder.
And when Dazai was the beast? Oh, god help everyone.
He was unfairly good at it. Too good. Somehow, he always knew exactly where Chuuya was, no matter how carefully Chuuya tried to sneak. Every time he were to hack a computer, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up—because within seconds, there came the loud, echoing stomp of the beast’s footsteps, and Dazai was already there, hammer raised, grinning at him through the screen.
“It doesn’t make sense!” Chuuya shouted, practically vibrating with fury. “You’re peeking at my screen! I know you are!”
Offended, Dazai would press a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. “Me? Cheat? Chuuya-kun, I would never. Maybe I just… know you too well.”
“Bullshit!” Chuuya growled, shoving his chair a little further away from Dazai’s desk, twisting his body so his phone screen was hidden. “Try now, bastard.”
And still—it kept happening. Every time.
“Ugh!”
By the end of the round, Chuuya was red in the face from yelling, his voice hoarse, and Dazai was smirking like he had just solved world hunger.
After the teacher scolded them for the fifth time in that hour, they finally took a break. The classroom was quiet except for the lazy hum of the fan above, doing nothing against the sticky heat of summer. Chuuya felt sweat trickle down his back, his cheeks flushed—not just from yelling at Dazai during the game but from the suffocating warmth. Yelling and summer was a horrible mixture. But the worst offender? His sweater. It clung to him, itchy, heavy. Still, he refused to take it off. It covered his chest, and that was worth all the discomfort in the world.
So he grit his teeth and endured, fanning himself slightly with his notebook.
Beside him, Dazai sprawled in his chair as if the heat didn’t exist. He leaned lazily against Chuuya’s arm, scrolling through the Roblox catalog with a mischievous hum. Suddenly, he lit up. “Oh, look at this. Cute,” he said, tilting his phone so Chuuya could see.
On the screen was Dazai’s avatar—already eerily similar to him, down to the messy brown hair and long coat—now wearing a ridiculously frilly pink skirt.
Chuuya blinked. “…What the hell.”
“Fashion,” Dazai announced, smirking. “I’m thinking about adding it permanently.”
Chuuya snorted, turning his face away. “Uh. People who have Robux.” He mumbled the words bitterly, his pout only making Dazai grin wider.
Dazai chuckled, bumping his shoulder against Chuuya’s. “I gave you some once.”
“Once,” Chuuya muttered, clicking on his own avatar. It popped up on the screen—same hair he’d bought months ago, plain clothes, nothing flashy. “And I used it all to buy this hair. That’s it. This shit’s expensive.”
Dazai leaned closer, squinting at Chuuya’s character before breaking into a loud laugh. “Oh my god, look at you. Basic-ass avatar. Plain, boring, zero drip.” He put on a fake pitying voice. “Poor Chuuya. Poor, poor Chuuya.”
Chuuya’s eye twitched. “Shut the fuck up. Robux doesn’t make someone.” He pushed Dazai’s shoulder away, huffing, though his ears burned red.
“Mm, sure. Tell that to my skirt,” Dazai sing-songed, spinning his phone around to flash the ridiculous pink outfit at him again.
Chuuya groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re insufferable.”
After a few moments of scrolling, Dazai let out a long, over-the-top sigh, throwing his head back against the chair as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. “Fine,” he said with a tragic expression, tapping on his screen. “Okay. I’ll give you some. I’ll be good, I’ll be generous.” His tone was so dramatic that a couple of students nearby turned their heads, annoyed.
Chuuya bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile at how ridiculous he looked. “Oh, yeah? I don’t need them.”
Dazai froze mid-tap. “…Oh. Okay, then—”
“But if you insist,” Chuuya interrupted quickly, tilting his head and batting his lashes in mock sweetness. “I guess I can’t say no.”
Dazai’s grin returned instantly, sharp and boyish. “That’s what I thought.”
In the end, Chuuya spent the Robux with the same practicality he used when shopping in real life—no frills, no ridiculous accessories, just a clean little outfit that made his avatar look less like it had spawned five minutes ago. Nothing too expensive, though; he couldn’t stomach wasting too much of Dazai’s gift, not even for digital clothes.
They were about to pick another game when Chuuya’s screen dimmed for a second. He blinked, then noticed the little red battery icon glaring at him from the corner. Damn Roblox. The stupid app ate through battery like it was starving.
“Ugh,” he muttered, checking. “My phone’s in nine. Do you have a charger?” he asked hopefully.
Dazai tilted his head, expression blank. “No. Why would I?”
Chuuya groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. “Why would you not? Everyone carries a charger.”
“I don’t,” Dazai sang, clearly enjoying his suffering. Then his eyes widened with a faux gasp. “Oh nooo, my rival can’t play now.” He clasped his hands dramatically against his chest, pouting in exaggerated despair. “How tragic. Guess that means… break time.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the little laugh that slipped out. “You’re unbearable.”
Dazai leaned closer, smirking. “And yet… you’d be bored without me.”
When the bell rang for lunch, Chuuya immediately started asking around for a charger. Some classmates had one, but of course, none were compatible with his phone. Others shrugged, saying they hadn’t brought theirs at all. With every “no,” Chuuya grew more frustrated. It was ridiculous—how could so many people carry the wrong cable? In the end, tragically, the only person who saved him was Oda-sensei. The teacher didn’t hesitate to pull a charger out of his desk drawer, calm as always.
Chuuya, mortified, didn’t dare walk out of the classroom with it. He left his phone charging neatly on Oda’s desk, mumbling a polite thanks before fleeing with his tray. He’d come back for it after lunch.
But now, walking down the hallway toward the cafeteria, Chuuya felt like he was melting into the floor tiles. His whole body was heavy from the heat, his face flushed, and sweat clung uncomfortably to the back of his neck. He fanned himself with one hand, glaring at the sun that bled in through the windows. “I’m dying,” he breathed out dramatically, dragging his feet.
“It’s so hot, I know. Just take the sweater off,” Dazai said, hands in his pockets, strolling as if the suffocating heat didn’t bother him at all.
Chuuya shook his head instantly, lips pressed tight.
Dazai arched an eyebrow. “Why not?” His voice was immediately suspicious, curious, like he was already preparing for the most inconvenient argument possible. “It’s like when you told me, ‘take off your bandages.’”
“Exactly.” Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “You don’t take off your bandages even if we’re on fire.”
“Because it’s different,” Dazai countered, sighing as if he were lecturing a child. “Bandages breathe ten times better than a sweater.”
Chuuya clicked his tongue and looked away. The sweat under the fabric was unbearable, but still… “But…” He let out a deep sigh, shoulders stiff. “I just can’t.”
Dazai slumped against him, bumping his shoulder lazily. “I know you think your chest is giant,” he drawled, eyes glinting with mischief, “but let me take you down from that cloud… it’s not.” A chuckle escaped him. “It barely even shows without the sweater.”
Chuuya’s arms instantly crossed protectively over his chest, his cheeks tinged red—not only from the heat now. “No. Period.”
“Chuchu…” Dazai groaned theatrically, leaning his full weight against him until Chuuya nearly tripped. “You’re gonna get super hot and… die.”
“No is no,” Chuuya snapped, shoving him off, though there wasn’t much anger behind it—just stubbornness and the kind of embarrassment only Dazai could pry out of him.
By the time they reached the cafeteria, Chuuya was ready to collapse. His bangs stuck annoyingly to his forehead, and he could feel the sweat running down his back, pooling uncomfortably under the thick fabric. He set his tray down with a heavy sigh, immediately tugging at the neck of the sweater to get at least a little bit of air in.
Dazai plopped down beside him, perfectly unbothered, popping a grape into his mouth like the heat was nothing more than an idle inconvenience. “You look like you just ran a marathon, Chuchu.”
“I feel like I did,” Chuuya muttered, stabbing half-heartedly at the food on his plate. He leaned back in his chair, fanning his face again, though it barely helped.
Dazai tilted his head, eyes narrowing mischievously. “There’s a very simple solution to this.”
Chuuya glared at him, already knowing. “Don’t.”
“Take. Off. The sweater,” Dazai sang under his breath, leaning closer, his shoulder brushing against Chuuya’s. “Just imagine how refreshing it’d be. Freedom.” He stretched the word out like he was selling paradise.
“No.”
“Yes,” Dazai shot back immediately. “You’re gonna faint one of these days, and then everyone will know you passed out because you were too stubborn to—”
Chuuya stuffed a spoonful of rice into his mouth just to stop him from finishing that sentence. He chewed furiously, refusing to look up.
Dazai, however, wasn’t done. He rested his chin in his palm, studying him with a lazy grin. “What’s the point of hiding anyway? Nobody’s staring. And even if they were—so what? They’d be too distracted by your grumpy face to notice anything else.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re overheating,” Dazai countered, reaching out suddenly to pinch at the sleeve of the sweater, tugging lightly at it. “I could just—”
Chuuya swatted his hand away so fast the tray rattled. “Touch it and die.”
That only made Dazai laugh, leaning back in his chair with both hands raised in surrender. “Fine, fine. But when you pass out mid-sentence, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Chuuya huffed, tugging at the cuffs to make sure they covered his wrists completely, as if to seal the sweater tighter around him. He wasn’t going to take it off. Not here, not anywhere public. The thought of exposing himself, of letting people see what he hated most, tightened his chest worse than the heat ever could.
But Dazai’s words lingered anyway, annoying little echoes at the back of his mind.
“You know what? Let’s sneak into the computer classroom,” Dazai suddenly suggested, sighing dramatically like he’d just been struck with divine inspiration. He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if they were plotting a crime. “There’s AC. Come on.”
Chuuya blinked, his fork frozen mid-air. “…Oh my god, please.”
“See? I knew you’d like the idea.” Dazai’s grin widened as he shoved his tray away, already halfway out of his seat. He didn’t even wait for Chuuya’s answer, just tugged on his sleeve to make him stand up.
“Hey—at least let me finish eating—” Chuuya complained, fumbling to grab his juice box before Dazai practically pulled him out of the chair.
“You’ll thank me later, Chuchu. Cold air is better than lukewarm rice.”
They slipped out of the noisy cafeteria, weaving through groups of students still loitering in the hallways. Chuuya could feel his face heating up even more—not from the sweater this time, but from the thought of getting caught sneaking around like this. “What if a teacher sees us?”
“Then I’ll say you fainted from heatstroke, and I, your noble friend, was rushing you to safety.” Dazai winked, clearly entertained by his own excuse.
Chuuya groaned. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Believably smart,” Dazai corrected smoothly.
When they reached the computer lab, Dazai tried the door. It was locked. Chuuya immediately folded his arms. “Great plan, genius.”
Dazai smirked, fishing a bobby pin out of his pocket like it was the most normal thing in the world. “You underestimate me.” He crouched down and fiddled with the lock, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. Within seconds, a soft click echoed in the hallway. He looked up at Chuuya with mock innocence. “Ta-da~.”
Chuuya stared. “…Why do you even know how to do that?”
“Trade secret,” Dazai hummed, pushing the door open and gesturing dramatically for him to go in first.
The moment they stepped inside, a wave of cool air brushed over their faces. Chuuya nearly melted on the spot. “Ohhh, finally,” he sighed, letting his head fall back.
“See? You’re welcome,” Dazai said smugly, closing the door behind them and collapsing into one of the swivel chairs. He spun lazily once before stopping, watching Chuuya peel the sweater away from his skin just enough to feel the AC better.
Chuuya leaned against one of the desks, eyes closed, a blissful little sigh escaping him. “…This is heaven.”
Dazai grinned. “Heaven with rows of dusty computers and terrible chairs, but hey—if you’re happy, I’m happy.”
Chuuya cracked an eye open to glare half-heartedly at him. “You’re such an idiot.”
“And yet you followed me,” Dazai sing-songed, spinning again in his chair. “Which makes you an accomplice.”
Chuuya groaned, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself. For a moment he just sat there, weighing it in his head. The room was empty, just them, no one to whisper or stare. And god, the heat was unbearable. Finally, with a long exhale, he tugged the sweater over his head and dropped it onto the desk beside him. The relief was instant. Cool air brushed over his arms and neck, his damp skin sighing with him. His shoulders slumped as if a weight had been lifted, and he leaned back on his palms, half-seated on the desk, eyes fluttering shut. He was still warm, still sweating, but the AC cooled him quickly, and for the first time all day he could just… breathe.
When he finally opened his eyes, Dazai was spinning lazily in the swivel chair like some oversized child, humming off-key and tilting his head back as if he didn’t have a single worry in the world. The sight made something twist in Chuuya’s chest. Maybe jealousy, maybe admiration, maybe both.
He muttered, almost to himself, “Shirase is right—”
The chair stopped mid-spin with a sharp screech. “Oh, you did not just say that.” Dazai pointed an accusatory finger at him, scandalized.
“I mean…” Chuuya’s voice dipped, his eyes dropping to his shoes. “In the fact that… I don’t look… that I could look more like a boy.” The words tasted sour, but they spilled anyway.
“Chuuya, for the millionth time, you do.” Dazai huffed, leaning forward, eyes sharp with that stubborn certainty he always carried.
Chuuya met his gaze, sighed, then tried to backpedal, weakly. “…Okay, fine. Let’s say I do—even though I don’t—”
“You do.” Dazai’s tone was unyielding, like he was correcting a fact as basic as two plus two.
Clicking his tongue, Chuuya gestured vaguely at his chest. “And this? What about this? I can’t just go around freely, I have to wear this stupid sweater like armor all the damn time.”
“Because you want to,” Dazai countered immediately. He waved a hand. “But, as I already told you, your chest isn’t that noticeable. You act like you’ve got an entire melon stand under there.”
Chuuya scowled. “Shut up. You don’t get it.” His voice lowered, barely more than a mutter. “…I just… I’d like a binder. Or something like that. That’s all.” He turned his face away, shame burning at his ears. “But if I ask my parents for money, they’ll ask questions and… what can I even say?”
“Easy,” Dazai said with that maddening casualness. “Tell them it’s for a school project.”
Chuuya gave him a flat stare. “Yeah, because school projects cost thousands of yen. Totally believable.”
“How much is it, then?” Dazai raised a brow, as if preparing for some outrageous number.
“…About six thousand yen,” Chuuya admitted reluctantly.
Dazai’s reaction wasn’t shock—it was a snort, followed by a chuckle. “That’s it? Nothing.” He leaned back in the chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Okay, I’ve got a plan. Ask them for three thousand, I’ll cover the rest. Deal?”
Chuuya blinked, stunned. Then his eyes narrowed, suspicion lacing his voice. “…What? Why? No.”
“Yes.” Dazai rolled his eyes as if Chuuya were being the unreasonable one. “Three thousand yen is not even half my allowance, Chuuya. It’s pocket change. So it’s fine.”
“But… you don’t have to,” Chuuya muttered, his shoulders hunching slightly. He hated the idea of taking, of owing.
“But I want to.” Dazai’s voice was firm now, not a joke, not a tease. “Isn’t that enough? It’s my money. I get to decide what’s worth spending it on. And this—” he gestured to Chuuya, to all of him—“is worth it.”
Something inside Chuuya’s chest tightened, threatening to spill warmth through his whole body. He looked down quickly, ears red, mumbling, “…idiot… Still it's a lot of money."
"Okay, one thousand, I'll cover the rest."
Thankfully—Chuuya was having a rare streak of good luck lately—when his parents finally arrived for the reunion, the plan actually worked. They didn’t spot him at all; they just sent him a short, impersonal text saying they had arrived. No questions, no searching eyes in the hallways. Chuuya let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“Victory,” Dazai hummed, tugging him by the wrist toward the library.
They ended up spending the hour there. The place was practically deserted, just a couple of students hunched over in the far corners with open textbooks. It was quiet, too—the kind of silence that carried the soft hum of the AC and the rustle of pages being turned. The moment they sat down by the window, Chuuya finally gave up the battle with the heat. He tugged off his sweater with a groan of relief and tossed it across the chair. Cool air immediately kissed his skin, making his whole body loosen.
But that idiot beside him, as if he wasn’t melting too, immediately leaned into him. Dazai slid closer until his shoulder pressed against Chuuya’s, warm and smug. Chuuya frowned, shifted an inch away—only to feel an arm snake around his waist, pulling him right back in.
“Say cheese!” Dazai’s sing-song voice came right next to his ear, phone raised.
“Oh my god—what the fuck,” Chuuya muttered, trying to twist out of his hold. “Don’t take pictures, I look horrible.” He half-lunged for the phone, but Dazai was faster.
Dazai chuckled, that low amused sound of his that always managed to crawl under Chuuya’s skin. “You look like always,” he teased. “Don’t be dramatic. Just a bit redder than usual, but eh, it suits you.”
“Redder? I look like I’m dying,” Chuuya hissed, fanning his face with his hand. “Delete it.”
“Nope.” Dazai tilted the phone toward him, his grin stretching. “Come on, we don’t even have a picture together.”
“It should stay that way.”
Ignoring him entirely, Dazai clicked the button anyway. A tiny shutter sound echoed in the quiet library. “Aha! Look,” he said, turning the screen toward Chuuya.
Chuuya groaned the moment he saw it. His hair was sticking slightly to his forehead, his face flushed from the heat, and Dazai had leaned his cheek against his head, making the pose look almost… couple-y. “I look like a tomato,” he grumbled.
“A tomato slug,” Dazai corrected immediately, his expression dead serious before breaking into laughter.
“Uh?!” Chuuya’s head snapped toward him. “The hell does that even mean?”
Dazai only chuckled harder, shoulders shaking as he leaned even more of his weight against Chuuya. “Don’t worry, it’s cute.”
Chuuya covered his burning face with one hand. “You’re so annoying…”
“And yet,” Dazai hummed, locking the phone screen with a little flourish, “you didn’t run away. Tomato slug.”
Even if Chuuya tried to shove him off more than once, Dazai didn’t budge. For some reason, he seemed determined to leave his head right there on Chuuya’s shoulder, a dead weight that was warm, annoying, and strangely comforting all at once. Eventually, Chuuya gave up. With a soft huff, he tilted his head back against the chair and closed his eyes.
The library was so quiet, and the air conditioning was cool against his skin, seeping into his sweater-dampened body. The hum of the unit and the steady sound of pages turning somewhere across the room created a kind of lullaby. His muscles, tense for most of the morning, finally loosened. He wasn’t asleep—just resting, letting the exhaustion of the last few weeks weigh on him.
And, against all odds, with Dazai breathing lightly beside him, it felt… safe.
Now that he thought about it, maybe Dazai wasn’t that bad after all. Chuuya hated admitting it, even in his own mind, but the idiot had done more for him in a few months than most people had in years. The haircut—sure, his parents had scolded him for it, but that moment of freedom had been worth every word. The uniform—every day, Dazai carried it for him, no questions asked. And now… the binder. He was willing to spend his allowance to help him.
They weren’t just things. Each of them was proof, little signs stitched together, of how much Dazai supported him without making a big show out of it. Without pity, without judgment. Just… support. Exactly what Chuuya needed lately, when everything else felt like it was crashing down.
It was sweet. Unbearably sweet. Too sweet for someone like Dazai, who made everything into a joke.
Chuuya was right in the middle of that thought when Dazai suddenly sat up as if something had stung him. His head snapped off Chuuya’s shoulder, and his eyes went wide.
Chuuya’s brows furrowed. “What?” he asked quietly, voice still low in the hush of the library.
Dazai blinked at him, then sighed, pouting in a way that made him look almost childish. “Nothing…” he muttered before flopping right back down, head landing again on Chuuya’s shoulder with a little thud.
“That didn’t look like nothing,” Chuuya pressed, narrowing his eyes even though Dazai couldn’t see it. “Speak.”
Dazai groaned dramatically, like a kid caught in a lie. “…I just realized I forgot something.”
Chuuya tilted his head slightly toward him. “Something?”
“My meds…” Dazai whined, dragging the word out. “I didn’t take them this morning. Ugh, I ruined my schedule.”
“Oh.” Chuuya blinked, not quite knowing what to say.
“I left the pills on the counter,” Dazai went on, his voice quieter now, almost sulking. “My mother called me, I got distracted, and I forgot to come back and take them.” He sighed again, burying his face a little deeper against Chuuya’s shoulder. “Ugh.”
Chuuya pursed his lips. “…Bad.”
“Hm,” Dazai hummed in agreement, shoulders sagging.
Chuuya turned his face just a little, enough that Dazai’s messy strands brushed right across the tip of his nose. They tickled faintly, and before he even realized it, he inhaled. Huh. It… actually smelled good. Clean, warm, with a faint sweetness that stuck. Vanilla? Something like that.
“What shampoo do you use?” Chuuya whispered, sniffing lightly before he could stop himself.
Dazai made a small noise, his voice muffled against Chuuya’s shoulder. “Uh? No idea, why?”
“How do you not know?” Chuuya muttered, half in disbelief, half embarrassed he’d even asked.
“I just use whatever my parents buy,” Dazai chuckled softly, sounding far too unconcerned.
“And you don’t read the label?”
“I don’t remember. Something about vanilla or coconut,” Dazai said lazily with a small shrug.
“…It smells good,” Chuuya huffed, as if he was annoyed at himself for admitting it. He leaned his head against Dazai’s, trying to cover the faint warmth blooming in his cheeks.
For a moment, they stayed like that. The hum of the AC filled the silence, cool air brushing across Chuuya’s damp skin. His body relaxed more and more, until his eyelids grew heavy, threatening to close completely. He fought it—he didn’t want to actually fall asleep on Dazai, but god, the quiet was pulling him under.
So, before sleep could win, he opened his mouth and let the first thought slip out, voice a little slow, blurred by drowsiness. “How does it feel?”
“…What?” Dazai drawled, his tone just as sleepy.
Chuuya shifted, his gaze lowering to the desk leg near his foot. “To be a boy.”
“You are one,” Dazai murmured, yawning right after, nuzzling a little deeper into Chuuya’s shoulder. “You should know.”
“You know what I mean…” Chuuya grumbled.
“Nope,” Dazai answered simply, clearly enjoying being difficult.
Chuuya rolled his eyes—even if it was only for himself. “I mean… what does it mean to… dunno, have something between your legs?”
That earned a sharp snort, followed by a chuckle that shook against his shoulder. “Oh my, Chuuya, what the fuck?”
“I’m serious… kinda,” he muttered, heat spreading across his face now, though his voice carried a hint of defensiveness.
“Well,” Dazai said with mock gravity, “it feels like there’s something between my legs.”
Chuuya groaned, glaring faintly at the desk across from him. “Wow. Thank you. Very descriptive.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Dazai pulled back just enough to tilt his face toward Chuuya, his expression unreadable except for the amusement in his eyes. “It’s like if I asked you what it feels like to… uh, not have it.”
Chuuya blinked, caught off guard by that. “…Dunno,” he muttered after a second, lips twitching downward.
“See?” Dazai said with a small smirk.
“I could tell you things about it, I guess,” Chuuya shot back, though quieter this time.
“Like?” Dazai pressed.
Chuuya swallowed hard, throat feeling tight, and felt the burn crawl up his neck to his cheeks. “...Okay, it’s weird,” he admitted quickly, shifting a little in his seat.
“Exactly.” Dazai smirked, his voice lilting with smug victory. “Now shut up and let’s take a nap.”
Before Chuuya could argue, Dazai yawned again, far too unbothered, and let his head fall right back onto Chuuya’s shoulder as if it belonged there.
Sometimes Chuuya wondered why the universe hated him so much. What had he done, really? Had he been cursed in some past life, or was the universe just that cruel?
When his phone buzzed with the message from his parents—“the reunion is over”—Chuuya didn’t waste a second. He hurried to the bathroom, forced himself into his old uniform, the skirt and blouse feeling heavier than ever, and then walked out of the library with Dazai at his side. From the outside, it looked like nothing had happened. He smiled faintly at his parents, listened as they talked about the meeting, even laughed a little when his mother repeated something silly one of the teachers had said.
Everything was fine. Normal. Safe.
But of course, it couldn’t stay that way. Chuuya should have known. His luck had been suspiciously good lately—his parents hadn’t noticed, he’d managed to dodge questions, he’d even spent the whole day with Dazai without everything crumbling down. It had been too good. Too easy.
And then Shirase showed up.
He appeared from the side of the courtyard, walking faster, his gaze fixed right on them. Chuuya’s stomach sank, an immediate ugh vibrating through his chest.
“Mrs. and Mr. Nakahara,” Shirase called out politely as he caught up to them, his voice dripping with fake sweetness.
Chuuya’s mother smiled warmly, unaware. “Oh, Shirase-kun. How have you been, boy?” she asked as if he really were a close friend.
“Excellent, Mrs. Nakahara,” Shirase returned with a wide, practiced smile. His eyes, though, flicked toward Chuuya with the kind of glint Chuuya knew too well. That smug, cruel glint that said he was about to ruin everything.
Chuuya’s fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. He just wished—for once—that his life could be easy. That Shirase could walk by, keep his mouth shut, and not use every chance to make his life harder. But no. Of course not.
“I was just curious,” Shirase said, tilting his head and tapping his chin like he was truly puzzled. “Why is Chuuya back to wearing this uniform? I thought she had already decided she was a boy, or something like that.”
Chuuya froze, glaring at him with all the silent fury he could gather. His heart pounded, his chest tight. “Don’t hear him,” he said quickly, forcing a laugh, though his voice came out sharp. “He’s joking. It’s just a stupid bet, nothing more.”
“Oh, no, no,” Shirase waved his hand dramatically, feigning innocence. “Right now I’m serious.” He huffed, eyes sparkling with malicious amusement. “I thought she was trans? Or something like that?”
The word trans landed like a stone dropped in water—he felt the ripple of it, saw the shift immediately in his parents. His father’s head turned toward him, eyes narrowing in confusion, then suspicion. His mother blinked, her polite smile faltering.
Chuuya felt the floor tilt beneath him. His throat closed. God.
His parents didn’t say a single word the whole way home. The silence weighed on Chuuya like a wet blanket, making every step feel heavier. He walked behind them most of the way, staring at the ground, replaying Shirase’s smug grin in his mind. By the time they arrived home, his chest was so tight he felt he could barely breathe.
Inside, his mother’s voice broke the silence at last. “Chuuya, sit down.”
Her tone wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t casual either—it was the tone. The one that meant serious talk. Chuuya obeyed without a fight, slipping into a chair at the dining table, keeping his eyes down. He knew better than to resist. His parents sat across from him—his father leaning back slightly, hands folded; his mother beside him, her expression softer but just as searching.
“So…” his father began after a long pause, steady, calm. “I’ll wait for you to explain what your friend said.” His voice didn’t sound angry. If anything, it was curious. Confused.
That almost made it worse.
Chuuya’s stomach twisted. He wanted to vanish, crawl out of his skin. But he had to try, didn’t he? If not now… when?
He took a deep breath. “First, I need you to promise me you won’t get angry,” he whispered, darting his eyes between them—his father’s raised brow, his mother’s patient gaze.
His father nodded once, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Alright. Just talk, Chuuya. We’ll listen.”
He could do this.
“I know the first thing you’ll think is… that it’s just a phase,” Chuuya started, his fingers twisting together so tightly his knuckles went white. “And I can’t prove it’s not, not right now, but I don’t feel like it is. I really think this is true—it’s what I am.” He swallowed hard. “I… I—” His voice cracked, and he had to shut his eyes.
His mother’s hand came over his, warm and firm. “It’s okay, Chuuya. You won’t stop being our child for anything.”
He let out a nervous chuckle that sounded too much like a sob. “It’s… kinda about that,” he muttered. He drew a shaky breath. “I—okay. Okay.” His shoulders rose and fell. “I… I’m a boy.”
The silence that followed stretched so long he wanted to claw his way out of the room. The words hung in the air like a fragile glass, ready to shatter. His throat burned with regret. Maybe he should’ve lied, maybe said something else—anything else. Even claiming he was just a lesbian would have been easier. He just wanted to disappear until everything was fine again.
“A boy… oh.” His mother blinked, her lips parting, her thumb still stroking his knuckles gently. She seemed startled, but not recoiling. “…That’s what Shirase meant then. Trans? Transsexual? That’s the word?”
Chuuya nodded quickly, lifting his eyes to her. In that moment, he felt small—like a child confessing to breaking something precious, waiting for the punishment.
“Ah…” His father blinked slowly, his face unreadable, brows drawn slightly. “So… you’re saying you are… a boy. But…” He rubbed the back of his neck, hesitating. “…Help me understand this.”
Chuuya’s heart raced. They weren’t yelling. They weren’t calling him ridiculous. They weren’t kicking him out. They were… asking. Confused, yes. But asking.
Chuuya’s throat felt dry, but he forced himself to nod. “Yeah… I’m saying I’m a boy. That’s what feels right. It’s not—” he clenched his fists tight in his lap, “it’s not that I want to be one, it’s that I am one. Even if… even if it doesn’t look that way.”
His father’s brows furrowed, not in anger but in thought, as if the words were heavy bricks he was trying to set into place. His mother tilted her head slightly, squeezing his hand again.
“But… you’ve always been… our daughter,” she said softly, her voice hesitant, careful not to sound cruel. “You grew up that way, everyone saw you that way… so now you’re saying, all this time… you felt different?”
Chuuya nodded, a sharp little movement. “Yeah. Since… since forever, I guess. I didn’t have the words back then, but I knew. Every time someone called me… something I wasn’t, it just—it didn’t fit. And it hurt.” He pressed his lips together hard, eyes fixed on the floor. “…I’ve been hiding it from you, because I didn’t know if you’d… you know.”
“We’d what?” his father asked quickly, leaning forward.
“…Get angry. Or hate me. Or…” his voice broke, and he forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat. “…not want me anymore.”
“Chuuya,” his mother whispered immediately, moving closer. “That’s never going to happen. You hear me? Never.” Her voice trembled, as if just the thought of it broke her heart.
His father sighed, rubbing his face with one hand. “We’re not angry. Just… confused. This isn’t easy for us to understand right away. And…” His voice trailed off for a moment before continuing, lower. “The world can be cruel. People… people might not treat you kindly. That’s what worries us.”
“I know,” Chuuya admitted, voice small. “People already say stuff. But I’m tired of pretending. It’s worse pretending. At least this way… I can be me.”
Both parents exchanged a long look—one of those wordless exchanges that only years together could forge. His mother’s hand never left his. His father finally leaned back, exhaling deeply.
“…Alright. So you’re telling us you’re our son,” his father said, testing the word as if it were foreign but not unwelcome. “And you want us to see you that way.”
Chuuya nodded again, his chest tightening.
His mother brushed her thumb over his knuckles. “…Then we’ll try. We’ll need time, Chuuya, but we’ll try. You’re our child, and that won’t change.”
The relief that washed over Chuuya’s body was so strong he almost cried, but he bit it back, clenching his teeth instead. For the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel like the whole world was against him.
As soon as Chuuya could finally retreat to his room—away from the lingering glances and the half-formed questions he knew would keep coming for days, maybe weeks—he shut the door with more force than necessary and just collapsed onto his bed. He didn’t even bother with the lights. The blanket became a cocoon around him, soft and suffocating, but safe enough for now. He buried his face into it, breathing hard, trying to slow the pounding in his chest.
Of course, he was relieved. Relieved they hadn’t yelled. Relieved they hadn’t rejected him outright. Relieved they’d said they would try. He should be happy. And he was… but not completely. The relief was tangled with something heavy, something raw that sat like a stone right under his ribs.
He thought maybe a hot shower would help. And for a moment, under the steam, it did. But then, when he padded down the hall to drop his uniform into the laundry room, he froze at the faint sound. His mother’s voice. Choking, muffled. Crying.
It cut him deeper than he expected.
Chuuya stood there, hidden by the doorway, his uniform clutched to his chest. The words weren’t clear, but the sound was enough. He knew. She was crying because she was worried. Because she didn’t want him to suffer. Because maybe, to her, the future had just turned into something dangerous and fragile.
And that hurt. God, it hurt so much. He never wanted his mother to cry. Especially not because of him.
So he did the only thing he could: pretended he didn’t hear. He dropped the uniform into the basket quietly and went back to his room without a word.
The blanket welcomed him again, but this time the weight in his chest only pressed harder. His mind spun, and before he could stop himself, his fingers had already reached for his phone. The first person that came to mind—the only one he wanted to tell—was Dazai. He didn’t even know why. Maybe because Dazai had been there through all of this. Maybe because he trusted him more than he wanted to admit.
He typed fast:
‘I came out to my parents’ followed by a sad sticker.
It took a few minutes, and those minutes stretched like hours, before the reply came.
