Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Summer Rain

Chapter I: chestnut eyes

The time brushes 8 AM and Chūya is alone. North Carolina is breathtaking at the tail-end of May. It’s warm but not hot, flora verdant with vibrance. Dusting notes decorate the air, the twinkling sounds of a soon-to-be tuned grand piano. Bennington is a strange little town. It sits snugly on the cusp of the Bible Belt, leaning far too conservative for Chūya’s taste. Even so, he parks his car and unloads his bags. He is greeted by a cozy cabin, his home for the next three months.

Cabins are typically shared with colleagues, meaning you could very well end up living with your boss if your department is small enough. Chūya, however, has been granted a private room upon special request, for which he is thankful. Though he has never been grateful for his chronic migraines, he does appreciate how they’ve gotten him out of having a roommate under the jurisdiction of medical necessity. His cabin houses the two box office associates, both requiring medical accommodations. Therefore, he and his housemate will share the cabin, but remain in separate bedrooms.

There are the two bedrooms, an ill-equipped kitchen, a claustrophobic living room, and a rickety screened-in porch. It’s cute in a (literal) campy way. The doors don’t lock and nobody has given Chūya a key of any kind. It’s unlike the cities Chūya inhabited prior. Yokohama, Paris, New York—you’d be naive not to lock your stuff away.

Here, the only rooms hidden behind lock and key are the performance halls, the box office, and practice rooms equipped with specialized instruments. Everything else, Chūya supposes, is fair game. It’s unnerving, but he realizes there’s not much he can do outside of storing his valuables (read:laptop) in his car for safe keeping.

With a yawn, he unpacks. Hangs his clothes on a rack that substitutes a closet, peruses the space. The drive was far, New York City to the southern-most point of North Carolina, and he considers napping. After giving it some thought, he thinks better of the idea, best not to ruin his sleep schedule any more than it already is. Instead, he polishes off the last of his canned coffee.

He unpacks in a daze, particularly thankful to have arrived half a week before his colleagues.

Bennington Music Program is an elite summer conservatory and workshop for emerging musicians. Cost of the program is high and acceptance is extraordinarily competitive. Being a rising senior theatre student who could barely afford tuition, Chūya didn’t have many options for summer internships. Especially in the States, everything was unpaid or oversaturated with competition. Chūya had initially applied to Bennington as a stage manager, but was informed all the positions had been filled. There was, however, an opening in the Box Office that guaranteed room and board alongside a livable wage. The opportunity was hard to pass up.

Chūya folded his clothes, putting the unhung garments in the provided wooden dresser. The faces of his friends pop into his mind, a seemingly random occurrence. He thinks of the ones spending their summers working with “real” theatre companies back in New York. Jealousy pangs his chest. It’s hard to ignore the flaring irritation at those who have the financial privilege to work an unpaid summer.

He exhales deeply, shakes it off. Those people weren’t down in the Blue Ridge mountains. Those people wouldn’t receive free tickets to operas and symphonies, to live orchestras and music competitions. As annoyed as he was, Chūya was equal parts excited. He’d lived in all sorts of places, but “the South” was new to him. That, and spending an entire summer away from his family. It couldn’t be much different than spending the school year in New York, still it felt odd. This would be the first summer in years he’d spend away from his family in France.

Chūya was born in France but raised in Japan. At 13, his family moved back to France for his father’s job. Somehow, Chūya ended up attending college in New York, having landed in a noteworthy theatre program in the city studying production and stage management. The past two years had been spent living in New York for school and returning to France for summer and winter breaks. He had never expected to be spending the final summer before his senior year in North Carolina of all places.

It takes less than an hour to unpack his few belongings. Being an international student, he’s used to packing light. With nothing better to do before his meeting with his new manager over lunch, Chūya decides to go exploring.

He wanders the campus, exploring every garden and pond, the lake at its edge, the practice rooms scattered about. There’s a series of wooden benches in a circle that form a picturesque campsite, the kind where you would set up a fire pit in the center. It’s nestled near a bridge composed of tree branches that overpass a stream, neighbored by a little house. There are several small houses tucked away on campus. Chūya wonders who lives in them. There are butterfly bushes and pavilions and all types of birds he never encounters in the city.

Stumbling through the woods, he passes the Admissions building. It’s the place he’s due to meet his manager in—he checks his watch—two hours. As he saunters by, he curiously peers through each and every subsequent practice room. It’s an unusual experience, moving in without greeting more than a few members of the Grounds crew, but he figures everyone here, even in the off-season (which May is considered to be) is incredibly busy. Of course they didn’t have time to welcome Chūya. He’s used to it. Theatre is full of busy people with better things to do than acknowledge the grunts of the company.

An azure sky, the clouds are a white and puffy cumulus. Everything is breathtakingly alive—

That’s when it happens.

# *

Ethereal.

Notes swell, flooding senses, air. Magnetism. Desirous. Delicious.

Sunny skies and a light smattering of just-barely-summer rain. The scent of new beginnings wafts the horizon. It crescendos as Chūya strides forward. His body moves in time with the music sacrificing autonomy to chase a tune.

He is compelled. Compelled by this radiant rarity, this unearthly thing that is music.

Walking, running, sprinting, Chūya races down the hills of the woods. His clothes seep with the dampness of precipitation. Wakefulness courses his veins and he feels every bit alive. It intensifies, this livingness. He approaches greatness, an entity more fantastical than any experience from the past 21 years.

A cabin.

He is face-to-face with a window, though instincts beg him to move, to break through and enter and get as close to this magic as humanly possible.

The practice rooms should be soundproofed, he thinks this one is not.

The jewel tones of the surrounding verdure gleams, shimmers in the sunlight peeking through charcoal newly arrived cumulonimbus. He is nearly soaked, but can’t be bothered to care. Not with effervescence at his heels.

Up until this very moment, Chūya has not experienced music.

There is a baby grand piano, a non-traditional reddish brown color, proudly displayed in the little triangular cabin looming before him. The pianist is partially obscured by the piano’s music stand. As if they can sense the presence of another, the instrumentalist looks up.

Electricity.

Chestnut eyes pierce and Chūya finds himself thinking once more, up until this very moment, has he ever experienced such a thing as being looked at? Looked through. This stranger can see everything, from falling off bikes at five to getting lost in the grocery store at ten. High school graduations and homecoming parties, funeral processions and weddings and every happening that has made Chūya Chūya.

The pianist sees.

They also see the coloration of Chūya’s shirt transition from a light blue to three shades darker, as the rain picks up. So caught in whimsy, Chūya has neglected the weather. Drops of rain shatter, transforming into an unrelenting storm. Azure skies turn a dusty gray and what was a sun shower is now just a shower. Chūya is no longer a little wet, but drenched to the bone. Chestnut eyes stare.

Chūya’s embarrassment ekes off his frame. He waves though. He waves, then jogs off to the dry safety of his summer home. He doesn’t know when the music stopped and when the memory of it in his head has started, but it plays until he reaches his cabin.

--

“Chūya, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The handshake is firm, the kind that makes Chūya uneasy, reminding him too much of important men doing important things.

Chūya swallows his discomfort, opting to flash an award-winning grin, the kind that you take home to show your parents. He prides his ability to charm nearly anyone with a single smile alone. 

“It’s great to meet you, sir,” he addresses his boss politely.

“Please, call me Mori,” the man offers with a far less dazzling smile of his own, still shaking Chūya’s hand.

His wrist is growing sore.

“Alright, Mr. Mori. It’s great to finally meet you in person.”

They’d spoken over the phone two times during Chūya’s interview process. Other than that, their correspondences have been strictly email.

In person, the man looks both nothing like and exactly as Chūya imagined. Pale, tall, and thin. His hair dark and long, black but graying with age. There’s a slight greasiness to him. Everything about Mori was like that, neat with an edge of greasiness.

Chūya didn’t know how that made him feel.

“I presume you’ve settled into your accommodations? Are they to your liking?” Mori asks, cabernet noir eyes boring deep into Chūya’s speckled blue.

Chūya considers his cramped, outdoorsy living arrangements and hums a brief, “Yes, everything’s been great so far.” He stifles a yawn, the exhaustion of a 17-hour drive hitting harder than anticipated, “I’m really excited to get started.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mori responds.

At some point, they stopped shaking hands.

A waiter comes by, delivering a chicken sandwich and fries for Chūya and a Caesar salad for Mori. The café they’re at is sweet, if a bit generic. Chūya was surprised to learn of such few dining options available for Sunday brunch. It was nothing like New York, where restaurants exist in abundance, open every hour of every day. (This of course, is the Bible Belt where Sundays are for resting as the good lord intended.)

They eat their respective meals, the hunger in Chūya’s stomach practically screaming in delight at the flavors as they burst in his mouth. It’s only been three bites, but Chūya can confidently say food in the south is significantly better than up north.

“I won’t bore you with every little detail of the workday, we’ll save that all for your first official day of training,” Mori offered a wry grin, as if his comment was more clever than it actually was, “but I’d like to hear more about you and your family. I enjoy getting to know my employees and would like to take this time to do so.”

Chūya nodded, chewing and swallowing before speaking, “Okay, that’s cool,” he nods, “anything in particular?”

“Tell me more about who you are. What do you hope to get out of this summer? I know we touched upon this during your interview, but there’s only so much we were able to cover in 30 minutes. Don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Chūya rubbed the back of his head sheepishly at the attention. “Well I’ve bounced around a few countries but I am currently attending school in New York City. I spend breaks with my family in Paris. My dads are Paul and Arthur, they both work in a specialized research facility. My sister, Kōyō, is a few years older than me and she’s a primary school music teacher.” Mori sipped at the tea Chūya couldn’t recall him ordering. “I guess I’m hoping to get some experience in arts administration and some general exposure to working with musicians. I’m used to working with actors and stuff, but it seems like musicians are kind of a different game.”

Mori chuckled at that remark, “We certainly can be, even the most humble of us are a bit pretentious, I’ll be the first to admit that.”

Chūya laughed politely before taking another bite of his sandwich.

“What about you?” Chūya posed in return, “Can you tell me a bit about you and your family? I mean I’ve read your bio on Wikipedia, but having you in the flesh, I kinda want to take advantage of it. You know?”

“Certainly.” A crisp breeze fluttered through the air. The sky was bright, practically all signs of the earlier storm entirely dissipated. “If you’ve read my Wikipedia page, I’m sure you’ve learned all about my history as a classical musician. Of course, I made a necessary pivot. Arts administration is field I find quite fascinating.”

Though the accident is implied, nothing further is said on it.

Nothing of—

“I have four children, two sons and two daughters. Three of the troublemakers are in California with their mother, though they typically spend the school year with me in Japan. My elder son has been fortunate enough to be accepted into the music program this year. I’m sure you’ll see him around.” There was an odd expression that crossed his face, “Please accept my apologies ahead of time, he is quite the handful.”

“No worries,” Chūya swallowed, finishing the first half of his sandwich, “I’d love to meet him sometime.”

“Perhaps the two of you would get along. Though I must warn you, his social skills are not up to par with many of his peers.”

Chūya shrugged, “That doesn’t bother me.”

They continued to chat casually, Chūya learning more about Mori’s profession and Mori learning more of Chūya’s theatrical experience and passion for stage managing.

Conversation flowed easily and Chūya respected the way Mori always had a question in his back pocket for any potentially uncomfortable lulls.

“And what was the last show you stage managed?”

“It was called—sorry for my language—Stupid Fucking Bird. It’s by Aaron Posner—”

“A modern retelling of The Seagull, if I recall?”

“Yes that’s it! I can’t believe you’ve heard of it.”

“It’s a very good show.”

“Yeah, the cast was fantastic.”

“Have you ever stage managed an opera?”

Chūya shook his head, “I haven’t. I think I’d be good at it though. My dads love opera music so I grew up listening to all different ones.”

And so the conversation went.

Mori reeked of authority. As brunch wrapped up, it felt almost improper not to offer a courteous bow.

“It’s been lovely speaking with you, Chūya,” Mori addressed him directly as they approached their cars to drive the whopping five minute commute back to campus. Mori handed Chūya a card with some information on it, “This is my campus address, phone number, and email. Cell phone reception is tricky up here, so if you are unable to reach me you are always more than welcome to knock on my door. I’d like to make myself as accessible to you as possible.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mori,” Chūya took the card gratefully, “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

“As am I.”

--

“Hey! You must be the new kid!”

Chūya turned around at the sound of the cabin’s front door opening. He stood in the small kitchenette, unloading a few snacks he’d picked up after brunch with Mori.

“Hi, um—” Chūya waved with an uncertain smile.

“Oh, sorry! I’m Tachihara. You can call me Tachi,” the boy grinned back brightly. His hair was red, a rusty shade similar to Chūya’s own though more on the auburn side. He was of average height and a sturdy build, sporting a denim jacket, matching jeans, and a faded red t-shirt. “I’m a stage manager here!”

“Ah, so you’re the one who took my job,” Chūya joked.

“My sincerest apologies,” Tachi offered a dramatic bow, “I believe the saying goes ‘early bird catches the worm?’”

“You eat worms? Gross.”

They laughed, instantly hitting it off.

“I like you, um—”

“Chūya,” Chūya introduced himself, “I’ll be working in the box office.”

“I like you, Box Office Chūya,” Tachi remarked before adding, “probs should have knocked before coming in, heh, sorry ‘bout that, I was just really excited to learn someone else would be on campus early! It’s been pretty boring lately. Most of the musicians don’t start their programs for another week and staff isn’t expected to arrive for a few more days.”

“So you’ve been all by your lonesome?”

“Absolute torture,” Tachi swooned, “I mean we have Mr. Mori’s kid and a few stragglers in Grounds crew but that’s it.”

“Not good company?” Chūya was more than eager to learn of any gossip he could find. That was one of his favorite guilty pleasures when it came to working in theatre, learning all the “hot gossip” about his friends and colleagues.

Yuan slept with who?

Shirase stole what?

Albatross broke which part of the set?

Every truth and rumor made his heart giddy with eager, invasive curiosity.

“Oh, no they're fine,” Tachi scratched the back of his head, “though Dazai’s always holed up in a practice room and the guys over in Grounds are very—” he made a macho-man pose, “dude-ish.”

Chūya snickered at the gesture.

“Ah, gotcha. Well now you got me! Though I’m sure you’ll be sick of me by the end of the week,” he smirked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be sick of all of you box office nerds by the end of the summer, I’m sure of it!” They laughed some more before a comfortable silence lulled. “So, you work as a stage manager normally?”

“Yep,” Chūya replied, “I prefer the production side of things. Front of house is sort of new to me.”

“That’s cool you’re trying something different. I’d be a nervous wreck if I had to interact with audience the way you’ll have to.”

“Ha. It wasn’t much of a choice, but I’ll accept the compliment. But yeah, usually I stage manage. I had a hard time finding internships—”

“Dude, they’re insane! Like everything is freakishly hard to get into—”

“Or they pay literal dirt.”

“Actual specks of dirt. Like you go home after a long-ass week of work and pull fucking mud out of your pocket.”

“It’s the fucking worst!”

Tachi shook his head, “Man, it’s a mess. Oh! Sorry, what are your pronouns? I’ve been referring to you as ‘dude’ and shit but never asked. My bad!”

“He/him is chill. And yours?”

“He/him also.” Though they were the only two around, he lowered his voice, “Usually the performers are ok about pronouns and stuff but um. The staff and patrons are like. Not as. You know?”

Chūya raised an eyebrow.

“Like, we’re not in New York City and it shows. If that makes sense?”

“Ah,” it clicked, “that does. Thanks for the heads up.”

“You just um,” Tachi scratched the back of his head, voice still low, “I don’t know what team you bat for but. Like. You’ll want to be careful if you are like,” he cut himself off, “I mean it’s the arts so like, they’re not too horrible here about queer people and stuff. I mean, mostly. Just um. Be wary. Okay? If hooking up with people of the same sex is your thing you should totally go for it—just like. In private. This area in general isn’t exactly the best place to be queer.”

They shared a moment of tacit understanding.

“But I promise the music students themselves are way better than the town of Bennington itself! And the theatre kids—gay, straight, ace—however you identify, we got your back.” Chūya nodded appreciatively. “I can’t wait for you to meet everyone, they’re such a good group of people.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! Gin is my ASM this year and I’m psyched. She’s so fucking good at her job, it’s actually a crime. And her brother’s working stage crew for the opera later this summer. We have Higuchi who does costumes, Hirotsu our production manager—”

“I swear I’m going to forget all these names at least five seconds after you leave,” Chūya commented good-naturedly.

“Shit! Guess I’ll just have to introduce you to everyone in-person next week. Speaking of—” he reached into his pocket, pulling out a sticky note and pen. Ever the stage manager, Chūya thought to himself. “Next week—” he leaned over, using his thigh as a table to write on the small post-it, “next Sunday actually, is our annual Tony-watching party!”

“Jeez, that’s soon.”

“I know, the Tony’s are mad early this year. But yeah! We’ll be up in scene shop attached to the pavilion theatre, which is—” he drew a map of campus, which resembled more of a blocking plot than a map, putting an X on the building he referenced. “I’ll include the address here too. Oh and here’s my contact info and cabin number!” He removed the first sticky note, passing it to Chūya before writing his information down on a second sticky note. “Cellphone reception sucks up here so if I don’t respond I promise I’m not ignoring you.”

“No problem.”

Tachi checked his phone, grimacing at the time.

“Damn, I’ve gotta run for a meeting with Hirotsu. It was great meeting you, Chūya! Let’s do lunch sometime this week?”

“Yeah, let’s do it. See ya.”

--

Chūya couldn’t sleep.

Maybe it was being alone in a cabin in the woods, or perhaps the sheer silence of the middle of nowhere. In New York, there was always the reliable whir of cars, screaming of sirens, and clatter of street noise. Here everything was so different. He wasn’t used to the quietness the countryside afforded him.

He was exhausted after such a long day, but not sleepy. Whatever the reason, he laid with his eyes wide open. He tried at one point to sift social media out of boredom but found the Wi-Fi in his bedroom to be fairly poor. After thumbing through a few books and jotting down a couple of lines of poetry in his journal, Chūya decided it was time to get some fresh air.

Throwing on his leather jacket and tossing his phone in his pocket, Chūya exited the cabin. There was a rather steep hill outside his doorway and he had to be extra careful as to avoid stumbling on his way down. Eventually, he made it to level ground in one piece.

# *

The campus was well-lit at night. String lights cascaded the roofs of the practice rooms and music halls followed by little garden lamps sticking out of the grass and a few overhead light posts. Unlike city life, he didn’t mind walking alone at midnight unsupervised. It was a welcome change.

But really, his favorite part of exploring at night was the stars. Constellations, a sky littered with little dots Chūya rarely had a chance to see in the entirety of his life. He’d gotten a view of the night sky while driving down from New York, but hadn’t had the opportunity to fully appreciate its artistry until now.

They sparkled, shimmering specks of glitter in the sky. Chūya stared, enamored.

Alluring.

A melody sung softly in the air and again, beyond his own volition, his legs chased after the sounds.

Each note was more captivating than the last.

Once more, walking turned to running turned to chasing and suddenly Chūya was back. Back at that cabin in the woods, the one with a burgundy baby grand and a dark-haired instrumentalist.

The one with chestnut eyes.

Chūya approached from the side, allowing a better view of the pianist. They were lanky, presumably tall though it was hard to tell seeing them sitting down. They were lean with long, narrow fingers that flew across the keys, jumping octaves with ease.

Their face was pale, cheekbones well-defined with a sharp jaw of someone who’d outgrown childhood before their time.

They were dressed in dark colors, a gray cardigan, black pants, and a monochromatic t-shirt with an abstract design. Above all else, Chūya returned to those chestnut eyes. Eyes that, while seeing nothing, saw everything. Eyes that Chūya yearned to be unraveled by. Eyes that looked directly at him, at—

They were looking directly at him.

Fuck.

They were looking directly at Chūya.

Directly through the octaves and eighth notes and accidentals and—

They smiled.

Chūya was frozen. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t force the muscles in his face to respond, to twitch, to quirk into anything remotely resembling an expression in return. The music made him feel everything, yet he was numb.

The piece grew louder, more dramatic with each chord.

The pianist maintained eye contact with Chūya the entire time.

His mouth was dry and he swayed slightly, caught up in the enigma before him. Something about them was different. The way they played, how it felt as though their entire heart was bleeding into the white and black keys. As though their everything was leaking, pouring from their fingers, primed for watching, prying eyes to take their keep.

The final notes of the piece rang out, soft and delicate, as if fading like a ripple in a stream. As they let their fingers linger a moment longer, the musician closed their eyes. They inhaled, exhaled, and opened them.

They looked at Chūya.

Chūya looked back.

They waved.

Chūya waved back.

--

Chūya doesn’t see the pianist outside of the practice room, doesn’t exchange two words with them even when all that separates them is a flimsy cabin door. He finds it odd that on a campus so small, he’s only run into them as they practice. They’re never in the cafeteria for meals or outside on a stroll. Come to think of it, Chūya vaguely recalls Tachi mentioning something about a kid that was constantly holed up in a practice room. He wonders if that’s them. If maybe that kid is—

“I have a meeting at 9 AM and will return no later than 10. In that time I’d like you to read the box office manual and acquaint yourself with our ticketing software. It’s rather complex and will take some time to learn. Every morning when you open, you’ll turn on the television outside and make sure our community channel, channel 4, is playing on mute. You’ll count your till and log into your computer,” Mori gestured at each material and item he referenced as he mentioned them. “This phone over here is a special, private line for the Quarry foundation. The Quarry’s are our largest donors and it is imperative that if this phone rings, it is answered. Preferably, you should notify me right away and I will answer it. However, if I or your senior team member is not available, you must take the call yourself. Take avid notes of whatever they request and promise to return their call with more information by the end of the business day. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

The booth felt terribly tiny with just the two of them. There were three patron-facing windows, each equipped with its own computer, phone, and till. In the back of the office was a large desk that took up much of the coveted real estate. It was covered in neatly organized stacks of papers. No matter how small or trite, everything seemed to have a place.

The box office itself was located in the back of an outdoor amphitheater, only separated from the theatre by a wall with a single door. This meant that, once his shift was over, Chūya would be allowed to sneak in the back of the theater to watch any of the performances that were happening.

“When answering the phone,” Mori pointed to the phone at Chūya’s window, “you will answer as follows: ‘Hello, thank you for calling the Bennington Music Program box office, this is Chūya.’ You must always end with your name, as this helps customers recall who they spoke to. Do you have questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Very good then,” Mori clapped his hands together, “I’ll be heading off to my meeting. Please take note of any questions you have as you work. Tickets for performances don’t go on sale until Monday, so any callers or patrons stopping by will only have informational questions about the space or the season’s lineup. The information you’ll need will all be in the manual and our season brochure.”

“Okay. Thank you,” Chūya bowed his head slightly, “See you in a bit.”

With that, Mori exited the office, heading off towards an administrative building. Chūya exhaled, feeling a slight pressure lift from his chest the further away Mori walked. He respected the hell out of that man, but couldn’t help the feelings of inadequacy that rose in his chest anytime he was nearby. Chūya wondered if that’s how all the box office employees felt.

“Heeeeey! It’s Box Office Chūya!!” Tachihara’s jovial tone pulled Chūya from his reverie.

“That my permanent nickname or something?” Chūya snorted.

“Yep~ It just suits you,” Tachi replied before gesturing to the door, “can I come in for a quick sec? I brought you coffee.”

“Oh, sure,” Chūya walked over to the door, opening it to reveal Tachi standing with, indeed, two cups of steaming coffee. He passed one over to Chūya.

“Hope you’re not lactose intolerant, there’s a bit of cream in it.”

“No I’m all good. Thanks so much man,” Chūya gratefully accepted the gift. “I had coffee with breakfast but after Mori’s crash-course of this place I need that second cup.”

“Oof, I don’t blame you. Working for Mori is not easy.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep. He’s like, crazy strict about everything.”

“Yeah, he said we even have to answer the phone a specific way. Like I can’t just say ‘How can I help you?’ I have to specifically end with my name.”

“That’s so weird! He’s a strange guy, for sure.”

“Speaking of strange—” Chūya started, lowering his voice, “you said there was a kid that’s always practicing, right? Are they a pianist per chance?”

“Yep. Dark hair, brown eyes, lanky as fuck?”

“Yeah! I just um. I keep hearing them play and they’re really good. I was kind of curious if you knew who they were?”

“That’s Mori’s kid, Dazai,” Tachi supplied, “he’s basically a prodigy.”

“Fuck. Really?”