Mackerel:
WHAT
WHAT
REALLY?!
Chuuya sighed, typing back with small, sharp movements:
yes. my mother is crying. but… they accepted me, kinda.
Dazai’s response came almost instantly, the typing bubbles blinking wildly:
Mackerel:
OMG.
OMG.
ARE YOU OKAY
Chuuya rolled his eyes, though his lips twitched faintly despite everything. He tapped back:
yes, idiot. stop yelling through the phone.
Another quick burst of bubbles.
Mackerel:
I can’t.
I’m proud of you, anyway.
Chuuya froze.
He stared at the screen, heart skipping in a way that was both confusing and unbearable. Proud? What the hell did Dazai mean by that? Proud of what? Proud of him? His face warmed against the glow of the phone. He pressed the device against his chest, scowling at it as if that could quiet the storm inside him.
“What the fuck…?” he whispered to himself, confused and strangely soft all at once.
Mackerel:
You know what?
i will buy you that binder.
I'll cover it completely.
Chuuya sat up straight in bed, eyebrows furrowed so tightly it almost hurt. His fingers flew across the screen.
no. you won’t. now they know, they will help me, right?
The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly.
Mackerel:
take it as a gift!
I have to give treats to my puppy!
ヾ(≧▽≦)o*
Chuuya groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Oh my god, why do I even tell you things… He typed fast:
stop calling me that. and stop acting like you’re my sugar daddy or something.
A beat, then:
Mackerel:
hm… sugar daddy sounds tempting…
but “daddy” feels weird. can I just be the “sugar” part? sweet and irresistible?
“Fuck off,” Chuuya muttered, typing it word for word.
Mackerel:
Nope. I’m serious, Chuuya. Let me do this. You’ve done enough surviving on your own—you deserve some spoiling.
Chuuya stared at the message longer than he wanted to admit. His chest felt tight again, but in a different way than before. God, he hated how Dazai could do this—say something stupid, then something too sincere that made Chuuya’s throat close up.
I don’t need spoiling, he typed quickly. I just need… people not to make a big deal of it.
Mackerel:
Then let me be the one who makes a good deal of it.
Chuuya clenched the blanket tighter around himself, cheeks hot. He had no idea how to answer that, so he did the only thing he could—he threw his phone onto the pillow and groaned into the blanket.
Dazai was impossible. Impossible, annoying, infuriating… and yet, somehow, exactly the person he needed right now.
In the end—because Dazai was an idiot, stubborn, and unbearably annoying—he went and bought the binder anyway. Even though Chuuya’s parents had already said they would look into it during the first week of summer, Dazai couldn’t wait. He just appeared at Chuuya’s house on a Wednesday afternoon with the same casualness as if he were bringing snacks, holding up a package like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“I got it,” he announced, grinning ear to ear. “Ordered online, your size, your measurements, everything. Took forever to arrive, but worth it.”
Chuuya blinked at him, heart dropping to his stomach. “You… actually…?” He stared at the package as if it might burn him. “Idiot. I told you not to—”
“You said no. I said yes. Guess who won.” Dazai smirked. “Besides, this isn’t a fight. It’s a present.”
Of course Chuuya felt guilty. His throat tightened. Dazai had spent money—real money—on him. And for what? He hadn’t done anything to deserve it. He hadn’t earned it. But Dazai’s eyes were bright, certain, and so annoyingly insistent that Chuuya just gave up the fight before it even began.
So he took the package and went into the bathroom. His hands trembled as he opened it, unfolding the binder carefully. He slipped it on. The compression was strange at first, a little snug, but the mirror showed him something that made his chest flutter. Flatter. Straighter. More like the boy he felt inside.
He couldn’t stop staring. He felt… lighter.
Finally, he stepped out into his room, where Dazai and his mother were waiting, both looking at him with exaggerated expectation.
“And… this is…” Chuuya muttered, shifting awkwardly, turning one side then the other, as if presenting himself.
“Oh!” Dazai clapped his hands like an overexcited child. “Look at that! Chuuya’s non-existent chest disappeared even more!”
Chuuya slowly turned his head toward him, narrowing his eyes. “…Thank you, you bastard.”
“What?!” Dazai chuckled, throwing his hands up. “Your boobs aren’t that bi—sorry, Mrs. Nakahara, ignore that part.” He waved it away with a grin. “But it’s true. Anyway… it fits you perfectly, chuchu.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched despite himself.
“Yes… it makes you flat,” his mother said softly, smiling a little as she took in her child’s figure, her voice careful but warm. “Do you like it?”
Chuuya shrugged, pretending to be casual. “…I guess.” But he couldn’t hide the tiny smile tugging at his lips, the way his reflection from the corner of the mirror made his chest swell with relief.
And that was enough.
Chuuya was still looking at himself in the mirror when Dazai suddenly stood up, grinning like he had just won the lottery.
“Well, well, look at you, chuchu,” Dazai sang, walking over and grabbing Chuuya’s hand before he could protest. “You look so dashing now—I simply have to dance with you.”
“What the—?!” Chuuya yelped, but Dazai had already pulled him forward, spinning him clumsily in the middle of the room. “Dazai, stop, what the hell are you doing—”
“Waltzing with my handsome best friend,” Dazai declared dramatically, holding one of Chuuya’s hands up like they were in a ballroom, his other hand resting on Chuuya’s shoulder. He swayed them side to side, completely ignoring Chuuya’s scowl. “Look at you—flat, confident, the world’s going to fall at your feet, you know that?”
“You’re such an idiot,” Chuuya muttered, but his voice cracked between irritation and laughter. He tried to pull back, but Dazai twirled him again, making him stumble into his arms. “Oi!”
“Perfect,” Dazai hummed, lowering his head just enough to whisper, “This is how you’re meant to look, you know. Comfortable. Yourself. No one gets to take that from you.”
Chuuya’s cheeks burned—he wanted to shove him away, but his chest ached in that warm, unfamiliar way.
On the side, Mrs. Nakahara watched, hands pressed over her mouth, her eyes damp. She didn’t say a word, afraid that if she did she might break the fragile little moment in front of her. Her son was smiling—truly smiling—and laughing despite himself as Dazai exaggerated every step, humming a ridiculous tune.
For the first time in a long while, she saw Chuuya light up. And it was enough to ease a bit of the weight in her chest.
“Yeah, and even though he's an idiot… Dazai was literally the one who pushed me to finally come out,” Chuuya spoke into the phone, staring blankly at the ceiling above his bed. His free hand played absentmindedly with a loose thread on his blanket. “He told the teachers, got me a uniform, defended me when those jerks talked shit, and now got me a binder.”
“Wow,” Albatross chuckled through the phone, his voice warm but a little surprised. “He sounds like a good friend. He wasn’t like that when I left.”
Chuuya let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. I think I just had to give him a chance…” His chest loosened a little with the confession, his eyes fluttering shut as he sank deeper into his pillows. “I’m sorry for not telling you all this time, Tross. It’s just… been so confusing lately. I really didn’t want to worry you or drag you into my mess.”
Albatross sighed on the other end, a sound that carried more affection than frustration. “Please. I forgive you just because I know it’s hard. But you used to tell me everything,” he complained softly, his tone halfway between a whine and a plea. “Don’t forget me, okay?”
Chuuya couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out, his lips curling into a smile no one else could see. “Never… you’re just too special,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, softer, like he was letting his friend peek into a corner of his heart. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy; it was comforting, familiar. He stayed like that for a moment, letting the quiet bind them across the distance.
Then, hesitantly, he broke it. “Tross… do you know why Dazai entered our school?”
There was a pause on the line—long enough for Chuuya to hear the faint static, then a little rustle, like Albatross shifting in his seat. “…Uhh, there were rumors, nothing more. Nothing official.”
“And those rumors were about…?”
“Hm…” Albatross hesitated again, as if deciding how much to say. “Just that he had done something in his old school—”
“What did he do?” Chuuya pressed, sitting up a little, heart skipping despite himself.
“I’m not sure,” Albatross admitted, clicking his tongue like he was annoyed at the vagueness of it all. “Some said he bullied a classmate, others said he was bullied, some said he hurt someone… no more than that. Just whispers.”
Chuuya frowned at the ceiling again, his chest tightening with confusion. “Oh… okay. Thanks.”
Albatross hummed on the other side, then asked gently, “Why don’t you ask him directly?”
Chuuya rolled onto his side, hugging his pillow closer. “…I think it’s a delicate topic. What if it’s true? What if it hurts him to talk about it?”
“Or what if it’s not true, and you’ll only know if you ask?” Albatross countered softly.
Chuuya bit his lip, staring at the glow of his phone screen, the call timer ticking upward. “Ah…” He didn’t answer right away. His mind was already tangled in thoughts—Dazai spinning him around the room, Dazai’s teasing voice, Dazai’s too-serious moments that made Chuuya’s chest ache.
Anyway.
When the call ended, Chuuya tossed his phone onto the blanket beside him, only for it to buzz again a second later. He sighed, rolling onto his stomach to grab it. A new message. From Dazai.
He took a deep breath, thumb hovering for a moment before opening it.
Mackerel:
my friends wanna go to the beach tomorrow!
Wanna come?
Chuuya blinked at the screen, lips parting slightly. The beach? His first reaction was hesitation—it wasn’t like he *hated* the beach, but it wasn’t exactly easy either, not with the way swimsuits worked and the way people looked. Still… it was with Dazai. And with Dazai’s friends. Maybe it could be good. Maybe even fun. What could really go wrong?
So he typed back quickly: ok, let me ask my parents.
He went downstairs, where his parents were still cleaning up from dinner. His mother raised her eyebrows when he asked, but after a short round of questions—where, with who, what time—they gave him permission. Chuuya tried to act casual, but as he bounded back up to his room, there was a tiny rush of excitement under his skin.
Dazai gave him the details later that night—meet at the bus stop near the convenience store at 1 p.m. The plan sounded easy. Almost too easy.
The problem, however, came the next morning.
Chuuya stood in front of his closet for what felt like forever, scowling at the disaster inside. The memory of the last time he’d gone to the beach with his family made his stomach twist. His parents had bought him a one-piece swimsuit—bright, feminine, unmistakable. Just the thought of wearing that in front of Dazai (in front of anyone, really) made his skin crawl. Absolutely no way.
Which left him with… well, not much. He rifled through the drawers, tugging at pairs of shorts, tossing half of them onto his bed in frustration. Too short. Too tight. Too “not right.” Everything felt wrong.
Eventually, after what felt like a battle, he found a black pair of shorts that were, at least, *decent*. Not perfect, but decent. He pulled them on, testing the fit in the mirror. Okay… okay, it could work. On top, he decided on a loose shirt—random, nothing special, but safe. Neutral. Something that didn’t cling.
It wasn’t the dream outfit, but it meant he could go without wanting to crawl out of his own skin.
After dressing, he moved on to packing. Towel, check. Sunscreen—his mother all but shoved it into his hands, reminding him “don’t forget your nose, it always burns there.” A bottle of water—“you’ll thank me later,” his mother added again. And, tucked into the bag almost shyly, a small tray with a couple of tools to dig and play in the sand. Maybe childish, but Chuuya didn’t care.
By the time his bag was ready, his heart was already racing a little. It was stupid, it was just the beach, but it wasn’t just the beach. It was his first time going anywhere like this… with Dazai.
When Chuuya spotted Dazai at the bus stop, he felt his stomach clench like it always did when he wasn’t sure what kind of day he was about to have. He tightened his grip on the straps of his bag until his knuckles went pale and exhaled through his nose, trying to shake off the nerves. His mom stood beside him, watching curiously.
He turned to her and forced a small smile. “Bye. I’ll call you when we’re done.”
His mom brushed a bit of hair off his forehead, leaned down, and pressed a kiss there. “Take pictures, okay? Don’t just hide from the camera. And—” she gave him a look that was part-motherly, part-mischief— “have fun.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, cheeks warm. “Yeah, yeah.” He nodded and waited until she walked away, only turning back once she disappeared into the street.
There was Dazai. Standing with his hands in his pockets, humming off-key under his breath, swaying like the bus stop was a concert stage only he could hear. Chuuya’s lips twitched before he caught himself. He walked straight over and bumped his shoulder hard against Dazai’s.
“Uh?!” Dazai stumbled dramatically, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded. “How dare you ruin my musical moment?!” he whined, bottom lip jutting out in a pout.
Chuuya rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “As if you sang…”
“I sing beautifully,” Dazai corrected, lifting his chin with ridiculous pride. “You can’t deny that.”
Chuuya smirked, tilting his head. “Oh, of course. Beautiful. Like you’re dying of the plague.”
Dazai gasped softly, as though Chuuya’s words stabbed him through the heart, then huffed, taking hold of Chuuya’s wrist without warning. “Come on. I wanna beat you in volleyball.”
Chuuya snorted but let himself be dragged, adjusting the strap of his bag. “As if you can.”
Once they made it to the beach, the salt-heavy breeze hit him first, warm and sticky, and the sound of crashing waves carried laughter and chatter across the sand. His eyes immediately swept toward where Dazai’s friends had set up camp.
Yosano sat cross-legged on a towel under a bright umbrella, a pair of sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Next to her, Kunikida was already talking, probably about rules or fairness—his hands moved in sharp gestures as he spoke. Further down, near the water, Ranpo was splashing around with someone Chuuya didn’t recognize.
“Oh, Ranpo brought his friend slash boyfriend slash something,” Dazai said casually, waving his free hand in their direction. “His name’s Edgar. He’s shy. Like, painfully shy. You’ll see.”
Chuuya blinked, tilting his head a little. “…Huh.” He nodded, though curiosity lingered.
“Okay!” Dazai announced loudly, planting his feet in the sand like a coach at practice. “We’re six people, so three against three! Obviously, I’m going against Chuuya. Who’s in my team?”
Ranpo, grinning like always, tugged the unfamiliar boy closer to the sand. “Us! We’ll be in your team.”
“Perfect,” Dazai beamed, pointing dramatically at Chuuya. “Prepare to lose.”
“Then we’ll be with Chuuya,” Yosano said smoothly, standing up and stretching, her hair shifting with the breeze. Kunikida rose beside her, nodding in agreement.
Chuuya blinked, lips parting slightly before he snapped them shut. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Yosano before—technically, this was only the second time. But this time… the swimsuit she wore fit her figure perfectly, showing curves Chuuya hadn’t been prepared for. His face heated instantly. She was… beautiful. And he couldn’t help it. He liked girls, always had. Admiring beauty like that was second nature, even if it flustered him to his core.
Fingers snapped in front of his face. Chuuya jolted slightly, looking up to see Yosano smirking at him. “Come on, Chuuya. We’ve got to beat that idiot.”
Chuuya huffed quickly, straightening his shoulders to hide the way his ears were burning. “Yes, yes.”
It wasn’t exactly a mystery that Chuuya was hell good at sports. He always had been. Coordination, reflexes, energy—he had all of it. Back when he was younger, he’d even been captain of the girls’ team, and though he still winced at the memory of being forced onto that side, it had sharpened his skill. Sadly, he’d never gotten the chance to play alongside the boys—back then, he hadn’t been allowed. Which was why this, right here, felt good. Really good.
Even though he was a little out of shape when it came specifically to volleyball, it took him no more than a few quick serves to remember the rules and a short warm-up to get his body into the rhythm.
Dazai, on the other hand, clearly thought this was going to be easy. Probably assumed he could beat Chuuya just because he had people on his team. Which was already dumb—painfully dumb—because Dazai couldn’t even run fifty meters without acting like he was about to collapse dramatically on the ground.
And his “team”? Please. Ranpo had zero interest in rules and moved like he was just trying to keep his snack from spilling. Poe looked like the kind of person who preferred chess tournaments to anything involving running and sand. So that left… well, Dazai.
Meanwhile, on Chuuya’s side, Kunikida was, uh, trying very hard, though his stiff form made him look like he was auditioning for a sports commercial instead of actually playing. Yosano, though? Yosano was almost as good as Chuuya—sharp eyes, quick reactions, and a terrifyingly steady hand when she spiked the ball.
So yeah. The outcome was obvious.
The first three games ended in undeniable victory. No room for excuses, no questionable points. Chuuya’s team crushed them every time, and even Kunikida’s constant yelling about “proper form!” and “focus!” didn’t ruin their groove.
Of course, Dazai kept saying they were cheating.
“Cheating?!” Kunikida barked, veins practically popping from his forehead. “Do you hear yourself? I was watching every play!”
“Exactly,” Dazai huffed dramatically, wiping sweat from his forehead like he was fighting for his life. “It’s suspicious how perfect you’re watching, Kunikida-kun. Referees shouldn’t be so biased.”
Kunikida nearly had a stroke on the spot.
By the time they’d gone through ten rounds, the record spoke for itself. Chuuya’s team had won every single match—except for two pathetic points Dazai’s group managed to scrape together. One happened because Chuuya tripped in the sand while going for a block, nearly eating dirt in the process. The other came from pure chaos, when Kunikida accidentally ran headfirst into Yosano mid-play, sending them both tumbling while the ball floated lazily over the line.
Chuuya couldn’t deny it—he was having way too much fun. His lungs burned, his arms stung from all the hits, and sweat slid down his neck, but the grin on his face wouldn’t disappear. Especially not when he glanced across the net and saw Dazai, panting like he was drowning, red-faced and sweaty as hell, still refusing to give up.
Every serve had him stumbling. Every dive ended with him rolling in the sand like a ragdoll. Every time Ranpo missed, Dazai yelled at him like a captain going down with his sinking ship.
“Move, Ranpo!” Dazai shouted, scrambling on hands and knees after a ball.
“I’m moving at my own pace,” Ranpo replied flatly, licking sugar off his fingers.
“You’re eating in the middle of a match?!”
Poe, meanwhile, looked like he regretted every life choice that had brought him to this moment.
Chuuya bent forward with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath between laughs. Honestly? He could live off the sight of Dazai collapsing into the sand, gasping like a fish, and still declaring, “One more game!”
It all ended because Dazai fell flat on the sand and didn’t get back up.
At first, Chuuya thought he was just being his usual over-the-top self, waiting for applause or pity. But when Dazai didn’t even twitch, he sighed, wiped sweat from his forehead, and trudged over. The sand burned under his feet, sticking to his damp skin, but whatever. He crouched next to him.
Dazai had his eyes shut tight, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Sweat rolled down his temples, dripping into the sand that clung to his skin, to his shirt and, of course, those stupid bandages wrapped carelessly around his arms. His hair was plastered in messy strands across his forehead, and his face—God—was so red he looked like he’d stuck his head in a tomato patch.
“Poor mackerel,” Chuuya drawled, poking Dazai’s flushed cheek with one finger. His skin was hot and damp. “Who the hell told you fish could play? Are you dead?”
“Very much…” Dazai croaked, voice all dramatic and weak. “My lungs are on fire…” His chest rose again with a wheeze. “…my feet are on fire too.”
Chuuya couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. “Let’s move you to the shade, idiot. You’re gonna burn like a fried shrimp.”
At that, Dazai cracked one eye open, only to shut it immediately with a groan. “Ugh. Now my eyes are burning too.”
Chuuya laughed outright at that. “Dumbass. If you stare at the sun like that, of course you’ll go blind,” he muttered, hooking his arms under Dazai’s to haul him up.
But Dazai was basically jelly—no bones, no willpower, nothing. The second Chuuya let go, he slumped straight back onto the sand with a pitiful flop.
“God…” Chuuya groaned, crouching again. “You’re such a pain.” He sat him up once more and, without giving him a chance to fall again, wrapped both arms around him. With a grunt, he heaved him to his feet. Honestly, it wasn’t hard—Dazai was ridiculously light, almost worryingly so—but the heat and sweat made it gross.
Naturally, instead of standing on his own, Dazai sagged against him immediately, his whole upper body draping over Chuuya like he was some damn human crutch.
“No, no, no, get off!” Chuuya winced, squirming. “You’re sweaty!”
“You’re sweaty too,” Dazai mumbled into his shoulder, shameless.
“Ew, ew, ew—move away!” Chuuya grunted, trying to shove him off.
But Dazai only leaned harder, his weight dragging at Chuuya’s balance. “I can’t move…” he whined, limp as ever.
Chuuya let out the heaviest sigh of his life and just grabbed him tighter. “Fine. Deadweight mackerel,” he muttered, dragging him step by step across the sand toward the umbrella. It was a pathetic sight—Dazai half-draped on him, Chuuya struggling but refusing to drop him, their footprints uneven in the sand.
Finally, when they reached the blessed shade, Chuuya unceremoniously shoved Dazai down onto the towel. The idiot fell butt-first with a graceless thump, legs sprawled out.
“Ow!” Dazai yelped, immediately flopping onto his side to rub his rear dramatically. “That hurt!”
Chuuya raised his brows. “Sorry,” he deadpanned. “Next time I’ll throw you face first.”
Anyway, Chuuya stomped back to where their bags were, muttering under his breath about how useless Dazai was, and yanked out the bottle of water his mother had insisted he pack. He walked back, crouched in front of Dazai, and held it out.
Dazai, still sprawled on the towel like a half-dead sea creature, blinked up at him with dazed, glassy eyes. He sat up slowly, groaning like every muscle hurt, his breathing still shallow and uneven. But instead of reaching for the bottle, he just stared at it.
“Oh my god…” Chuuya groaned, rolling his eyes. He shoved the bottle right into Dazai’s chest with enough force to make him grunt. “Drink, dumbass.”
“Bossy…” Dazai pouted, but uncapped the bottle and took several long gulps, water dripping from the corner of his mouth down his chin. He let out an exaggerated sigh of relief and flopped backward again, holding the bottle loosely on his stomach.
“Good game,” Yosano’s voice cut in as she dropped down gracefully onto the towel beside them. She crossed her long legs, looking perfectly composed despite the sweat on her temples. Her swimsuit didn’t even look out of place; she was just… effortlessly put together. “Now,” she added with a grin, “let’s get in the water.”
“Finally,” Chuuya muttered, running a hand through his damp hair. His skin still burned from the heat and sand.
But before he could stand, Kunikida’s voice rang out. “We have to wait.”
Chuuya froze mid-motion, turning to glare at him. “Wait for what?”
Kunikida adjusted his glasses, his tone firm like a teacher lecturing a class. “We’re overheated. If we get into cold water immediately, we run the risk of shocking our systems. That can cause cramps or even cardiac arrest.”
Dazai, who had been lazily tracing circles in the sand with his finger, suddenly shot up with wide eyes. “Wait—what? We can die?!”
Yosano smirked knowingly. “Kunikida…”
“Yes,” Kunikida continued seriously, oblivious to her smirk. “It’s like when you put burning iron into cold water. It cracks from the shock. Same principle. The body isn’t different.”
Dazai blinked once. Twice. Then dramatically clutched his chest. “Geez… I almost died twice today! First volleyball, now this. The world is trying to kill me!”
Chuuya snorted so hard he almost choked on his own laugh. “You didn’t almost die, you idiot. You’re just weak.”
“Cruel…” Dazai sighed, falling back onto the towel again like a martyr. “My partner has no sympathy for my fragile body.”
“You don’t have a fragile body, you just don’t exercise,” Chuuya muttered, but there was a little tug at the corner of his lips. He reached over, snatched the bottle from Dazai’s hand, and took a long drink himself.
Yosano chuckled, stretching her arms. “Well, I don’t care about cardiac arrests. I’m going in soon. If I drown, I expect at least one of you to save me.”
“Not me,” Ranpo’s voice called lazily from further down the sand where he lay sprawled beside Poe. “I can’t swim.”
Chuuya buried his face in his palm.
In the end, Kunikida literally dragged Yosano by the wrist back under the umbrella and made her sit for a solid ten minutes before she could “safely” touch the water. Yosano rolled her eyes so many times it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck, muttering complaints under her breath about how her parents were doctors, she knew more than him, but in the end she gave in just to shut him up.
When they finally walked into the sea together, the cool water rushed over Chuuya’s legs, the heat instantly melting away from his skin. He sighed in relief. This—this was what he needed.
But of course, peace didn’t last.
“Chuuuuuuyyyaaaa!”
Chuuya turned his head just in time for a wave of cold water to slap him in the face. He sputtered, whipping his wet bangs out of his eyes, and glared at the tall figure grinning like a maniac.
“You—”
Dazai didn’t even give him time to finish. He lunged, splashing water with both hands, laughing loudly as Chuuya dodged and retaliated.
“Stop it, you idiot!” Chuuya shouted, flinging water back at him. His kicks sent little waves splashing, but Dazai just ducked and came back for more.
And then suddenly, Dazai disappeared under the surface.
“What the—?!” Chuuya barely had time to react before something grabbed his wrist and yanked him down. The salt water rushed up his nose, his chest tightened—he almost breathed it in. He struggled, pushing, trying to get loose, but Dazai’s grip was firm.
Finally, Chuuya managed to shove hard at his shoulder, breaking free and bursting back up to the surface. He coughed and gasped for air, wiping his face with both hands. “Are you trying to kill us?!” he yelled between breaths, glaring at the mess of wet hair and smug grin resurfacing a few feet away.
“Double suicide doesn’t sound bad,” Dazai stuck out his tongue, water dripping from his bangs.
Chuuya scowled so hard his face hurt. “That wouldn’t even be double suicide! It’d be homicide! I don’t want to die, you idiot!”
Dazai chuckled, reaching both hands out to splash him again. “Not even for me?”
“No!” Chuuya splashed him back furiously, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “I mean—it has to be really necessary. If not, no.”
That shut Dazai up for a moment. He blinked at him, water streaming down his cheeks. “…Uh. But you would.”
Chuuya’s throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, shrugging awkwardly. He looked away, focusing on the horizon instead of Dazai’s stupid wide eyes.
And then he felt arms wrap around him from behind, tight and sudden, Dazai’s chin resting on his shoulder.
“I would die for Chuuya without even thinking.”
Chuuya froze completely. His mind blanked. The sea, the noise of the others laughing somewhere behind them, everything faded into static. “…What.”
But before he could even process it, Dazai chuckled right in his ear. “Slug!”
The next second, he was shoved headfirst into the water.
Chuuya burst back up, sputtering and swiping hair out of his face again, glaring daggers at the boy already swimming away with a triumphant grin.
“You bastard!” he roared, splashing forward after him. “Come here, I’m gonna kill you!”
Dazai’s laugh echoed across the water, light and sharp. “Catch me if you can, chuchu!”
“Come here, I’m gonna kill you!” Chuuya shouted again, pushing forward through the waves.
Dazai squealed—not even screamed, squealed—and flailed his arms, splashing as he swam away. “Nooo! Murder! Somebody help meee!”
Ranpo, who was lazily floating on his back, lifted his head. “What’s happening?”
“Save me, Ranpo-san!” Dazai suddenly ducked behind him, grabbing his shoulders and half-sinking him in the water. “The slug is trying to drown me!”
Ranpo flailed, sputtering seawater. “Hey—let go—!”
Chuuya powered forward, smirking viciously. “You think he’s gonna stop me, mackerel?”
Dazai yelped and shoved Ranpo toward Chuuya like a human shield before darting away again. “Sacrificeeee!”
“Oi!!” Ranpo coughed and yelled, slapping the water. “You bastard!”
Chuuya was already chasing again. He was faster, stronger, and—honestly—way more determined. The idiot was going down.
Next, Dazai tried to dive behind Poe, who was awkwardly trying to swim without getting his hair wet. “Poe-kun, you’re my wall of defense!”
“What?!” Poe yelped as Dazai pushed him into Chuuya’s path.
Chuuya didn’t even slow down—he just sidestepped, flicking water in Poe’s direction in apology, and lunged for Dazai again. “Quit hiding, coward!”
“Strategy, chuchu! Strategy!” Dazai hollered, his laugh carrying over the waves.
He tried one last desperate move: ducking behind Yosano, who was calmly floating in the shallows, her hair fanned out like some goddess of the sea.
“Yosano-san, protect me from this violent creature!” Dazai cried, clutching her shoulders.
She didn’t even flinch. She just smirked at him, then—without warning—shoved him straight toward Chuuya. “Here. Have him.”
“Traitoooor!” Dazai screamed as Chuuya finally wrapped his arms around his waist, dragging him down into the water with a triumphant roar.
Both resurfaced a second later, coughing and laughing, Chuuya clinging tight so Dazai couldn’t escape again.
“Gotcha,” Chuuya panted, eyes blazing but lips curled into a grin. “Now you’re dead.”
Dazai, ever the dramatist, threw his head back and groaned like he was in a soap opera. “Augh! Betrayed! Slain by my one true enemy! My legacy, cut short—”
Chuuya shoved his head under again.
When Dazai came back up, laughing and sputtering, Chuuya couldn’t hold back his own laughter either. It burst out of him, bright and real, even as he kept an iron grip on the idiot who refused to quit.
“You two,” Yosano called out, her hands on her hips, smirk sharp as a knife. “Do you realize you look like an old married couple?”
Chuuya’s grin dropped instantly. “What—?!”
Ranpo, now sitting in the shallows and shaking seawater out of his ears, nodded lazily. “Yeah. Bickering, chasing each other, nearly killing each other… definitely married couple energy.”
Kunikida adjusted his glasses, sighing. “They act like an old married couple. The ones who complain about each other constantly but can’t live without the other.”
“EXCUSE ME?!” Chuuya snapped, his face heating up faster than the sunburn he was already catching. He released Dazai and pointed accusingly at all of them. “Don’t say crap like that!”
But Dazai… Dazai leaned into it. His eyes lit up with that devilish spark, his grin slow and mischievous. “Ahhh, finally, someone noticed~” he purred, wrapping an arm back around Chuuya’s shoulders. “We’ve been hiding our decades-long marriage very well, haven’t we, darling?”
Chuuya froze. “D-dar—WHAT?!”
“Oh, come on,” Dazai went on, lowering his voice dramatically as if it were a secret only for Chuuya. “Think about it. We fight, we make up, you nag me about being useless, I annoy you endlessly, we still stick together… textbook married couple.”
“I WILL DROWN YOU FOR REAL,” Chuuya screeched, face red enough to outshine the setting sun. He shoved Dazai away so hard the idiot nearly toppled backward into the water.
Their friends were all laughing now, even Poe—quietly, but still. Yosano clapped her hands together. “Oh, this is gold. Chuuya blushing, Dazai playing the lovesick fool… someone take a picture.”
“I’M NOT BLUSHING!” Chuuya barked, though his ears were burning.
Dazai swam after him, stretching his arms out like some lovestruck suitor in a cheesy movie. “Don’t run from our love, chuchu! You’re my spouse, my other half, my—”
“STOP IT!” Chuuya yelped, turning tail and swimming for the shore, his heart hammering in his chest as Dazai’s laughter echoed behind him.
After the chaos had subsided, the group collapsed onto the big towel under the umbrella. The sea breeze cooled their damp skin, the sun lowering on the horizon, turning the waves gold. It was about four p.m. and Chuuya could feel exhaustion seeping into his muscles—his arms heavy, his legs like jelly. But it wasn’t a bad kind of tired. No, it was the kind that came after hours of running, laughing, competing, and being so distracted he almost forgot his worries.
Almost.
Because when he thought about it—when the laughter dimmed into the background chatter of his friends—his mind still lingered on Shirase, Yuan, the fractured friendships left behind, and the storm next school year might bring.
But for now, the sun, the salt, the sand, and the idiot at his side… it was enough.
Dazai leaned lazily against him, resting his head on Chuuya’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. Their damp clothes clung to their skin, and the wind was sharp enough to send a shiver down Chuuya’s spine. But Dazai’s warmth pressed against him wasn’t unwelcome.
“I feel like I have no bones… or muscles… or a body,” Dazai mumbled, voice muffled by Chuuya’s shirt. “I feel like I’m high, actually.”
Chuuya huffed a laugh, brushing his wet bangs out of his eyes. “Dumbass. Have you ever even been high?”
“…Hm. I think sorta,” Dazai muttered.
That made Chuuya blink. He turned his head slightly, frowning. “Wait—what do you mean ‘sorta’?”
Dazai sighed, his shoulders rising and falling slowly. “Well, two things. Once I took too many painkillers and almost had an overdose… or maybe I did? Whatever.” His words came sluggish, almost sleepy, but not unserious.
Chuuya straightened a little, his chest tightening. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“Uh… I’d broken my arm. It hurt like hell. And…” Dazai shifted, eyes half-closed. “…I wasn’t doing good.”
Chuuya swallowed. “…Oh.”
“Mentally, I mean.”
“…oh.” The weight of the words sank in. Heavy.
“And the ‘sorta’ part?” Dazai smirked faintly. “Once I smoked weed. Just one drag. Didn’t even like it.”
Chuuya groaned, pressing his palm to his face. “You’re sixteen, Dazai. What the fuck.”
“I’ve done worse things at sixteen,” Dazai said with a lazy shrug.
Chuuya sighed hard, but didn’t push further. Silence stretched between them, filled with the crash of the waves, the occasional cry of a gull, and their friends’ faint voices carried by the wind.
Then, suddenly, Dazai let out a sound somewhere between a hum and a groan. “Can I tell you something? But you have to promise not to freak out.”
Chuuya glanced at him, unsure, but hummed anyway.
“Remember I told you I was ‘expelled’ but not really?”
“Yeah.”
“Well…” Dazai’s voice dropped, soft, careful, almost fragile. “It’s a long story. But I’ll summarize.” He hesitated, fiddling with the damp bandages on his wrist. “I guess I’ve always been a weirdo. Since I was a kid. Everyone thought so.”
“…Why?”
“They said I didn’t act like them. Didn’t play right, didn’t talk right. Then, when I was like eleven or twelve, they started calling me… feminine.”
Chuuya’s brows furrowed. “…Feminine?”
“Yeah. Said I sat funny, moved funny, sounded funny. Called me faggot. All the time.” His voice was quiet, but steady. “Even when I flirted with girls, even when I had a couple girlfriends… it didn’t matter.”
Chuuya’s stomach twisted. “…So they bullied you.”
Dazai gave a little humorless laugh. “For years. My parents told me to ‘prove them wrong.’” He mimicked the tone bitterly. “But then it got worse. They locked me in a bathroom stall with another boy and…”
He trailed off. The silence between them was sharp.
“…And he tried to touch me. I punched him, but it didn’t really work,” Dazai muttered. “Yosano got me out before it got worse. She… saved me, I guess.”
Chuuya’s throat tightened. Without thinking, he put his hand over Dazai’s. Just a touch, but steady.
Dazai glanced at it, then let out a shaky breath. “Long story short… the bullying, everything… I was depressed. Angry. And one day, I just—” He laughed again, but this time it was bitter, broken. “…I tried to off myself in the school bathroom.”
The words hit Chuuya like a slap. His whole body froze.
“…You what?” His voice was sharp, but not with anger—shock, fear, disbelief.
Dazai looked away, shoulders hunched. His fingers picked at the cap of the water bottle. “…I know. I even made a mess. There was a lot of blood. My friends found me before I—” His throat worked around the words. “Before I could finish. The director said it was better if I transferred.”
The silence afterward was suffocating. Chuuya stared at him, speechless, his heart pounding in his ears. He knew Dazai was on medication. He knew Dazai’s jokes about death weren’t just jokes. But hearing it like this—raw, unpolished—
“Jesus Christ…” Chuuya whispered. His hand stayed on Dazai’s, squeezing, grounding.
And for once, Dazai didn’t joke, didn’t smirk, didn’t tease. He just leaned a little heavier against Chuuya’s shoulder, as if that small touch was enough to keep him steady.
Chuuya stayed frozen, eyes locked on the horizon but not really seeing it, his hand still gripping Dazai’s. His chest hurt—like someone had poured burning metal inside him.
How could they—those kids—do that to him? How could they lock him up, call him names, push him so far that he thought ending everything was better?
Because he knew. He knew too well what it felt like. The whispers, the stares, the mockery, the hands grabbing you when you didn’t want it, the cruel laughter when you cried, the loneliness when adults pretended it wasn’t happening. When they told you to “prove them wrong” instead of helping.
His jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
“You…” his voice cracked before he forced it steady. “You didn’t deserve that. Not any of it.”
Dazai didn’t answer right away, only fiddled with the bandages at his wrist again. His silence was loud.
Chuuya’s throat tightened. He wanted to say more, to shout, to curse those kids, curse the teachers, curse the world that had let Dazai believe death was his only way out. Instead, what came out was sharp and trembling, almost a plea:
“Don’t ever—ever—do that again.” His hand tightened around Dazai’s like iron, like he could physically anchor him to life. “Not when I’m here. Not when I—” He stopped himself, breath catching. His cheeks burned, but his eyes stayed fixed on Dazai. “…Not when I can stay with you, alright?”
For the first time, Dazai lifted his head from Chuuya’s shoulder, blinking at him. His expression wasn’t his usual smirk or playful grin. No, his face was open, startled, like he hadn’t expected someone to say that. “…Chuuya,” he whispered, almost carefully, as if testing how the name tasted in his mouth at that moment.
Chuuya huffed, trying to cover the sting in his eyes. “I’m serious, you damn mackerel. I don’t care if you’re a pain in the ass or if you drive me crazy half the time. You… you can’t just—” His voice cracked again, frustration bubbling with the grief. “You can’t leave like that. Not after all the shit you’ve already been through. Not after all the shit I’ve been through. I get it, okay? I fucking get it. But don’t.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the sea rolling against the shore, the faint cry of gulls overhead.
Then Dazai let out a shaky chuckle—weak, but real. “You’re scary when you’re worried, chibi.”
Chuuya scowled and shoved his shoulder into him, though his hand never let go. “…Good. Maybe that’ll keep you alive, idiot.”
But inside, his chest was pounding, a mixture of fear, anger, and something softer he wasn’t ready to name. And for once, Dazai didn’t shake off the hand gripping his. He let it stay.
Of course, during summer, Dazai came to Chuuya’s house all the time. That was obvious. That idiot practically lived there now, sprawled across the couch, stealing food from the kitchen, chatting with Chuuya’s mom like he was her second son. Dazai loved being there, and he declared loudly that since Chuuya was back—whatever the hell that was supposed to mean—it was the perfect moment to continue their infamous bet: “Dazai will beat Chuuya in every game.”
At the moment, the scoreboard was ridiculous. Dazai had two games under his belt, and Chuuya only had volleyball—which, to be fair, had been an absolute massacre. But a win was a win, and Chuuya wasn’t about to give up hope.
That afternoon they sat on the floor of Chuuya’s room, backs against the footboard of his bed, Dazai’s Switch in their hands. The fan in the corner did its best to push warm air around the room, but the summer heat was relentless. Mario Kart blared on the screen, colorful chaos with shells and bananas flying everywhere.
Chuuya gritted his teeth as his kart skidded off the track for the third time in a row. “What the hell—?!”
Next to him, Dazai cackled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Ooh, another victory for me! Chuuya, you should’ve seen your face—”
“Shut up! You’ve got insane luck, that’s it!” Chuuya threw his controller down with a huff.
In the end, Dazai grinned too much for his own good and shoved Chuuya sideways until they both ended up lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. The wood felt cool against their backs, a small blessing against the suffocating summer heat.
“Ugh…” Chuuya muttered, tugging his shirt up and fanning himself with it. “This binder is not helping, I’m burning alive.”
Dazai tilted his head toward him, blinking lazily. “Why are you even wearing it? It’s just us.”
“Because.”
“You should wear it outside, sure, but you’re home.” Dazai wrinkled his nose, as if Chuuya was being unnecessarily stubborn.
“But I’m not alone,” Chuuya shot back immediately.
Dazai raised a brow. “If it’s about me, I already told you—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Chuuya cut him off with a snort, cheeks warming. “I still like to wear it, dumbass. Shut up.”
Silence stretched for a moment, only the sound of the fan creaking in its rotation filling the room.
Then Dazai murmured, voice softer than usual: “Chuuya.”
“Hm?”
“Are you straight?” he asked, arching one eyebrow.
Chuuya blinked, caught off guard. He thought for a second, then shrugged. “…I don’t think so. Yeah, I like girls, but—I think I like boys too.”
Dazai stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable, then turned back to the ceiling. “…I think I like boys too,” he admitted quietly. A humorless chuckle slipped out. “Funny, huh? After all that, I turned out to be exactly what they called me.”
Chuuya immediately propped himself on his elbows, frowning. “No. Because what they called you was an insult. And liking boys isn’t bad.” He huffed, sharp as ever. “Don’t be dumb.”
Dazai clicked his tongue, shrugging one shoulder. “…Hm. I guess.”
Chuuya groaned and dropped back to the floor, closing his eyes. Heat still clung to his skin, his binder pressing tight against his ribs, but it wasn’t the only weight pressing down on him. “…Do you think someone will ever like me?”
Dazai turned his head, squinting. “…Uh?”
“I mean, yeah, probably they will…” Chuuya muttered, voice low, almost embarrassed. “But if a boy likes boys, the first thing he’ll think of is dicks and all. And I don’t have one.” His nose wrinkled as he stared at the ceiling. “And if a girl likes boys—it’s the same.”
Dazai snorted, sitting up slightly. “Chuuya. People don’t fall in love with genitals. They fall in love with people.”
“You say that, but…” Chuuya sighed heavily, rolling onto his side to hide his face. “It’s like… if you’re having a wild dream with a boy or whatever, you imagine yourself top or bottom and—I’m sure there’s a dick somewhere in there.”
Dazai rolled his eyes so hard Chuuya could almost hear it. “Dicks are not everything, Chuuya.”
“…I know,” Chuuya muttered. “But what if this person really likes me, and then—then they get disappointed, because I can’t give them what they want?” His hand dragged down his face, muffling the last part.
For a moment there was silence, and then—poke.
“Oi—” Chuuya flinched as Dazai poked his side with a finger.
“You can have sex, if that’s what you mean,” Dazai said matter-of-factly, smirk tugging at his lips.
Chuuya shot him a glare. “…You know that’s not what I mean.”
“Then what?”
Chuuya’s eyes darted away, his voice smaller now. “…This person will want a boy in bed. And I… don’t look like one. Not naked.”
Dazai groaned, flopping onto his back again. “Chuuya is just sixteen. He can still do surgeries, take hormones—if he wants. And even if he doesn’t…” His voice softened, almost gentle. “He’ll still be a man. If someone gets disappointed, then that’s their loss. Not yours.”
Chuuya stayed quiet, lips pressing together. He wanted to believe that. He wanted to let himself believe that. But…
For a moment, the silence lingered, heavy and thoughtful, only the fan squeaking in the corner. Dazai turned his head, staring at Chuuya’s profile—the stubborn pout of his lips, the little crease between his brows. Too serious.
And of course, Dazai couldn’t stand that for long.
Suddenly, he groaned dramatically and threw an arm over his eyes. “Ugh, Chuuya, stop. You’re making me want to write depressing poetry.”
Chuuya blinked at him. “…What?”
“You know, like—‘oh cruel fate, my beloved redhead is plagued by thoughts of inadequacy—’” Dazai declaimed loudly, throwing his free arm out with an over-the-top flourish.
Chuuya smacked his stomach with the back of his hand. “Idiot.”
Dazai wheezed but kept going, unfazed. “Tragic boy, tragically handsome, tragically stupid—”
“Shut up, you moron!” But Chuuya was already snorting, even if he tried to hide it.
Satisfied, Dazai peeked at him through his fingers. “See? Much better. Don’t frown so much, you’ll get wrinkles.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes but didn’t smile this time. He looked at the ceiling again, quiet for a beat before muttering, “…Still. Maybe they’ll feel like they’re not with a real man.”
The laughter in Dazai’s face softened into something else—fondness, mixed with the tiniest bit of frustration. He pushed himself up on his elbows and gave Chuuya a look, exasperated.
“Chuuya. For the last time. What the hell is a ‘real man’ supposed to be, anyway? A guy with abs and a sausage between his legs?” He clicked his tongue. “If that’s the standard, then I’m screwed too.”
Chuuya snorted despite himself. “…You are screwed.”
“Exactly,” Dazai leaned closer, his grin small but determined, as if he needed Chuuya to listen. “But guess what? None of that matters. People who care about you will want you. Not your body checklist. And if someone’s dumb enough to think otherwise, then good riddance—they don’t deserve you.”
Chuuya huffed, staring at him from the corner of his eye, unsure whether to let himself be convinced.
Dazai sighed, dropping his head back dramatically onto the floor. “Honestly, you’re so stubborn, Chuuya. You’d argue with a wall if it told you you’re fine.”
“Because I’m not sure I am.”
“You are,” Dazai muttered instantly, not even letting him finish. “Annoying, hot-headed, way too competitive, but—you’re enough. Always.”
Chuuya felt his ears go hot at that, and turned his face away with a scoff. “…Idiot.”
“Yep,” Dazai grinned, rolling onto his side to poke his cheek this time. “But at least I’m your idiot.”
Chuuya tapped his fingers lightly against his chest, drumming an irregular rhythm as his thoughts tangled themselves into knots. It wasn’t like Dazai’s words had magically dissolved his insecurities—no, they were still there, coiled deep in his chest, ready to bite when he least expected it. But… he also knew Dazai wasn’t wrong. Logically speaking, there were more than eight billion people in the world; it was ridiculous to believe that not a single one could like him. Right? He hoped so.
Anyway, it wasn’t like he needed someone. He wasn’t desperate. He could live his life without ever being kissed or held or looked at that way. Still… he hoped—just once—he might get a taste of romance. Something fleeting, maybe, but enough so he wouldn’t feel like he was standing on the sidelines, watching everyone else move forward while he stayed behind.
But for now, at least, he had Dazai. And if he didn’t have the courage to lay his feelings bare, he could at least play. Just a little.
“Anyway…” Chuuya started, eyes fixed on the ceiling, forcing his lips into a neutral line to stop the smirk tugging at them. “I’m sure you—” he paused dramatically, “—you don’t imagine boobs when thinking of a man, right?”
Dazai shifted beside him, giving a long-suffering sigh. “Because we have an already too marked system of symbols,” he recited, voice dragging as though he were repeating something he’d said too many times. “We classify everything—and by ‘we,’ I mean humans.”
Chuuya hummed, tilting his head. “Hm. But you wouldn’t want to, I dunno…” He finally turned his head, eyes sharp with mischief. “I mean, I don’t think you’d want to see boobs when you’re thinking about having sex with a man.”
Dazai blinked at him slowly, then pulled a face as though the question itself were absurd. “Boobs are good,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t see a problem.”
Chuuya nearly choked on his own breath. He had to swallow hard to keep his composure—no huff, no snort, nothing that would betray how ridiculous he found the answer. Instead, he pressed his lips together and tried to look very serious. “You only say that because you’re bi, right? But if this person was purely into men—like, liked everything about men or whatever—” he rolled his eyes in exasperation, “boobs aren’t exactly… manly.”
Dazai tilted his head at him, expression unreadable for a moment before settling into flat irritation. “Well, then that person can fuck off.”
Chuuya blinked. “But—”
“Chuuya,” Dazai cut him off, voice low, frowning now. “You have to stop trying to fit into some mold.”
The sudden seriousness made Chuuya sit up straighter.
“People aren’t objects, so you can’t just shove them into little boxes with neat labels,” Dazai went on, sharper than before. He sat up too, arms folding over his chest. “Not even biological characteristics can decide that—because gender is a construction. Humans made it up. Humans need to name everything.” He sighed, rubbing at his temple, the edge in his voice softening but not vanishing. “So then—what is a man? We can’t answer that question with a list of traits, because not every man would fit it. Even if they were born that way.”
Chuuya stared at him, thrown off. He hadn’t expected Dazai to go off on a tangent like this, not over a teasing little jab.
“And if we go with the ‘a man is a man’ tautology, then people will just throw back ‘it’s like saying a table is a table because—’” Dazai huffed, throwing up his hands. “But we’re not objects. We think. We create. We use language. And language is never neutral. Language is cultural, which means it’s full of history, exclusion, discrimination—” He gestured vaguely, growing restless. “Meaning itself is cultural. Words shift. New words and meanings are always being added, because people change and—”
“Okay, okay. Calm down.” Chuuya finally cut him off, putting a hand on his arm. “I was just joking a bit…”
Dazai froze, lips parting slightly as if realizing only now how far he’d gone. He looked away, hugging himself like he needed to hold the words in before they spilled out again. "…Chuuya’s jokes aren’t so funny,” he muttered, quieter this time.
Chuuya frowned, the teasing edge slipping right out of him. “…Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Dazai said quickly, but his eyes stayed averted.
Back to school was weirdly calm—eerily calm. But just the first days. Chuuya’s parents had come and spoken to the teachers, and though last year the school had finally started treating Chuuya as a boy, this time his parents had insisted on a more official, serious conversation. Chuuya hadn’t been present, so he wasn’t exactly sure what had been said, only that the teachers seemed… different afterward. More cautious. And, for once, not in a way that made him feel like an intruder. His parents had also finally bought him a proper uniform in his size, so he didn’t have to wear Dazai’s old one anymore—not that it had been a big deal, but still. On top of that, they had even mentioned the possibility of hormonal treatment. Chuuya had just stared at them, trying not to get his hopes too high.
But, of course, the peace didn’t last.
After the first weeks, Shirase went back to his old self. The passive-aggressive comments slipped through between classes, at lunch, even when they passed each other in the hallway. And since they were in the same grade, it was a lot of passing. Still, Chuuya noticed something odd: the comments became lazier, less creative, as if even Shirase got bored of his own hatred. By the time the months stretched on, the weight of his words seemed to lose power. Chuuya could breathe again—not freely, not without that tension curled in his stomach, but at least enough to focus on something else.
But then Dazai disappeared.
An entire week in October, no sign of him. No sarcastic comments in class, no long limbs sprawled dramatically over his desk, no laughter echoing in the halls. When Dazai finally showed up again, he claimed he had been sick. The thing was—he didn’t look sick. Or, not in the way Chuuya knew. He didn’t look bad either, not ugly, not anything like that. Just… different. His eyes were heavier, his movements slower, as if he had been pulled through something dark and hadn’t completely escaped it yet. And that was wrong, because Dazai—even at his most insufferable—always burned too brightly. He was supposed to be a constant nuisance, not a shadow.
And it worried Chuuya. More than he cared to admit.
Since Dazai never gave him a straight answer, Chuuya figured the least he could do was stay with him. Like Dazai had done for him when he’d been at his lowest.
“Wanna come to mine? I feel like we can play Mario Party,” Chuuya murmured softly one afternoon, bumping their shoulders together.
Dazai glanced at him with a lazy smirk. “I have to go somewhere first.”
“Uh, I can go with you—if you want.” Chuuya shrugged, casual, even though his heart sped up.
“Fine. It won’t take long.”
They walked together out of the school grounds, their shadows stretching long under the setting sun. The walk was longer than Chuuya expected, winding through parts of the city he rarely visited, until they stopped in front of a tall, sleek building that screamed money. The inside was spotless—shiny marble floors, polished walls, elevators that didn’t rattle like the ones in Chuuya’s neighborhood. He followed Dazai into one, trying not to look like a wide-eyed kid.
They went up, stopped at one of the higher floors, and approached a door. Dazai knocked a few times, his knuckles sharp against the wood.
The door creaked open… and revealed a child.
A blond girl in a red dress, no older than ten. Her big blue eyes blinked up at Dazai before she called over her shoulder, “Rintarō! Osamu is here!” Then she turned to Chuuya, tilting her head. “Who are you?”
“Uh—”
“A friend,” Dazai answered smoothly, tugging Chuuya by the wrist before he could stumble over his words.
The girl’s eyes lit up mischievously. “Your friend is pretty,” she declared, batting her lashes.
Chuuya froze, heat rushing to his ears.
“Elise-chan, I can’t play with you now,” Dazai chuckled, as if already used to her antics.
“Mean,” Elise huffed, pouting.
The office they entered was huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows that displayed the city skyline like a painted backdrop. Chuuya turned in awe—until the chair at the desk spun around, revealing an older man with a calculating gaze. Something about him—sharp cheekbones, pale skin, that eerie stillness—reminded Chuuya uncomfortably of a vampire.
“Oh, Dazai-kun, you’re late,” the man said smoothly, propping his chin on his hand.
Dazai let out a dramatic sigh. “I had to walk here. You know I wasn’t made for walking.”
“You just need more exercise.” The man chuckled lightly.
“Nah, Chuuya here can carry me if I faint,” Dazai grinned, leaning against him.
“Uh—?” Chuuya whispered, utterly lost.
The man’s eyes softened. “Nice to meet you, Chuuya-kun. Dazai has told me a lot about you. I’m Mori Ōgai.”
“My personal doctor,” Dazai added, waggling his eyebrows.
“I’m not his personal doctor—”
“You’re cheating on me with other patients?!” Dazai gasped, clutching his chest like a wounded lover. “Chuuya, hold me, I’m going to faint.” He draped himself against Chuuya dramatically.
Chuuya stiffened. “Wh—”
Mori rolled his eyes, though there was amusement behind it. For someone who looked unsettlingly like a predator, the way Dazai treated him almost made him seem harmless. Almost.
“Sadly, my job is to cheat on you with other patients,” Mori played along.
Dazai sighed, fanning himself as though on stage. “Tragic. Do you at least have other depressed teenagers?”
“No, you’re the only one.”
“Good to know,” Dazai huffed. He leaned forward across the desk. “Now, where are my meds?”
Mori opened a drawer and pulled out a small box. But just as Dazai reached for it, he yanked it back.
Dazai gasped, scandalized. “Do you want me to be sick and die?”
“Yes,” Mori replied without blinking.
Dazai collapsed against the desk dramatically. “This is illegal! You’re a doctor!”
Mori smirked, resting his chin on his palm again. “What makes you think I haven’t been poisoning you with your meds?”
Dazai’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. I trusted you. I really did.”
Chuuya just stared, utterly bewildered. He had never seen Dazai be this dramatic. And that was saying something.
Finally, Mori relented and handed him the box. Dazai snatched it indignantly, stuffing it into his coat. “Come on, Chuuya. We can’t stay in a place where the boss wants me dead.”
“Uh…” was all Chuuya could manage.
“See you, Dazai-kun. And you too, Chuuya-kun. Good luck,” Mori said smoothly, tilting his head with a smile that made Chuuya shiver.
“Here,” Chuuya muttered as he sat down on the bed, balancing a big bowl of popcorn and putting it right in the middle between them. “What did you choose?”
Dazai was sprawled comfortably on his stomach, chin propped up on his hands as he scrolled through his laptop. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, and he hummed like he was making a life-or-death decision. “I’m between Resident Evil and—”
“Zombies?” Chuuya rolled his eyes, already unimpressed.
“—and Final Destination.”
“Really? Those are your options?” Chuuya groaned, flopping down dramatically next to him. “Ugh. I prefer Final Destination.”
Dazai grinned like a kid, clicking with unnecessary flair. “Okay! This one’s new—so get ready for more blood and death and… something really boring, but with blood!”
“Yep, perfect description,” Chuuya deadpanned, grabbing a handful of popcorn.
The movie started. Ten minutes in, Chuuya was already regretting his choice—not because the movie was bad, but because his eyelids were heavier than he wanted to admit. God, was he seriously falling asleep during movies already? At sixteen? Pathetic. He shifted onto his stomach, resting his head on his arms, eyes half-focused on the laptop screen. Just one second of closing them, he thought—just one second…
When he blinked awake, the room was different. The laptop was closed, the glow gone, and the lights dimmed to a soft shade. Chuuya blinked sluggishly, then turned his head. Dazai was out cold too, sprawled on his stomach, hair falling over his cheek, looking oddly peaceful. Did the movie end? Or had Dazai just quit halfway through and crashed?
Chuuya yawned and turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling. The movement pressed a dull, uncomfortable weight into his chest—ah. Not emotional weight. Real weight. He grimaced. He still had his binder on. He’d been wearing it since that morning. Way too long.
Even though he hated the idea of moving, he knew better than to ignore it. He carefully sat up, making sure not to brush against Dazai, and padded to the bathroom. The mirror’s cold light reflected back at him as he tugged the binder off. Red lines bit angrily across his torso, and he winced. Damn. A clear warning. He’d been reckless lately.
He stared at his reflection for a long moment. Just stared. His chest, his shoulders, his tired face. He pulled his shirt back down quickly and sighed, frustration clinging like a shadow. Shoving the binder into the closet on his way back, he climbed onto the bed again, hoping he could just bury himself in sleep and forget it all.
But as soon as he laid down, arms wrapped around him.
Chuuya stiffened. “Let me go,” he muttered, wriggling.
“No,” Dazai said simply, his voice a low hum of amusement. His smirk pressed against Chuuya’s shoulder. “You fell asleep. Was it really that boring?”
“Yes,” Chuuya mumbled flatly, though warmth prickled in his chest.
“Uh-huh.” Dazai chuckled, then suddenly jabbed a finger into his side.
Chuuya yelped. “Don’t—”
“Tickle fight!” Dazai declared with way too much energy.
“No—!” Chuuya squirmed, kicking his legs as Dazai poked and jabbed mercilessly. Laughter bubbled out despite himself, broken with sharp yelps whenever Dazai found a sensitive spot. Chuuya tried to retaliate, aiming his fingers at Dazai’s ribs, but that idiot was faster, slipping away and darting back in like he lived for this chaos. Dazai’s laugh filled the room, loud, carefree, stupidly bright.
And then—
Both froze.
The air shifted.
Dazai blinked down at him, his hand still against Chuuya’s chest where it had landed mid-squirm. Color rushed into his face, spreading to the tips of his ears. “I—”
“You touched my boob,” Chuuya blurted, his own face burning.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You perv!” Chuuya shoved at his chest, mortified, every nerve on fire. God, why hadn’t he worn a top? That had felt way too clear—too real.
“I didn’t mean it! You—you turned and—it was just in the way!” Dazai stammered, his words tumbling over each other in panic. His usual smooth confidence shattered completely.
Chuuya narrowed his eyes, his heart beating out of control, and flicked Dazai’s forehead hard. “Disappear.”
Dazai recoiled with a whine, rubbing at the spot. “I didn’t mean to touch you…” His voice cracked into something between pout and plea, his shoulders curling.
Chuuya groaned, turning onto his side, away from him, but his face was still on fire. Goddamn idiot.
Dazai stayed quiet after that, his usual dramatics gone. He had curled in on himself a little, still rubbing his forehead where Chuuya had flicked him, eyes downcast. His pout wasn’t fake this time, not the kind he put on just to be annoying—it was smaller, almost uncertain.
Chuuya huffed, still turned to the side, clutching his pillow like a shield. His chest was still hot with embarrassment, but… the silence stretched. Too long. He peeked over his shoulder.
Dazai hadn’t moved.
He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t making another stupid comment to annoy him out of his fluster. Instead, he just sat there, staring at his own hands like he’d crossed a line.
Chuuya frowned. “…Oi. Idiot.”
Dazai flinched faintly, looking up. His voice was quieter than usual, like he was weighing every word. “I really didn’t mean to.”
Chuuya’s heart squeezed. He could tell when Dazai was acting, when he was putting on his little stage plays of overreaction and mock despair. This wasn’t that. His tone was flat, careful, almost… scared. “Yeah, I know,” Chuuya muttered, rolling back onto his back, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His voice came out rougher than he meant. “Just—it was weird, okay?”
Dazai nodded quickly. “I get it.” He bit his lip, then slumped down onto the mattress beside him, shoulders tense. “I don’t… want you to think I’d ever…” He trailed off, words failing him, which was rare.
Chuuya sighed. God. Why did he feel bad now? He dragged a hand over his face, then let it drop onto the bed between them. “…You’re stupid.”
That, at least, got a tiny chuckle out of Dazai. “Mm, probably.”
Silence settled again, but this time softer. Not so sharp around the edges.
Chuuya turned his head just enough to see him. Dazai was lying on his back now too, staring up at the ceiling, lips pressed tight like he didn’t trust himself to say anything else. “…I know you didn’t mean it,” Chuuya finally admitted, his voice low. “So stop looking like a kicked puppy.”
Dazai’s eyes flicked to him, wide, then softened with a faint smile. “You noticed?”
“Hard not to. You suck at hiding your face when you’re guilty.”
“Mm,” Dazai hummed, almost sheepish. Then he turned on his side, propping his cheek against his hand. “So you forgive me?”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. “Guess so. Don’t make me regret it.”
Dazai’s grin returned, but gentler this time, not as sharp-edged. He reached out and poked Chuuya’s arm lightly. “Deal. No more accidental boob-touching.”
“Shut up.”
Dazai chuckled, flopping back down, and Chuuya groaned into his pillow—though, deep down, he was relieved. The idiot had scared him for a second.
Chapter 3: ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐˚ ༘`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹
Notes:
Warnings
(about 28k words)
Jealousy
Chu's in HRT soooo hormones are crazy
I forgot the tag "Dazai wearing a skirt" guys
IMPLIED/REFERENCED SEX (with clothes??? does that make sense?)
And a little argument.
Chapter Text
"We're born at night, so much of our life
Is just carvin' through the dark
To get so far, and the hardest part
Is who we are, it's who we are."
—Who We Are by Hozier
Yes, Chuuya had looked it up on the internet an uncountable number of times. He had read every forum, every blog post, every story from people who’d gone through the same thing. Yes, the doctor had been very clear about the possible side effects, repeating them almost like a warning bell every appointment. And yes, it had been a long, nerve-wracking process for him to finally get to start his HRT. Still… even with all that preparation, living it was something else. It was weird. And, sometimes, it was frustrating as hell.
One of the worst parts—the one that made him scowl at the mirror almost every morning—was the acne. He’d never had it too bad before, a pimple here and there as any normal teen, but now? It was everywhere. His skin felt greasy all the time, his forehead and jaw dotted with angry little spots, and not only there. He found pimples in his arms, across his thighs, even on his chest. That was just… unfair. The doctor had said it was normal, of course, just hormones adjusting and all that. Normal.
Wow. Somehow, that word didn’t make it less annoying when he spotted yet another red bump.
And then there was the body hair. Not bad exactly, but definitely not neutral either. He had more of it now, darker and thicker, sprouting in places that still made him raise his eyebrows when he noticed them. Legs, arms, stomach—it was everywhere. A sign of progress, sure, but weird to get used to. What had almost made him lose it, though, was when, out of nowhere, the hair on his head began to fall. Whole strands coming off with every brush, every wash. For weeks he panicked, thinking he was going bald at sixteen. He’d stared at the shower drain like it had betrayed him, his stomach twisting each time.
Thankfully, it stopped after a while, and things went back to normal, but the scare had been real.
His voice was another rollercoaster. Chuuya’s voice had never been very high to begin with—if anything, when he was younger, people had scolded him for “making it too deep,” like it was some silly act he was putting on. It wasn’t. It was just his voice. Now, though, his voice cracked without warning, jumping up and down in pitch mid-sentence, embarrassing him every single time. Annoying as it was, he couldn’t deny the moments of pure, dizzying euphoria whenever he caught it sounding deeper. He’d hide a smile, feeling stupid, but the warmth would stay in his chest for hours.
And then… there was the other part.
The part no one liked to talk about too much. The… horniness. Chuuya had known about it, had read about it plenty of times online, but living it was different. It wasn’t unbearable, thankfully, just this constant hum under his skin, a restless awareness that hadn’t been there before. He could ignore it most of the time, but it was impossible to deny the change. What made it worse was that it had really kicked in during December. Winter. Freezing cold. It didn’t even make sense—shouldn’t hormones have the decency to match the season?
By the time school started again after vacation, Chuuya was a little steadier. Still adjusting, but… getting there. Of course, the very first thing out of Dazai’s mouth when they met up again was:
“What the fuck with your voice? Why do you sound so deep?” Dazai raised an eyebrow dramatically, leaning in like he was inspecting a rare animal. “You sound more like a boy than me.” Then, with a mock gasp: “Watch out.”
Chuuya chuckled, deciding to take it as the compliment it was. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
But Dazai wasn’t done. He stepped back, looking him up and down with exaggerated suspicion, like Chuuya was hiding a secret. His lips curved in a smirk. “Hm. Are you feeding on my masculinity?”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, though amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. “…Yes.”
Dazai clutched his chest, eyes wide with pretend horror. “I knew it! That’s why I’m not a boy anymore—Chuuya stole it all from me!”
Chuuya couldn’t help it. It was ridiculous, beyond stupid, but he laughed—just a small, quiet laugh that slipped out before he could stop it. The idiot grinned wide, victorious. For a moment, as they walked down the hall side by side, Chuuya’s chest felt lighter.
Honestly? January was a good month.
For once, it felt like the world had decided to give him a break. Shirase and Yuan—once his biggest sources of headaches—were now practically ignoring him. No more barbed, passive-aggressive comments thrown in the hall, no more petty shoves in the cafeteria line. Just silence. And silence, to Chuuya, felt like bliss. His classmates acted normal around him, which was more than he could ask for, and even though some kids from other grades still whispered behind his back whenever he passed by, he had learned to shrug it off. Meh. Let them whisper. He wasn’t about to waste his breath on them.