“Yeah, some of the best talent this place has seen if you ask me. He’s here on a special work-study scholarship.”

“You mean he doesn’t get free tuition even though his father works here? His dad is the Mori Ōgai”

“Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that,” Tachi explained, “even if you have a family member working here, you still need to pass the admissions assessments and pay tuition like everyone else. Granted, they’d get a reduced rate, but it’s still a hefty fee.”

“That sucks ass.”

“Tell me about it.”

Chūya bit his thumb, gnawing at the edge of his nail before speaking, “So um. This Dazai kid. Do they ever leave that practice room? Like to pee or eat or anything?”

“Ha!” Tachi laughed aloud, “That’s debatable. But don’t worry ‘bout them. You’ll get used to it. He’s actually pretty social once you get him in a room full of people, it’s just getting them there that takes effort. Though he is invited to that Tony’s party this weekend! Make sure you stop by and I’ll introduce you two.”

“Ah it’s really no big deal,” Chūya blushed a bright shade of crimson.

“Nonsense,” Tachi smiled smugly before lowering his voice in a playful tone, “you two would look cute together.”

“I!!! I’m not!! I just um, I was just curious I didn’t um I didn’t mean that we would—that I would like—”

“Kidding!! Though after that reaction I’m really excited to introduce you two.”

“Asshole,” Chūya sipped his coffee with an eyeroll.

“Just remember who brought you that steaming hot coffee,” Tachi replied with a wink.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. It tastes like ass.”

“It was the cafeteria’s finest.”

It was cold in the box office, the whir of the small air conditioning unit running in the background.

“Aren’t you chilly in there?” Tachi remarked. Chūya nodded.

“Yep. But Mr. Mori said we can’t adjust the—”

“You can’t even touch the thermostat in this place??” Tachi gaped.

“Yeah, basically,” Chūya grimaced. “I don’t mind though, I’ll bring a hoodie or something tomorrow.”

“Oh. So I’m guessing he didn’t give you the hoodie lecture yet?”

“The what?”

“Heh. Well,” Tachi shifted his weight as he spoke, “there was this girl who worked here last year, Lucy. I doubt she’s coming back, but she’d get in trouble for dress code constantly. Mori would complain that her skirts were too short and shirts were too low-cut, so she started dressing in hoodies and sweats to retaliate. Of course this pissed Mori off, but wasn’t technically against the dress code. So he made a new rule that said no more hoodies on the job.”

“What!? That’s bull! There is nothing wrong with hoodies!”

“Tell me about it. I’m just glad that I don’t work for him because honestly he’s always seemed like such a tyrant.”

“No kidding,” Chūya snorted. “But uh, I should probably start reading that manual he left. Don’t want to get in trouble for slacking off on my first day.”

“Totally get it. I’ll be in the back of the amphitheater so holler if you need me!”

“Sounds good, see ya Tachi.”

“See ya, Box Office Chūya!”

--

Other than the occasional, stern comment from Mori, Chūya’s shift went off without a hitch. He spent most of his time reading the manual and taking notes in one of the many notebooks he’d brought with him. Chūya enjoyed writing by hand and always had a notebook at the ready.

As his six-hour shift wrapped up, Mori explained the closing and lock-up procedures. There was a checklist conveniently placed on the back of the door that Chūya could reference when he’d be closing alone over the next few days.

“Your colleague should be arriving by Friday,” Mori informed him, “and we’ll all, as a team, have lunch together over the weekend to get to know each other. I’ve also scheduled our annual composers dinner for the following weekend.”

“What’s that?” Chūya asked curiously.

“It’s a dinner we have every year where were review all the composers for the season and go over how to pronounce their names. Correct name pronunciation is extremely important for our work.”

“I see. That sounds great.”

Mori nodded, shifting a few last papers around before dismissing Chūya.

“I’ll finish locking up tonight, I have a few matters to attend to. You are free to go.”

“Thank you sir—er uh, Mr. Mori. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Get some rest, I’ll see you bright and early.”

Chūya waved as he walked out of the box office. He considered finding Tachi to grab dinner together but decided he wanted to take some time to change and decompress before socializing. With a yawn, he glanced at his phone which read 4:30 PM, on the dot. It wasn’t that late but that didn’t stop the exhaustion that ate at his bones. From the long drive to the distinct shift in climate, and inadequate sleep, his body was wiped.

Returning to his cabin, he hopped in the shower. Of course, being a cabin in the middle of the woods meant the shower wasn’t much more than a steady stream of cool water. He sighed, for the first time in his life missing the showers from his dorms that at the very least offered hot water.

Chūya finished up, drying off and getting changed in silence. The quiet again struck him as odd. He figured it wouldn’t last much longer, once all the musicians arrived they were bound to be practicing at the outdoor theatres throughout the day. In the silence, he let his mind wander. Let thoughts drift this way and that, to curiousness for what his parents and sister were up to this summer to nervous excitement for the arrival of the rest of his colleagues. He wondered what the summer would hold.

He wondered about summer rain and chestnut eyes.

Chapter Text

Chapter II: That time we watched the Tony’s on Facetime.

Short mornings, drawn-out afternoons, and brisk nights. The passing days occur in an odd synchronicity. He explores. The campus is small but stunning, a microcosm of musical fortitude. He visits downtown, the cute mom-and-pop shops, staple ice cream parlor, a few cozy local coffee shops. The town is quaint.

Something about it makes Chūya stir. Unsettled by solitude, the few souls drifting across campus.

Chūya finds solace in music. In the melodies that encompass his thoughts in manic frenzy. All he can hear and see and think is music.

Not before long, the rest of the production crew arrives. Tachihara eagerly introduces his ASM Gin and the wardrobe supervisor Higuchi. Chūya likes them. He’s never had trouble getting along with others and these new colleagues are no exception.

“For the party tonight,” Tachi speaks animatedly as they all sit together, eating lunch, “dress code’s semi-formal, so wear that nice shit you brought!”

“Semi-formal? Hell, I barely packed anything more than casual,” Chūya rubbed the back of his neck with a pinkish blush clinging to his cheeks.

“Don’t worry about it,” Gin said following a bite of her sandwich, “Tachi here just likes to make a big deal out of any opportunity to look fancy. Wear whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

“But wouldn’t it be so cool if everyone dressed up?” Tachi careened, “We could have our own red carpet ‘Who wore it better?’ competition!! That would be so neat.”

“It really would be!” Higuchi agreed with a rapid nod of her head, “I’d just love to see everyone in a suit or dress!”

“You’re only saying that because you want to design our outfits,” Gin rolled her eyes with a playful smirk.

“You’re not wrong,” Higuchi admitted, picking at her salad.

“I guess I have a button up and slacks that could work,” Chūya shrugged.

“That’s the spirit!” Tachi smiled brightly. “There’s uh, only one tiny potential sorta maybe itty bitty problem for tonight.”

Gin and Higuchi exchanged a look before turning Tachi’s way, “Spill,” they said in unison.

“Well uh—” he grinned bashfully, “we don’t exactly have cable up here.”

“So?” Gin asked.

“They um. They aren’t streaming the Tony’s on any normal streaming site. It’s on one of those weird channels that I’m not subscribed to.”

“Just do a free trial,” Higuchi suggested, “that’s what I always do for this kind of thing.”

“I don’t think this station has a free trial,” Tachi sighed, “and as much as I blood, sweat, and tears live for the Tony’s, I’m not paying $50 a month for a one-time thing.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Gin offered, “we’re theatre kids. Our lives are literally built on hacky workarounds. Our souls as legit held together by gaff tape.”

“She’s not wrong,” Chūya agreed before backtracking, “oh sorry, what are your pronouns again? You too Higuchi, I think I forgot to ask earlier.”

“She/her is fine,” Gin answered.

“She/they works for me!” Higuchi added.

“Cool. Sorry for the assumption.”

“You’re all good,” Gin replied good-naturedly. “Potential technical difficulties aside, are you excited to meet everyone tonight? There should be a large crowd.”

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to it,” Chūya nodded, “everyone I’ve met has been really nice so far.”

“I’m glad,” Tachi grinned, “the musicians are kind of stuck up but us theatre kids? We’ve got your back. If you need anything at all, the ghost light’s always on.”

“I appreciate that,” Chūya smiled genuinely before finishing his last bite of pasta. “The food’s way better down here than up in New York too.”

“Oh yeah,” Tachi laughed, “there’s a reason they call southern food ‘comfort food.’”

“For real.”

As they ate, they chattered. They talked about the shows they’d worked, different kinds of activities they were planning to do over the summer, seeing familiar faces around campus.

“Every year Hirotsu throws a big bonfire at his place,” Higuchi spoke excitedly.

“That’s allowed here?” Chūya asked, curious by this implication.

“Oh right!” Higuchi amended, “He doesn’t live on campus like the rest of us. He and his husband live downtown. They have the cutest little puppy—”

Chūya perked up, practically jumping out of his seat, “What kind?? What’s their name??”

“Someone’s enthusiastic,” Tachi teased, “guessing you’re a dog-person?”

“Hell yeah!” Chūya’s eyes lit up, scattered with bright twinkling stars, “I want a puppy soooooo bad. If I had one, I’d take such good care of them and would feed him steak every day.”

“That’s pretty adorable,” Gin giggled. Chūya blushed a bright shade of crimson, realizing just how enthusiastic he’d gotten on the topic.

“So uh—” Chūya coughed, pulling himself together, “you said they live in town?” Tachi found his embarrassment incredibly amusing.

“Yeah!” Higuchi answered, “About 30 minutes from here. It’s the more liberal side of town. Usually they invite the entire staff—but it’s mostly just the theatre kids who end up showing.”

“Sounds like you all know the lay of the land,” Chūya commented, “how many summers have you all been working here?”

“Well, I live in Georgia,” Tachi replied first, “which isn’t too far away. So I’ve been working summers here since I was 18.”

“My brother and I are from Japan,” Gin chimed in, “we started at Bennington two years ago and just really liked our time here.”

“What part of Japan?” Chūya asked, “I was raised in Suribachi City.”

“No kidding?” Gin’s mouth quirked upwards in intrigue, “I’m from Yokohama.”

“Oh shit! That’s where Mr. Mori’s from, right?”

“Yeah, we grew up pretty close to his family. One of his kids used to teach my brother piano.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“That’s so cool! Does he still play, your brother?”

Gin considered before shaking her head, “Not really. Mr. Mori is really. Strict. And I guess that rubbed off on his kid. Lessons for Ryū weren’t exactly fun.”

“Oh,” Chūya deflated the slightest bit at the comment, “that sucks. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Is what it is,” Gin said with a shrug.

Higuchi jumped in, “I live in South Carolina,” she said, “I grew up in Massachusetts though. We should definitely visit my parents at some point! They live near this place in South Carolina called Pretty Place and it’s simply gorgeous—”

“Wait, that’s actually what it’s called?” Chūya snorted.

“Yep! They got married there. It was one of the reasons they wanted to move back down south after living in Boston for so long. I mean, that and no snow.”

“Fair enough,” Chūya hummed.

The cafeteria was starting to quiet down as the staff and few students cleared out, each one bringing their tray up front and tossing out their leftovers.

“Guess we should head out,” Chūya said.

 “Yeah, I better check on the shop and get everything set up for tonight. I picked up decorations and everything!!” Tachi radiated with the nervous excitement of a golden retriever pup.

“I’ll join you,” Gin offered, “got nothing better to do today.”

“Oh, Gin, is your brother around?” Higuchi asked, fiddling with a lock of honey hair, “I have a book I borrowed last summer that I forgot to return to him.”

“He’s probably in his room sleeping,” Gin said, “he’s still jetlagged.”

“Ah okay. No worries!! I’ll just stop by later then—”

Chūya gathered his things, bringing his tray up to the front as the others talked logistics.

“We’ll see you tonight, Chū?” Tachi said as they prepared to leave.

“Yeah, for sure. I’ll be there,” Chūya replied.

“Great! We’ll see you then!”

--

Chūya was never a big “party-person.” He enjoyed celebrating now and again, but always hung back during cast parties. He did his best to avoid unnecessary attention, there was a reason he wasn’t an actor, after all. He wasn’t particularly interested in excessive drinking or stupid decisions after dark. College had gifted him with his fair share of regretful, drunken hookups and he was not keen on creating any more of those memories.

The Tony’s Watch Party was different.

As promised, he dressed nicely, wearing a scarlet button down with black slacks and loafers slightly less beat up than his typical converse. His longish orange hair was pulled into a low side-pony nestled underneath his favorite porkpie hat. The outfit was tied together by his signature crisscrossed choker. After redoing the eyeliner on his waterline a few more times than he cared to admit, Chūya picked up the hastily drawn sticky note map Tachi had given him the week prior and made his way across campus to the scene shop. He was surprised he hadn’t stopped by the spot sooner, as it took a bit of effort to find the place. After wandering around one too many locked doors, a myriad of voices echoed throughout the space, catching his attention.

He entered, feeling like home.

The scent of wood and sets always put him at ease. Every scene shop smells the same, he firmly believes this and Bennington’s is no exception. He inhales, deep but discreet, relishing in the scent of familiar. It’s nothing like the stiff antiseptic scents of the overly polished box office. It smells like art.

“Chūya!” Tachi cheered, “You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Chūya flashed a grin, clasping Tachi on the back. He was sincerely happy to be there.

“Man, you look awesome!” Tachi complimented with an eager grin.

The scene shop itself was massive, but the party was being held on the smaller lofted upper level, stylistically resembling a mezzanine. String lights decorated the railing while gold and black balloons and streamers hung throughout the space. It was equal parts tacky and cute and Chūya appreciated the general aesthetic.

“This looks dope! Nice work,” he addressed the set dressing.

“Thanks!! Gin helped me hang the decorations. She’s a wizard with that sort of thing.”

The place was crowded, but not packed. Various staff members dressed in different degrees of formal wear chatted amongst each other, drinks and snacks in hand. Tachi wore a classy navy blazer over khaki slacks with a tucked in plaid button down. Gin joined them, dressed in a black knee-length lacey gothic dress and combat boots. She was trailed by an emo-looking kid whose black hair faded into bleached silver tips. He was more casually dressed than most of the party-goers, wearing a black short-sleeved hoodie and dark-wash skinny jeans.

“Real quick,” Gin waved Chūya’s way, “I wanted to introduce you to my brother, Ryū,” she dragged the emo-looking kid towards them, “he’s just staying for the opening number before he’s back off to bed. Ryū, this is Box Office Chūya.”

“Nice to meet your acquaintance, Box Office Chūya,” Ryū greeted with a stiff handshake.

“Nice to meet ya,” Chūya replied, “and you don’t have to say, ‘Box Office’ before my name.”

“Noted.”

Ryū felt like the type of person who’d go back to their dorm and genuinely write this fact in a notepad.

“Well uh, it’s nice to meet you man,” Chūya greeted.

“You as well.”

There was a lull of silence.

Then—

“Oh shit, I should probably put on some music!”

* #

Before Tachi could set up his Spotify, a soft trill of notes resounded in the space.

“Is there a piano in here?” Chūya wondered aloud.

“God dammit,” Tachi cursed under his breath, “I swear I’m going to force this kid to have fun whether they want to or not.”

“What do you mean—” Chūya was interrupted as the soft swilling of notes grew with a crescendo. A cacophony of dark, ominous, eerie.

“For Christ’s sake!” Tachi yelled down. The music only grew louder with spite.

Chūya was enamored.

He felt himself drawn to the railing, unable to stop from looking over the edge at the fingers flying across the ivory keys of a light brown, slightly out-of-tune, upright piano tucked in the corner of the space. The untuned nature of the piano added to the song’s unnerving affectation. The long, dancing fingers belonged to a familiar, lanky individual. Dark hair, pale skin.

Piercing chestnut eyes.

Tachi bolted down the curving stairs that led to the lower level. He proceeded to scold the pianist.

“What did I tell you about practicing when you’re supposed to be having fun?” Tachi lectured.

The pianist continued playing as they spoke. With a straight face, “What part of Camille Saint-Saëns isn’t fun?”

“This piece is literal macabre,” Tachi dead-panned. The pianist hummed, continuing to play.

“Dazaiiiii,” Tachi whined, “quit being tonight’s entertainment and come say hi to everyone!”

“After this song. Promise.”

“You are hopeless.”

 Chūya continued to stare. He couldn’t stop.

Even as Gin and Higuchi approached him, as Tachi hopped back up the stairs making his way towards him. He couldn’t help but stare.

“You act like you’ve never seen a pianist before,” Tachi joked.

“Huh?” Chūya reluctantly managed to sever his gaze from the instrumentalist.

“They’re good, right?” Tachi prompted.

“Yeah. They’re amazing.”

“Don’t say it to his face,” Gin rolled her eyes, “he’ll get an even bigger head than he already has,”

“They’re pretentious?”

“Comes with the whole kid of Mori Ōgai deal,” Gin explained.

“Oh. Right. That’s the kid, huh?” Chūya furrowed his brow.

The music sang out, decorating the air prettily.

“I’ll be sure to keep my thoughts to myself.”

Not before long, the crew began prepping for the actual start of the festivities. A bulky desktop with a wide monitor was set up in the corner. Everyone scooted their mismatched chairs to circle the screen. Tachi logged in, accessing YouTube as a first attempt at streaming the show.

“YouTube’s a no-go,” Tachi called out after the fifth fake livestream video, “can we get a sound check though?”

“Testing sound,” a kid with strangely shaped glasses and bowl-cut adjusted a speaker as Tachi played through an ad.

Sometime along the way, the piano music quietened, barely audible.

“Lights!” A voice called out.

“Thank you, lights,” the entire room, including Chūya, responded second-nature as the lights dimmed to near darkness, save the golden glow of string lights.

“Standby,” Tachi announced as he logged into another, rather sketchy-looking site.

“Have you tried CBS?”

“What about NBC?”

“ABC?”

“What about—”

“Yes, yes, and yes. And no. None are streaming them.”

“Damn, this is 2016. How is it this hard to find the fucking Tony’s?”

“Guys!! We’re going to miss the opening act at this rate!”

“Standby!” Tachi repeated himself, skimming through a generic article titled Five Ways to Watch the 2016 Tony’s for Free!

“None of these stupid sites work,” he huffed. The background music seemed to grow more dramatic as their desperation grew.

“Ooh! I have a signal!” Higuchi perked up, “My parents are watching it and said we can Facetime them.”

“You’re telling me we’re going to facetime your parents to watch the Tony’s on their TV through your cellphone?” Tachi gaped.

“Got any better ideas?”

“Are we really that desperate?” Chūya laughed. He was thoroughly amused. It felt like being backstage in a production, the controlled chaos of it all. The way everything could go wrong and right all at once. It had only been a few months since his last show but God, he missed this.

Theatre is addicting like that.

“Any chance you have a lightning to HDMI cord?” Tachi asked.

Gin laughed aloud, “Do they even make those?”

“We have—” weird bowl haircut kid pulled out a massive box of wires, “Type A, Type C, HDMI but no Lightning...an adapter for USB-C but that won’t work…”

“Quick!! It’s starting!!”

Higuchi’s phone rang out, the Facetime ringtone echoing loudly in the space.

“Hi sweetie!” Her parents answered on the other end, waving to the group.

“Hey mom! Can you use your pop socket to prop us up? You just need to aim us at the TV.”

“Alright, we’ll give it a shot.”

Chūya and Gin snickered at Tachi’s irritated expression. He was clearly upset, all his hard work was for naught.

“How’s this?”

The screen was pixelated and streaky from the camera reflecting the other screen. The audio was tinny and crackly—but all in all, it was something.

They were theatre kids watching the Tony’s and they’d be damned if they missed them.

The opening act would have probably been phenomenal, had they been able to see most of it. Still, the group listened quiet as anything, hunched over and squinting as they eyed the tiny cellphone screen propped against the computer.

Then, like God parting the sea, the kid with the bowl haircut cried out, “I’ve got it!! I’ve figured it out!!!”

Half the group shushed him while the other half turned his way, interest piqued. As the opening acts finished up and the first commercial break hit, they acted fast. He showed Tachi something on his phone, at which Tachi nodded. He began typing up a storm and before the end of the commercial break, the Tony’s were up and running on the computer monitor.

“Can I get another sound check?”

“Bye mom! Thanks for the effort!”

“Sound!”

“Bye sweetie!”

“Thank you, sound.”

Everything was in working order.

“Guys, gals, and non-binary pals,” Tachihara smiled, brimming with pure delight. He gestured towards the desktop, “I present to you, the 70^th Annual Tony’s! Brought to you by BMP’s finest—”

“Shut up already, the show’s about to start!” Gin yelled with a shooing motion.

With that, the commercials ended and the true start of the Tony’s Watch Party kicked off.

--

Like a good party guest, Chūya stayed late to help clean well after the party came to a close.

(He’d be a liar if he didn’t acknowledge the part of him that simply stayed out of his craving for the scent of scene shop, of theatre, of home.)

He sipped on his beer as piano music filled the air. Old school showtunes from the past century spun out, Kander and Ebb, Webber, Sondheim—all the music Chūya grew up with and adored accompanying them as they tiredly tidied the space.

“You don’t have to stay and clean,” Tachi protested.

“I don’t mind,” Chūya shrugged off the concern, “I’m not that tired anyways.”

Gin and Higuchi put away the last of the decorations as Chūya stacked the chairs and Tachi logged out of the computer. They were an efficient crew as they finished “striking the set”, so to speak.

“I think that’s the last of it,” Tachi clapped his hands together, “thank you all so much for helping out—”

“Thank you for making this possible,” Gin nudged him with a grin that Chūya swears is flirtatious(?)

Chūya sipped at his remaining beer, eagerly clinging to the light buzz warming his system.

“It was nothing,” Tachi smiled bashfully, “just doing my job as an SM. The show must go on!”

“You’re so corny,” Gin playfully smacked him before stifling a yawn.

“You wanna walk back to the cabins together?” Tachi asked Chūya.

Chūya eyed the edge of the lofted space, where he could see the pianist from earlier continuing to play. Tachi caught the glance before smiling cheekily.

“Right. I meant to introduce you two! Come with me—” Before Chūya could protest, Tachi was dragging him down the stairs, waving bye to Higuchi and Gin.

“Hey, Dazai!” Tachi yelled at the pianist, “You’ve got a new fan who wants to meet you.”

“I—I never said that I—I don’t want to—”

The piano music softened before fading out into silence.

Chestnut stared, dove into oceans, swam to the deep-end, unafraid.

“Dazai, this is Box Office Chūya. Chūya, meet, Dazai.”

“H-hi,” Chūya stuttered.

Chestnut eyes didn’t break contact once.

“Nice to meet you, Box Office Chūya.”

“Tachi, you really need to stop introducing me like that,” Chūya blushed.

His heart thundered, pulsating loudly. He could feel the blood rushing in his ears, an air of adrenaline.

“At least it’s relevant here, Dazai’s dad being your boss and all.”

“Right,” Chūya nodded. He wasn’t paying much attention, too lost in chestnut eyes.

“Anyways, Imma head back to my room. Should I lock up?” Tachi posed, gesturing to the door.

“I can,” Dazai offered nonchalantly, “I want to finish playing—”

“God, you don’t ever take breaks, do you?” Tachi shook his head.

“That was my break,” Dazai tilted his head to the side, resembling a lost kitten. A lost kitten with smoky hair and a sharp jaw and effervescent eyes, “showtunes aren’t in my repertoire.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say,” Tachi rolled his eyes. “I’m beat. I’ll see you both tomorrow. Have a good night!”

Chūya waved as Dazai called out, “Night Tachi~”

“Thanks for inviting me!” Chūya shouted.

Tachi waved as he exited the building.

The pianist was intriguing. Their eyes were wide but rimmed with tired bruises, lashes thick and dark. Bandages peeked out from their shirt, wrapping around their neck and from what Chūya could see, their wrists and part of their hands too. It was weird.

“You work with my father?”

“Oh. Yeah. He’s my boss. Really cool guy.”

“My apologies,” Dazai crossed his arms sounding uncannily like his father, “he’s a handful.”

“Hah. He said the same thing about you.”

“Did he, now?”

“Yeah. Something to that effect.”

“Right.”

It was quiet for a moment as awkwardness lingered.

“Um, before I forget, what are your pronouns?” Chūya asked, “Mine are he/him.”

 “Oh—” Dazai blinked, taken aback, “they/he. Thanks for asking.”

“Not a problem.”

Their eyes locked.

(God, they were pretty.)

Everything about Dazai was pretty.