This was… nice. Almost too nice. Maybe, after all that suffering, this—this quiet stretch of normal—was paradise.
The cherry on top? He had even won four more games against Dazai. Four. That alone was reason enough to strut around like a king. Sure, Dazai still had the lead—seven victories against his six—but Chuuya trusted himself. He was catching up, and he could taste the sweet possibility of winning the stupid bet.
Not everything was perfect, of course. The P.E. teacher still insisted on putting him with the girls’ team, muttering that even if Chuuya was a boy, it “wouldn’t be fair” to make him do the same drills as the other boys because of his “different body.” Chuuya hated it. He hated the sting in his chest every time, hated the unfairness, hated that he couldn’t do much about it, no matter how many times he tried to show he could keep up—or even outpace—the boys. He kept his jaw tight and endured it, but it gnawed at him anyway.
Still, he had things that made him feel alive again. He’d started a martial arts class on weekends—well, continued, really. He’d trained before, but had to stop after injuring his ankle. Now, stepping back onto the mat, feeling the rhythm of the movements return to his body, it was like breathing again. A reminder that he was capable, strong, in control.
And then there was Dazai, who, out of nowhere, joined an art club. An art club. Chuuya had nearly choked when he found out. If someone had asked him to list one hundred things Dazai might enjoy, art wouldn’t even have been on the page. Yet there he was, sketchbook in hand, humming like it was the most natural thing in the world. Chuuya didn’t get it.
Then again, Dazai was… Dazai.
By the time February rolled in, the whole school was buzzing about Valentine’s Day. As usual, the big event was being hyped: exhibitions, chocolate, and some silly contests organized by the seniors. Everyone seemed swept up in the frenzy. Chuuya wasn’t. He wasn’t looking forward to confessions or hearts or any of that fluff. He was a simple boy, and his goal was simpler: chocolate. That was it.
The day before Valentine’s Day, though, something happened. Something that stuck with him more than he wanted it to.
He had just stepped out of the bathroom—choosing the boys’ one this time because it was empty, though he usually avoided the school bathrooms altogether, just in case someone decided to make a scene. He adjusted his shirt, ready to head out, when his eyes landed on the gates.
And there, standing right where Chuuya always found him waiting… was Dazai.
And Dazai was kissing a girl.
It wasn’t a mystery that Dazai had secret admirers. That had always been a thing. But lately, it had been quiet—whispers here and there, sure, but no actual confessions, no grand gestures. So Chuuya wasn’t expecting it. Seeing it, real and in front of him, froze him on the spot.
His feet stopped. His chest felt strange, like someone had knocked the air out of him without touching him.
He didn’t know what he felt. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. There was a strange drop in his stomach, a flutter of something sharp in his chest that he couldn’t quite name. Jealousy? Annoyance? Or was it just the shock of seeing Dazai, his constant, doing something so… out of their usual world?
Chuuya swallowed hard, forcing the tightness in his throat down. With a deep sigh, he turned away, his body heavy, like some weird energy had just drained out of him all at once. His steps carried him toward the doors, steady, stubborn, without a single look back.
He didn’t know if Dazai saw him. He didn’t want to check.
And no—he wasn’t mad. He told himself he wasn’t mad. He just… didn’t know what he was.
Mackerel:
do u have the bow the teacher asked?
i don't have anything like that (┬┬﹏┬┬)
i don't wanna go out and buy it
Chuuya?
Chibi?
c
h
I
b
i
r u there?
did u die and didn't invite me?
Cruel chibi
i bought the bow, but it's not that red. do u think the teacher will scold me?
chuu
chuchu
Chuuya had seen his phone light up again and again that afternoon, but he left it face down on his desk, stubbornly refusing to touch it. He didn’t reply to anyone—not even to Albatross, who had texted him. Instead, he buried himself in distractions: sketching half-heartedly in his notebook, staring blankly at the ceiling, even helping his mom set the table earlier than usual. Anything to keep from picking up that phone.
Because if he picked it up, he knew exactly who would be waiting there.
And sure enough, when he finally gave in after dinner, scrolling through the flood of notifications, he found what he expected: Dazai, the self-proclaimed king of spammers.
Line after line of nonsense. Words broken apart into single letters. Mock accusations of cruelty. Nicknames he didn’t ask for. Reading them felt exactly like hearing Dazai’s voice in his head—relentless, playful, impossible to tune out.
Chuuya still didn’t know what he felt. He had replayed that moment by the school gates more times than he wanted to admit. The kiss. The girl. The way it had made something inside him sink. But he wasn’t about to unpack that with Dazai—not when he didn’t even understand it himself.
So he settled for something safe.
i'm alive, just busy.
It didn’t take a minute for the reply to come.
Mackerel:
goooooooooooooooooood
you disappeared, i spent thirty minutes looking for u
Chuuya huffed under his breath, thumb hovering over the keyboard before typing back:
my mom needed me.
And again, the answer was instant:
Mackerel:
a
ok.
but next time tell me, or text me or something
Chuuya stared at the screen for a moment longer, lips pressing together. Dazai’s tone was there between the lines—casual, but with a hint of something else. Like he had really been waiting. Like he had actually cared. And that only made the knot in Chuuya’s chest worse.
Next day—Valentine’s Day—Chuuya woke up with the firm resolution to shake off whatever weird thing had gotten stuck in his chest the evening before. He told himself it was nothing. He told himself Dazai was free to kiss whoever he wanted. He told himself he didn’t care. And yet… as he walked through the decorated halls of the school, passing tables stacked with chocolate boxes and red ribbons, he couldn’t ignore how heavy he felt inside.
He really tried. He tried to enjoy the event, watching the seniors’ projects, browsing through the games set up in the gym, letting his classmates drag him along. He tried to laugh when they laughed. But no matter where he went, no matter how much he told himself he wasn’t going to think about Dazai, somehow things always circled back. A glimpse of messy brown hair at the other end of the room, the sound of a loud laugh that was unmistakably his, or—like now—Dazai appearing right in front of him, grinning with triumph.
“Look what I won!” Dazai announced, waving something in the air. It was a little plushie shaped like a fish, dangling from his hand. His grin widened when he saw Chuuya. “What have you won?”
Chuuya froze for a second, realizing the classmates he had been with had suddenly vanished, leaving him face-to-face with Dazai. Guilt twisted in his stomach. Why did he feel bad for wanting to avoid him? Dazai was—now literally—his best friend. And yet, here he was, wishing for space. “…A couple of chocolates,” Chuuya muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “But I already ate them.”
Dazai nodded as if it were a matter of grave importance. “Do you want it?” He held up the plushie, shaking it again.
Chuuya blinked at him, caught off guard, before shrugging. “It’s… cute.”
“I don’t like having plushies,” Dazai said casually.
“You have a giant cow plushie, Dazai.” Chuuya gave him a flat look.
“That’s different,” Dazai chuckled, eyes narrowing mischievously. “It’s special. But this little one—eh, you should keep it.” Without waiting for a response, he pressed it gently against Chuuya’s chest.
Chuuya blinked a few times, hesitating before his hands closed around it. The fabric was soft, the little stitched eyes staring up at him. “…Thanks,” he mumbled.
Dazai’s smile softened—just for a moment, before his energy kicked back up. “Come on! I think there’s a—”
“Who’s your girlfriend?” Chuuya asked suddenly, his voice sharper than he intended.
Dazai stopped mid-step and frowned. “…Girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend. If I did, you’d know her.” He shrugged, like it was obvious.
Chuuya’s eyes dropped to the fish plushie in his hands, his thumb running over the tiny fabric fins. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “I saw you kissing a girl yesterday.” His voice wasn’t loud, but Dazai heard it easily over the buzz of the crowd.
“Ah…” Dazai exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Her name’s Tsukimi. She’s not my girlfriend or anything.” He put a hand on Chuuya’s shoulder, steadying, almost protective. “She kissed me—against my will—right after she confessed. But I don’t like her. She’s younger than me, and I barely know her.”
Chuuya glanced up, brow furrowed. “…Uh.” It wasn’t exactly the explanation he expected.
Dazai blinked at him, then his lips curled, eyes glinting with mischief. “Wait… was Chuuya jea—”
“No!” Chuuya cut him off fast, his face heating. “I was mad… because…” He hesitated, words catching in his throat. “…Because I thought I was your best friend, and you didn’t tell me.”
For a second, silence hung between them. Then Dazai laughed, throwing his head back. “Dumb Chuuya,” he said with an almost tender edge. “If only you knew…” He shook his head, still chuckling.
Chuuya squinted at him. “…Know what?”
“Nothing!” Dazai grinned, already tugging at his wrist to pull him along. “Come on! You’ll love this game!”
Chuuya let himself be dragged, the fish plushie still pressed against his chest. But his heart hadn’t calmed down at all.
Chuuya wasn’t sure why everything had gotten so complicated since that day—since he’d seen Dazai kissing that girl. Even after Dazai explained, even after he’d said it hadn’t been his choice, something in Chuuya hadn’t settled. Something had shifted.
Because now, every time he was with Dazai, his heart would start racing. Out of nowhere. Not after running in P.E., not after an argument—just being near him. His chest would tighten for no reason, like the sound of Dazai’s laugh or the way his eyes curved when he smirked were enough to set something off inside him. And worse, Chuuya found himself staring—really staring. At his face, his smile, the shape of his hands when he fidgeted with his pencils in class.
And then, the thoughts started.
Weird thoughts. Questions that came out of nowhere. Questions that made his stomach turn and his cheeks burn.
What would it be like to date Dazai?
What would it feel like to kiss him?
Or… to hold his hand?
It was weird. He was weird.
Dazai was his best friend. The person he trusted the most. The idiot who stayed by his side when no one else did. Of course it was friendship—purely friendship. Why would it ever be something else?
…No way. No way he just thought he could like Dazai.
From that moment, the thought wouldn’t leave. It was like a drop of ink in clear water—spreading, staining everything. No matter how much Chuuya tried to brush it away, it circled back. He didn’t understand it. He had never—never—looked at Dazai like that before. He had only ever seen him as a friend. So why now?
Why was he imagining things?
Like the feel of Dazai’s hand against his. That one time their palms had pressed together by accident, Chuuya had realized how similar their hands were in length—even though Dazai was growing ridiculously fast, stretching taller like a beanpole with each month. Chuuya should have forgotten about it immediately, but now the memory burned.
Or how it might feel if Dazai cupped his face. It wasn’t a far-fetched thought—Dazai had done it before, with that careless way he touched people, holding Chuuya’s cheeks when teasing or scolding him. But now, instead of shoving him away, Chuuya’s mind twisted the memory into something else. Something that ended with a kiss.
That thought alone made Chuuya’s entire body feel like it was on fire.
And then the spiral deepened. What about Dazai’s hands—not just on his face, but sliding down, brushing his arms, his waist—
…Okay. Okay, no. Those were not friendly thoughts.
That wasn’t friendship.
Chuuya buried his face in his hands, groaning. He was doomed. Officially doomed. Because he couldn’t stop thinking it—he might… he might actually like Dazai. And the idea was so overwhelming that he genuinely thought he’d rather the ground open up beneath him and swallow him whole than deal with it.
It didn’t help. At all. The timing was the worst possible. That morning, after applying his HRT spray like usual, Chuuya thought the day would be normal. But the universe apparently hated him. Because the second wave of those stupid annoying side effects hit right after he saw Dazai at school.
Two hours. He spent two whole hours shifting restlessly in his chair, cheeks burning, skin prickling like fire. It wasn’t even hot outside—it was spring, the weather was fine—so why the hell did it feel like his whole body was overheating? And worse, why did it feel like that kind of heat?
Damn hormones.
Damn horniness.
Damn all.
By the time lunch came, he was desperate for relief—any kind. Thankfully (or maybe not), they had agreed to spend the break in the library since there was a test right after. Which meant food and study at the same time. At least the library had AC, so the cool air against his flushed skin helped a little.
…But it didn’t help that Dazai was right there.
Right next to him. Close enough their shoulders brushed when they leaned over the table. Close enough that Chuuya could pick up Dazai’s cologne. It was subtle usually, just a faint trace of citrus and something darker, like smoke—but today it was stronger, like Dazai had gone out of his way to torment him. And Chuuya couldn’t stop breathing it in. Couldn’t stop imagining leaning closer, drowning in it, burying his face in the idiot’s shoulder just to breathe deeper—
He clenched his thighs under the table, scowling at his own pathetic thoughts.
Across from him, Dazai was completely at ease, flipping through his notes. He read aloud in a steady voice, his tone casual, as though he didn’t have any idea of the chaos happening beside him:
“...An utterance may be constructed from sentences—that is, from a unit of discourse, but that does not necessarily mean that a unit of language becomes a unit of discursive communication… ¹” He stopped to take a long breath, tapping his pencil against the page. Then he turned his head slightly, eyes flicking up. “Do you understand?”
Chuuya hummed something incoherent under his breath, eyes locked on Dazai’s profile. No, his brain wasn’t processing grammar. Not at all. All it could think about was how dangerously good that idiot smelled and how close he was sitting. His pulse was pounding too loud for academic terms to mean anything.
“Eeh…” Dazai tilted his head, closing his notebook with a soft thud. “You look like you’re not listening to me.” He pouted dramatically, and before Chuuya could even answer, he reached over, grabbed Chuuya’s sandwich, and pressed it playfully against his lips. “Chuuya should eat.”
Chuuya snapped back to himself, huffing. His face burned hotter—not from the hormones this time, but from pure fluster. “I was listening,” he muttered, snatching the sandwich and taking it from Dazai’s hand.
“Oh yeah?” Dazai leaned closer, eyebrow arched, his grin sharp with challenge. “Then what did I just say?”
Chuuya blinked, scrambling for the last words he remembered, then stuffed the sandwich into his mouth as an excuse to stall. “Uh… sentences and utterances.”
Dazai chuckled, rolling his eyes as if Chuuya were hopeless. “Dumb Chuuya.” He leaned back, still smirking, as though he hadn’t just driven Chuuya insane without even trying.
Meanwhile, Chuuya buried his face in his sandwich, desperately praying for strength—and maybe divine intervention—before his stupid heart and his stupid hormones completely gave him away.
When Chuuya finished his sandwich and wiped his fingers on a napkin, Dazai had already gone back to reading his notes, his long fingers tapping lazily against the paper as he recited under his breath. Chuuya stared at him for a moment—too long, probably. His stomach twisted, the heat in his chest worse than before. He should’ve just kept quiet, but curiosity—it was always curiosity that killed him—won out.
“Hey, Dazai,” Chuuya began, his voice lower than usual. He hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “…How—uh—how likely would it be for you to… like me?”
The words slipped out clumsily, and immediately he wanted to smack himself. Why the hell did I say that?
Dazai froze mid-sentence. His pen hovered over the notebook, his lips parted, and for once he didn’t have an immediate smartass reply. Slowly, almost dramatically, he turned his head, blinking at Chuuya as if the question had come out of nowhere.
“Uh?” His eyes narrowed with playful confusion. Then he smirked faintly. “I like Chuuya. He’s my friend.”
Chuuya gave him a flat look, unamused. That wasn’t what he meant, and Dazai knew it.
For a beat, silence stretched between them. Then Dazai chuckled, tilting his head, shoulders rising in a shrug as if to say fine, you caught me. “Maybe a… seventy percent.”
Chuuya blinked, caught off guard. His heart thudded painfully fast. “Ah.” He tried to sound nonchalant, but his throat was dry.
Dazai, of course, didn’t miss a thing. He leaned his elbow on the table, propping his chin on his palm, eyes gleaming with mischief. “And Chuuya?” he asked, voice lilting.
Chuuya felt his face heat, and he quickly looked away, shrugging stiffly. “…Fifty?”
Dazai raised an eyebrow, grin widening. “Uuuuh. Am I close to your type then?” he teased, voice sing-song, clearly enjoying how flustered Chuuya looked.
Chuuya let out a sharp snort, shoving Dazai’s arm away from his notebook. “No. Keep reading, you idiot.”
Dazai chuckled under his breath, satisfied. But his gaze lingered on Chuuya for a few more seconds than necessary, as if he wasn’t entirely joking.
Chuuya swore on the most sacred thing he knew that he was trying his best. Really, he was. He had never been this kind of person before. Naughty? Perverted? No, not him. He was sure he’d never once felt this sort of restless, intrusive pull toward someone. He hadn’t even let his mind go there with anyone—why would he? And yet here he was, in the middle of class, after finishing his test, gripping his pen like it was the only anchor he had.
He didn’t stand up to hand his paper in. No, he just sat frozen in his chair, staring at the blank spaces left on the page as if he could carve a hole through it with his eyes. But his mind… his mind refused to stay obedient.
Even when he snapped at himself, even when he cut the thought short with a desperate no, stop, it found another way in.
Because—god—it would feel good to have Dazai’s finger—
That was enough. He shook his head hard, cheeks burning.
But then: his mouth, pressed in—nope. No, absolutely not.
Or worse—his—what the fuck, no!
Chuuya pressed his palm against his face, trying to smother the heat rising there. His skin prickled with shame, his chest tightening so much it hurt. His stomach twisted with a nauseating mix of need and disgust.
Damn it. He felt dirty. Gross. Just thinking of it made his whole body itch like he was doing something forbidden, wrong, like someone was watching him commit a crime. “Ugh,” he muttered under his breath, too low for anyone to hear. His knee bounced furiously, trying to burn away the images.
What was he now? he thought bitterly. A pervert?
His throat felt tight. He hated it—hated that he couldn’t control his own head, hated that the only person crawling under his skin like this was Dazai. He wanted to disappear, sink into the ground, anything but stay in that chair with his traitorous thoughts screaming at him.
Thankfully, by the end of the day, Chuuya’s mind had calmed down enough to let him breathe. At least he wasn’t drowning in those filthy, spiraling thoughts anymore—that alone felt like a massive improvement. But even if his head was quieter, one thing refused to leave him: Dazai’s stupid answer. That seventy percent.
It replayed over and over like a broken record.
Dazai was likely to like him a seventy percent. What did that even mean? Seventy percent wasn’t bad—it wasn’t a no. It wasn’t even a fifty-fifty. It meant there was a chance, right?
And the more Chuuya thought about it, the more a dangerous little ember burned in his chest.
…Hope.
God, he hated it. He hated that he felt hopeful, because what if it was just Dazai being a teasing bastard? What if seventy percent meant nothing? But still, the possibility made something flutter deep in him, something warm and terrifying all at once.
But then came the next problem—what the hell was Dazai’s type anyway?
Chuuya groaned inwardly. Just the fact that he was even thinking about this made him feel pathetic. He didn’t want to picture himself twisting into someone else’s shape just to please Dazai. He didn’t want to wonder what he could do to make that seventy percent turn into eighty, ninety… a hundred. That was humiliating. And worse—it was humiliating over Dazai, the most insufferable idiot alive.
Yes, Dazai was his best friend. Yes, Dazai had done so much for him, had stuck by him when others didn’t. But still—he was a menace, an annoying, smug, ridiculous beanpole who loved making Chuuya’s life hell. And now here Chuuya was, obsessing like a fool.
It was a vicious cycle. He’d roll his eyes at himself for even entertaining the thought, call himself an idiot… and then five minutes later find himself wondering again.
In the end, curiosity won. He wanted to know.
Thus began what Chuuya could only call his most pathetic mission yet: What’s Dazai’s type?
Option one: ask Dazai directly. Impossible. If he tried, Dazai would catch on instantly, and Chuuya would rather be buried alive.
Option two: ask around. Much harder, considering Dazai didn’t exactly have a long list of friends at their school. His closest circle was outside of it.
That was how Chuuya, against all his pride, ended up casually—well, trying to sound casual—asking Dazai for Yosano’s number. The look Dazai gave him was suspicious enough to make Chuuya sweat. He had to lie through his teeth, mumbling something about how they’d once talked about exchanging numbers and never did. Dazai had squinted at him like he didn’t believe a word, but thankfully didn’t push.
Step two of the plan: texting Yosano.
He stared at the screen for five whole minutes before typing anything, cursing himself for being this ridiculous. But he sent the question anyway.
Her answer came quickly, and Chuuya’s stomach tightened with each line:
Yosano:
I don’t know much about it. Sorry, dear.
But, but, but…
I remember he liked girls who were pretty—in a cute way.
And they were usually shy or quiet.
Which went with his whole ‘I want to be in control’ mask.
He never talked to me about boys, so I’m not sure how to help you.
But don’t worry, dear, don’t change yourself for that idiot.
Besides, if he doesn’t like you, then his loss. You’re divine.
Chuuya reread it at least three times. Then flopped face-first onto his bed with a groan.
It didn’t help much. Yosano had only given him old info about girls, and Chuuya wasn’t one. And besides, that was the past—the Dazai who had to wear a mask just to survive in his old school, who pretended to be someone else. That wasn’t the same as now.
Still, the words stung. “Shy, quiet, cute”… Chuuya was none of those things. He clenched his phone in his hand, staring at the ceiling. He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself he didn’t care.
But the truth was, deep down, he wanted to know if he had any chance at all.
Chuuya tried—believe him, he tried.
He tried to convince himself that maybe he could mold himself into one of those things Yosano had said—cute, shy, quiet. But every time he even pictured it, his whole body rebelled. That wasn’t him. Not even close.
Chuuya wasn’t quiet. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his life. Even in class, if he knew an answer, he’d say it without hesitation. If someone asked for an opinion, he gave it. If something bothered him, he said it straight. Staying quiet felt like holding his breath until his lungs burned.
And shy? Well, sure, he had his insecurities—who didn’t?—but he wasn’t exactly shy. Teachers always asked him to speak for the group during presentations, because he wasn’t afraid to stand there and talk. He wasn’t that kid who hid in the back. He refused to be.
Cute? Chuuya scoffed at the very word. He wasn’t sure if he was or not, but either way, he didn’t want to be. He was working so hard to look like any other “normal, typical boy” so people would recognize him for what he was. Cute wasn’t the goal. Cute felt dangerous, like it could break the image he was building piece by piece. And besides—he wanted to be taken seriously, not treated like a damn plush toy.
So no. That wasn’t happening.
…But still. He wanted to show Dazai he cared, that maybe there was something more.
Chuuya turned to the only place he could when he was desperate: the internet.
Advice poured out in articles and threads, all equally embarrassing: be helpful, pay attention to their needs before they even ask. Compliment them—people like compliments. Talk about romance, casually slip in what you’d want in a relationship.
It sounded stupid, but… what choice did he have? He’d at least try.
Arcade, late afternoon.
“You’re horrible,” Chuuya muttered, leaning against the plastic side of the dance machine. They’d just finished three consecutive rounds, and Dazai had lost every single one. Which meant, of course, that Chuuya’s victory tally was growing again.
Dazai, panting dramatically as if he’d just run a marathon, fanned his face with both hands. “It’s hard! How am I supposed to guess what the next move is? It’s impossible!”
Chuuya arched a brow. “It literally gives you, like, five seconds of warning. You just don’t look, idiot.”
Dazai slumped, knees bent, tongue out like he was seconds from collapsing. “So cruel, Chuuyaaa…”
Chuuya fought the urge to smirk, because this—this right here—was the hard part of his “plan.” Giving Dazai compliments? Forget it. Every time he opened his mouth, sarcasm or insults came out naturally, like breathing. But being helpful—that he could maybe pull off.
So he cut him off mid-whine. “Wait.” He pushed off the machine and stepped closer, crossing his arms. “I’ll teach you. But the next rounds don’t count.”
“Ow, why not?” Dazai pouted instantly, eyes wide and innocent.
“Because,” Chuuya said flatly.
“But—”
“No.”
“Okaaaaaay,” Dazai groaned, dragging it out like he was some tragic victim of injustice.
Chuuya rolled his eyes and selected one of the easiest songs on the screen. He stepped into position, then jerked his chin toward Dazai. “Look at me.”
Dazai perked up, grin tugging at his lips like Chuuya had just given him the best order of his life.
“See the arrows?” Chuuya began slowly, stepping on the buttons in rhythm with the falling guides on screen. “That blue one on the left—it’s not the next move yet. You’ve got to pay attention to the one actually falling. Like this—” he stepped forward neatly as the arrow lined up. “See? Now this is when you hit the blue one.” He moved fluidly, focused, showing each step carefully.
Behind him, Dazai tilted his head and murmured with a little lilt, “Chuuya makes it look easy. But it’s not.”
Chuuya shot him a look over his shoulder, nearly losing his step. His ears felt hot. He wasn’t even sure if that counted as a compliment or just more teasing—but his chest fluttered anyway, traitorous. God. This “mission” was going to kill him.
It got ten times worse when the song ended.
The arrows faded off the screen, the music stopped, and Chuuya was already turning, ready to scold Dazai for being such a disaster at an easy level… but he never got the chance. Before he could even open his mouth, he felt it—Dazai’s arms sliding snugly around his waist, pulling him back with a suddenness that knocked the air from his lungs.
Chuuya stiffened instantly. His heart didn’t just skip a beat; it went straight into free fall.
That idiot didn’t stop there. Oh no. He went further. Dazai lowered his chin until it rested neatly on Chuuya’s shoulder, his cheek brushing against the side of Chuuya’s head like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Chuuya swore his entire bloodstream turned into static.
“Does Chuuya know how to actually dance?” Dazai murmured, voice low, the vibration humming against Chuuya’s skin. “It would be interesting to see.” The words ghosted over his ear, soft, almost curious—yet they made Chuuya’s pulse hammer so loudly he was sure Dazai could feel it through his back.
He swallowed, throat dry, forcing himself to sound normal, casual, anything but the trembling mess he felt like inside. “…Sorta.”
“Hm?” Dazai hummed softly, the sound tickling his neck. “Chuuya’s so talented, isn’t he? He’s a martial artist, he knows how to sing, his calligraphy is pretty… He probably dances well too.” His tone dipped into a whisper, warm and uncomfortably intimate. “And he’s handsome. It’s unfair.”
Chuuya froze completely, the compliment striking like a blow he hadn’t seen coming. Handsome. Handsome. The word replayed again and again in his head until it rang like a bell.
Dazai kept going, oblivious to the chaos he was stirring. “Good thing the only things I’m better at are—one, video games. And two… I’m taller.”
Chuuya held his breath so hard his chest ached. Because—was it really necessary for Dazai to whisper directly against his ear like that? Was it necessary for his breath to fan across his skin, for his voice to curl around every nerve ending like a slow burn?
No. It wasn’t necessary at all.
And yet here he was, heart fluttering so pathetically he wanted to punch himself.
He swallowed hard again, eyes unfocused on the machine’s screen as if staring at the dim “Game Over” text could ground him. “…Idiot,” he muttered, the word shaky despite his best effort.
But his ears were burning scarlet, and he knew Dazai could feel it.
March didn’t bring peace.
If anything, it made things worse—because his crush on Dazai was only growing, stronger and stronger, until it hurt. Chuuya felt like a pressure cooker ready to explode. He wanted to tell that idiot, he really did. Sometimes the words burned on the tip of his tongue when they were alone, when Dazai was laughing at his own dumb jokes, or when he’d lean too close for no reason. But then Chuuya’s throat would lock up, his courage would crumble, and he’d swallow it all back down.
So he suffered quietly. Like an idiot. Over that bastard.
“So…” Dazai hummed one day, sliding onto the bench beside him at the cafeteria table. He was chewing on nothing, like he had all the time in the world, elbows resting on the table as his gaze flicked to Chuuya. “Chuuya knows what day is today?”
Chuuya took another bite of his sandwich and chewed lazily. “Friday?”
Dazai made a face, squinting at him as if disappointed. Then he tilted his head slightly, lips curling with mischief. “Nope. Guess again.”
Chuuya blinked. “Fourteen of March,” he said flatly, now more confused than curious.
“Mm-hm.” Dazai nodded, tapping his finger against the little white bow pinned neatly to his chest—a bow Chuuya had noticed all day but stubbornly refused to ask about. “Yes… and?”
Chuuya tilted his head, brows knitting. “Dunno. Is it an important day?”
Dazai rolled his eyes with the kind of dramatics that would’ve made a stage actor proud. “It’s White Day, Chuuya.”
“…Yes, and?” Chuuya muttered around another bite of sandwich.
Dazai groaned into his hand, dragging his palm down his face with a sound of long-suffering frustration. “And it’s the day people who got something during Valentine’s give something in return. Obviously.”
Chuuya frowned, shrugging. “Ah, yeah. I know that, dumbass. What about it?”
Dazai slumped sideways, resting his cheek on his palm, eyes looking anywhere but at Chuuya. His lips pushed out into the smallest pout, almost imperceptible, but there. “Nothing.”
Chuuya blinked, chewing slowly. He almost ignored it—because it was so very Dazai to say cryptic things just to mess with him—but then his chest clenched. That sulky face… damn it. Damn crush. He couldn’t let it slide. His mind worked fast, scanning through possibilities until—
Ah.
The fish plushie.
Dazai had given him that stupid fish plushie on Valentine’s Day. It technically counted as a gift. Which meant, technically, Chuuya had to give him something today in return.
…Oh.
…Oh no.
Fuck.
Chuuya didn’t have anything.
His stomach twisted with guilt. He should’ve known. He should’ve prepared something. He cursed himself silently as his brain scrambled for ideas. A store run? No, no time. Buy chocolate? Too obvious. Too impersonal. Ugh. He needed something now.
His first idea hit fast: a letter. Simple, personal, quick to make. And maybe—maybe—he could dress it up a little so it wouldn’t look pathetic. He knew some origami, could add that. Yeah. That could work.
But to pull it off, he needed to get away from Dazai.
So, during free period, he cornered Tachihara and begged for a favor—to keep Dazai distracted. Tachihara had raised an eyebrow, asking why, but Chuuya just muttered something about it being “important” and “don’t ask” until he finally agreed.
Once free, Chuuya slipped into the library and spread out on a table. No fancy materials, just his notebooks and a piece of blue cardboard he found stuffed in his bag. He tore out a clean page, smoothing it down carefully. His fingers worked with surprising steadiness as he drew little stars with yellow marker, painted a few uneven hearts in red. It looked childish, maybe, but it was warm. Then he folded the cardboard into the shape of a cat face—small, simple, but neat.
Now came the hardest part: the actual letter.
Chuuya twirled his pen between his fingers, tapping it nervously against the paper. He stared at the blank space until the silence in the library became unbearable.
Finally, he started scribbling.
Even if you are annoying, you are a good friend.
He stopped. Grimaced. Too blunt? Ugh. He kept going anyway.
Thank you for helping me so much. I feel I’ll never pay you back for all you’ve done for me.
He hesitated again, chewing on the end of the pen. Then, sighing, he added:
You are the friend I never thought I could have.
…Cheesy. So cheesy. He cringed at himself.
Still, he pressed on.
Also, thank you for accepting me and supporting me.
He paused, biting his lip. His chest was tight, like the words were trying to drag more out of him than he could allow. Finally, with a shaky hand, he signed:
With love,
Chuuya Nakahara.
When he finished, he exhaled shakily, staring at the page like it was going to bite him. And then, because apparently he hated himself, he drew a little heart at the end. The second the ink touched paper, he regretted it. His whole body heated with embarrassment.
“Wasn’t that too much…?” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.
Ugh.
Damn it.
When Chuuya finally worked up the courage to hand the letter over, he tried to do it in the most casual way possible. He shoved it forward, face scrunched, muttering, “Here. Just… take it before I regret it.”
But of course, Dazai didn’t even bother to look at the envelope first. The idiot’s eyes lit up instantly, and before Chuuya could blink, Dazai had launched himself across the small space between them, practically tackling him with a hug.
“Wha—oi—!” Chuuya sputtered, stumbling back a step under the sudden weight. His first instinct was to push him away—because that’s what you were supposed to do when a dramatic beanpole clung to you like a limpet in the middle of the hallway—but… he couldn’t. Not when Dazai’s arms tightened around him like he was holding something fragile, something precious. Not when Chuuya’s chest was fluttering in that stupid, traitorous way he hated.
So instead of shoving him off, Chuuya’s hands moved on their own, wrapping around Dazai’s back and holding him close.
“Thank you,” Dazai murmured against his shoulder, his voice softer than usual.
Chuuya’s throat went dry. “…It’s—it’s nothing. I literally forgot, and I’m a terrible friend,” he mumbled, trying for a pout to cover how fast his heart was hammering.