The way their chocolate brown hair curled at the nape of their neck, the sheen of his bangs and light smattering of freckles. His long, lean body clad in black pants and a gray button down. He was so, so pretty.

Their hands tremored slightly, to Chūya’s surprise.

“Does that affect your playing?”

Instantly, he cursed the lack of filter caused by the buzz of alcohol in his system, not having meant to ask such an invasive question 30 seconds after meeting them.

“What?” Dazai asked.

“You’re um. Your hands are shaking,” Chūya clarified despite regretting his decision to open his mouth, “you don’t have to answer that though. Sorry, that was kind of a rude question, I don’t know why it—”

“It does,” they replied, “affect my playing. It’s really annoying, actually. Sorry, I didn’t realize it was acting up.”

“No, it’s okay! I shouldn’t have pried—”

“It’s a side effect of some of my meds.”

“That sucks. Is there any way you can get around it while playing?”

They shrugged.

“I just practice a lot. Do some breathing exercises. It’s exacerbated when I’m nervous but when I practice and feel confident in a piece it usually goes away.”

“Oh,” Chūya hesitated before another question slipped out, “are you nervous now?”

“I was,” Dazai answered honestly, “I don’t like playing in front of people.”

“Really?” Chūya raised his brow, “Could have fooled me.”

Dazai smiled a bright, wry grin, “I hate performing.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep~”

“Then why do you do it?”

Dazai huffed a small puff of air blowing the bangs out of his face, “That’s a complicated question.”

“Ah. Sorry for prying. Again.”

Silence took over.

“That piece you were playing earlier—”

“Which one?”

“The um. Shit. What’s his name? The creepy one that wasn’t Sondheim.”

“The Saint-Saëns? Danse Macabre?”

“Yes!” Chūya nodded enthusiastically, “That’s the one! I love that one.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. My dads used to play it on their old record player all the time when I was growing up. They have a bunch of classical records from when they were kids and made sure my sister and I got a chance to listen to them. It was sort of my gateway drug into classical music.”

“You know where I first heard Camille Saint-Saëns?”

“Where?” Chūya asked with eager curiosity.

“There is a 2001, award-winning blockbuster film titled,” they paused for dramatic emphasis, “Mickey’s House of Villains.”

Chūya paused.

“Uh. Maybe…?”

“It’s a staple. A classic. A true blockbuster, one might say.”

“That song seems kind of dark for—”

“For a kids movie? Yep. So is Hansel and Gretel as dramatized by Mickey and Minnie.”

“Damn. I’m impressed.”

“It won numerous awards.”

“Like…?”

“Oscars.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

There was a pause as Chūya and Dazai exchanged a look.

“You’re fucking with me?” Chūya asked slyly. Dazai smiled.

“If you ever want to watch it, I do have a sneaky suspicion that we can find it for free on YouTube.”

“Oh my god.”

Dazai laughed aloud this time. It was more than the grunt of his prior smirk, this was a pretty little sound that made Chūya feel as if the two of them were the only people in the world. “It’s like, my all-time favorite film. Like, fuck Walt. But also.”

“That’s fucking funny,” Chūya wheezed with laughter.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve seen it.”

“Guess I should get on that, then.”

“I’m in cabin 4A,” Dazai uncrossed his arms, leaning back on the piano, “with a conveniently free evening tomorrow at 8.”

“I just so happen to live in 4C and also am free tomorrow at 8.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Sounds like we have ourselves a date with the blockbuster hit Mickey’s House of Villains, Box Office Chūya.”

--

Chūya should not be nervous.

Sure, Dazai’s cute.

(Really cute.)

And he called this a date.

(A date!)

Still. That was no reason to stress. He was probably using the term casually. “It’s a date!” That sort of thing.

(Except maybe—)

Maybe they did mean a date-date and Chūya needs to pick out an outfit for a date-date rather than a date and—

The too-loud circulating ringtone of his WhatsApp cut off his spiral.

“Kōyō!” He greets his sister lovingly, “Sorry I haven’t called sooner. How are you?”

“I’m fine, lad.”

He smiled at her old-fashioned greeting. Kōyō was only older than him by five years and some change, but her entire demeanor was that of a 1950s stay-at-home mother. Even her rockabilly style resembled the good ‘ole fifties.

“How is North Carolina? Are you eating enough? Getting enough sleep?”

“Oh, totally,” Chūya laughed at his sister’s predictable questions. She was always like this, worrying up and down about his well-being in the most endearing ways.

“It’s great! Kind of weird, but I like it so far. The food down here is awesome, so much better than the crap up in New York. It’s really quiet here too. Though I think that will change once all the musicians start their workshops. Everyone’s still arriving so it hasn’t been super busy.”

“That’s good to hear,” his sister replied, “are you making friends? Getting along with everyone?”

“Yes Ane-san,” he rolled his eyes, using her nickname from back when they lived in Japan, “everyone’s been chill. There’s this guy, Tachi, who has the job I wanted as an SM but he’s really friendly. He’s been introducing me to everyone and helping me get settled.”

“That’s nice of him.”

“Yeah, he’s really cool.” Chūya hesitated, fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie with the hand that wasn’t holding his phone. The line crackled from the poor reception.

“Is there something else you’d like to tell me?” His sister asked, patient but prying as ever.

“I just—” he scratched the back of his head before mumbling, “I might have a date.”

“Speak up lad, the line’s not great.”

Chūya raised his voice, “I might have a date!”

As the words left his mouth, the cabin door burst open.

“Oh shit, I gotta go. I think my suitemate just got here,” Chūya excused himself.

“But I want to hear more about this ‘date’ of yours—”

“I’ll tell you all about it! Talk to you later, Ane-san!”

Before she could protest further, Chūya hung up the phone. He peeked out the door from his room.

“Sup,” he greeted the new person casually, as if he wasn’t on the verge of keeling over from embarrassment. The person who entered was dressed in a white dress shirt and black capris held up with suspenders. His hair was silver with awkwardly cut bangs and his eyes were a pretty multicolored hue—heterochromia, Chūya thinks it might be called.

“Hi!” The kid greets with an overzealous wave, seemingly oblivious to Chūya’s call, “Sorry, I didn’t realize anyone else was here! It’s nice to meet you,” he stuck out a hand which Chūya shook avidly, “I’m Atsushi.”

“Chūya. He/him.”

“Oh! I’m he/him too. Sorry, I forgot about pronouns. They’re kind of new to me.”

“No worries,” Chūya waved off the concern, “are you working in the box office with me? If I remember correctly they were assigning rooms based on the departments we’re in.”

“Yeah, that’s it!” Atsushi nodded, “I think it’ll just be the two of us and Mr. Mori to start. Though we might get a work-study student too once the season picks up.”

“That’s cool. Guessing you’ve worked here before?”

Atsushi shifted his weight, taking off the backpack he’d been wearing as they spoke, “Yeah, last summer. I needed to escape my family so I’m back again.”

“Ha. That’s fair.” There was an awkward lull before Chūya offered, “Anyways, do you need help unpacking? I have some time to kill.”

“That would be really great, actually. If that’s okay! No worries if you’re like busy or anything—”

“No seriously it’s cool, I don’t have anything going on until tonight.”

“O-okay! Thank you!”

They began unloading Atushi’s things from his car, bringing them into the small room adjacent to Chūya’s.

“Do you think you’re getting a roommate?” Chūya asked curiously, “I know they said single rooms are pretty rare here.”

“I have a medical accommodation,” Atsushi explained, “so probably not.”

“Oh right. I think they mentioned that to me in an email or something. I also have a medical accommodation so looks like it’ll just be the two of us.” He placed down an old, worn-out beige suitcase. The faux leather was peeling around the sides and the zipper struggled to do its job. “As long as we have a shower schedule going I don’t think we’ll have much of an issue.”

“Yes, definitely,” Atsushi agreed. “So uh, is this your first year at Bennington?”

“Yep,” Chūya answered, “I go to school in New York so it’s kind of a culture shock.”

“Wow! That’s so cool!” Atsushi cooed, “I live in Florida right now and I’m just glad to be out of there. I really don’t like it—especially in the summer.”

“It’s hot as balls there, right?”

“Yeah! Hot and humid and sticky and gross,” he made a face, “I can’t stand it. Why anyone would move there voluntarily beats me.”

Chūya hummed before changing the topic, “So what’s it like working under Mr. Mori? Everyone I’ve talked to says he’s really strict but he’s been sort of nice to me this week? Is that just ‘cuz I’m new?”

“Well,” Atsushi gnawed on his lip, unzipping one of his suitcases to start putting away his clothes. “He’s um. He is quite strict. He likes everything to be done a certain way and has very high standards. So um, if you’ve been meeting those standards and just doing exactly as he tells you, then that’s probably why he’s been nice to you.”

“Huh. Okay.”

“I don’t think he likes me very much but um. It’s probably because I stutter when I get nervous and have trouble making decisions under pressure.”

“That’s a shitty reason to dislike someone,” Chūya frowned.

“It’s fine! Really! No big deal!” Atsushi waved his hands frantically, “I want to get better about that this year, anyways! My confidence and um. Stuff. I think he’ll help me with it, which is a good thing!”

“Whatever you say,” Chūya remained unconvinced.

“Who’ve you met so far?” Atsushi quickly changed the topic.

“Mostly the theatre kids. I have a theatre background so it makes sense that I’m drawn to them.”

“Totally! So do I!”

“That’s cool,” Chūya flashed a smile, “Tachi’s been showing me the ropes of things—”

“He’s really cool! And him and Gin are soooo cute together.”

“So they are a thing?” Chūya’s eyes bulged, “I’ve been picking up on these flirty vibes trying to figure out what the hell they are to each other.”

“According to Higuchi, they do this every year,” Atsushi explained matter-of-factly, “they deny the fact that they’re into each other, spend the whole summer attached at the hip, kiss at the end of summer party, and then they don’t talk for the entire schoolyear.”

“That’s kind of hilarious,” Chūya remarked. He found summer flings amusing. It’s the way the summertime can feel like a world of its own, an uncharted planet. “I also um—actually, can I get your opinion on someone?”

“Sure!”

“Ok so, I’m guessing you know about Dazai, Mori’s kid?”

“Dazai! Yes, of course!”

“I was just uh—well we’re hanging out tonight and I guess I was just curious for like. I don’t know. A vibe check or something?”

Atsushi’s eyes lit up as he raved, “Dazai is great! He taught me how to play piano last summer! He was a really great teacher. He’s kind of hard on himself, but he’s really talented.”

“So they were here last summer also?”

“Sort of,” Atsushi replied, “they were only here for a couple of weeks as part of a music education workshop. They weren’t in the program or anything. Not like this year, where they’re actually a full-fledged participant of BMP.”

“You said they were a good teacher?” Chūya’s brow scrunched as he spoke.

“Yeah, he was great!!”

“Interesting.”

Atsushi picked at his nails, “Did um, someone say otherwise?”

“Sort of,” Chūya started, “Gin mentioned they were teaching her brother and it didn’t exactly go well.”

 “I see.” Atsushi shrugged, “I mean I don’t know the Akutagawa’s too well but Dazai does have a reputation of being a hard-ass like his father. People change though, and I’d like to think Dazai’s become a kinder, more patient person over time.”

“That’s a fair point,” Chūya agreed. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”

“What are you two doing together?” Atsushi inquired.

“Just watching a movie in his room.”

“Oh fun!”

“Yeah. They um,” Chūya scratched back of his neck and headed towards the screened-in porch at the entryway of the cabin. There was a rusty table with a few rickety chairs. He chose the one that looked the comfiest and sat down. Atsushi followed. Chūya kept his voice low as he spoke, “They uh, they kind of called it a date? Like—I don’t know if he just meant an ‘it’s a date’ sort of thing or like ‘it’s a date’ you know?”

“Oh.”

Chūya paused, the reaction spiking his anxieties.

“Is that um. Is that a bad thing?”

“Uh. No. Not um. Not exactly.”

Chūya’s eyes narrowed, “You’re not homophobic or anything, right?”

“No!!” Atsushi answered with haste, “No of course not! I just um,” the boy lowered his voice, “I don’t know if anyone gave you the heads up about this area and like. You know. Being gay. Or bi! Pan. Anything other than straight really—”

“Yeah, Tachi gave me a warning. He said to be careful. But like, Higuchi also mentioned Hirotsu has a husband so I guess it’s not that bad. Right?”

Atsushi twiddled his thumbs, “There’s a reason Hirotsu doesn’t live on campus.”