“I know you forgot,” Dazai said simply, his breath brushing against Chuuya’s neck. “But you still made something for me.”
“It’s just paper from my math notebook, Dazai. It’s shit,” Chuuya muttered, cheeks burning.
“No.” Dazai only hugged him tighter, almost crushing him now.
“You haven’t even read it…” Chuuya pointed out, exasperated.
At that, Dazai finally pulled back, though his arms stayed loosely around Chuuya’s waist. With a grin far too bright for the moment, he opened the letter right then and there, unfolding the decorated notebook paper like it was something rare.
His eyes scanned the words slowly. His smile softened. For a long moment, he just stood there, silent, reading and rereading. Then, without warning, he folded the letter carefully, pressed it to his chest for a heartbeat… and hugged Chuuya again.
This time, it wasn’t playful or dramatic. It was almost desperate.
“I know it’s gonna sound ridiculous,” Dazai whispered, his voice muffled against Chuuya’s hair, “but… it’s the first letter I’ve gotten that isn’t either some dumb confession from people who don’t actually know me… or one of those hateful notes.”
Chuuya blinked, his chest tightening painfully. He swallowed hard. “…Then I’ll make a better one. Just—”
“No,” Dazai cut him off gently, holding him tighter. “This one is perfect.” And then, before Chuuya could even react, Dazai leaned down and pressed a light kiss on the crown of his head. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just… warm. Grateful. “Thank you. Thank you…” Dazai whispered again.
Chuuya’s eyes stung, though he told himself it was from the tight squeeze. His chest ached at the thought that this—this simple, clumsy piece of notebook paper—was the first real kindness Dazai had ever been given in a letter. The first genuine words.
It was sad. Too sad. And Chuuya couldn’t stop himself from hugging the idiot back even harder, clutching fistfuls of his shirt like he could make up for every cruel word Dazai had received before this.
Even though Chuuya would never, ever admit it out loud, hugging this idiot felt… nice. Warm. Safe, in a stupid, infuriating way. He hated himself for liking it so much, but his body didn’t lie—the steady rhythm of Dazai’s heartbeat against his chest was grounding, and he found himself clinging back just a little too tightly.
But then… something strange happened.
Dazai didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t laugh or make one of his dumb jokes like he always did when things got even a little sentimental. Chuuya’s entire body stiffened. This wasn’t normal. By now, he should have expected a sly comment about the “with love” at the bottom of the letter, or maybe a dramatic sigh about how Chuuya had secretly been in love with him all along. But… nothing. Just silence.
“Idiot?” Chuuya whispered, trying to sound annoyed, but his voice came out softer than he wanted.
Still no answer.
His stomach dropped a little. “…Dazai, come on, we have to go home,” he tried again, shifting awkwardly and giving him a small nudge. Not really pushing him away, just… testing. But nope. The idiot stayed glued to him. “Dazai,” Chuuya muttered, huffing to cover his unease. “Don’t be stubborn or I’ll kick you.”
Finally, finally, Dazai pulled back. Slowly. His head remained low, messy bangs hiding his face, and one hand went up immediately to cover his eyes. The other hand, though, clutched Chuuya’s letter like it was fragile. Like it might break if he let go.
“Oi…” Chuuya frowned, confused. Until Dazai lifted his gaze at last.
And then Chuuya froze.
Brown eyes. Wet. Shimmering. Red at the edges. Watery.
Oh.
Oh.
Dazai… was actually crying.
For one horrifying second, Chuuya’s mind went completely blank. He couldn’t remember how to breathe. He couldn’t remember what language was. His brain kept repeating the same phrase over and over like static: Dazai is crying. Dazai is crying.
“Heh…” Dazai exhaled shakily, dragging a sleeve across his face in the weakest attempt to wipe it away. “Yes, let’s go,” he murmured, his voice rougher, smaller. Then he cleared his throat, forcing some of that usual brightness back. “I found a cool game in Roblox yesterday,” he added quickly, glancing aside like nothing happened.
Chuuya sighed quietly, his chest tight in a way he didn’t want to admit. He reached out without thinking and ruffled Dazai’s hair, gently, almost comforting. “…Crybaby.”
Dazai gasped, clutching his chest dramatically, as if Chuuya had just stabbed him. “Chuuya!”
Finally, the idiot was acting like himself again. Chuuya smirked, rolling his eyes as he started walking ahead. “So all I need to do is be soft with you to get you into tears, huh? Pathetic. You’re so easy.”
“Chuuyaaaaaa,” Dazai whined in that over-the-top, pitiful way.
Chuuya couldn’t help it—he laughed. A real laugh, bubbling out of him. “Yes, yes, I love you too,” he teased, throwing it over his shoulder like it was nothing.
But then—suddenly—Dazai’s hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist and stopping him in his tracks.
“Stop,” Dazai murmured, the usual humor gone from his tone for just a beat. His eyes, still a little glossy, narrowed. “You little devil.”
Chuuya grinned wide, baring his teeth like a cat who had gotten away with murder. “A taste of your own medicine, dumbass.”
Ten against nine. Dazai was winning. But Chuuya wasn’t worried—he’d catch up soon enough. He always did.
For now, though, the bet didn’t matter. They were sprawled out on Chuuya’s bed, limbs heavy and lazy after a long afternoon. Well—Chuuya had actually spent it running like hell in his soccer game, sweating, pushing, giving his all. Dazai, on the other hand, had stationed himself with the cheerleading squad, claiming he was there to “boost team morale.” Which really meant he stole one of the shiny pom-poms and tried to copy the choreography with the girls, flailing so badly Chuuya nearly tripped on the field laughing.
It had been fun. Actually fun. It even managed to take the edge off the sting left behind by the P.E. teacher’s usual crap—lecturing Chuuya that it “wasn’t fair” for him to play with the boys, droning on about rules and balance and things Chuuya was too angry to listen to. At least when he looked at the sideline, there was Dazai, waving pom-poms like a disaster, his grin wide and unbothered.
Now Dazai was curled against him like a giant, clingy octopus, his long frame draped half over Chuuya, head tucked into the crook of his neck. His hair smelled faintly of sweat and shampoo, messy and a little greasy, but somehow that didn’t matter—Chuuya still found his fingers combing through it absentmindedly.
“You could be a pretty cheerleader,” Chuuya muttered, voice soft but teasing, running his nails lightly against Dazai’s scalp. “If you actually knew how to move your body.”
“Ha. Ha,” Dazai deadpanned into his throat, his breath warm against Chuuya’s skin. “Cruel chibi.”
Chuuya smirked, his chest shaking a little with a laugh.
“But…” Dazai’s voice dropped into that lilting, mischievous tone, “it would be interesting to wear a skirt and all.”
Chuuya stiffened slightly, then snorted. “Uh, I don’t think so.” He coughed into his hand. “Skirts are… uh.”
Dazai chuckled. “You only say that because you hated being forced to wear them. But me? I’d actually like to try.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’d look funny.”
Dazai suddenly shifted back just enough to look at him, wide brown eyes gleaming with trouble. He batted his lashes dramatically, his voice dipping to a whisper. “Don’t you have one that could fit me, Chibi?”
Chuuya blinked, caught off guard. “…What the hell.” He sighed, then shrugged, pretending it wasn’t a big deal even though his cheeks felt hot. “Maybe. But I’d have to check my mom’s closet. All that crap is officially not in mine anymore.”
“Please?” Dazai dragged the word out, batting his lashes harder, lips pulling into an exaggerated pout. He even gave a little shake of Chuuya’s shoulder for effect, like an annoying toddler begging for candy.
Chuuya groaned, smacking his forehead with his palm. “You’re the worst.”
“Pleeeeeeease, Chuuya,” Dazai sang, wrapping tighter around him. “Just imagine me twirling, pom-poms and all.”
“Ugh, fine. Move.” Chuuya shoved at him half-heartedly, already regretting it. “I’ll look for it.”
Dazai grinned, triumphant. “Knew you loved me.”
“Shut up.”
Chuuya came back to his room with a small pile of skirts he’d dug out from the very back of his mother’s closet. He had been picky—none of the tiny ones, none of the ones that screamed “frilly Sunday church girl,” just a few plain ones that at least looked wearable. Dropping them unceremoniously on his bed, he let out a heavy sigh and crossed his arms.
“So. Choose.”
Dazai perked up immediately, like a child at a candy shop. “Oooh, this blue is pretty,” he said, lifting one up with a little sparkle in his eyes. “Though… it looks a little small. Like you.”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes, his glare sharp enough to cut. “Then buy one. You’ve got money for it.”
“Nah,” Dazai sang, ignoring him completely, already humming under his breath as he headed toward the bathroom with the skirt dangling from his fingers. “I’ll try this one~.”
Chuuya groaned under his breath and shook his head. Typical. While Dazai was gone, he quickly scooped the rest of the skirts into his arms and shoved them back into the closet. He did not want to see them scattered around his room, thank you very much. It was humiliating enough to be enabling this ridiculous stunt.
He flopped back onto the bed, hands braced behind him, waiting.
…And then Dazai walked out of the bathroom.
Pants gone. Long legs bare. And the skirt—God—so obviously too short it only covered halfway down his thighs, making those stupid legs look even longer than usual. His pale skin was broken up here and there by white bandages wrapped around his knees, one thigh, as if he’d tried to mummify himself. Did this idiot have bandages literally everywhere on his body?
Chuuya’s throat went dry.
“Well?” Dazai spread his arms with a grin, cheeks faintly pink despite how smug he looked. “How do I look?” He even twirled once, the skirt flaring out, and Chuuya—oh, damn it—saw under it. Nothing indecent, just the edge of Dazai’s boxers. But the fact he even noticed made his stomach twist. Why the hell did that sound so wrong in his head?
“Uh…” Chuuya swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod once, curt. “Good.” His voice cracked slightly, so he cleared his throat. “Yeah. Good.” As if he didn’t like it. As if he hadn’t just stared.
Dazai immediately pouted, swaying side to side, making the skirt swing against his thighs. “Just good? Tch. I like how it feels, though.”
Chuuya leaned back on his hands, eyes dragging up and down against his will. He tried to sound unimpressed. “Well, it… suits you. Makes you look even taller, if that’s even possible.”
“Heh,” Dazai chuckled, clearly pleased. “Does Chuuya think I could wear it… often?”
Chuuya blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah, I guess… Though you should really buy one your si—” he cut himself off mid-sentence, frowning, eyes narrowing. “Wait. You… want to wear a skirt?”
Dazai clasped his hands behind his back, shoulders tilting like he was playing innocent. “Yeah… why?” His grin wavered just a fraction, softening.
Chuuya stared at him, baffled. He shook his head and sighed. “…Nothing. Just surprising, that’s all.”
Dazai tilted his head, eyes searching his face. “It’s weird? That weird?”
Chuuya shrugged. “I didn’t expect it from you, that’s all. But it’s fine. Seriously. Just… buy one that actually fits, because that thing—” he jabbed a finger at the hem of the skirt, “—every time you move, it shows me everything.”
Dazai let out a small giggle, cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink. He threw his hands down dramatically to cover the front of the skirt. “Oh? Why is Chuuya looking down there?” he gasped, all mock-innocence.
“I was looking at the skirt, dumbass!” Chuuya barked, his own face heating.
“Perv.”
“I was fucking looking at the skirt!”
“Perv,” Dazai sing-songed, swaying side to side again, the damn skirt riding up just to taunt him.
Chuuya groaned into his hands. “Why the fuck do I even let you in my room.”
Dazai padded across the room with a little sway of his hips, grinning like the troublemaker he was. He stopped right in front of Chuuya, close enough that the hem of the ridiculous skirt brushed against Chuuya’s knee. His grin softened just slightly as he sighed and shrugged. “I don’t think my parents would ever let me wear this, though.”
Chuuya tilted his head back, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes. “It’s your life, not theirs.”
“Uh-huh,” Dazai huffed, folding his arms across his chest like a sulking cat. “Says the chibi who basically had to be pushed out of the closet by his parents.”
Chuuya clicked his tongue but didn’t deny it.
“Besides,” Dazai continued, voice lighter but with that bitter edge underneath, “my parents didn’t raise me to ‘express myself.’ They had one goal—make me work, make money, keep the little empire running. And… that’s it.”
Chuuya’s lips tugged into a small, crooked smirk. “You can do that in a skirt,” he said, winking up at him.
Dazai actually laughed, soft and low, but it faded quickly. “They didn’t even like when I joined an art club. Imagine their faces if I walked in like this.” He tugged gently at the hem of the skirt as if to emphasize his point.
Chuuya exhaled slowly, the humor leaving his eyes. “…Yeah. I get it.”
For a moment there was a silence, fragile and heavy, until Dazai broke it with a little gesture at himself. “So this—” he twirled his finger down at the skirt, “—can’t really happen. Not outside your room, anyway. I haven’t even told them I’m into boys yet, which is probably for the best.”
That made Chuuya blink. “…I haven’t either, if that helps.”
Dazai rolled his eyes, though his smile was faint. “Not to be mean, Chuuya, but… the second you told your parents you’re a boy, I think they already knew. I honestly think they braced themselves for a trans and gay son years ago.”
Chuuya snorted, shoulders shaking. “I’m bi, not gay.”
“They don’t know the difference.”
“Pfft.” Chuuya rolled his eyes again, shrugging like it didn’t matter, though his lips twitched with amusement. “Fine. Anyway… don’t get me wrong—a skirt is a skirt, but…” His smirk widened as he arched a brow, leaning forward slightly. “Is this your way of telling me you’d be the one biting the pillow?”
Dazai gasped, clutching his chest as if struck by lightning. “Indecent chibi! How dare you invade my privacy like that?!” he barked out a laugh, snorting as he looked away dramatically. Then, with a quick snap of his head back toward Chuuya, he shot him a mischievous grin. “Besides… can’t I be top and still wear a skirt?” He pouted, batting his lashes in mock innocence.
“No.” Chuuya’s reply was sharp, dead serious, as if it wasn’t even a joke.
Dazai let out a long, wounded whine. “Ugh, so unfair! Such a shame…” His pout curved into a sly little giggle as he leaned down, whispering close enough for Chuuya to feel his breath. “But really—what’s better than being dominated in bed?”
Chuuya froze, heat crawling up his neck. His mind, despite his absolute refusal, immediately painted the most graphic, unhinged image possible. Dazai—this idiot—in a skirt, smug one moment and breathless the next, sprawled across his bed—
He blinked rapidly, shaking his head as if that would erase the thought. “Th-That’s your type?” His voice cracked slightly, betraying him.
“Maybe…” Dazai hummed innocently, batting his lashes again as if he hadn’t just detonated Chuuya’s brain.
And Chuuya—damn him—absolutely had the most vivid, detailed, and utterly indecent mental picture because of it. Was he proud? Not even remotely. In fact, he wanted to bury himself six feet under. But his heart was hammering anyway.
“Is Chuuya more of a top or a bottom anyway?” Dazai asked suddenly, tilting his head with that faux-innocent curiosity of his. His voice dropped softer, though, almost purring. His hand moved without hesitation, fingertips brushing against Chuuya’s jaw before cupping his cheek fully.
Chuuya froze, heat crawling up his neck. His skin tingled where Dazai touched him, and his chest tightened like he’d been caught in a trap. He felt like melting into the idiot’s palm, even as his cheeks burned. “…I think the answer is obvious.”
“Hm? A tiny top?” Dazai blinked at him, lashes fluttering before a smug smirk curled on his lips.
Chuuya’s ears went red instantly. He huffed and turned his face away slightly, though he didn’t push the hand off. “…I’d have to use a strap, though,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and stubborn.
Dazai’s grin widened, sharp and delighted. “Hm, at least you can choose your dick,” he teased, breaking into a quiet giggle.
Chuuya groaned. “…So funny.” His tone was flat as a blade, but the tips of his ears betrayed him, glowing red.
“No, really!” Dazai leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing against Chuuya’s. “Color, shape, size, material, even extra features—hah, it’s like the deluxe package. That’s privilege, Chibi.”
Chuuya finally swatted his hand away, glaring hard. “That’s not having a dick, don’t be dumb.”
“Eh.” Dazai shrugged dramatically, unbothered, though his grin softened into something faintly genuine. “I wouldn’t mind,” he said lightly. Then, as if realizing what he had just admitted, his words stumbled forward faster, “—I mean, in the hypothetical case we were talking about us having sex. Which, of course, is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. But still” His cheeks flushed as he looked away for once, lips quirking nervously.
Chuuya swallowed hard, his throat tight. That—no, Dazai didn’t just say that, did he? Why did it sound less like a joke and more like a… like a slip? His brain spun in useless circles, every thought colliding with the next.
“…Yeah,” he muttered at last, forcing his voice steady, though it cracked faintly. “Hm… ridiculous.” He looked down quickly, hoping Dazai wouldn’t notice how red his face had gotten.
But of course, Dazai noticed everything.
Dazai’s smirk lingered, the faint blush still painting his cheeks as he tilted his head again. “Ridiculous,” he echoed softly, like he was savoring the word. His hand returned, brushing against Chuuya’s cheek as if he had every right, his thumb grazing dangerously close to the corner of his lips.
Then, without warning, he leaned in.
Close. Too close.
Chuuya’s breath caught—his whole body tensed, heat flooding him so fast it almost hurt. His brain screamed too close, too close, too close, but his body refused to move, rooted in place, caught between wanting to shove him away and wanting—goddammit—to stay.
“Chuuya’s so red,” Dazai whispered, his grin wicked but his voice low, velvet. “What’s wrong? Did my little hypothetical make you nervous?” He tilted forward just a fraction more, their noses nearly brushing. His breath ghosted over Chuuya’s skin, warm, smelling faintly of mint.
Chuuya clenched his fists on the bedsheets, nails digging into the fabric. Normal. Act normal. Don’t let this bastard win. He forced his glare up, though his face was burning like fire. “…I’m not nervous. You’re just annoying.”
“Mm, sure,” Dazai hummed, leaning close enough that Chuuya could count every lash framing his brown eyes. His smile softened, infuriatingly gentle, as if he could see right through him. “If you say so, Chibi.”
Chuuya’s heart hammered so hard it almost drowned out his thoughts. His throat was dry, his pulse a mess, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to yell or—god forbid—lean in the last inch.
But then Dazai giggled quietly, breaking the suffocating silence, pulling back just slightly but still close enough that Chuuya could feel the warmth of him. “Don’t combust, Chuuya. I wouldn’t want my tiny top to self-destruct before proving himself.”
“Dazai!” Chuuya barked, voice higher than he wanted, his face now scarlet.
The idiot only laughed harder, throwing himself back onto the bed dramatically. “Ah, you’re too fun to tease.”
Chuuya buried his face in his hands for a moment, groaning into them. Why the hell am I in love with this absolute menace?
Chuuya was still groaning into his hands when he felt the mattress dip again. He peeked between his fingers—Dazai had crawled closer, grin softened, eyes glinting like he was plotting something dangerous.
“Don’t hide,” he murmured, prying Chuuya’s hands away from his face with infuriating gentleness. “I can’t tease you properly if I can’t see that cute pout.”
“Cute—!?” Chuuya’s jaw clenched, but before he could spit fire, Dazai leaned in.
Closer.
And closer.
So close Chuuya could feel the faint brush of his breath, every nerve in his body lighting up like sparks. His heart thundered, stomach flipping, breath caught somewhere in his throat. His mind screamed no, no, no but his body betrayed him, frozen, almost leaning in without realizing it.
Dazai’s gaze flicked down for just a split second—down to Chuuya’s lips—and then back up. The world shrank into that single unbearable inch between them.
“D-Dazai…” Chuuya whispered, but it came out weak, almost pleading.
Dazai tilted his head ever so slightly, his lips barely a breath away, his voice dropping into a whisper that curled like smoke against Chuuya’s ear. “…Gotcha.”
And then he pulled back.
In an instant, the unbearable tension snapped, replaced with Dazai’s obnoxious laugh as he flopped dramatically onto his back, hands behind his head like he’d just won some prize. “You should’ve seen your face!” he cackled. “I thought you were about to pass out. Did your brain blue-screen, Chibi?”
Chuuya sat there, utterly paralyzed, his entire face blazing red. His chest still heaved like he’d just run laps. It took him several seconds before words even returned—and when they did, they exploded. “You—fucking—BASTARD!” he shouted, grabbing the nearest pillow and smacking Dazai right in the face with it.
Dazai only laughed harder, rolling around on the bed, dodging the next hits with ease. “Ahhh, priceless! Chuuya almost kissed me!” he sing-songed, clutching his stomach as if the joke might kill him.
“I WASN’T—!” Chuuya cut himself off, his throat closing as he realized how defensive that sounded. His hands trembled, his pulse still refusing to calm down. He wanted to throw every pillow in the room at that smug face, but the truth was—he had wanted it. For just one stupid second, he had wanted it.
And that was the worst part.
Pretending he didn’t feel like the dirtiest, most disgusting, and gross human alive that morning, Chuuya slumped into his seat and tried to pay attention in class. He tapped his pen against the desk, scribbled in the margins of his notebook, nodded along when the teacher asked something—all while forcing himself to look normal. To act like he hadn’t woken up feeling like a total pervert.
Did he have to suffer with this ridiculous horniness forever? Damn hormones. His body had already been through enough with the transition, and now it wanted to throw this at him too? Unfair. He wasn’t going to stop his HRT, though—no way in hell. He needed it, it was who he was, and this was just… a side effect. Right. Besides, there was nothing wrong with masturbation. It was natural. Good for relaxing. He had even read that doctors recommended it sometimes. He was just… figuring out what he liked.
That was fine. Normal.
But the other part—the part he hated down to his bones—was that no matter how hard he tried to keep his mind blank, it didn’t work. The second he touched himself, his brain betrayed him. It always conjured up images of him.
Dazai’s stupid, slender fingers. Those long, annoying, probably amazing fingers that could do everything from twirling a pen to making origami to sneaking under Chuuya’s guard in sparring matches. He imagined them ghosting over his skin, pressing in where he wanted, curling just right—ugh.
And his voice. That lazy, mocking, velvet-smooth tone that could piss him off in two seconds flat but also lingered in his head like a damn echo. The way Dazai would whisper, hum, laugh against his ear, draw out words like he was tasting them.
And—goddammit—the skirt. The image of Dazai standing in that too-short blue skirt, cheeks flushed, swaying with exaggerated shyness. Chuuya hadn’t wanted to admit it then, but it had burned itself into his brain. And of course his imagination had twisted it, Dazai leaning close in that skirt, teasing in that voice, those fingers—
Chuuya slammed his notebook shut, face burning.
Ew. Gross. No, no, no.
Why did it have to be Dazai? Why did he even like that stupid bastard? He was annoying, clingy, smug, always spouting nonsense, always poking into his life. And yet, instead of pushing him away, Chuuya let him stay. Instead of ignoring him, he wanted him closer.
Ugh.
He dropped his head into his arms on the desk, groaning under his breath. “I’m pathetic.”
Because he knew, deep down, that no matter how much he told himself ew, gross, disgusting, his heart wasn’t listening.
“Slug.”
Chuuya groaned into his arms, face half-buried against the desk. He cracked one eye open and glared upward, only to meet Dazai’s too-bright, too-innocent grin hovering above him. “What?” he muttered, voice muffled by his sleeve.
“I don’t want to spend lunch here.” Dazai tilted his head, batting his lashes like some cartoon princess. “Come on.”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes, suspicion prickling already. “Come on where?”
“Actually…” Dazai leaned closer until his breath brushed against Chuuya’s ear, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that made Chuuya’s chest tighten in that annoying way. “…let’s sneak out of school.”
Chuuya shot upright, scandalized. “What? No.” He crossed his arms, glaring firmly this time. “I do not do that.”
Dazai pressed his lips into a pout, clearly unfazed. “It’s important. I want to take Chuuya somewhere.” His hands folded together in mock-prayer, his eyes glimmering with over-the-top pleading.
Chuuya arched a brow, unimpressed. “If it’s so important, we can go after school.”
“Noooo,” Dazai whined, dragging out the sound like a little kid denied candy. He suddenly grabbed Chuuya by the shoulders and shook him lightly. “We can’t! By the time school’s over it’ll be too late! Come onnn. It’s not like we have anything important today. We can just ask someone for notes.”
“Stop shaking me, idiot!” Chuuya snapped, shoving at his arms, though his lips twitched dangerously at the corners. Damn it, he was already wavering.
Dazai instantly stilled, eyes sparkling mischievously. “So that’s not a no?”
Chuuya groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Ugh… fine. Okay. But if someone catches us,” he jabbed a finger into Dazai’s chest, “I’ll punch you.”
“Deal,” Dazai chirped, grabbing Chuuya’s wrist before he could even change his mind. “Come on, partner in crime. We’re about to make history.”
“Idiot,” Chuuya muttered under his breath, though his heart was beating way too fast for something so stupid as ditching school.
Thankfully, during lunch, the school was chaotic enough that no teacher was paying attention to every corner. The cafeteria was a battlefield of noise and chatter, the courtyards filled with students moving in groups, trading snacks, chasing each other, or sitting on benches. The adults were focused on keeping the peace, not counting heads. It was the perfect chance—too perfect.
But then there was the man at the gates, sitting with his newspaper and eagle eyes. Getting through him was impossible.
So of course, Dazai had an idea.
And Chuuya hated—absolutely hated—when Dazai had ideas.
That’s how they ended up in the back corridor, where hardly anyone ever came. Dust coated the windowsills and cobwebs collected at the ceiling corners. The door at the end of the hall hadn’t been used in years, closed off ever since the new building had been constructed right against the school’s property. Technically useless. Practically… maybe their way out.
Dazai knelt at the door, a bent hairpin in hand, fiddling with the rusted lock as if it were some grand challenge.
Chuuya paced a few steps back and forth, pulse hammering faster with every tick of the clock. His palms felt clammy. If someone came around the corner, what excuse would they even have? “Can you hurry the fuck up?” he muttered, throwing a glance down the long, empty hallway. His chest tightened with the paranoia that a teacher would appear at any second.
“I’m trying…” Dazai hummed, calm as ever, not even looking up.
Chuuya looked over his shoulder. And there he was—Dazai crouched at the door, lanky figure bent forward, the back of his shirt a little wrinkled, hair falling over his face as he concentrated. For someone so lazy and careless most of the time, he looked strangely serious while working a lock. But the damn thing wasn’t budging.
“Ugh, let me try.” Chuuya marched over and planted his hands on Dazai’s waist to shove him aside.
The reaction was immediate. Dazai jolted, nearly dropping the pin, his whole body twitching like Chuuya had shocked him.
And only then did Chuuya realize exactly where his hands were—right at the narrow line of Dazai’s waist, thumbs brushing against the hem of his shirt. Too close. Way too close.
Chuuya froze, eyes widening for half a second before he yanked his hands back like he’d been burned. His cheeks prickled with heat. “Tch—move already,” he grumbled, trying to cover his embarrassment, looking anywhere but at Dazai.
But apparently, the flustered attempt did something. Because just as Chuuya stepped back, the lock gave a loud metallic click.
“Oh?” Dazai straightened, grinning triumphantly as he shoved the door open a few inches. “That’s it.” He dusted his hands off dramatically. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”
“What?” Chuuya blinked, caught between relief and irritation, following after him. “Late to what? You haven’t even told me where the hell we’re going.”
Dazai just shrugged, slipping through the narrow doorframe with ease, then pausing only long enough to snag Chuuya’s wrist and tug him along. “You’ll see.”
Chuuya groaned under his breath as he let himself be dragged out. His heart was still racing—only now, he wasn’t sure if it was because they might get caught… or because of the memory of his hands on Dazai’s waist.
They walked for about five minutes, the sun warm on their backs, weaving through narrow streets until Dazai suddenly stopped in front of a building. Chuuya almost bumped into him.
He lifted his gaze—and blinked.
The cinema.
Chuuya frowned instantly. “…The hell?” He rubbed his temple, baffled. “Why are we here? Did we seriously sneak out of school just to—” he gestured wildly at the glowing posters of cheesy romances, action blockbusters, and an animated film with giant-eyed animals— “watch a movie? We could do that anytime, Dazai. Anytime.”
But Dazai only grinned, like a kid who knew a secret. Without answering, he pushed the glass doors open, letting the cool blast of air-conditioning hit them, and strode inside like he owned the place.
Chuuya, muttering a quiet curse, followed him in.
They stopped at the end of the ticket line. The smell of popcorn hit them, buttery and heavy. Neon lights buzzed overhead. A few groups of teenagers chattered nearby, some kids bounced on their heels, begging their parents for candy. The whole scene was so… normal. Too normal for the lengths Dazai had gone to.
“A movie?” Chuuya muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. His frown deepened. “Really? We could’ve come later. Or on the weekend. What’s the point of cutting class for this?”
Dazai only hummed, rocking on his heels like the wait in line didn’t bother him. “Because today, at this hour,” he tilted his head toward the posters, “is the last chance we can see it in the cinema.” His grin was wide, annoyingly proud of this revelation.
Chuuya blinked, then deadpanned. “And? We could’ve just looked it up on the internet.”
“Not the same.”
“Yes it is,” Chuuya shot back, crossing his arms. “We could’ve watched it at your place. You’ve got that stupidly big TV that makes everything look like cinema anyway. Same thing.”
Dazai wagged a finger in mock disapproval. “No, no, no. Not the same, Chuuyaaa.” He drew out the name like he was talking to a stubborn child.
Chuuya gave him a long, withering stare, the kind that said you’re a pain in my ass and I can’t believe I let you drag me here. But Dazai just smiled brighter, completely unfazed, as if he were enjoying every second of Chuuya’s irritation.
The line felt eternal. They moved forward inch by inch, the smell of buttered popcorn clinging to the air, while Dazai happily hummed to himself as if they weren’t wasting precious time. Every time Chuuya tried to glance up at the movie schedule, to at least figure out what they were standing in line for, Dazai leaned just enough to block his view or distracted him with some dumb remark. By the time they reached the counter, Chuuya was practically grinding his teeth.
“What movie is it, Dazai?” he hissed low, already bracing for the worst.
Dazai only grinned over his shoulder, eyes sparkling with that infuriating secrecy, and placed the order. Two tickets, popcorn, and drinks. No answers.
Chuuya groaned quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets. This better not be some weird documentary about pigeons or something equally ridiculous.
Before he could demand again, Dazai was tugging him by the wrist toward one of the dark corridors leading to the theater rooms. The moment the heavy door closed behind them, the change in light made Chuuya stumble. The room was pitch black. No screen glow yet, no soft safety lights—just a suffocating dark.
“Oi, careful,” Dazai’s voice floated in front of him. Chuuya almost bumped into his back, heart skipping when his shoulder brushed against Dazai’s arm.
“I can’t see shit,” Chuuya muttered. In the end, he fumbled his phone out, flicked on the flashlight, and aimed it at the floor. The little cone of light illuminated their sneakers and the carpet, stretching just enough to see the rows of seats.
They climbed up a few rows, not too far—Dazai clearly chose the middle on purpose. Chuuya followed reluctantly, half convinced he was going to trip and break his neck before even finding his seat. Finally, they dropped into the chairs, the smell of popcorn between them.
It stayed silent for a few minutes. Chuuya leaned back with a sigh, eyes adjusting to the shadows. Only a handful of people trickled in—four, maybe five in total. The room stayed mostly empty, which was odd for a midday showing. He raised a brow, suspicious, but didn’t bother asking again.
Then, at last, the giant screen lit up. Ads for soda, chips, some dumb jingle about not recording the movie. Random trailers of loud action films and sappy romances rolled on.
Chuuya tilted his head toward Dazai, voice low. “Okay… I really hope this is good. If not, I swear I’ll punch you senseless for wasting my time.”
Dazai only chuckled, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth like a smug bastard. “Hm, I’m sure you’ll like it.”
“Wait for the damn movie to start, idiot.” Chuuya smacked his shoulder lightly when Dazai reached for more popcorn.
“I can just buy more,” Dazai mumbled around a grin, brushing the crumbs off his hands.
“That’s not the point,” Chuuya shot back, glaring.
But Dazai just shrugged, leaning back in his seat with that same infuriating calmness.
When the movie started, Chuuya frowned. He wasn’t sure what the hell he was watching. At first it seemed like some boring slice-of-life film, a couple dealing with their stupid relationship problems—arguing about bills, awkward silences at dinner, that kind of thing. Chuuya thought Dazai had dragged him here to watch two idiots fight on screen.
And then—suddenly—the dog talked.