“What do you mean—”

“Ah it’s really not my place to tell but um. Just be careful. Okay? Dazai’s great and I’m not saying you shouldn’t like. You know. Just um. If it is a—” he whispered again, “date, then try and keep it on the down-low.”

“Right.”

“And again this is nothing to do with my feelings about Dazai or sexuality or anything! I promise I’m not homophobic I’m just—well things happen and—”

“What kind of things?”

“I—”

Before he could say anymore on the topic, Atsushi’s phone rang.

“Shoot, it’s my dad, I have to take this. Sorry!!” He hopped out of his seat and sprinted to the other room, answering the phone.

Chūya was left alone on the porch.

Chapter Text

Chapter III: The award-winning blockbuster hit, Mickey’s House of Villains.

Dazai might be the most annoying person Chūya has ever met.

At first, Chūya thinks they’re just really dedicated to their instrument. Passionate.

He thinks this, because Dazai spends the first 30 minutes of their “date” lecturing Chūya about pianos. He rants about how late tuning day is this year (the day the BMP piano tuners come in and tune all 42 pianos on campus), the new song he didn’t want to add to his repertoire (a Bach piece he finds incredibly boring), and the history of the Spinet (don’t get me started). He talks for 30 minutes straight, not once allowing Chūya a moment of interjection.

Then, as his piano talk comes to a simmer, it’s composers.

Rachmaninov and Shostakovich, Berlioz and Liszt and Chopin and—Dazai has thoughts, opinions, and mild obsessions with all of them. At some point, it starts to feel like Dazai’s talking about some fantasyland made of myths and legends, he has commentary on so many pieces Chūya’s never knew existed. He talks about how Rachmaninov brought Stravinsky a jar of honey because he wanted to be friends, how Berlioz’s complete and most well-established piece Symphonie Fantastique was the byproduct of opioids, and fawns over Shostakovich’s String Quartet No. 8 in C minor (also known as his “suicide song”).

Another 15 minutes pass and Chūya has done nothing more than hum and nod.

There’s a trend online where people talk about how much they love when others talk about their passions. How they adore seeing their friends or lovers light up as they talk about their favorite things. Chūya doesn’t have a problem with this take, per se, but he doesn’t particularly enjoy the one-way conversation born of this. The whole point of a conversation is to converse. So no, he doesn’t find much joy in watching someone he’s maybe into light up as they spend 40 minutes ranting about the history of pianos and dead composers.

It’s not until Chūya announces he has to use the bathroom that Dazai finally pauses.

His hands are shaking.

They groan, throwing their head back against the wall with a painful-sounding thud. The duo are seated in his bedroom within his shared cabin, roughly the same size as Chūya’s. Their roommate, the sound guy whose name is Kaiji and pronouns are he/him, is out with Tachi and some other friends downtown so they have the place to themselves. The room is nearly identical to Chūya’s with its cream-colored walls, though it has two beds and dressers instead of one. There aren’t any decorations and overall the room is bland and forgettable. Together, they sit on Dazai’s bed as they talk—or well, as Dazai talks.

“Sorry.”

Chūya looks at them.

“I um. I do this thing. Where I talk a lot when I’m nervous. It’s um,” the shake in his hands exacerbates, “sorry. I didn’t—” they pause, “I understand if you want to leave. I’m sorry.”

Chūya keeps his expression impartial. He feels bad, seeing how torn up Dazai is on this, but is still annoyed, “Why are you nervous?”

A shrug. They smoothly reply, “I’m not used to having cute guys over.”

An aggressive shade of crimson blooms upon Chūya’s cheeks as all traces of annoyance dissipate.

“That can’t be true,” he averted his gaze, face still burning.

“It is. I don’t um. Well I don’t have a lot of friends as it is and I don’t really go on that many dates.”

Chūya took a moment to process this admission, the fact, the confirmation that this is a date, that Chūya is on a date with one of the most talented musicians he’s ever met and—

“But you’re so pretty—”

The words slipped out before Chūya could stop himself. This time, Dazai blushed.

“Chūya thinks I’m pretty?”

Their voice was soft, breathy.

Chūya continued looking away.

“Nevermind, forget I said anything. I don’t want any compliments going to your swollen head.”

“Chū thinks I’m preeeeettttttyyyyyy!!!” Dazai repeated, bouncing with joy. Their excitement was an adorable sight. Chūya’s face burned even brighter. “But um. I really am sorry for wasting your time tonight,” Dazai apologized, suddenly sullen, “I don’t think I’m very good company. Even if I am pretty.”

Chūya’s head snapped up, “No, don’t say that about yourself. It’s okay. You were just nervous.”

“I didn’t mean to bore you.”

“I’m not bored.”

“Chūya’s lying to me, but that’s very sweet of him to say,” a faraway quality bled into those irresistible chestnut eyes, an incomprehensible quality.

“No really. I want to get to know you. I mean, sure I’d like a two-way conversation, but hey, that’s what we’re doing right now. No need to be stressed about this.”

Chūya didn’t miss the way Dazai exhaled, closing their eyes for a few moments before taking a deep breath and opening them again.

“Okay. Can we start over?” Dazai posed.

Chūya nodded, “Sure.”

“I’m Dazai,” Dazai held out his hand, leaning into the awkwardness of the situation.                                                                                                       

“Chūya,” Chūya grabbed hold of the hand. The fingers peeking out from the ends of the bandages were cold and clammy, but strangely didn’t bother him. The shaking had almost entirely ceased. “It’s nice to meet you, Dazai.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Box Office Chūya,” Dazai winked.

“God, people need to stop calling me that!”

“Shouldn’t have gotten a job in the box office then,” Dazai laughed his pretty twinkling laugh.

“Not my fault Tachi and Gin stole the jobs I wanted,” Chūya grumbled.

Their hands let go and Chūya missed the weight.

“So you work in theatre production?” Dazai asked curiously.

“Yeah, I want to be a Production Manager but I really like stage managing.”

“It’s the hardest job in performing arts by far,” Dazai remarked, “an interesting choice that says a lot about you.”

“Like what?” Chūya wondered.

“Well, it says you’re a bit of a masochist with control issues,” Dazai replied, a playful smirk ghosting the edges of their lips.

“Asshole,” Chūya rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who doesn’t know the meaning of taking a break.”

“I’m not practicing now, am I?”

“You literally spent like 30 minutes talking about practicing.”

“Point taken,” Dazai muttered.

“I really do have to use the bathroom,” Chūya laughed, “why don’t you get the movie pulled up and we can start it when I’m back?”

--

Mickey’s House of Villains is, indeed, not a blockbuster film. It is, in fact, a film that went straight to DVD and VHS. Though, most likely it was rented at Blockbuster, making it a Blockbuster film.

Still, Dazai would rather be burned at the stake than call this film anything other than an award-winning, cinematic masterpiece.

“Did they seriously kill Goofy?” Chūya’s jaw drops at the sketch where Goofy teaches the audience how to be a ghost.

“Only for this scene!!” Dazai amends, “Did you miss that? They said it like 3 times.”

“Where the fuck does he live? He literally walked outside and was hit by a car immediately. First, that’s dark as fuck. Second, does he live on a fucking overpass or something??”

“You’re getting a little too into this, chibi~”

Chūya gapes, turning Dazai’s way, “What did you just call me?”

“Chibi! You’re chibi Chūya because you’re so cute and smol.”

“I’m going to murder you the way those screenwriters murdered Goofy you piece of shit—”

The laptop, still playing Goofy’s ghostly sketch, was abandoned as Chūya tackled Dazai onto the bed. They wrestled, Dazai thrashing in between giggles, “Stop!! I’m—I’m really ticklish—” they said in between laughs.

And of course, hearing someone’s ticklish only makes Chūya want to tickle them more. Which is exactly what he does. Nimble fingers chased the slim torso beneath him, prying against their black and white hoodie. Dazai cackled, curling in on himself in poor attempts to stave off the fiendish fingers.

“Wait!! You’re—” he laughed as he spoke, “you’re gonna—miss—Donald!! He sleeps with—with his eyes—open and it’s—damn it Chūya,” the laughter persisted as Chūya began tickling the crook of his neck.

“Wow, you really are ticklish,” Chūya remarked, only letting up out of pity.

Dazai swatted Chūya away, regaining their composure.

“Ow!!” They whined, “Laughing too much hurts. Chibi is such a brute!”

“Unless you want Tickle War: The Sequel™, I suggest you drop the nickname.”

Dazai stuck their tongue out but said nothing more on the matter (for now).

They continued watching the movie, making silly comments and laughing at nearly every scene. There were only a few commercials and both were thankful the Wi-Fi connection in Dazai’s room was strong enough that the video quality was barely affected. Granted, the movie was made in 2001 so it wasn’t exactly HD.

“Ah! Here it is!!”

# *

Mickey’s House of Mouse had been taken over by various villains, Jafar, Ursula, Captain Hook, et al. Now, they were playing “scary” videos to all the other villains in honor of Halloween. The one Dazai was particularly excited about was essentially a Disney-ified retelling of Hansel and Gretel. The story was backdropped by Danse Macabre.

“And this is where my love of classical music was born!” Dazai beamed proudly.

“Damn. So you being the child of a legendary pianist had nothing to do with it?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Their fingers subconsciously tapped out the notes of the song, fondness swirling his eyes. Warmth pooled in Chūya’s chest at the sight. Sure, he didn’t like when all Dazai had done earlier was rant about his passions. This was different. Witnessing their adoration like this hit differently. Cavernous orbs glistened with sparks of ignited fervor. Fingers pranced along on gray bed covers, playing each and every note and trill.

Chūya’s heart beat rapidly.

The song and tale came to an end and the sparkle in Dazai’s eyes dulled, as if their wings were clipped and down from the sky they sunk.

“You really like that song,” Chūya commented.

“It’s one of my favorites. Second to the Shostakovich suicide song of course.”

“God, what is with your suicide song obsession?” Chūya shook his head, equal parts concerned and amused.

“There’s nothing prettier than dying and writing your suicide note with actual notes in a song.”

Chūya shot an incredulous look, “I can think of many prettier things.”

Dazai shrugged, returning their attention to the movie.

The film wasn’t particularly long, just over an hour. Still, as 10 PM approached, eyelids began to droop. Heads leaned on shoulders, lips parted, soft puffs of air entering and exiting. Chūya nestled deeper in the crook of Dazai’s neck as Dazai rested his head comfortably on the Chūya’s.

They slept for three hours before the sound of the door and flick of lights startled them awake.

“Huh?” Chūya yawned.

“Oh shit, sorry, didn’t realize you were here,” Kaiji apologized.

Dazai rubbed his eyes, looking a bit like a small, sleepy animal with the gesture, “‘s okay,” he slurred in a sleep-riddled tone. “I don’t remember falling asleep.”

“Same,” Chūya yawned again, “fuck, I better get back to my room. I have work in the morning.”

Dazai nodded, “I’ll walk you there. Sorry for the hassle, Kaiji.”

“No problemo,” Kaiji replied, placing down his things.

“Let’s go,” Dazai took Chūya by the wrist, gently guiding him outside the room. They exited the cabin.

The two of them walked in a slow, steady pace. Though Chūya’s own room wasn’t far, they took their time.

“I know we were falling asleep on each other only a few minutes ago,” Dazai started, “but would you kill me if I said I’m wide awake now?”

“I’ll only kill you if you say you’re going to burn this energy off by practicing,” Chūya snorted as Dazai frowned.

“I feel both seen and insulted. How dare you read my mind like that,” they complained.

“Hah. Yeah, no it’s like 1 AM, you’re not allowed to practice.”

“Oh, I’m not allowed?”

“Precisely. I will not allow it.”

“MEAN.”

“Why yes, me caring about your sleep is horribly cruel.”

Dazai shrugged, “I don’t need much sleep to function. I’m one of those weirdos who can get by on less than 5 hours and be fine.”

“That’s how I thought I was,” Chūya countered, “before I learned my chronic migraines are actually triggered by lack of sleep. I was so used to them that I never realized I actually am a human who does need sleep.”

“Huh,” Dazai pondered, “I am frequently in pain. Do you think that’s related to the whole not-sleeping thing?”

“I’m not a doctor, but that sounds logical? What kind of pain are we talking about? Like back pain and stuff?”

“Just pain. Problems with my joints and stuff. Headaches, nausea, light-headedness.”

“Not trying to pry, but if you’re on any medications that kind of sounds like a common list of side effects.”

“Oh yeah!” Dazai chirped, “I do indeed take multiple medications! Some of which I should have taken tonight!”

“Yeah, you should definitely take those,” Chūya shook his head with a chuckle.

“You are absolutely right. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for, Box Office Chūya.”

With an eyeroll, “Thanks for the back-handed compliment, mackerel.”

“Mackerel?” Dazai’s head tilted to the side.

“Yeah. You have bored fisheyes when you’re not talking about music. They’re kind of dead.”

A brief flash of emotions overtook Dazai’s face. It was so quick, Chūya barely had a chance to decipher it before they vanished.

“Chibi should get some rest,” Dazai eventually settled on. Chūya growled.

“Do you want to be tickled to death?”

“Hmmm,” Dazai actively considered this proposition, “I do like the ‘to death’ part of your sentiment, but I’d really rather not be tickled along the way. Like I don’t really want to die while laughing and in pain. A painless suicide is more of my thing.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“No!”

“You are so weird,” Chūya remarked in another bout of disbelief.

“And you are up past your bedtime, mister,” Dazai smirked, “plus I believe we have arrived at 4C, non?”

“We are here alright,” Chūya sighed. The two hovered, standing inches apart.

“Tonight was…really fun,” Dazai’s voice lowered, “I’m sorry for talking your ear off for like…the first hour.”

“It wasn’t that long,” a smile pricked the corner of Chūya’s lips, “and really it was no big deal.”

“You sure?” Dazai’s confident bravado faltered.

“Very sure,” Chūya nudged the side of their shoulder, “tonight was a lot of fun. We should do this again.”

“You really mean that?” Bourbon eyes fluttered.  

“I do,” Chūya answered honestly, “I’d like that a lot. If we did this again.” Then, with a mischievous smirk he added, “You know. Watch another 2001 award-winning film.”

“Did you hear it was a blockbuster?”

“Swept the theatres by storm. Heard it was up for 5 Oscars.”

“Shame it went straight to blue-ray and DVD.”

The two cracked a shared smile.

They leaned in close.

“Goodnight, Box Office Chūya,” Dazai murmured.

“Goodnight, shitty mackerel,” Chūya replied.

They were close.

They were close.

They could feel each other’s breathing and see their reflections in each other’s eyes and study each other’s lips and—

They were—

“Okay, bye!”

Chūya promptly ran into the cabin and slammed the door shut behind him.

Dazai stood outside in a daze, hand midway through the wave he hadn’t finished following the abrupt departure.

“Have a good night!” Dazai called out before stumbling, turning, and heading back to his own cabin.

--

Working under Mr. Mori in a sleep-deprived state was a pain.

Working under Mr. Mori the morning after going on a date with his kid was just plain frightening.

Their shift together was awkward. Though Mori theoretically had no way of knowing about the date (unless, in an unlikely series of events, Dazai were to tell him), it felt as though he could peer through any narrative Chūya could come up with, as if all of Chūya’s memories were on display for perusal.

Not that they did anything inappropriate. (They didn’t!) They simply watched a movie, had a brief tickle war, and fell asleep. There was nothing wrong with any of that.

Yet, it felt as though Chūya was being held accountable for committing a felony.

Mori barked orders, having Chūya complete 3 tasks at once. The notebook he used for basic memos quickly filled with jots of new responsibilities, definitions, and composer pronunciations. For some god forsaken reason, the phones decided to ring off the hooks. Chūya was forced to figure out their ridiculously complex ticketing software, and of course the printers decided it would be a convenient time to just stop working.

All this occurred on the official first day of the BMP season. Meaning, there was three times the foot traffic he’d been used to seeing. Atsushi wasn’t scheduled to come in until the afternoon, so Chūya and Mori were on their own.

Students roamed the outdoor pavilion where the box office was located, occasionally stopping by to ask for directions to one rehearsal or another.

By 2 PM, the end of his six-hour shift, Chūya was wiped.

Politely, he asked, “Is there anything else you need from me, Mr. Mori?”

“Good work today, Chūya,” Mori praised, “you are dismissed from work. Though I do have a question for you.”

“Oh—yeah, what’s up?” Chūya grabbed his things, tossing his bookbag on his shoulder as he listened.

An unreadable expression, “Have you had a chance to meet my son? He goes by Dazai Osamu.”

“Um yeah. Yes. I have.”

They’re very ramble-y and anxious and obnoxious but we tickled and cuddled and it was nice and—

“How did he treat you? His behavior can tend to be. Unpleasant.”

“He was really nice,” Chūya defended his new friend(?), “very passionate about music.”

“Interesting.”

Chūya waited for Mori to expand on that thought, though elaboration never occurred.

“Very well,” Mori nodded to himself, “if he gives you a hard time at any point, I expect you to let me know.”

“Sure. Will do.”

--

They spent every evening together.

It started off with Chūya forcing Dazai to take breaks from practicing. At 7 PM, he’d follow his ears until finding Dazai’s practice room, stare through the window in awe for a few minutes, then burst in and fret like a worried mother. He would drag Dazai to the dining hall then find a place on campus to hang out as they ate dinner.

The dining hall usually closed at 6:30 PM, but Chūya had quickly made friends with the staff and had little trouble sneaking in for Dazai’s doggie bag after close.

“You should really make an effort to come out for meals, you know,” Chūya pestered Dazai as they picked at their dinner of salad and pasta.

“Yeah, my therapist would agree with you,” Dazai shrugged, taking a bite of lettuce, “the whole eating disorder recovery thing. I do appreciate my dog taking such good care of me though~”

“Oi! I’m not your damn dog!” Chūya barked with a growl that most certainly did not help his case.

“Then why is chibi always fetching me food?”

“Because unlike some people,” Chūya playfully kicked Dazai under the table. They were sitting at a picnic table behind the cafeteria, watching the sun set with warm hues of orange, pink, and red. “I actually care about your—wait what recovery?”

“Hm?”

“You have an eating disorder?”

Another bite of salad and a nod, “Had.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Was kind of bad. I’m fine now though~”

Chūya busied himself with the hem of his maroon t-shirt.  

“I didn’t know you um. Had one.”

A shrug, “I told you, I’m fine~ Don’t make it awkward, please.”

“Yeah,” Chūya nodded, shaking off the concern that ate at his chest, “sorry. I just um, as long as you’re okay.”

“I am.”

“And if you ever like. Need anything from me for like—I don’t know. To make things easier for you. Or if you’re having a bad day or—”

“Chūya, I’m fine,” Dazai looked the other in the eye, an uncharacteristic gravity to his tone.

“Right. Right. But I’ll um. Just promise you’ll let me know if you need anything—”

“What was the first show you ever stage managed?” Dazai interrupted. Chūya grimaced.

“Please don’t change the topic—”

With an eyeroll, “There’s nothing more to say on the subject. I’m doing fine! If I need anything, I’ll let you know! The end!”

“It’s just—” Chūya groaned, tossing his head back, “your health is a big deal. Okay? I don’t care if it’s an awkward topic, you can’t just ignore it—”

“I’m not ignoring it,” Dazai laughed, incredulous, “if I were ignoring it, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, trust me. It used to be a huge problem and I was in really bad denial about it, but I’ve been in two recovery programs and have a care team so I am doing just fine these days. Does that put you at ease?”

“I—” Chūya wished the answer was yes, wished that he could just accept that things were okay and move on. But eating disorders and cancer are far too similar for Chūya’s taste and old habits of over-concern die hard. “You promise?”

“Promise. Now can you please tell me about the first show you ever stage managed? I’m curious~!!”

They stared down until Chūya finally caved, heaving a sigh as he asked, “You really want to know?”

“Yes!” Dazai seemed thrilled to be discussing anything that wasn’t himself, “I’m at the edge of my seat! I want to know all about chibi’s life! I’m so so curious!”

“Uh okay then,” he scratched the back of his neck, “it was fucking Rhinoceros by Ionesco. Have you heard of it?”

Dazai considered, “I think? Can you describe the plot?”

“Well. Everyone turns into rhinoceroses.”

“…”

“That’s it. That’s the plot.”

“Is this like, an allegory?”

“Yeah, it’s basically about fascism and identity. It’s absurdist and really fucking weird. With so many damn cues. Way too many fucking cues for a high school theatre department. The set literally gets destroyed as part of the play—”

“Wow, chibi went straight into stage managing on hard mode, didn’t he!”

“For real! It was fucking nuts. Like, I had assistant stage managed before but this was my first show as the stage manager.  I honestly don’t know how the play was even approved by the school board but it was at least a memorable experience.”

“That sounds like it would most definitely be memorable,” Dazai mused, thoroughly intrigued as he picked at the last of his food.

“Have you ever done any theatre? Or like, played in a pit orchestra for a musical?” Chūya asked curiously.

“I mean, when I was 5 I played the littlest of the Three Little Pigs.”

“Oh my God.”

“I was the crowd-favorite.”

Chūya broke into a fit of giggles, “So you’re saying there was a point in time where you weren’t a tall, gangly beanpole?”

“Hate to admit it, but yes~” Dazai snickered, “I was pretty puny until I hit my growth spurt at 12. Then I never really stopped.”

“That is incredibly unfair.”

“Says the small-fry.”

Chūya groaned humorously before returning to the conversation, “So you were clearly a Broadway star. What about more recent credits?”

“I’ve played in a few different pits for some regional theatres.”

“Oh yeah? Have any favorites?”

Dazai contemplated before tossing his mostly-empty disposable plate into the trash can nearest to them, “I liked Bat Boy.”

“Really?? Bat Boy is fucking weird.”

“It’s good!!”

“The songs are weird, the characters are weird—isn’t their incest or something in it—”

“Not entirely! I mean, sort of. But how were they supposed to know bat-rape is a thing??”

“The fact that this show even has bat-rape in it is a problem.”

“But the entire show is like, about being othered—”

“Yeah. And bat-rape. And incest.”

“It’s! a! good! show!!”

“Jeez, don’t you like any normal musicals?” Chūya laughed, “Like Wicked or some shit?”

“I guess—” Dazai considered, “oh well, actually Bare is probably my favorite favorite.”

“Wait, you mean Bare: a Pop Opera?”

“Yeah! You’ve heard of it?”

Chūya gawked, “That’s legit my favorite show. You seriously got to be in it??”

“Yeah! Played in the pit a few summers back.”

“Holy shit—how old were you?”

“Uh—” Dazai counted in his head, “it was like 4 years ago, so 17 I think?”

“That’s insane!” Chūya fawned, “You were playing for regional theatres while you were still a minor?”

“Yep~ I am a prodigy, after all. The show was in California.”

“What were you doing there?” Chūya asked.

“That’s where my mom lives. Don’t ever try and mention her to my dad, that’s a sure-fire way to get on his bad side.”

“Right. She came up at one point when he told me about his—your family, but he barely said anything about her.”

“Sounds about right,” Dazai clicked their tongue before continuing, “my siblings and I spend most of the school year with my dad and then usually we would spend the summer with my mom. I’m in a conservatory program now, so it’s a little different.”

“So you’re in school for music? I guess that makes sense, since you’re at BMP and all.”

Dazai nodded, “Yes. I attend a conservatory program in Tokyo, though my family, aside from my mother, lives in Yokohama.”

“What year are you?”

“I’m going to be a senior. I’ll be graduating and choosing a master’s or doctoral program.”

“Oh same!” Chūya spoke excitedly, “Minus the grad school stuff. Honestly getting a master’s in stage management is just pretentious. It doesn’t really help you be a better stage manager the same way actually stage managing does. You know?”

“That makes sense. It’s not necessarily an academic skillset.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Dazai tipped his head back, staring up at the sky. Navy was eclipsing the warmth of the sunset. The faint echo of instruments could be heard as other students practiced, preparing for the courses that were to start in the upcoming days.

“You were here last year, right?” Chūya asked with a curious lilt. Dazai hummed in reply.

“Yes. For a short-term program.”

“Did you like it? I mean, I guess you must have if you came back.”

There was a moment of pause as Dazai considered, “The training here is unparalleled. It would be nonsensical of me not to attend.”

“You don’t sound all that enthusiastic.”

Dazai stood up with a stretch, “Let’s go for a walk.”

Chūya noted the second abrupt topic change, but said nothing. Instead, he stood up and followed Dazai through campus.

--

Dazai knew the BMP campus like the back of his hand. They took Chūya through the nooks and crannies, paths hidden in wooded verdure, and shortcuts to downtown.