Chuuya blinked at the screen. What the fuck?
Ah. Now he was starting to understand. He’d never seen this particular movie before, but the vibe was familiar—half comedy, half sentimental mess. Cute, though. Weirdly cute. And weirdly sad at times.
Kind of boring too, if he was honest, but not terrible.
What really kept Chuuya distracted wasn’t the film itself but the stupid bag of popcorn between them. Every time he reached down, his hand brushed against Dazai’s. Again and again. Because of course that idiot was stuffing his face nonstop, like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. It was annoying. And also… every accidental touch made Chuuya’s heart skip in a way he refused to acknowledge.
He tried to keep his focus on the movie. He managed—at least when the dog got lost. That hit a nerve. Chuuya straightened in his seat, watching more intently than before. He didn’t want the poor thing to suffer. Dogs were too good for this world. He loved them—he’d always wanted one. But his parents had refused. His mother’s allergies made it impossible, and his father never even considered the idea. So Chuuya had given up on it, telling himself it was for the best.
Still… watching that animated mutt run through the rain, whimpering, heartbroken… it was almost too much.
And then came the worst part.
The dog almost died. Sacrificed itself for its owner, bloody and bruised and still wagging its tail, still fighting to protect the man it loved. Chuuya’s stomach twisted. His throat closed up. He clenched his fists in his lap.
And in the end? Useless. The man died anyway. His wife lived on, left with the dog—but the bond wasn’t the same. The pain lingered in every frame.
By the time the credits rolled, the room still dim and quiet, Chuuya shut his eyes. He couldn’t help it. Damn it, he was not going to cry over this stupid movie.
Next to him, Dazai stretched lazily, a little sigh escaping. “Uh. It was more boring than I expected.”
Chuuya didn’t respond. He couldn’t trust his voice.
“Right, Chuuya?”
Silence.
Dazai shifted in his seat, then added softer, almost tenderly: “But it’s okay. I got to spend time with Chuuya… that’s enough. Honestly, I’d love to spend all my life with him.”
Chuuya’s eyes snapped open. UH?
His vision was blurry, hot and heavy, and he bit down on his lip because—why now? Why the hell was he crying now of all times? And what the hell was Dazai saying?
“Chuuya…?” Dazai’s voice tilted, curious.
“Hm?”
“Is Chuuya crying?”
Chuuya’s head whipped away immediately, hand darting up to swipe at his face. “No!”
Dazai gasped dramatically, then burst out laughing, his voice echoing in the half-empty room. “Oh my god. You are! You’re crying! And here I was, finally trying to confess—and you—” he broke into chuckles, holding his stomach, “—you’re crying over the dog!”
“Confess?!” Chuuya snapped, turning toward him, cheeks flaming, eyes still wet. The faint glow of the credits lit up Dazai’s stupid face just enough for Chuuya to see the sly curve of his lips.
Dazai huffed softly, smile dimming into something almost… shy. “…Yes.”
They stayed there for a long moment, just staring at each other across the armrest, like the whole cinema had shrunk into the tiny space between them. Neither moved, not even when the credits finally ended and the lights flickered back on—bright, unforgiving. Everyone else had already left, the few people who had watched the film slipping out in silence. Clearly, it was their signal to get up too.
But Chuuya couldn’t. His legs wouldn’t move. His chest wouldn’t calm down.
What. The. Fuck?
Confess? Dazai was trying to confess?! That couldn’t make sense. This was Dazai—Dazai who teased him every day, Dazai who acted like nothing mattered, Dazai who only ever laughed at serious things. A confession from him sounded like the punchline of some cruel joke.
And yet… Chuuya’s heart wouldn’t stop pounding. A spiral of feelings tangled in his chest, messy and confusing: the ache left behind from the movie, the sting of sadness, the shock, the heat of embarrassment—and, worst of all, that annoying little flicker of hope.
He didn’t want to assume. Maybe he misunderstood. Maybe this wasn’t what Dazai meant. He needed confirmation, he needed to be sure.
But before Chuuya could even open his mouth, Dazai looked away, fidgeting with the frayed edge of the bandages around his wrist. His voice dropped low, uncertain in a way Chuuya rarely heard. “Uh… I saw this movie was playing yesterday and… I thought Chuuya would like it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You told me you liked dogs back when I first met you. And… well, you’re a dog.” His lips curved into a crooked, awkward shrug.
Chuuya frowned at that—a dog? Really? He wanted to snap at him, but the words didn’t matter. Not the way Dazai said them, not the hesitation behind them.
“When I met Chuuya…” Dazai sighed, letting his hand fall to his lap. “It’s dumb and weird. But he was always—pretty.” His eyes flicked up, soft and careful. “And I found someone who didn’t judge me for… what I was. For being me. So I thought maybe I just liked him as a friend. Just a friend.” His voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper.
Chuuya froze. His throat tightened. Oh.
“But,” Dazai let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I know that’s not true now.” He finally turned his gaze back to Chuuya, and for once it wasn’t a smirk—it was something sharp and clear, full of meaning. “I like Chuuya. I want him to be mine. So I can keep beating him in every game we ever play.”
Chuuya blinked at him. Then scowled, heat rushing to his face. Beating him? Was that supposed to be romantic? Dazai absolutely sucked at confessions. Absolutely. And yet… his heart had stopped. Because buried under the teasing was the truth: Dazai liked him. Dazai fucking liked him back.
He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t let himself believe it. His lungs forgot how to work, his hands shook on his lap. It took him forever to breathe again, to even string two words together.
Chuuya swallowed hard and looked down at his knees. “But I’m…” The words caught in his throat. “I’m…”
“Chuuya, why is that the first thing you want to say?” Dazai interrupted softly. He leaned closer, reaching out to cover Chuuya’s trembling hand with his own. “I don’t care. I’ve been here since you told me. I’m still here, aren’t I?” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t like—you know—your gender, or whatever. I like you. Just you. Even if that’s weird.”
Chuuya looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parting. His chest squeezed painfully. “…I…”
But Dazai tilted his head, studying him carefully, his expression unreadable. “…Or… is it that Chuuya doesn’t like me back?” His eyes narrowed slightly, his tone uncharacteristically unsure. “Oh. I was assuming… I thought you did. But if not, then—” He swallowed hard, pulling his hand away, his face flushing as he looked anywhere but at Chuuya. “It’s okay. Of course. We can just forget—”
“I do, I do.” The words tumbled out of Chuuya’s mouth before he could stop them. He sat forward quickly, heart racing, his cheeks burning. “I do, I fucking do. You’re so damn annoying you got into me.” A shaky laugh slipped out of him. “I’m just… a little confused, that’s all. But…”
Dazai blinked, his expression flickering between shock and delight, before breaking into a grin that lit up his entire face. “Chuuya does? Really?” He leaned in closer, eyes shining. “Then why’s Chuuya confused? I know he’s dumb, but not that dumb.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, groaning. “Why do I even have to… ugh. Date you?”
“Because it’s the next step,” Dazai said simply, like it was obvious.
“But… you?”
Dazai giggled, smug as ever, waggling his eyebrows. “I’m amazing. And rich.”
Chuuya gaped at him, scandalized. “Are you seriously trying to convince me with your money?! I’m not interested, you asshole!”
Dazai rolled his eyes but kept grinning. “Just date me, Chuuya.”
“No.”
“Come on!”
“No.”
“Please.”
“…Okay. Maybe.”
Dazai’s grin widened. He leaned in closer across the armrest, his bandaged hand propping against the back of Chuuya’s seat, effectively caging him in. “‘Maybe,’ huh?” Dazai murmured, his voice low, teasing. “That sounds a lot like a yes to me.”
Chuuya tensed, his face heating up immediately. “I said maybe, you idiot. Don’t twist my words—”
But he didn’t finish. Because Dazai tilted his head, closing the distance, and before Chuuya could think, before he could shove him away or protest, warm lips brushed his own.
Just a second. A steal.
Chuuya froze.
Absolutely froze.
His mind went blank, his heart thundered like it was about to explode right out of his chest. That—that was—that was his first kiss.
The kiss wasn’t even deep, just the faintest pressure, gone almost instantly, but Chuuya felt it burn across his mouth, spreading fire down to his throat and all through his chest. He wanted to yell, to throw Dazai off, but his body wouldn’t listen.
When Dazai finally pulled back, there was that insufferable smirk on his face, but his cheeks were tinged pink too. “Heh. So soft. I knew Chuuya would taste like strawberries.”
“W-WHAT?!” Chuuya sputtered, his entire face crimson. He slapped a hand over his mouth, as if to trap the heat there, his body practically vibrating. “You—you—what the hell was that?!”
“A kiss,” Dazai sing-songed, leaning back in his seat like he hadn’t just shattered Chuuya’s entire universe. “You know, the thing people do when they like each other?”
Chuuya gawked at him, mouth opening and closing like he’d forgotten words. His first kiss. Gone. Just like that. Stolen by this ridiculous, smug, infuriating bastard. He wanted to be furious. He wanted to scream.
Instead, he felt his stomach twist, his chest swell, his head dizzy. God, why did it have to feel so good?
Dazai tilted his head, watching him intently. “Oh? Is Chuuya combusting? Don’t tell me…” His grin turned wolfish. “Was that your first kiss?”
Chuuya’s blood ran cold. His heart stopped. Then jumped right back up into his throat. “I—shut up!!” he barked, his voice cracking embarrassingly as he shoved Dazai’s shoulder, harder than necessary. His ears burned. His whole body felt like a furnace.
Dazai burst into laughter, clutching his stomach dramatically. “Oh my god—it was! Little Chuuya’s first kiss, aaaah, and I stole it!” He laughed even harder, ignoring Chuuya’s fists hammering into his arm. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered.”
“Die, Dazai!!”
“Too late,” Dazai teased, leaning closer again, eyes glittering. “I already sold my soul to Chuuya.”
Chuuya shoved him away again, but his hands were shaking, his lips still tingling. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t erase the warmth, the fluttering, the… unbearable happiness spreading through him.
He hated it.
He loved it.
He was combusting.
Even though Chuuya was secretly happier than he had been in ages, he spent most of the week pretending otherwise. He didn’t want Dazai to realize just how much this whole dating thing was affecting him. He couldn’t show it—not yet. They had just started going out; if he came off too intense, too desperate, Dazai would laugh, or worse… get bored. So Chuuya kept his guard up, kept his cool. At school, they behaved almost the same as always: insults thrown across the classroom, bickering over the dumbest things, pretending like nothing had changed.
The only difference—the only proof that something had changed—was those small stolen moments after school. Sometimes, before Chuuya went home, Dazai would drag him into an empty stairwell, or behind the gym, and steal a kiss. Quick, teasing, but soft enough to leave Chuuya’s chest burning. Nothing more.
No holding hands in public, no whispering “boyfriend” into his ear. Just… kisses. And Chuuya held onto those like a secret treasure, even as he tried to act unbothered.
That week had been busy—too much homework, too many late nights. They hadn’t had time to play video games together, barely even time to hang out. But when the weekend finally arrived, Chuuya was relieved. They were free, and Dazai had promised to help him with some Chemistry homework. And afterwards, they’d definitely play. That part was obvious.
Chuuya sat cross-legged on the floor, notebook open across his knees. He pushed his hair out of his face, pen tapping against the page. “Okay, first… I need you to see what I did wrong. I’ve been trying to balance this thing…” He flipped through a couple pages with a frustrated sigh. “It’s not balanced—”
He stopped mid-sentence, because Dazai’s hand was suddenly under his chin, tilting his face up.
“Hah?” Chuuya blinked, raising an eyebrow, already suspicious.
Dazai only smirked, plucking the notebook right out of his hands and dropping it aside.
“Oi! I wasn’t finished—” Chuuya snapped, but before he could properly complain, Dazai leaned down and pressed their mouths together.
Chuuya froze for just a heartbeat. Then, with a small huff, his eyelids fluttered shut and he gave in, letting himself kiss back. His shoulders loosened, his lips molding softly against Dazai’s.
But only for a moment. Chuuya pulled back slightly, his hands pushing weakly at Dazai’s chest. “Enough—we need to finish the—”
“Nope.” Dazai caught both his wrists, gently but firmly, his grin brushing against Chuuya’s lips. He kissed him again, deeper this time, stealing away whatever protest Chuuya was about to spit. “Just a moment,” he whispered against his mouth, his voice softer than usual, coaxing.
Chuuya’s breath stuttered. Damn it. He trusted him. He always did.
And just like that, Dazai eased him backward until Chuuya was lying on the floor, Dazai’s body hovering over him, bandaged hands planted on either side of his head. His hair tickled Chuuya’s forehead, his shadow covered him completely.
The kiss slowed. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t playful—it was slow, unhurried, lingering. Their lips moved together with such a quiet rhythm that Chuuya’s whole body seemed to buzz. His head spun, like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.
He liked it. He really, really liked it.
God, Dazai kissed too well. Or maybe it was just that this was his first time feeling this way, his first real relationship, his first kisses, his first everything—so he had nothing to compare it to. But comparison didn’t matter. Whatever the reason… the truth was simple.
He liked Dazai. He liked kissing him. He liked the way it made his chest ache and his stomach flutter. He liked it too much.
And it terrified him.
But then the idiot actually pulled away, hovering above him, staring down with a strange softness in his gaze. His voice came out barely above a whisper. “Chuuya’s so gorgeous…”
Chuuya blinked, a faint frown tugging at his lips as his cheeks warmed. “…Yes, well, Chuuya wants you to kiss him more,” he muttered, reaching up to curl his fingers in Dazai’s hair, tugging lightly. “We have to finish homework, so every second counts. Be a good boy and don’t waste my time.”
It came out half as a joke, his tone sharp and dry, but the intent underneath was anything but. Because, yes, he did want to finish his work—he also wanted a few more stolen kisses before diving into equations. It wasn’t a crime to want both. But the reaction he got from Dazai wasn’t what he expected.
Dazai’s face flushed. His eyes flickered away for a second, ears visibly pinking.
Oh. Interesting.
Dazai bent low and brushed a slow kiss against the corner of Chuuya’s mouth, murmuring as if to cover his slip. “I’m Chuuya’s owner. He should be the good boy, not me.”
Chuuya groaned and rolled his eyes, though his grip didn’t loosen from Dazai’s hair. “Quit the dog joke already.”
Dazai’s lips turned into a pout, his brows knitting. “No.”
The small, stubborn sound made Chuuya sigh through his nose. He tightened his hold on the strands between his fingers, tugging just enough to make Dazai jolt. “Be a good boy and either move away or kiss me—choose.”
Dazai faltered, leaning closer, his face dipping partly out of sight like he was hiding. His voice came muffled, almost embarrassed. “Stop saying that.”
A slow smirk spread over Chuuya’s lips. “…Why? What’s wrong?” His tone softened deliberately, fingers shifting from pulling to running gently through Dazai’s hair, combing over his scalp. And that’s when it clicked—that’s what was happening.
Dazai didn’t answer. His lips pressed against Chuuya’s jaw instead, as if silence could disguise the heat flooding his cheeks.
Biting back a laugh, Chuuya hooked one leg lazily around Dazai’s waist, drawing him that much closer. “Be a good boy and tell me what’s wrong,” he purred, relishing the way Dazai stiffened.
A tiny whine escaped against his neck. “Shut up.”
Chuuya’s smirk widened, satisfaction bubbling in his chest. “Oh, I see. You like it when I call you ‘good boy,’ don’t you?” His voice dropped low, teasing, a hum vibrating against Dazai’s ear. “Aw…”
Dazai’s hands clenched against the floor by Chuuya’s head, his face practically buried into Chuuya’s neck now. “…No. Shut up.” But his voice cracked.
And Chuuya knew he’d just found something dangerously fun to play with.
Chuuya could feel it now—every twitch in Dazai’s shoulders, every shallow breath against his throat. The idiot could play it cool in front of the entire school, could flirt and joke and act like nothing fazed him, but this? Just two little words, and he was burning up.
Chuuya tilted his head, lips grazing the shell of Dazai’s ear as he whispered, deliberate and slow: “A good boy would listen when I tell him to kiss me.”
Dazai shivered, his grip tightening near Chuuya’s head, but he didn’t move, his forehead pressing stubbornly into Chuuya’s neck like he could hide there.
Chuuya smirked. His fingers threaded lazily through the messy brown strands of hair. “A good boy wouldn’t waste time hiding his face like this…” he murmured, pulling just enough to make Dazai look at him, if only for a second.
Dazai’s flushed face popped into view, his eyes glassy with fluster, his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. He broke the stare almost instantly, looking away.
Chuuya chuckled low. “A good boy would admit he likes being called that,” he pressed, voice lower, testing.
“Shut up…” Dazai muttered, but it sounded weak, trembling, nothing like the usual sharp comebacks.
Chuuya dragged his thumb across Dazai’s cheek, studying him, savoring every reaction. “A good boy would beg for another kiss.”
That one made Dazai jerk. His ears went crimson, and he tried to bury his face again, but Chuuya kept him in place with a firm hand in his hair.
“Aw, look at you,” Chuuya teased, his smirk softening into something warmer. “You like it too much, huh?”
Dazai finally snapped, surging down to crush his lips against Chuuya’s in a heated, desperate kiss, muffling whatever words Chuuya was about to say next. His hands pinned Chuuya’s wrists to the floor like he was trying to regain control, but the way his whole body trembled gave him away.
When they finally broke for air, Chuuya’s grin was smug and breathless. “See? That’s what a good boy would do.”
Dazai groaned, hiding his face again. “I hate you.”
Chuuya laughed. “No, you don’t.”
It took Dazai a full ten minutes to cool down, cheeks still stubbornly pink every time Chuuya smirked at him. Not that Chuuya minded—those ten minutes were more than enough for him to return to his notebook, frowning at chemical formulas until the numbers finally started making sense.
When Dazai did finally sit beside him again, he was back to his usual self—or at least pretending to be. He leaned over the notebook, pointing out where Chuuya had balanced equations wrong, sighing dramatically.
“Honestly, slug, if you had a brain cell for every mistake you made, you’d still owe the universe several.”
Chuuya clicked his tongue, punching his shoulder lightly. “Shut it. I don’t need commentary, just corrections.”
But it was comfortable—Dazai throwing out insults in his usual lazy drawl, Chuuya rolling his eyes and correcting his mistakes, both of them knowing they’d get through it together. And eventually, they did. Once the homework was neat and complete, Chuuya tossed his pencil aside and stretched, groaning.
“Finally. Game time.”
They migrated to the bed, laptops balanced on their knees, controllers tossed aside in favor of keyboards. Today’s choice had been Dazai’s: Phasmophobia. A horror ghost-hunting game Chuuya had heard of, but never touched.
The first hiccup came immediately—Chuuya didn’t even have the damn thing installed. He scowled as Dazai sighed, taking his own laptop and, with a few swift clicks, typing in his parents’ card information.
“There,” Dazai said smugly, handing it back. “Don’t say I never give you anything.”
“Pfft, it’s not even your money,” Chuuya muttered, though his ears burned.
By the time the game was ready, the room had fallen into the glow of their screens. Headphones on, keyboards clicking, and—within the first round—Chuuya’s startled yelps echoing every time a ghost whispered in his ear.
Dazai laughed every time. “You scream like a little girl, Chuuya.”
“Shut up! That thing appeared out of nowhere!”
The first three rounds were nothing but practice, Chuuya fumbling with EMF readers and salt, Dazai patiently explaining—or sometimes deliberately not explaining—just to watch him panic. But after that, Chuuya got serious. He stopped running around like a headless chicken and started paying attention.
Every time he crouched to study evidence or jot things down in the journal, Dazai hummed thoughtfully. He hadn’t expected Chuuya to be… careful. Thorough. Almost methodical with the clues.
Of course, he still ran headfirst into danger half the time. More than once, Chuuya charged toward noises or dark basements while Dazai lingered by the door, safe and smug.
The result? Dazai survived more. But Chuuya guessed the ghosts more accurately.
By the time an hour passed, they were neck and neck. Five points each. Dead even.
Chuuya leaned back against the wall with a victorious grin, closing his laptop halfway. “Guess that means you don’t get to brag today.”
Dazai clicked his tongue, glaring at his own screen. “Tch. It just means you got lucky. I went easy on you.”
“You wish,” Chuuya snorted, poking his side. “We’re even. Face it.”
“Ugh, fine,” Dazai groaned, flopping back dramatically onto the bed, arms spread wide. “But only for tonight. Tomorrow I’m reclaiming my crown.”
Chuuya smirked, shoving him lightly. “Sure. Keep dreaming.”
They left the laptops on the floor with a clatter, both sprawling across the bed. Chuuya let out a long breath, chest still rising fast from all the screaming he’d done during the game. Even though the weather was cool, he felt sticky, damp under his shirt, his hair clinging slightly at his temples. He tugged at his collar and used the fabric to fan himself lazily, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Then—cold. A sudden, feather-light touch against his stomach.
Chuuya tensed and snapped his gaze sideways. Dazai, of course.
The brunet had that usual infuriating half-smile, his finger hooked beneath the edge of Chuuya’s shirt, teasing at the hem of his binder. “Your binder,” Dazai murmured, as if it explained everything. His tone wasn’t mocking—it was too quiet, too deliberate.
Chuuya’s expression soured instantly. His jaw tightened, and he gave him a sharp look before smacking his hand away with a quick flick. “Later,” he muttered. “When I take a shower.”
Dazai’s eyes narrowed, watching him closely. He pushed up on one elbow, hovering over Chuuya’s side, shadows falling across his face. “Later will be when I leave, won’t it? And it’s too early to leave,” he huffed softly. “Now is the moment to take this off.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes hard and turned his back to him, presenting nothing but the slope of his shoulder and a curtain of red hair. “No.”
“Chuuuyaaa,” Dazai drawled, dragging out his name like a whine. He slid closer, arm curling easily around Chuuya’s waist, pulling him against his chest. His breath brushed the back of Chuuya’s neck, warm compared to the cool fingertips that rested above his stomach. “It’s for your good.”
“Fuck off. I’m okay,” Chuuya grumbled, wriggling a little but not really fighting him off.
“Chuuuuya,” Dazai sang again, almost pouting. His hand slipped lower, slipping under the hem of his shirt this time, palm flat and careful against his overheated skin. He rested it there, quiet for a moment before whispering, “You shouldn’t wear it this long. You never take it off when you should.”
Chuuya groaned low in his throat, swatting at his hand again, though with less force. “It’s not doing anything to you, leave it. I’ll be fine.”
“Chuchu…” Dazai’s voice softened, the teasing stripped away. He buried his face into Chuuya’s shoulder, speaking against the fabric. His arm stayed firm around him, hand still lingering under his shirt like he was trying to hold him together. “Take it off. Please. I just want you to be okay.”
Chuuya pressed his lips together, staring at the wall in front of him. Damn it. He hated when Dazai used that voice, the one that wasn’t a joke. It made it too real.
He ended up giving up.
With a sharp sigh through his nose, Chuuya stood and stomped toward the bathroom, deliberately ignoring the ridiculous little triumphant “hmph~!” noise Dazai let out behind him. He shut the door a little too hard and leaned against the sink, glaring at his own reflection in the mirror. His cheeks were still faintly flushed, strands of red hair sticking annoyingly to his temples.
For a long moment, he just stood there, arms rigid, hands gripping the porcelain. Then, with a resigned exhale, he tugged his shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside. His chest rose and fell quickly—always faster when this part came. Slowly, fingers fumbling at the hooks, he unfastened the binder.
God, he hated this.
Alone, it was easier. He could handle it, convince himself it was just routine. But with people around—even with someone who knew—he hated it. Felt too exposed, too wrong. His shoulders curled inward without him even noticing, like his body was trying to protect itself from an invisible gaze. Yes, Dazai had known before. He’d known before Chuuya had even managed to say it aloud. That didn’t make it easier.
Once it was off, he hurried to pull his shirt back on, the cotton sliding down and offering the smallest sense of security. He tugged at the hem, trying to stretch it low, trying to hide. He stood there for another second, jaw tight, before finally forcing his feet to carry him back.
When he entered the bedroom, his arms immediately crossed over his chest, protective, stiff. He sank onto the bed with a scowl. “…Done. Happy?” His voice was flat, almost biting.
“But don’t make that face.” Dazai pouted immediately, sitting up straighter. His lashes lowered as he leaned forward, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach but didn’t yet. “I didn’t want you to be mad. I just said it for your health.”
Chuuya made a low sound in his throat, looking away, his scowl deepening. He wasn’t in the mood.
But then Dazai’s hand was there, gentle under his chin, coaxing his face back. His touch was warm, careful. “Chuuya is so cute,” he whispered, lips quirking.
Chuuya rolled his eyes hard, though his chest squeezed in a strange way.
Dazai chuckled, amused at the reaction, and then—without warning—threw himself forward. His arms wrapped tight around Chuuya’s shoulders and waist, momentum pulling them both down until they landed sprawled across the mattress. “Let’s nap,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Chuuya groaned loudly, immediately squirming against the hold. “The hell—let go, octopus!” He shoved lightly at Dazai’s chest, but the idiot only tightened his arms, locking him in.
“Nope,” Dazai sing-songed, tucking his face against Chuuya’s neck. His legs shifted until they tangled with Chuuya’s, the heat of his body seeping in, his hold unyielding but weirdly soft at the same time.
Chuuya froze for a moment, heart stuttering unpleasantly. He hated—absolutely hated—how conscious he was of his chest pressed against Dazai’s. His muscles locked tight, trying to create distance where there was none. But Dazai… didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, didn’t even acknowledge it. He just clung, shameless, like he always did.
Ugh. Of course.
“…You’re suffocating me,” Chuuya muttered, voice muffled against Dazai’s shoulder, though he made no further attempt to push him off.
Chuuya stayed stiff, every nerve buzzing. He could hear Dazai’s breathing against his neck, warm, steady, like he had no cares in the world—while Chuuya’s own chest was a knot of nerves. He tried to tell himself to relax, to just ignore it, but it didn’t work. Every second he was hyper aware of Dazai’s arm across him, the weight of his body, their chests pressed together.
“Chuuya’s not sleeping,” Dazai mumbled after a moment, his tone half-whiny, half-curious.
“…Shut up. I’m trying.”
Dazai hummed low in his throat, shifting just enough that Chuuya felt his breath brush across his jaw. “Mm. Trying too hard, maybe.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes at the ceiling, gritting his teeth. “…I said shut up.”
But Dazai didn’t. Of course he didn’t. His head tilted, lips grazing along Chuuya’s shoulder in lazy little movements that were not kisses but close enough to make Chuuya tense even more. Then, after a beat of silence, he spoke softer.
“…Chibi’s uncomfortable.”
Chuuya’s breath caught. “What?”
“You are.” Dazai’s voice was gentler now, not teasing. He leaned back a little, enough to peer down at him, eyes narrowed with quiet suspicion. “Your shoulders are locked, your jaw’s clenched. You’re… hiding something.”
Chuuya cursed under his breath, turning his face away sharply. “Tch. I’m fine.”
“Liar.” Dazai sing-songed the word, but his gaze lingered, sharp in the way Chuuya hated—like he could see straight through him. His fingers brushed lightly against Chuuya’s side, testing, waiting. “It’s because I’m here, right? Because of… this?”
Chuuya flinched, just barely, but it was enough.
Dazai’s grin faded into something quieter, softer. He let out a slow breath. “…It is, huh?”
Chuuya shut his eyes tight, groaning. “Dammit.” His voice cracked low. “…I didn’t want you to notice.”
“Of course I noticed,” Dazai murmured. His hand slid up to rest on Chuuya’s back—not pushing, not pulling, just resting there. “I always notice when it comes to you.”
Chuuya swallowed hard, still refusing to look at him. “…I hate it. Being like this, I mean. And I don’t want you—” his voice faltered. “…don’t want you to feel it.”
There was a pause. Then Dazai leaned down, brushing his forehead against Chuuya’s temple. His voice was so quiet it barely carried. “I don’t care what I feel. I care about you.”
Chuuya’s chest tightened painfully. He wanted to shove him away, to argue, to do something. But all he managed was a shaky exhale, burying his face against Dazai’s shoulder, letting his fists clutch weakly at his shirt.
“Idiot,” he muttered, voice muffled. “…Why the hell do you always notice?”
“Because,” Dazai said with a crooked little smile, arms wrapping tighter around him, “you’re mine to notice.”
Chuuya wanted to kick him for saying something so corny. But he stayed right there, clinging despite himself, hyper aware—but maybe just a little less than before.
Dazai didn’t let go. His chin rested on top of Chuuya’s hair, his voice low and steady, like he’d been holding this in for a while. “You know… I really don’t see the bad thing about it,” he murmured, almost casual, almost teasing—but with that faint edge of honesty Chuuya couldn’t ignore.
Chuuya stiffened. “…Don’t.”
“I mean it,” Dazai continued anyway, brushing his thumb lightly over Chuuya’s back. “It’s just skin. Just more of you. And I like all of you.” His tone softened, almost tender. “Actually, it’s kinda nice. More skin for me to touch, more to kiss. I don’t get why you—”
“Quit it,” Chuuya snapped, face burning, shoving at his chest lightly. “Shut up.”
Dazai blinked, then smiled faintly, though his gaze stayed gentle. “…Touchy.”
“No, I just—ugh!” Chuuya groaned, burying his face into the pillow, voice muffled. “Why the hell do you say things like that?!”
“Because they’re true,” Dazai said simply, tugging him closer again despite the struggle. He tilted his head, lips ghosting over Chuuya’s temple. “I like every single part of Chibi. Even the parts he hates. Especially those.”
Chuuya’s ears went red, his whole body burning like fire. “Dumbass,” he muttered, shoving at him again with no strength behind it. “You don’t get it. You’ll never get it.”
Dazai sighed, leaning down to press a soft kiss against the corner of his jaw. “…Maybe not. But I’ll keep saying it until you do.”
Chuuya groaned again, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his face, hiding the blush that refused to leave. “God, you’re insufferable.”
Dazai grinned, clearly too pleased with himself, before snuggling closer like the octopus he was. “…Insufferably in love.”
Chuuya kicked at him under the blanket but didn’t push him away. His chest was still tight, still nervous—but maybe, just maybe, a little less crushing than before.
Dazai, of course, didn’t stop there. He never did. His lips brushed against Chuuya’s jaw again, lingering this time before trailing lower, feather-light kisses over the edge of his throat.
“Dazai…” Chuuya warned, shifting under him, but his voice lacked any real bite.
“Hm?” Dazai hummed innocently against his skin, pressing another kiss right beneath his ear. “Chibi said I should quit it, but if I quit, who’s going to remind him he’s perfect?”
“Perfect?” Chuuya repeated, scoffing, though it came out shaky.
“Perfect.” Another kiss, this time against his cheekbone, just beside the arm Chuuya still had covering his face. “Even when he frowns at me. Especially then. Adorable.”
Chuuya groaned, dragging his arm down just enough to glare at him. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet Chuuya’s still here, letting me cuddle him to death,” Dazai replied smoothly, his grin crooked and infuriating. He leaned in, brushing the tip of his nose against Chuuya’s. “You must like it a little.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “I hate it.”
“Liar.” Dazai kissed the bridge of his nose. “Liar.” A kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Liar.”
“Stop—”
But then Dazai finally stole a proper kiss, slow and teasing, not deep but enough to make Chuuya’s chest clench tight. When he pulled back, Dazai’s grin was victorious, his eyes shining with too much warmth.
“See? Chuuya doesn’t hate it. He melts every time,” he whispered smugly.
Chuuya groaned again, throwing his head back against the pillow, utterly combusting. “Ugh… Fine. Whatever. You win, octopus.” His voice was rough but quiet. “Just… shut up and stay like this.”
Dazai blinked, then softened, his grin melting into something gentler. He tucked his face against Chuuya’s shoulder, humming in contentment. “…Gladly.”
And for once, he actually did shut up—at least long enough for Chuuya to finally breathe, resigned, but not exactly unhappy, tangled up in his arms. And he really meant it when he had said “just long enough.” Because just when Chuuya thought the idiot had finally calmed down—finally decided to nap like a normal human being—Dazai shifted.
Chuuya instantly felt his muscles tense. Too much movement. Bad sign.
“I’m gonna do something bad,” Dazai whispered dramatically against his ear, his voice low and mischievous. His hands slid deliberately down Chuuya’s sides, fingertips brushing his ribs. “Chuuya has to promise he’ll forgive me.”
“No.” Chuuya’s voice was sharp, warning, as he gripped his shirt tighter. “Don’t. Be still. Be quiet. Nap.”
“Sorry,” Dazai breathed, not sorry in the slightest.
“Dazai—”
But of course, of course, the bastard went through with it.
Cold hands slid under Chuuya’s shirt in one smooth motion, brushing over warm skin before Chuuya could even shove him away. And then—oh god—before he could punch, before he could scream, before he could even process, those long fingers landed right where they absolutely shouldn’t.
On his chest.
Chuuya’s mind went white-hot, everything in him combusting in an instant, like fire ripping through his veins. His body froze, rigid, while his heart practically slammed against his ribs.
And then—
“Honk, honk,” Dazai sang in the dumbest little voice, giving one quick squeeze. Just once. Playful. Obnoxious. Infuriating.
And then his hands withdrew, as casually as they’d slipped in, leaving Chuuya burning alive, ears, cheeks, everything red.
…
That idiot.
That absolute, suicidal idiot.
Chuuya blinked slowly at him, his face flaming, his chest tight with too many feelings he couldn’t even name. “Oh, I’m gonna kill you,” he finally hissed, voice low and trembling with fury and embarrassment all at once. “I’m gonna cut you into little pieces and throw you into the fucking sea.”
“…Sorry?” Dazai offered sheepishly, though his eyes glinted with amusement. “I did warn you it was somethi—OW!” He broke off with a yelp when Chuuya’s fist sank right into his stomach. Dazai doubled over, clutching his abdomen dramatically. “G-Geez, Chuuya, that hurt!”
“You deserve it. And more,” Chuuya spat, his breath quick, his fists still tight. His whole body was on fire, his head spinning—and it only made him angrier. “You little…—ugh, indeed…” And then his hands were suddenly in Dazai’s hair, tugging—hard.
“OW, ow, ow!” Dazai whined, wincing, wriggling under his grip. “Chuuya, stop—stop—my scalp—!”
“You indecent, son of a bitch, idiot!” Chuuya growled, pulling harder, half from anger, half from not knowing what the hell else to do with himself. His chest felt too exposed, his heart was going insane, and the smug bastard beneath him only made it worse.
Sadly, on Chuuya’s birthday, Dazai had an appointment, so he was going to arrive at school late. And Chuuya said sadly because, well—he actually wanted to spend time with him. Dazai was his boyfriend, after all.
…His boyfriend.
(A complete idiot, but still his boyfriend).
That single word still hit Chuuya with a weird, bubbly warmth every time he thought it. He had never been in a relationship before, never had someone to claim or to cling to like that, and it made him feel… different. Important. Like maybe—for once—he had something special just for him.
But the fact remained that the seat next to him was empty. The whole morning had gone by and there was still no Dazai in sight. Now it was noon—just two more classes before the day ended—and at this point, it was almost useless. He had even messaged him, and the reply he got was a quick: still in the hospital, some things.
Ugh.
Of course.
Hospitals and Dazai were practically glued together lately.
Well… they could still hang out later. Maybe get something to eat, maybe play something, maybe… kiss. That thought made Chuuya bite back a tiny smile he refused to let show.
Still, the cafeteria felt too loud and too empty all at once. He stared at his half-eaten sandwich like it could do something about the dull ache in his chest. Ridiculous—he had seen Dazai just yesterday, but he missed him already.
“Chuuya.”
That voice—sharp, familiar—made him flinch, his stomach twisting.
…Shirase.
Of course. Ugh. Why today? Why now? Out of all days, this was his birthday, his one day to breathe, and the last thing he needed was that guy.
“Please, save your words,” Chuuya muttered tiredly, leaning his cheek against his palm without bothering to look up.
But Shirase didn’t leave. Instead, he slid onto the bench right across from him, setting his tray down like he belonged there. “I just want to tell you happy birthday,” he said, voice steady but oddly careful. “And that I’m sorry for being a jerk.”
That made Chuuya lift his head, blinking. “…I’m sorry?” His brows furrowed, suspicion flickering immediately.
Shirase shifted, giving a little shrug, a smile tugging at his lips—but it wasn’t the cruel smirk Chuuya knew so well. This one looked awkward.
Nervous, even.
“Even though I don’t think this—” he gestured vaguely toward Chuuya, as if waving at his very existence, “—that you can magically change what you are is… remotely correct… it’s not my place to express it like I did.” He blew out a sharp breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Some of the Sheep scolded me for being so immature. And I… I know I was wrong. That you didn’t choose to believe you’re something else—fuck, no, that’s not what I mean—” he dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “I’m saying I’m sorry. That even if I don’t get it, even if I don’t accept it, I had no right to be cruel about it.”
For a moment, Chuuya could only stare. Shock prickled at him, colder than expected. Shirase—apologizing? To him? On his birthday? He hadn’t seen that coming.
“…Uh,” Chuuya muttered, his frown softening just a fraction. “Thanks, I guess?”
Shirase’s shoulders sagged a little, like he’d been holding his breath. “I am sorry. Really. You’re…” his voice dropped lower, rougher. “You’re a good person. And I know I was cruel for no reason. You didn’t do anything to me. You just… existed. And I…” he swallowed hard, eyes darting away before coming back. “I don’t get it. But you’re… a boy. I can’t deny that anymore.”
Something in Chuuya’s chest tightened. His first instinct was to snap, to bite, to tell him off again. But… no. Maybe today didn’t need to be a battlefield.
So instead, Chuuya tilted his head, watching him carefully. “…I accept your apology,” he said slowly. “But I hope you don’t do it again. With me or with anyone else.”
Shirase scratched at his neck, visibly uncomfortable, like the words itched. “Yeah. I won’t.”
It wasn’t like Chuuya wanted to be with Shirase. Yes, they had been friends once, and yes, he didn’t hate him—at least, not fully. But that didn’t mean he wanted him close again. There was too much between them now, too many words Chuuya still carried like scars. He wanted to believe Shirase was genuinely sorry, but apologies didn’t erase the sting of the things he’d said, or the fact that he hadn’t stood by him when Chuuya had needed him most.
So instead of answering, Chuuya just lowered his gaze, took a deliberate bite of his sandwich, and chewed slowly. If he looked down, he wouldn’t have to meet Shirase’s eyes.
“I was jealous,” Shirase muttered.
Chuuya froze mid-chew, then blinked, snapping his gaze back up at him. “…Uh?”
“I was—” Shirase let out a sharp breath, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought you were just… changing what you were because of that freak.” His lips twisted, then he corrected quickly, “I mean—Dazai. Because of him. I thought you were being manipulated into being a weirdo like him.”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes, his voice sharp and precise. “If you’re trying to apologize, you’re doing a terrible job, Shirase. Dazai’s my… boyfriend, and I’m not going to sit here and accept you trashing him. Especially not when he’s not here to defend himself.”
That word—boyfriend—slipped out so naturally now. It made his heart jolt, even in the middle of this.
Shirase flinched like he’d been slapped. “Fuck. Yes. I’m sorry.” He groaned and dropped his head onto the cafeteria table with a dull thud. His voice came muffled against the wood. “I just… we used to be good friends. We shared everything. We played together all the time. I thought you were my best friend.” His fingers curled on the tabletop. “And then… Dazai came. And he took you from me.”
Chuuya bit into his sandwich again, chewing slowly, letting the silence hang. He wasn’t going to give Shirase the satisfaction of an easy answer.
When Shirase finally lifted his head, his eyes were sharp but damp with something rawer. “And now you say… you two are dating?”
“Yes.”
Shirase stared. His lips parted, but no words came for a second. Then he sighed deeply, his whole posture slumping. “I just thought I knew you.” His voice was quieter now, eyes fixed on the table as he traced aimless circles on it with one finger. “I thought you were… with us. I thought you were something, and then… you just weren’t that.”
“I didn’t change what I was, Shirase,” Chuuya said firmly. His voice had weight, every syllable dropping like a stone. “I’m the same person I’ve always been. I still like the same things I liked before. I still know you like Yuan even though you’re too chicken to admit it. I still know you’d die to get into that weird-ass-name college after graduation, but you keep telling yourself you won’t.”
Shirase blinked at him, startled. Then his mouth twisted, and he made a face. “…Hey. I’m not afraid.”
“Oh, sure,” Chuuya drawled, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been dragging it for decades.”
Shirase’s cheeks heated faintly. “…Yuan friendzones me a lot, that’s all,” he muttered, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed stubbornly. “I just wanna be sure.”
Chuuya blinked slowly at him, then smirked. “You’re so damn slow. I won, you know? I got a partner first.”
Shirase’s jaw dropped. “What?! But it’s that frea—” he cut himself off mid-word, biting it back. He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Anyway. Talking about that…” He tilted his head, studying Chuuya. “I thought you—” he gestured vaguely at him with his chin, “—did all this because you liked girls.”
Chuuya’s smirk faded. His voice was quieter, flatter now. “Nope. Gender and sexuality are two different things, Shirase.”
Shirase blinked, caught off guard. “Oh.” He chewed on the word, like he was tasting it for the first time. “Okay…” He hesitated, then frowned slightly. “Uh—your voice. It’s… changed. Are you, like, faking it or…? Because your voice wasn’t exactly—”
“I’m on hormonal treatment, Shirase,” Chuuya said, a touch of exasperation slipping through, though his tone stayed measured. He knew Shirase wasn’t mocking him this time—just lost.
Shirase opened his mouth, then shut it again. “Ah. So… isn’t that bad for your body?” His brows knit together. “That thing is, like… testosterone, right? I thought girls had to have a certain level of it.”
Chuuya’s eyes sharpened. His voice dropped low, a hiss. “Girls. I’m not a girl.”
Shirase swallowed hard, looking down. “…Right.”
“Yes,” Chuuya went on, softer now but still firm. “Female bodies need a certain amount of it, because if the balance tips too far, you get fertility issues, messed-up menstrual cycles, more body hair, even overweight. That’s biology.” He leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing. “But I’m under medical control. Don’t worry. They know what they’re doing.”
Shirase stared at him, blinking slowly. Then he nodded once. “…Yeah.”
“Besides,” Chuuya shrugged, leaning back in his seat again. “Most of what I just described? That’s exactly what I want. And I’m working out, eating healthy, doing what I need to do. I’ll be fine.”
Shirase sat in silence for a moment, clearly processing everything, before nodding again—smaller, but a little steadier this time. “…Yeah. Okay.” Shirase was quiet for a bit, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he asked, “So… does it hurt?”
Chuuya raised an eyebrow. “Does what hurt?”
“You know… that treatment thing. The injections. Or… pills? Or however it works.” Shirase scratched his cheek, clearly uncomfortable but trying.
Chuuya sighed through his nose. “Spray. Twice a day, every day. Doesn’t hurt, just tastes awful sometimes. But I don’t care. I like the results.”
Shirase blinked. “Wait, it’s just… a spray? That sounds so… normal. I thought it’d be, I don’t know, injections, wires, something more…”
Chuuya rolled his eyes slightly. “Yeah, well, it’s not sci-fi. It’s medicine. Not as dramatic as people think.”
Shirase nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek. “And… uh. So your voice—like, it changes by itself? Just because of the spray?”
Chuuya smirked faintly, though it was thin. “That’s how puberty works, Shirase. Testosterone makes the vocal cords thicker. Same thing that happened to you in middle school, just… a little later for me.”
Shirase blinked, his mouth opening slightly. “Oh… oh. Right. That makes sense.” He tapped the table with his finger, thinking. “Then, uh… what about your height? Are you gonna get taller, too?”
Chuuya let out a short huff, half laugh, half groan. “If it hasn’t happened by now, it’s not happening, Shirase.”
Shirase tried to bite back a grin. “So you’re stuck like this, then.”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “Careful.”
“Okay, okay,” Shirase lifted his hands in surrender, though he still chuckled. “I just didn’t know it worked like… actual puberty.”
“Because you never bothered to learn,” Chuuya muttered, but not cruelly. Then, with a sigh, he added, “Yes. It’s second puberty. My body adjusts again, things shift, hormones do their job. Simple.”
Shirase nodded again, thoughtful. “…Do you ever… regret it? Like… what if you change your mind later?”
Chuuya stared at him for a long second, then shook his head. “I don’t regret it. I won’t. This isn’t some impulse. It’s not like trying out a haircut. It’s my life, Shirase. This is what lets me be me. And if I ever feel unsure, I’ve got doctors, therapists, people who check in with me all the time. This isn’t a game.”
Shirase looked a little guilty at that, ducking his head. “Right… yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like—”
“I know,” Chuuya cut in softly, exhaling. “I know. You’re just… clueless.”
Shirase winced. “…Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just… I wanna understand. I never asked before ’cause I was too busy being an ass. And now…” he trailed off, shrugging helplessly. “Now I realize I don’t know a damn thing about you anymore.”
Chuuya softened, just a little. “…Then ask. I’ll answer. Just… don’t make it weird.”
Shirase blinked, almost surprised. Then he smiled faintly, nodding. “…Okay. So… uh… then, what about, you know… periods and stuff?”
Chuuya groaned softly, tilting his head back. “Seriously? You’re really going to ask me that in the middle of lunch?”
“I’m not being gross! I just—” Shirase fumbled with his fingers. “I’m curious, okay? I mean… if the spray changes hormones, then… does that just… stop?”
Chuuya hummed, eyeing him for a second before sighing. “Yeah, it stops. That’s one of the first things, actually. It doesn’t happen overnight, but after a while, the body adjusts. No cycle, no bleeding, no cramps.”
Shirase blinked. “Huh. That actually sounds… kinda convenient.”
Chuuya smirked faintly, shaking his head. “Convenient, sure, but also my dysphoria calmed down a lot because of it. That’s the important part. It’s not just a random ‘perk.’”
Shirase blinked, tilting his head. “…Your what?”
“My dysphoria,” Chuuya repeated, then sighed when Shirase still looked confused. “It’s… the way I feel when my body doesn’t match how I see myself. Like—looking at myself in the mirror and feeling something’s wrong. Or hating when people see me as something I’m not. That kind of weight.”
“Oh.” Shirase’s brows lifted, his mouth forming a small ‘o’. “So it’s… like a constant discomfort?”
“Exactly,” Chuuya nodded once, taking another bite of his sandwich. “And when the hormones stop the cycle, it takes away a part of that weight. Makes things easier.”
Shirase leaned back in his seat, looking thoughtful. “…Okay. I get it. Thanks for explaining.”
Chuuya hummed, still a little exasperated, but there was no malice in Shirase’s tone—just curiosity.
Shirase drummed his fingers on the table for a second, clearly hesitant, then blurted, “Uh… so, why does your chest look… flatter now? I mean, you didn’t—like—do surgery already or some weird thing, right?”
Chuuya slowly turned his head to stare at him, unimpressed. “…A binder, Shirase.”
“A what?”
“A binder,” Chuuya repeated, his tone flat. “It’s basically… a piece of clothing. Like a really tight undershirt that compresses the chest. Trans guys use it to look flat. That’s it. Nothing magical, nothing surgical, nothing illegal.”
Shirase blinked, leaning back a little. “Oh. So it’s just clothes?”
“Yes, genius,” Chuuya muttered, rolling his eyes. “Clothes.”
“Huh.” Shirase scratched his head. “I thought maybe… I dunno, you did something extreme.”
Chuuya sighed, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “No. Just fabric. Not a big mystery.”
Shirase nodded slowly, as if filing away the information, but he still looked curious. “Doesn’t it, like… hurt?”
“Sometimes. If you wear it too long. That’s why you’re supposed to be careful with it,” Chuuya said, his voice calm but slightly exasperated. “But it’s worth it. Makes me feel like myself.”
“…Ah.” Shirase nodded again, quieter this time. “Okay. Makes sense.”
In the end, Chuuya went to Dazai’s house. He hadn’t wanted to—he’d wanted Dazai to come to school, sit next to him like always, annoy him through classes and maybe steal a kiss behind the gym. But instead he got a text. A short, irritating, typical Dazai text: come for your present. Nothing else.
And fine, maybe Chuuya wasn’t admitting it aloud, but he wanted to see him anyway. He needed it. After dealing with Shirase and the stress of classes, he could use some of Dazai’s dumb cuddles and nonsense chatter.
When he knocked, the door creaked open and he was greeted by an old man in a perfectly pressed black suit. His gray hair was combed neatly, a monocle glinting under the light.
“Good afternoon, Mr,” Chuuya muttered, bowing politely even though his insides twisted. He always felt too small in this house, too out of place. “I’m Chuuya Nakahara, I came to visit Osamu.”
The man gave a slow nod, calm as ever. “Osamu told me you were coming,” he said, stepping aside. “Please, come in.”
Chuuya walked in, his shoes making soft sounds against the polished floor. He had seen the man before—the butler. Polite, reserved, but with a sharp look in his eyes that reminded Chuuya that nothing in this house went unnoticed. Dazai always joked about how the butler helped him cover up his little schemes, but Chuuya suspected that was only half true.
People who had a butler… ugh. People with money.
The walk through the halls was silent, the butler leading him like a shadow. They stopped outside Dazai’s door. The man placed a hand behind his back, posture perfect, and murmured:
“Please, young Nakahara, tell Osamu-sama to come to eat later. He hasn’t eaten today.”
Chuuya blinked at that before huffing. “I will. Thank you.”
The man bowed slightly and left, his steps vanishing down the hall.
Chuuya turned to the door, knocked twice. Nothing. He waited, then knocked again, leaning his forehead against the wood.
“…Do you wanna build a snowman?” Chuuya sang under his breath, feeling ridiculous. But the words slipped out anyway—something about the quiet house made him want to fill it. “Come on, let’s go and play…”
Silence.
He knocked again, softer this time. “I never see you anymore. Come out the door…” he trailed, shaking his head at himself. “…We used to be best buddies, and now we’re not—”
“I wish you would tell me why,” a voice croaked from inside, off-key but amused.
Chuuya froze, lips twitching. The door cracked open and there he was: Dazai, messy-haired, eyes half-lidded like he’d just rolled out of bed. His grin was wide despite his raspy voice.
“Took your time,” Chuuya muttered, raising an eyebrow.
Instead of answering, Dazai threw himself at him. Literally. Arms around Chuuya’s shoulders, his weight pushing him back a step. “Happy birthday, Chuchu,” he hummed into his ear.
Chuuya stumbled but caught him, grumbling. “Oh, thanks—”
“Chibi is an amazing human being,” Dazai barreled on, pulling back just to nuzzle against Chuuya’s cheek. “Short, yes, but that’s because good things come in small amounts.” His voice softened for a beat, earnest behind the theatrics. “And it’s enough. Just perfect. Chibi is cute, and strong, and—he has a sexy voice,” he added, pressing a kiss to Chuuya’s burning cheek. “And now he’s legal.”
Chuuya chuckled despite himself, ears pink, heart pounding harder than he’d like to admit. “…Heh, yeah.”
“And has a minor boyfriend,” Dazai sighed dramatically, sagging against him like dead weight. “Such a weirdo.”
“You’ll turn eighteen in two months, Dazai.”
“Uh-uh, still wrong.” Dazai tilted his head back, whining like a child, then darted forward to press a kiss on the tip of Chuuya’s nose.
Chuuya groaned, but his lips twitched up. “Idiot.”
Dazai didn’t even give him a chance to breathe—just pulled him straight into the room, arms locked like chains, and without the smallest ounce of delicacy threw him onto the bed. Bag and all.
“Oi—!” Chuuya grunted, landing with a bounce, his back pressed uncomfortably against the lumpy shape of his school bag. He squirmed, wriggling like a trapped cat trying to find a better spot, reaching awkwardly behind himself to get the straps off. “Geez, you—ugh—”
Dazai, of course, didn’t move an inch. He simply sprawled half on top of him, heavy and clingy, refusing to budge.
Chuuya groaned and pinched his side hard.
“Ah—!” Dazai yelped, more dramatic than hurt, but it was enough for them to roll to the side, finally giving Chuuya some space to shove the bag away. With a long sigh, he dropped back onto the mattress.
“I didn’t even take off my shoes,” Chuuya muttered, staring at the ceiling with exasperation.
Dazai only shrugged, inching closer until his face was buried in the curve of Chuuya’s neck, hair tickling his jaw. His warm breath made Chuuya’s skin prickle.
Chuuya exhaled, the irritation fading just a little. He threaded his fingers slowly through Dazai’s messy brown hair, combing it back, softening the tangles. “Your butler told me you haven’t eaten,” he murmured, voice low.
“’m not hungry,” Dazai answered without moving.
“You have to eat, dumbass,” Chuuya scolded, though his tone was gentle.
“…I feel like throwing up.”
That made Chuuya pause. His hand stilled in Dazai’s hair, frown deepening. He tightened his hold around him almost instinctively, as if anchoring him. “…Okay…” he whispered, unsure what else to say. Something about Dazai’s voice told him not to push further.
Silence stretched between them, thick and a little heavy. Chuuya wondered—what happened at that hospital this morning? What did Dazai mean when he said “appointment”? He wanted to ask, but the quiet pressed down like a warning not to.
Then Dazai’s voice cracked the stillness. “When I texted you to come over… I thought I could give you your present.” His tone was softer, muffled against Chuuya’s skin. “But, heh… I’m such a bad boyfriend.”
Chuuya blinked. “…Uh?”
“Chibi should think me being the present is awful,” Dazai mumbled. His fingers curled tighter into Chuuya’s shirt, like he was trying to hold himself together. “I just… didn’t know what to give you. And I’ve been feeling—ah, that’s not important.” He huffed, the sound shaky. “…Sorry.”
Chuuya’s chest squeezed. Carefully, he bent his head and pressed a lingering kiss to Dazai’s forehead. “…No,” he murmured against his skin, “you being the present is really good. It means… you’ll be such a good boy for me, right?”
For a moment, Dazai didn’t reply. His lashes trembled against Chuuya’s collarbone.
Chuuya’s brows furrowed faintly. He slipped a hand under Dazai’s chin, tilting his face up just enough so their eyes met. “…Indeed,” Chuuya smirked, trying to lighten it up, “if you’re up to it… I have some ideas.”
Dazai’s eyes flickered, lashes fluttering as though he hadn’t expected the tease. “…Oh?”
Chuuya let his palm glide along Dazai’s cheek, thumb brushing slowly over his skin. His smirk curved softer, almost tender. “I won’t let anything go to waste…” he whispered, eyes half-lidded.
…
Let’s just say Chuuya hadn’t planned on making out spiraling into that. But it did. And honestly? He couldn’t exactly complain—not when his pulse was still racing and his lips still tingled as if Dazai’s mouth was glued there.
The only problem was… they were a mess. Well, Dazai was more of a mess—his hair plastered to his temples, shirt clinging damply, collar stretched from Chuuya’s desperate grip. The room smelled faintly of sweat, of heated skin, of too much closeness pressed into too small a space. It wasn’t the most flattering scent. With a quiet grumble, Chuuya pushed himself up, cracked open the curtains, and let in some air while Dazai disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower.
Chuuya stood there by the window, still burning, heat crawling over his skin in waves that wouldn’t settle. He probably could use a shower too, but—ugh—he’d do it at home. Later. No way he was about to parade around naked in Dazai’s house just yet.
Except… he couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t erase the image of Dazai’s flushed face, eyes half-lidded, lips parted with those little gasps that had slipped right into Chuuya’s ear. The sound still made him shiver. And worse—he couldn’t ignore himself. The way he had clung, desperate, nails scraping, grinding against Dazai’s thigh like he was starved.
His stomach twisted at the memory. Ugh. Mortifying. He’d never thought of himself as someone who lost control like that, yet… he had. Completely. No clothes had come off, not a single button undone, but somehow it had felt too raw, too real—enough to leave his whole body trembling after.
Chuuya dragged himself to the balcony doors, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. His breath fogged up the surface, damp and uneven. “Jesus Christ…” he muttered under his breath, trying to ground himself.
Never—not once—had he imagined his birthday would end like this. He hadn’t expected anything remotely close to it this soon. Hell, he’d barely wrapped his head around being someone’s boyfriend, and now this…
Lord.
He groaned low in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut. I blame my damn hormones.
“Don’t turn around.”
Chuuya almost did—instinct tugged at him to glance over his shoulder when he heard Dazai’s voice, soft but firm. But he froze, fingers brushing the glass door instead, eyes on the hazy reflection of the room behind him. “…Okay,” he muttered, wary.
Behind him, he could hear it: the muted thud of the closet door sliding open, the shuffle of fabric, the sound of hangers clicking. More rustling followed—Dazai clearly fussing with something, probably clothes. Chuuya shut his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. He needed to get his mind off it. Off him. Because this wasn’t good—not good at all. Not with the way his body had been betraying him lately.
Some days, when he sprayed his HRT, it was fine, steady. Other days, though—like today—it left him restless, needy, like his blood was simmering right beneath his skin. And having that idiot around, with his shameless touches and lingering stares, was the worst possible combination.
Chuuya jolted when a pair of arms wrapped suddenly around his waist, warm and firm, pulling him back against a taller body. He tensed instinctively—flinched hard—but then let out a breath and eased into it, leaning just slightly into the familiar hold.
“Chuuya should take a shower,” Dazai murmured against his ear, his chin dropping onto Chuuya’s shoulder, his breath hot against his skin. “He’s burning up.” His lips curved into a smile he could feel. “I could lend him some clothes.”
Chuuya groaned, tilting his head back with exasperation. “Nah. I’m fine. I’ll just shower at home. I’ll be leaving soon anyway.”
“Ow.” Dazai squeezed him tighter, his voice dipping into a dramatic whine. “Why would you abandon me so soon?”
Chuuya rolled his eyes. “…Because my parents told me to be home before six. They want to do a video call with my siblings,” he muttered, trying to sound nonchalant. “You know… today’s my birthday?”
“Hmm. True,” Dazai hummed, nuzzling closer. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the side of Chuuya’s neck, right where the skin was sensitive. “Still… you’re all sweaty. And—” his hand slid lower, creeping toward Chuuya’s thigh.
Chuuya’s heart jumped. Heat spiked through him, but he immediately snapped, swatting his hand away. “Shut up. That’s nothing.” His ears felt scalding.
“Uh-huh…” Dazai chuckled low, unbothered. His grin was audible, smug. “Sometimes my mother gets all weird and decides to do the laundry out of nowhere… I really hope she doesn’t this time.”
Chuuya frowned, confused. “…What?”
Dazai giggled, soft but wicked. “…Because I came in my pant—”
He didn’t finish. Chuuya’s elbow jabbed him hard in the ribs, cutting him off mid-word. “Yeah, yeah, I know! Shut the hell up!” Chuuya snapped, his whole face burning red. He ducked his head, mortified, praying the floor would swallow him whole.
Dazai just wheezed dramatically, clutching his side where he’d been elbowed, but laughing all the same. “Cruel Chuuya… my poor ribs…”
Chuuya grit his teeth. “You deserve worse.” But the warmth in his cheeks betrayed him.
Dazai was still half-doubled over, clutching his side like Chuuya had cracked a rib, but his grin never faltered. If anything, the sharp flush on Chuuya’s face only seemed to fuel him more. “Ahhh, Chuuya’s glare…” Dazai sighed dreamily, leaning into him again, arms slipping tight around his waist despite the protest. “It’s so scary. So, so terrifying…” he whispered dramatically, his voice dropping into something more suggestive. “Almost as terrifying as the sounds Chuuya made earlier when he was—”
“Don’t. You. Dare,” Chuuya snapped, eyes going wide, cheeks practically glowing crimson.
But of course, Dazai dared. His grin widened, breath brushing hot against Chuuya’s ear as he murmured, “—grinding on my thigh like he couldn’t get enou—”
That was it.
Chuuya whirled around and slapped his hand over Dazai’s mouth so fast it startled even him. His glare was lethal, his voice low and dangerous. “Say another word and I swear I will gut you alive, Osamu. Don’t test me.”
Dazai’s eyes widened for a moment… then softened into something far too amused. His lashes fluttered, and with Chuuya’s palm still pressed firmly over his mouth, he kissed it.
Chuuya froze. “You—!” His hand flew back like he’d been burned, and he buried his face in his own palms with a loud groan. “You’re so fucking shameless!”
Dazai chuckled, seizing the opportunity to wrap around him from behind again, practically molding himself against Chuuya’s back like a smug octopus. “Shameless, yes,” he whispered, pressing his smile into Chuuya’s shoulder. “But only for my Chibi.”
Chuuya let out a strangled sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper. “I hate you.”
“Mm, love you too~,” Dazai sang, utterly unrepentant.
Dazai’s birthday had been so weird.
All morning, he had been quieter than usual, dragging himself through the halls like a shadow. He leaned against Chuuya during classes without even bothering to make a joke about it, his face blank, eyes dull, his body heavy against him like he didn’t have the energy to hold himself upright. Normally, Dazai would at least try to play it off—throw in a sarcastic comment, a dramatic sigh, something. But that day? Nothing. Just silence.
When Chuuya asked, all he got was the same excuse as always. Didn’t sleep. Just tired. But the more Chuuya looked at him, the more he realized it wasn’t just lack of sleep. Dazai hadn’t even touched his lunch. He said food was “useless.” He told Chuuya he was “stupid” for thinking he needed to eat. It was like every word from him carried this cold finality that made Chuuya’s chest twist.
And then came the part that hurt the most.
Chuuya had been nervous about the gift. Not because it was expensive—it wasn’t. He couldn’t afford something flashy, and honestly, he didn’t care to. He had spent hours knotting the threads together, choosing the right colors, making sure the letters stood out just right. A simple bracelet, handmade, bright and silly, the word mackerel spelled out across it. Something small, but personal. Something that said I was thinking of you.
He had even made a matching one for himself, so they’d have a pair.
So, with an awkward smile, he slipped it into Dazai’s hand in the quiet of the library. “Happy birthday,” he muttered. “See? You can’t say I never spoil you.”
For a second, Dazai just looked at it. Blankly. No grin, no teasing comment about Chuuya’s “craft skills.” He simply stared, as if the little piece of string and beads was too heavy to hold. And then, in a low voice, he said words that made Chuuya’s stomach drop. “Why do you keep wasting your time on me?”
It wasn’t a joke. He wasn’t being dramatic. His face was completely neutral, his voice flat—like he honestly believed it.
Chuuya froze, blinking. “What?” he asked, almost laughing because it was ridiculous. “What kind of question is that?”
But Dazai didn’t look up. Didn’t move. Didn’t even smile.
Chuuya’s chest tightened. He wanted to shake him, yell at him, anything. Instead, he forced himself to breathe, to stay calm. “Because it’s your birthday,” he said carefully. His throat felt tight, but he held Dazai’s gaze anyway. “And you’re my boyfriend.”
That should have been enough, right? That should have made Dazai smile, at least a little. But instead, Dazai just sighed and pressed the bracelet back into Chuuya’s palm like it didn’t belong to him.
“Keep it.”
Chuuya’s heart sank. He stared down at the little thing he had worked so hard on, then back at Dazai. It would be a lie if he said it didn’t sting, didn’t dig under his ribs like a knife. “Ah… didn’t you like it?” he asked, his voice quieter now. His brows furrowed, his throat aching. “Is that it?”
Dazai finally lifted his eyes, but there was no light in them.
“I’m sorry if it’s too little,” Chuuya rushed to add, words spilling out before he could stop them. “I didn’t have enough money—but I’m saving, and I swear I’ll buy you something better, I’ll—”
“Cut it.” Dazai’s voice was sharp, not loud, but sharp enough to slice through his rambling. He shook his head, leaning back in his chair with that same empty look. “I don’t need a gift.” He paused, eyes flickering briefly to the bracelet before dropping away again. “…It’ll look good on you. Blue’s your color.”
…Uh?
Chuuya sat there with the bracelet clutched tight in his hand, staring at him like he’d just been speaking another language. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words stuck in his throat.
Why did it feel like Dazai was pushing him away even on his own birthday?
Chuuya tried the whole day to talk to him. At first he kept it light—small comments about class, a dumb joke or two, nudging Dazai with his elbow just to get a grin. But nothing. Dazai just stared off somewhere else, his gaze drifting out the window, or down to the desk, or into the nothingness in front of him. Whenever Chuuya tried to push a little more, he got a shrug, or a distracted hum, or no response at all.
And that hurt.
This wasn’t the Dazai he knew—the boy who was sharp and quick to notice when something was wrong with him, who always had a half-joking word of support, who sometimes stayed up late just to keep him company on bad nights. Not even the Dazai he had first met years ago, back when they weren’t even friends yet—back then, at least, Dazai had looked at him. Today, it was like Chuuya didn’t exist.
He didn’t understand it. And the not knowing made his chest feel heavier by the hour.
By the time classes ended, Chuuya suggested, carefully, if maybe Dazai wanted to come to his place. They could play, or watch something, or just sit around like usual. Dazai shook his head without even looking at him. “Not today,” was all he said.
Weird enough on any day, but considering his mood, Chuuya almost expected the rejection. He let him walk away… but his gut twisted, telling him not to just leave it there. So, with a deep sigh, Chuuya followed. He trailed after him at a distance, making sure Dazai didn’t notice, all the way to his house.
And when the front door closed behind Dazai, Chuuya waited. Five minutes. Ten. His pulse kept hammering. Then, finally, he walked up and knocked.
The door opened with a soft click, and the butler appeared—sharp in his black suit, gray hair neatly combed, monocle catching the faint light of the evening.
“Oh, young Nakahara,” he greeted, straightening slightly. “I wasn’t expecting you today. Osamu-sama didn’t—”
“That’s the thing,” Chuuya cut him off, his tone sharper than intended. He caught himself, exhaling hard. “Hirotsu-san—that’s your name, right? I need to go in and talk to him, or… or something.” His shoulders sagged, his voice quieter. “He’s been acting weird. Worse than usual.”
Hirotsu studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing behind the monocle. Then, with a small nod, he said, “Indeed. It has been… a whole fight in this household to get Osamu-sama to eat, or to do anything besides lock himself in his room. He has refused nearly everything as of late. Even school.”
Chuuya’s chest sank. He bit back a curse, shoulders slumping in helplessness.
“Please, come in,” Hirotsu said at last, stepping aside.
Chuuya did. The house was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that made the air feel heavier. His shoes echoed faintly against the polished floor as he walked down the long hallway, each step making his heartbeat climb higher in his chest. He didn’t want to imagine Dazai up there doing something reckless, shutting him out completely. He just wanted his Dazai back.
He turned the corner toward the left—and froze.
“Oh, Chuuya.”
It was Dazai’s mother. She stood in the corridor, her expression tired, her arms crossed as though she had been waiting.
“Hi, Mrs.,” Chuuya said softly, forcing a little bow of his head.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she admitted, stepping closer. “Do you… do you know what’s wrong with Osamu?”
So even she didn’t know.
Chuuya shook his head slowly. “I was going to ask you the same thing…”
Her sigh was long, heavy, as if it came from somewhere deep in her chest. “He’s been acting… off. He’s not exactly affectionate with me, he never has been, but I know my child.” Her voice wavered a little. “Even though I recognize I haven’t been there as much as I should have, I know him. And I worry.”
Chuuya’s throat tightened. He gave her a small, reassuring smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I don’t want the story to repeat,” she murmured suddenly, arms hugging herself tighter. “Last time, there wasn’t even a sign. No warning. He just…” Her voice faltered. She looked away, her face pale. “But the doctor assured me the antidepressants are working. That they’re keeping him stable.”
Chuuya swallowed hard, frowning deeply. He knew exactly what “last time” meant. And it made the pit in his stomach twist even harder. “…He seemed fine last week,” he admitted. “A little tired, maybe, but he laughed with me. It didn’t feel like this.” His voice dropped. “Maybe he’s… lying to the doctor?”
Dazai’s mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, her expression folding into sharper worry. “…I’m afraid that’s true.”
“I tried to talk to him today,” Chuuya confessed, staring down at the polished floor. “But he ignored me. He wouldn’t even look at me. And—” his voice wavered, but he pushed through it—“he gave me back the gift I made him.”
Her eyes softened with pity. She clicked her tongue quietly. “He won’t talk to me either. I’ve tried, but he shuts me out, or refuses to open the door until I’m forced to… intrude.” Her sigh was long, heavy. “So my hopes are on you, Chuuya.”
Chuuya bit his lower lip hard, then nodded once. “I’ll try.”
Even if it meant Dazai slammed the door in his face. Even if it meant hearing something that would hurt. He’d try, because he couldn’t stand this silence any longer.
Chuuya sent a quick text to his mother, telling her he’d be at Dazai’s place. The reply came almost instantly—a silly sticker of a cat throwing confetti, the kind of cheerful nonsense his mom always sent. It made his chest ache, because he wished things could be as simple as that right now. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and looked at the door in front of him.
Dazai’s door.
He took a deep breath, trying to steel himself. Whatever was happening, he had to keep trying. That was the only thing he could do—try, again and again, until something reached him.
He lifted his hand and knocked three times. Then waited.
Nothing.
He tried again, a little firmer this time.
Still nothing.
He tried again, then again, alternating between knocking and waiting, his knuckles starting to sting from hitting the hard wood. He switched hands and kept going, the silence behind the door growing heavier with every second.
Nothing.
Finally, Chuuya leaned his forehead against the door, sighing deeply. The sound of his schoolbag hitting the floor echoed dully in the hall. He raised his hand once more and gave another knock, softer this time, and spoke against the wood.
“Osamu, I want to talk to you,” he murmured, his voice low, steady but tired. “I want to hear your absolutely annoying voice.” He pressed his temple against the door and closed his eyes. “…I think we can play Minecraft. Winner’s the one who gets to the End first?”
Silence.
“Or maybe we should be enemies,” Chuuya went on, trying to keep his tone light, “so we have to kill each other the second we see each other in the game.” A little huff left him. “I found a launcher where I can get it… for free.” His lips twitched into a faint, bitter smile. “I know you’ve got it legally, but I don’t, so… yeah. My personal info’s probably being sold to the entire world right now, but hey—at least we get to play Minecraft.”
Still nothing.
“You’re my—what’s the word? You’re my buddy. My partner. The one who always knows every stupid reference when I talk,” he muttered, fingertips brushing the wood. “And I don’t think there’s anyone else who could match that freak side of mine. Just like there’s no one else who matches yours.” He paused, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “…I just want you to know I’m worried,” Chuuya whispered. “That you’re a part of my world. A really important part, you absolute idiot. And I wouldn’t be myself if you weren’t here.”
Nothing. Not even the faintest shift of sound.
Frustration built in his chest. He pressed his palm flat against the door, leaning into it. His voice cracked just a little. “If you just want me to go, say it. If it’s because of me, just—”
The click of the latch cut him off.
The door opened, slowly, and Dazai stood there.
His hair was a mess, sticking in odd angles like he’d run his hands through it over and over. He was still in his uniform, shirt wrinkled, tie loose, socks half-bunched on his feet. His eyes were rimmed red, his face pale, and yet his expression was blank.
“Yes. It’s you.” His voice was flat, almost mechanical. “It’s Chuuya’s fault.”
Chuuya froze, holding his breath.
“Because Chuuya’s too stupid—really stupid—to even consider that he should date me,” Dazai went on, his tone sharp, words coming out like jagged edges. “Because he’s so stupid to think that I care, that I love him, that I like him enough.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes flickering away for just a second. “Chuuya’s so stupid because—” He stopped. The words hung heavy in the air, unspoken. Then, forcing it out, he finished, “Because Chuuya’s so stupid, thinking someone would miraculously like… like… like her.”
The word hit harder than a punch.
Chuuya’s breath caught, his chest tight.
Oh.
So this was how things were.
But he knew Dazai too well. He knew him enough to hear the cracks in his voice, to see the hesitation before that word, to recognize the way Dazai forced it out like it burned him. He knew those words weren’t the truth—they were a weapon, one Dazai had chosen because he knew it would hurt. Because Dazai was trying to drive him away.
And it hurt, of course it did, more than Chuuya wanted to admit—but it wasn’t real. Not coming from the same boy who had been the first to accept him, the first to stand by him when no one else did, the one who helped him feel more like himself every single day. Dazai knew what that word meant. He would never slip like that by accident.
Which meant he said it on purpose.
Chuuya’s fists trembled at his sides. For a moment he almost believed the sting in his chest, almost let it break him. Almost.
But no.
Because he also saw the blankness in Dazai’s face, the redness around his eyes, the way his voice trembled even as he tried to flatten it. Dazai had been crying. Dazai was breaking.
And Chuuya refused to believe this was really him.
“I don’t think we can continue, Chuuya—”
But Chuuya didn’t let him finish.
Because he knew exactly what Dazai was doing—pushing him away, trying to lock himself in that lonely corner where he believed he belonged. And Chuuya couldn’t let that happen. Before Dazai could say another word, Chuuya stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him.
Tightly.
As if he could hold him together with sheer strength alone.
"Don’t touch me!” Dazai snapped the second Chuuya’s arms tightened. His body jerked like he’d been burned, squirming and twisting in Chuuya’s grip. “Don’t you listen? I want you away. I don’t like you—I hate you, for being stupid, illogical, weird!”
But Chuuya only buried his face harder against Dazai’s shoulder, holding on like his life depended on it. His arms locked tighter around Dazai’s back, refusing to budge even as the other squirmed.
“You’re weird, Chuuya,” Dazai hissed, his words sharp like knives—but his hands never rose to strike, never pushed him away. He only struggled in place, frantic, unsteady. “You… you’re ill, you’re stupid. Stupid!” His voice cracked as it rose. “You’re loud and dumb and stubborn—you’re annoying! Do you hear me? Annoying. And ridiculous. You—” His words faltered, like the ground beneath him gave way. “You pretend to change what… what you are and you can’t.”
The words pierced, of course they did, but Chuuya clung tighter. He heard it—underneath the venom, Dazai’s voice shook. Trembled.
“You’re a freak…” Dazai spat, his breath hot against Chuuya’s hair. “A freak who shouldn’t have let me in, who should’ve stayed the way—” His voice broke off in a low groan, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of his own words crushed him. “…Just go. Leave me. Leave me! Leave me alone, I want to be alone.”
“No.”
Dazai’s head jerked up, his body stiffening. “Why not?!” His squirming started again, desperate, but weaker this time. “I want to be alone—I want to be alone and just—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the fight draining out of him. “…in peace.” His next exhale shook. “It hurts… I just want to be alone. Leave me alone.”
Chuuya lifted his head at last, his voice gentler now, though steady. Dazai had gone still enough that Chuuya dared to raise one hand, carefully threading his fingers through Dazai’s messy hair, brushing it back from his damp forehead. “I can’t leave you alone, Osamu,” he whispered, quiet but firm. “Because I can’t risk that the ‘peace’ you want… is the kind of peace where you’re not here anymore. Where you’re not alive. I can’t.” His hand lingered, combing slow and careful through those dark strands. “With me… with me is the last thing, I don’t care, but alive. That’s all that matters.”
Dazai’s shoulders trembled, his body slackening, and for the first time he leaned—not hugging back, not fighting—but simply leaning into Chuuya’s chest, as if gravity had finally won. “…Why?” His voice cracked on the single word.
Chuuya’s arms pulled him closer, protective. “You can cry, punch me, push me, say whatever bullshit you want,” he murmured against Dazai’s temple. “But you’re my idiot. And I want my idiot alive. Here.”
Dazai huffed softly against him, barely moving. His breath ghosted hot and uneven over Chuuya’s collar. “If—” his voice cracked faintly, “sometimes I wonder if things would’ve gone better if nobody interrupted me that day in the school bathroom.” The words left him in a near-whisper, almost like he wasn’t sure if he wanted Chuuya to hear them.
Chuuya’s stomach twisted. Even though he hadn’t been there back then, hadn’t been the one to drag Dazai back into the world that day, the mere thought of it left a sharp knot lodged in his chest.
“If I had just… died,” Dazai continued, pausing like he had to force the word out, “then, okay, there would have been a whole thing—ceremony, burial, maybe a little grief. But after that—” he shrugged slightly against Chuuya’s hold, “my friends had other friends. Even back then. I was like the… random guy they just tolerated because they had to.”
“Dazai, you know that’s not true.” Chuuya’s fingers tightened in his hair, grounding both of them. “I wasn’t there then, but I’ve seen them now. They do care about you.”
Dazai gave a sharp, humorless snort. “Whatever.” The word was heavy with disbelief. “Then my parents,” he muttered, his voice dropping low. “My father—he’s always made it clear I’m a disappointment. He wanted a son he could mold into his image, someone to inherit his empire. But all he got was me.” His lips twisted faintly, bitterly. “And he didn’t find what he wanted.”
Chuuya made a face. “I don’t think your father likes anyone in the world.”
“And my mother.” Dazai’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “She didn’t even want me. She was forced to give birth to me. The only thing she cares about now is whether I embarrass her. Whether I ruin her perfect reputation.”
“…Maybe she cares, even if just a little,” Chuuya said gently, combing his fingers slowly through Dazai’s messy strands. “When I arrived today, she told me she wanted to talk to you, but you didn’t let her.”
“Because she’s false.” His tone was sharp, but it trembled underneath. “She just wants me to be perfect so she doesn’t have to explain again why her son tried to kill himself.” His jaw tightened, his expression caught between annoyance and shame.
Chuuya let his forehead rest on Dazai’s shoulder, inhaling deeply, voice muffled. “No one wants to admit something like that. No parent. I don’t think any mother actually wants to carry that pain.”
“There are mean people.”
“Yes, probably some.” Chuuya lifted his head just enough to meet his eyes. “But not everyone.”
“You don’t know her, Chuuya.” Dazai finally tugged, pulling back slightly from his arms, though not completely out of reach. His eyes shimmered, blinking too fast. “You have perfect parents. They support you in everything, they want you exactly as you are. They try for you. They love you. I…” His breath stuttered. “…I don’t have that.”
Chuuya’s chest ached. He swallowed, forcing his voice to stay steady. “It’s not fair yours aren’t like mine. I know. But that doesn’t mean people would be better off without you. I wouldn’t. I know your friends wouldn’t either. And your parents, whether they show it or not, wouldn’t either.”
Dazai shook his head, trying again to move away, but Chuuya’s hands stayed firm on him. “And… why do I have to care what they want?” His glare wavered, glassy with tears he was still fighting back.
“…Huh?”
“What about what I want?” His chest heaved as he took a shaky breath.
Chuuya’s brows pinched together. He lifted one hand carefully, touching Dazai’s cheek. The boy flinched faintly at the contact, but Chuuya kept his hand there, soft. “Then tell me,” he murmured. “What do you want? Peace?”
Dazai blinked at him, eyes rimmed red. His lips parted, but no sound came at first. Then, finally, in a hoarse whisper: “…Being alone is peace. Not having to explain myself to anyone. Not having to do anything. Just… nothing.” His mouth twisted into something like a smile, bitter and broken. “Death.”
The word made Chuuya flinch, his throat tightening. He tilted Dazai’s face gently toward him, thumb brushing faintly across his cheek. “I don’t know how to give you that peace you’re chasing—not that kind. But I can promise I’m here. I’m not much, but…” his voice softened to a whisper, “…I’ll stay.”
For a long moment, Dazai just stared at him, half-lidded eyes glassy, his face caught between exhaustion and despair. Then—he let out a small, dry scoff. “Yeah. Because Chuuya’s so small.”
…Hah?
But at least it was something. A joke—flat, toneless, but still a joke. A piece of him peeking through.
Chuuya rolled his eyes, relief tugging faintly at his chest. “Idiot. You’re still young—you’ve got a lot ahead of you.” He tugged Dazai’s head gently down against his shoulder again, whispering near his ear.
“That sounds terrifying,” Dazai muttered, face twisting. “Life has no meaning. I’m supposed to work, breathe, exist for what? Nothing.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that,” Chuuya countered softly. “If you choose things you like, if you chase things you love, it can be fun. Work, travel, shopping, just… existing. Playing dumb games. Laughing. Being. With me.” His lips tilted into a small, earnest smile.
Dazai blinked, clicking his tongue, turning his face away as if embarrassed. “…I already beat Chuuya in plenty of games.”
“But not all of them,” Chuuya teased gently, chuckling under his breath. “Maybe you have to stay. Show me you can.”
For the first time, Dazai’s gaze flickered, caught on him—frowning, but not completely shutting him out. His sigh was heavy, but his body leaned just a little closer. “…I just don’t feel okay.” His voice cracked softly.
Chuuya nodded, both hands cupping his cheeks now, steady and careful. “That’s okay. You don’t have to feel okay right now. Just talk to me.”
Chapter Text
Four Years Later…
Opening his eyes to an empty, cold space beside him wasn’t even close to what Dazai expected—or wanted. He had fallen asleep with a warm little chibi curled in his arms, snug against his chest, the steady rise and fall of Chuuya’s breathing lulling him into sleep. The memory of it still clung to his skin, a reminder that life, in spite of everything, could actually have amazing moments. Besides, he had been using that warmth as comfort: his body still ached faintly. Chuuya could be… aggressive when they made love. Not that Dazai ever complained—on the contrary—but it left him a little sore in the aftermath.
He rubbed at his eyes, yawning wide, hair falling messily over his face. When he blinked up at the ceiling, the curtains were drawn halfway, letting in thin strips of morning light that painted pale streaks across the walls. The room was still mostly dark, muffled, quiet. He groaned, burying his face into the pillow for a moment longer, inhaling the faint scent of Chuuya’s shampoo clinging to the sheets, before huffing and forcing himself upright.
The door to their bedroom was ajar, opening onto the short hallway that led toward the living room. Empty. Silent. No sign of the early-rising menace.
“Ugh, damn early chibi,” Dazai muttered to himself, his voice still hoarse with sleep.
For a moment, he stayed on the edge of the bed, staring absently at the wall, the weight of drowsiness trying to pull him back under. His body slumped forward and he nearly nodded off sitting there. Only after an exaggerated groan did he finally muster enough energy to stand, shuffling clumsily toward the door.
He yawned again as he stepped into the living room. Predictably, it was already immaculate—tidied up, polished in a way only Chuuya could manage. Their place wasn’t large, but it carried a kind of understated elegance. Chuuya’s touch was everywhere, making it feel not just clean but lived-in, warm.
Their apartment, tucked in a modern complex at the edge of the city, had been secured thanks to Dazai’s steady position in his father’s company. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was comfortable: a spacious bedroom, a bright living room, a kitchen that smelled faintly of coffee no matter the hour, a bathroom with a tub that Chuuya claimed as his sanctuary, plus a laundry room and a small storage space for the inevitable clutter. Out back, the garage sheltered Chuuya’s motorbike—his pride—and a modest car that technically belonged to both of them, though Dazai was the one who used it most for work.
Chuuya always preferred the motorbike anyway, said it made him feel freer.
Chuuya’s job had its own rhythm. He worked as a waiter at a busy restaurant, and while at first glance it didn’t look like much compared to Dazai’s salary, it paid well—especially with the tips he raked in. He used to juggle two jobs back in the day, refusing to let Dazai shoulder everything. Even now, with things stable, Chuuya never let himself feel like he was leeching off Dazai, though Dazai couldn’t have cared less about that.
If Chuuya wanted to waste his money, it was money well spent.
And besides—Chuuya never really came up short. His family had his back in quiet, sometimes frustrating ways. His older brother, Paul Verlaine, was generous with gifts during Christmas, though he seemed to take even greater pleasure in tormenting Dazai during every visit. The two never got along; Verlaine had perfected the art of needling Dazai until his temples throbbed. Meanwhile, Chuuya’s older sister, Kōyō, though perpetually busy with her own commitments, always sent something thoughtful, never once forgetting. She was distant, maybe, but never absent.
The apartment smelled faintly of laundry detergent. Dazai rubbed at the back of his neck, wondering if Chuuya had already stepped out for an errand or if he was just being his irritating, overly-productive self this early in the morning.
It was Saturday, which, in theory, meant both of them were supposed to do absolutely nothing—no alarms, no deadlines, no responsibilities. Saturdays were meant to be sacred, lazy, unproductive. But Chuuya, as usual, seemed determined to go against theory. He always did.
When Dazai dragged his gaze toward the clock on the wall, he nearly groaned out loud. Nine. Nine a.m. On a weekend. It was practically a crime. He had to be at work before dawn every weekday, surviving on bitter coffee and habit—so why, why was his one morning of rest being stolen from him by an overly energetic chibi?
With a long, theatrical sigh, he shuffled his way toward the kitchen, already knowing what he’d find there.
Of course, the menace was there.
Chuuya was standing at the counter, the faint hiss of something simmering on the stove filling the room. The coffee machine was humming softly, the smell already weaving through the air. His back was to Dazai, long auburn hair spilling down to the middle of his bare back, catching little threads of sunlight sneaking through the blinds. It was summer, and that meant shirts were optional in their apartment—something Dazai wholeheartedly approved of.
Freckles speckled across that pale skin, freckles Dazai had kissed uncountable times, freckles he could have mapped blindfolded.
Dazai’s lips curled into a private smirk as he slowed his steps, moving like a predator closing in on prey. Then, without warning, he wrapped his arms firmly around Chuuya’s waist from behind.
Chuuya jumped hard, flinching so much he nearly dropped the wooden spoon in his hand.
“Fuck! Don’t do that!” he snapped, looking over his shoulder with a glare. “Jesus Christ, Dazai.”
Dazai giggled, unrepentant, resting his chin comfortably on Chuuya’s shoulder. “Sorry, sorry,” he murmured, smirk widening. “Didn’t think you were so distracted.” His hands slipped lower, palms gliding over Chuuya’s stomach—soft but toned, a perfect balance that came from his relentless devotion to the gym. Dazai’s fingers traced lazy circles before inevitably sliding upward, until they cupped Chuuya’s chest in a deliberate, possessive squeeze.
Ever since Chuuya had stopped bothering with shirts or binders inside the house, Dazai had been in heaven. He had far too many opportunities to touch, to admire, to indulge—and he never wasted a single one. Chuuya was painfully, devastatingly hot, and Dazai had no shame in taking full advantage of it.
Chuuya scoffed, though his hands came up to catch Dazai’s, holding them there instead of pushing them away. He leaned back slightly against Dazai’s chest, sighing in mock annoyance. “I wasn’t distracted. I was being a normal person. You’re just a damn idiot who likes scaring people half to death.”
Dazai chuckled against his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the warm skin there.
“Mm, sure, sure. I’ll take the blame. But tell me, why is Chuuya up so early? It’s the weekend. People are supposed to sleep in, not…” he gestured vaguely with his head toward the stove, “…cook and sparkle like some domestic little housewife.”
Chuuya snorted. “I want to visit Tross today,” he said simply, as though it were obvious. “He’s in the city for the summer.”
Dazai’s pout was immediate. “You can go later,” he whined, drawing out the words.
“I want to go before lunch,” Chuuya countered, unmoved.
“Why?” Dazai pressed, resting even more heavily on him.
“Because,” Chuuya replied flatly, not even giving him the satisfaction of a reason.
Dazai gasped, clutching at his chest dramatically. “Ow! So mean! So heartless! Chuuya just abandons his amazing, beautiful boyfriend to die of cold and loneliness in bed?!” He let his head fall forward onto Chuuya’s shoulder like he was fainting.
Chuuya rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
Dazai tightened his hold dramatically, arms squeezing around Chuuya like a stubborn octopus. “Nooo,” he groaned, dragging out the sound. “Don’t leave me, Chuuyaaa. I’ll shrivel up like an abandoned houseplant without your love and attention.”
Chuuya tilted his head back with an exasperated sigh, but the corner of his lips was already twitching upward. “You’re impossible. You’re literally worse than a houseplant—at least those don’t whine.”
Dazai only nuzzled further against his shoulder, voice muffled against warm freckled skin. “Exactly. I’m high maintenance, so you should stay home and take care of me instead. No scary motorbike trips, no running off to see Tross, just cuddling your precious boyfriend all day.”
“Precious boyfriend, huh?” Chuuya muttered, reaching to turn off the stove before Dazai’s weight pulled him off balance. “More like overgrown toddler.”
Dazai gasped softly, tightening his grip even more as if Chuuya had just committed a terrible crime. “Rude! Take it back!”
“Nope.”
“Chuuya!” Dazai whined, rocking him side to side, making it impossible for Chuuya to keep pretending he wasn’t on the verge of laughing.
“God, you’re heavy,” Chuuya complained, though he made no real attempt to shove him off. “Do you plan on just gluing yourself to me all morning?”
“Yes,” Dazai said instantly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ll follow you to the bathroom if I have to.”
That finally cracked Chuuya’s composure—he let out a sharp snort, quickly shaking his head as though to cover it up. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you love it,” Dazai sang, pressing a triumphant kiss against the side of his neck, making Chuuya’s shoulders jump.
“Tch. You’re lucky I do,” Chuuya muttered, rolling his eyes as he fought down the smile tugging at his mouth. “But if you burn the eggs with your nonsense, I swear I’ll make you eat them anyway.”
Somehow—by some miracle of balance and sheer stubbornness—Chuuya managed to serve breakfast with Dazai glued to his back. He grumbled the whole way through it, of course, muttering under his breath about idiots with no sense of personal space as he maneuvered around the kitchen like he was carrying a particularly needy backpack.
He reached for plates with Dazai’s chin still hooked over his shoulder, grabbed cutlery while Dazai’s arms weighed him down, and poured coffee while Dazai deliberately leaned even heavier against him just to test his patience.
“God, you’re insufferable,” Chuuya huffed, setting down a plate with slightly more force than necessary.
“And yet, look at you,” Dazai hummed smugly in his ear. “Still making me breakfast. You must love me.”
Chuuya snorted. “Love you enough not to throw you on the floor—yet.”
Finally, when the stove was turned off and nothing was at risk of burning, Dazai loosened his hold just slightly… only to shift and press a slow kiss to the side of Chuuya’s neck.
Chuuya froze mid-motion, a spatula still in his hand. “…Oi.”
Dazai kissed him again, softer this time, right against a freckle, before murmuring, “You know, I think breakfast tastes better when flavored with love.”
“You’re gonna make me drop this damn pan,” Chuuya muttered, but his voice had gone low, betraying him.
Unbothered, Dazai clung tighter, chest flush against Chuuya’s back. “That’s fine. We can eat off the floor. Romantic, right?”
Chuuya rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt, but his cheeks had flushed a warm red. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stuck with me,” Dazai whispered against his ear, grinning.
They had finally managed to get everything on the table—coffee steaming, eggs done, toast stacked neatly—when Dazai, sprawled in his chair like a cat in the sun, tilted his head and watched Chuuya with that gleam in his eyes.
“Oh no,” Chuuya muttered immediately, noticing it. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Dazai purred, already pushing himself up from his chair, moving with all the grace of someone who had no real intention of standing upright. “Don’t sweep you off your feet in a terribly romantic gesture?”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes, half-amused, half-annoyed. “Exactly that.”
But of course Dazai didn’t listen. He padded over, lazy and loose-limbed, then suddenly hooked his arms around Chuuya’s waist. “Up you go!”
Except… nothing happened.
Chuuya blinked. “Uh?”
Dazai strained, groaning dramatically as he tried to lift him onto the counter, face scrunching like he was carrying a truck instead of his boyfriend. “Why are you—so heavy?!”
Chuuya burst out laughing, bracing himself on Dazai’s shoulders so he wouldn’t topple with him. “You absolute idiot, you can’t even carry yourself out of bed and you think you can lift me?”
“I’m supposed to be carried by fate, not by legs,” Dazai wheezed, giving one last useless tug before collapsing against Chuuya’s chest like jelly. “You… you’ve gotten heavier, chibi.”
Chuuya grinned wickedly, tilting his head down to smirk at him. “Or maybe you’ve gotten weaker.”
“Cruel,” Dazai pouted, still clinging even as his knees practically buckled. “I just wanted a romantic movie moment. Kiss on the counter, you know? But nooo, my boyfriend is made of lead.”
Chuuya laughed so hard his shoulders shook, then planted a quick kiss on Dazai’s forehead. “Stick to sitting down, idiot, before you break your spine.”
“Hmm, but at least you’re laughing,” Dazai hummed, smug again despite his failure.
Chuuya wiped at his eyes, still chuckling at Dazai’s tragic attempt. “God, you’re pathetic.”
“Romantic,” Dazai corrected, slumping further against him like dead weight. “Hopelessly, beautifully romantic.”
“Hopeless, yeah,” Chuuya muttered—but instead of shaking him off, he slid his arms lower, hooked his hands under Dazai’s thighs, and with one sudden push, hoisted him onto the counter.
“Wha—” Dazai blinked, startled, legs dangling as he found himself suddenly perched on the cool surface. “Chibi, what the hell—?”
Chuuya smirked, leaning one elbow on the counter beside him. “See? That’s how you do it, idiot.”
Dazai’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. He tilted his head down at him, still several inches taller even while sitting on the counter, and let out a mock gasp. “Oh no. You’ve out-romanced me.”
Chuuya grinned smugly. “Which means I win this one.”
Dazai narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. “Win…?”
“Yeah,” Chuuya poked his chest. “Who beats who more—in games, bets, whatever. This counts.”
Dazai clutched his chest dramatically. “How cruel! My own beloved, using my failed romantic gesture as ammunition against me.”
“Yeah, yeah. Cry me a river,” Chuuya chuckled. “You’re too tall like this, anyway. If you wanted a kiss, this was a terrible strategy.”
“Oh?” Dazai leaned down a little, eyes gleaming. “Then maybe you should come up here too.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes but laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. “Not a chance. I already won this round.”
Dazai pouted, then suddenly smirked. “Fine. But I’m still taller—so, morally, I win.”
“Shut up,” Chuuya snorted. “A win’s a win. Score’s mine.”
Dazai laughed.
Well, no matter what Chuuya said, Dazai felt like the definitive winner. After all, he was one who stayed with Chuuya.
That was the real victory.
ˑ .
𖥔
. ݁₊
⊹ . ݁
✧˖°.
✧˖°.
✧˖°.
✧˖°.
✧˖°.
That's who we are...
Notes:
THANK YOU FOR READING
I hope you enjoy it. This was the result of several weeks, I think, actually *checks* three weeks, and to me, that's a lot of time for a fic that was supposed to be just A ONE-SHOT and ended up in this...
Anyway, in this chapter I wanted to show you a more confident Chuuya, who doesn't need anyone's opinion to feel like himself in his body. ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁
A little commentary of mine is that this fic was born from the absurd idea of trans men are not real men and similars, or that weird competition about who's more a man just because one is cis and one is trans, when, in the end of the day, they are all man. The name of this fic—I Will Beat Chuuya In Every Game (Day One)—is kind of... I mean, following that illogic way of thinking, it would be always a competition because Dazai's cis and Chuuya's not, but it's not, and I want you to see that: Dazai wants to beat Chuuya in every game, and even if anyone could think gender classifies as a game (I'm basing on someone's words, it's hard to believe), Dazai doesn't think Chuuya is less man than he is, because he knows perfectly what gender is—a construction humans did for some reasons, words, a concept, and people are not concepts.
I'm in Literature (studying in college), so that's why Dazai talks about it from Literature associating what humans have created with them, because humans have language to name the world, if there's something new, they will create a word to name it because, without it, we won't know, it wouldn't exist. That's all, language and its whole conceptual system is to know the world, but it changes, because it's a system created by humans, for humans, for their needs.
Sigh.
Sorry for the long speech, it's just where this is from.
Let me know what you think
deathorparadise on Chapter 1 Sat 06 Sep 2025 09:27PM UTC
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Heart25Purpule on Chapter 1 Sat 06 Sep 2025 09:30PM UTC
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Just_A_Little_Special on Chapter 1 Sat 06 Sep 2025 11:08PM UTC
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Heart25Purpule on Chapter 1 Sat 06 Sep 2025 11:10PM UTC
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AmeLily15 on Chapter 1 Mon 08 Sep 2025 06:57AM UTC
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Heart25Purpule on Chapter 1 Tue 09 Sep 2025 01:18AM UTC
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Heart25Purpule on Chapter 1 Wed 10 Sep 2025 01:08AM UTC
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deathorparadise on Chapter 2 Sat 06 Sep 2025 10:52PM UTC
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Heart25Purpule on Chapter 2 Sat 06 Sep 2025 11:05PM UTC
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guummywormz on Chapter 3 Sun 07 Sep 2025 05:39AM UTC
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Heart25Purpule on Chapter 3 Mon 08 Sep 2025 01:37AM UTC
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guummywormz on Chapter 4 Sun 07 Sep 2025 05:48AM UTC
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Heart25Purpule on Chapter 4 Mon 08 Sep 2025 01:37AM UTC
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deathorparadise on Chapter 4 Sun 07 Sep 2025 08:33AM UTC
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Heart25Purpule on Chapter 4 Mon 08 Sep 2025 01:37AM UTC
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Heart25Purpule on Chapter 4 Wed 10 Sep 2025 05:58PM UTC
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