“It’s kind of far, but if you don’t want to drive or if it’s nice out, you can follow this path to the little 50s-styled restaurant-bar.”

“Really? That’s cool. I mean I drive everywhere, unlike New York, but it would be nice to get some more exercise.”

“Yeah, it’s a pleasant walk.”

Chūya eyed the path, then Dazai, “Fuck it,” he murmured before fully facing Dazai, “would you like to go on a date with me at the 50s-styled restaurant-bar?”

“Hm?” Dazai blinked, caught off-guard, “You mean now?”

“Yep.” Then, with a more self-conscious edge, “I mean, if you want to. Like it’s totally fine if you don’t—”

Dazai eyed the dark path with a mischievous smile, “I’d like that.”

The path was long, but not as bad of a walk as Chūya had imagined, only about 30 minutes with little incline or decline. By the time they arrived at the bar, Chūya had worked up an appetite. He’d eaten a few hours before Dazai, so it made sense when his stomach growled.

They sat at the end of the bar in their own private corner away from the unanticipated hustle and bustle that was a weekday evening.

Dazai ordered a root beer float as Chūya got a vanilla milkshake with fries. Dazai helped himself, dipping one fry into the milkshake at a time (as the good lord intended).

“This was a good idea,” Dazai grinned after swallowing a fry.

“Sometimes I get those,” Chūya laughed.

“So. What more is there to Chūya Nakahara?” Dazai asked with a curious expression, “Tell me about yourself.”

“Well uh—” Chūya stammered, “What else do you want to know?”

“Hmm,” Dazai contemplated, “tell me about your family. And your friends. I don’t think we’ve really talked about them yet.”

“Okay,” Chūya perked up at the question, “I have two dads and an older sister. My dads work in a research facility but they’re really creative people. They are total nerds though. My sister is a music teacher for little kids in France. That’s where my family lives—right outside of Paris.”

“What’s your sister like?”

Chūya considered, “A bit rough around the edges, but very like, motherly. She’s a big proponent of tough-love—not in the toxic way though, but like she’ll call you out on your bullshit. When I was younger she had Leukemia but she came out on the other side stronger than ever.”

“That must have been really hard,” Dazai empathized, “having a sick older sibling. I’m sure, unintentionally, she must have had all the attention.”

A nod of agreement, “Yeah. It was hard. Lots of trips to the hospital. I’m just glad she’s okay now.”

“Yeah.” 

“What about your family? What are they like?”

“They’re uh—” Dazai sifted his memory, locating the best word choice, “eclectic.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“I mean first off there’s my dad, who you know by now. He’s really strict. My mother is mostly absent, even when we spend summers with her. She’s a very superficial person—image will always be the most important thing in her eyes.”

“That’s shitty.”

“Yeah, it is,” Dazai pursed his lips before continuing, “my siblings are kind of a handful. There’s the oldest, Akiko who is a bit of a sadist; middle child Q who, in addition to being a sadist, is a menace to society; and the youngest is little Kyōka, who’s defining characteristic is being adorable.”

“So you’re a middle child?”

“Yeah. Second oldest.”

“That sounds like a really busy household. Is it hard to practice in a house like that?”

“Totally. Especially with fucking Q stirring up trouble every five seconds. They’re seriously a menace.”

“Are you the only musician out of them?”

“I’m the only professional in the family aside from my dad. Akiko plays flute but just as a hobby and Q picked up the harmonica—though I suspect that was just to piss us off more than anything else.”

Chūya imagined a chaotic household of four siblings, one blasting the harmonica as the others played piano and worked on their homework.

“Do they ever get to see you perform?”

A shrug, “Sure, sometimes. I don’t invite them to most of my concerts but if I play locally they’ll come out and see it. I prefer when my audience doesn’t know me.”

“Does that help with the performance anxiety?”

A nod, “Yeah. The less expectations, the better.”

“Interesting. I’m kind of the opposite,” Chūya commented, “Not about expectations or whatever but like, I love when my family gets to see me stage manage. Since they live so far away it’s rare they get to see me at work. We’re not exactly wealthy so for them to make it to the States is a big deal.”

“What do you like about having them come see you stage manage? It’s not like you’re performing.”

“No, you’re right,” Chūya nodded, “but like we’ve talked about, the SM is the glue of the show. I’m proud of the shows I stage manage and I like when my family sees the things I’m proud of. You don’t experience that?”

“Not really. I don’t feel a lot of pride in performing. Music is just the only thing that I love.”

It wasn’t the first time that Dazai referred to piano in this way.

“What are your friends like?” Chūya asked.

Dazai stole another fry, dipping it into the milkshake. He eyed the checkered floor and red vinyl booths, taking in the warm glow of the wall sconces and classic relics, such as adding machines and jukeboxes in various corners of the establishment.

“I don’t have any.”

A lonely statement.

“Not even at school? Or like, the staff here? Atsushi adores you.”

“Nope. It’s not like I keep in touch with them during the year,” Dazai replied, “besides I only met them last summer while I was here for a few weeks. That’s not long enough to make friends.”

“I think that’s plenty of time to make friends,” Chūya countered, “I make friends with my cast members when they’re in shows for only a couple of weeks.”

“That’s a little different,” Dazai said, “and maybe we have different definitions of the word ‘friends.’”

“Maybe,” Chūya took a fry and dipped it in his shake, “still. The idea of not having any sounds really lonely.”

Dazai took a sip of his drink, “Sure. But I don’t really need them. I keep busy.”

“By locking yourself in a practice room all day?”

“Now you’re catching on~”

“Well you can call me your friend, so at least you have one of those.”

“Chūya is sweet,” Dazai blushed a bright shade of magenta, “so um. What are your friends like?”

“Kind of weird, if I’m being honest,” Chūya replied, “I have two groups that I’m really close with. The Sheep and The Flags.”

“What? Why do they have names? I may not have friends but like, that’s not normal, right?”

“Yeah—heh, well, The Sheep was an improv group while The Flags was the name of a devised show I did a few years ago. The titles sort of stuck.”

“So are you still in the improv group then?”

Chūya averted his gaze suddenly anxious, “Uh. It’s complicated.”

“Okay.”

It was quiet.

“Sorry if that’s like, a sore spot or something—” Dazai began to apologize as Chūya simultaneously changed the topic.

“Is there anything you’re looking forward to this summer?”

Dazai picked at the skin under his nails, a bad habit Chūya noticed on their first date, “Hanging out with you?”

“Alright,” Chūya smiled fondly, “then what type of things do you want to do together?”

“See a sunrise in the mountains?” Dazai suggested, “Serenade you? Visit Pretty Place?”

“Those all sound fantastic to me,” Chūya responded a little too eagerly, “we should go to Hirotsu’s bonfire together! Tachi and the others were telling me about it. Apparently him and his husband have this really cute dog—”

“Pass.”

“—that’s basically—” Chūya stopped mid-sentence, “what?”

“Pass,” Dazai repeated himself, voice significantly colder than moments ago.

“You don’t like Hirotsu?” Chūya asked.

“No, he’s fine,” Dazai answered vaguely.

“So um. You don’t like fun? Is that what I’m hearing?”

“Precisely~”

“Seriously—” Chūya prodded despite the smile edging his tone, “why not come? It’ll be a great time.”

Dazai shook their head, “I’m not interested.”

Chūya shot them a quizzical expression, which Dazai promptly ignored.

“Why don’t you want to—”

“I really want to take you to see a mountain sunrise. Have you ever seen one?”

“Dazai—”

“The last time I watched one, the sky turned bright red—”

“Come on—”

“—and it was really peaceful, so pretty and—”

“Why are you ignoring my question?”

“Have you gone to Pretty Place? It has a cross monument so it’s kinda religious but like, if you ignore it it’s really just a pretty place.”

Deflated, “No. I haven’t.”

“I think you’d really like it! A perfect photo opp. to show your fam.”

“That’s um. That’s cool,” Chūya said, downcast.

Quiet spread like wildfire. Dazai slurped the last of his root beer float as Chūya dipped the second to last fry in his shake.

Eventually, Dazai averted their gaze, murmuring a brief, “I don’t like dogs.”

“Hm?”

“They have a dog,” they clarified, “Hirotsu and his husband.”

“Yeah! Which is why we should go—”

Dazai groaned, shaking his head, “I don’t like dogs.”

Chūya frowned, “That’s why you don’t want to go? Because you don’t like dogs?”

They nodded.

“Why don’t you like them?”

A glare.

No response.

“Okay,” Chūya glanced down at the remaining fry, “will you at least consider going?”

They shook their head again.

Chūya frowned.

“Guessing you don’t want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly, no,” Dazai answered, looking anywhere but Chūya’s way.

“Fine,” Chūya sighed, “but if you change your mind, let me know.”

“Sure.”

They were silent as Dazai eyed the last fry. Chūya nudged the plate his way, a peace offering Dazai gladly accepted.

Following the consumption of the fry, Dazai playfully bumped into Chūya’s shoulder. Chūya bumped theirs back. Dazai tapped Chūya’s ankle with his foot. Chūya mirrored the gesture. Soon enough, they were giggling, practically knocking each other over on their barstools.

“You’re so silly,” Chūya laughed aloud.

“You’re so cute,” Dazai countered flirtatiously.

Chūya pinkened as their laughter subsided. He rested his head on Dazai’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of their mint and green tea shampoo.

“I really am excited to spend the summer with you, Chūya,” Dazai whispered.

“Hm?”

“I said, Pretty Place next weekend?”

Chapter Text

Chapter IV: Prodigies don’t make mistakes.

“Box Office Chūya!” Gin waved from around the corner as Chūya exited his second home the box office.

“‘Hey,” he greeted casually.

“A bunch of us are going shopping for Prelude. Want to come with?”

“Prelude?” His head tilted to the side, “What’s that?”

“The gala and silent auction next week,” Gin answered, “did Mori not tell you about it?”

He did recall something being mentioned about a “very important donor event” coming up.

“Oh yeah,” Chūya nodded, “forgot about that. How fancy is this thing?”

“Like—” Gin contemplated before landing on, “last year, a lady complained to me about ‘accidentally’ going over her $10,000 spending limit.”

“Fuck. Like, fancy?”

“Fancy fancy.”

“Yikes,” Chūya grimaced. His wardrobe was ill-equipped for such happenings.

“You should join us!” Gin invited him with an enthusiastic bounce in her step, “It’ll be us, Higuchi, Tachi, and Dazai. We have enough room for you in my car. Oh also, if you talk to Mori he can probably get your outfit expensed!”

Chūya’s considered. He had nothing better to do and figured getting an outfit for the event couldn’t hurt. Especially on company dollar.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll come,” he agreed avidly, “mind if I get changed and shower real quick?”

“Go ahead,” Gin replied, “whenever you’re ready we’ll head out. We’ll probably grab dinner after too if you’re chill with that.”

“Sounds good to me.”

--

The car ride was full of showtunes, Dazai’s classical music rants, and gossiping about the Tony’s.

“I’m just saying, we all know American Psycho was snubbed,” Dazai complained.

“Yeah, but like, there were better shows out there,” Tachi remarked.

“Tell me what is better than a Capella 80s music on stage?! Nothing! Nothing can top that! Their rendition of Everybody wants to rule the world was just—” they did a chef’s kiss gesture.

“I agree with Dazai on that one,” Higuchi picked their side, “that song was surprisingly catchy—”

“Aaaaaaand the showtune talk can be resumed later,” Gin interjected as Dazai was about to add on. They pulled up to the Bennington Town Center Mall, “We have arrived.”

The group got out of the car and meandered over to a large department store Gin recommended, one that carried both Men and Women’s formalwear at a half-decent price.

Being the two nonbinary members of the group, Dazai and Higuchi exchanged looks of discomfort. They weren’t entirely comfortable changing in the dressing rooms of their assigned genders, but knew the backlash that would come from doing anything else.

“I think—” Gin stood on her toes, peeking around the store, “if I remember correctly, there’s a family-styled dressing room we should be able to snag.” Higuchi heaved a relieved sigh at the proposition, “So long as you don’t mind us all piling in the same room and going by the honor system to not look when we all get changed. Is everyone cool with that?”

Chūya and Tachihara nodded as Higuchi vocalized a quick, “Sure!”

Dazai fidgeted.

“Dazai?” Gin attempted eye contact but was met with the side of their face.

It wasn’t that he was ungrateful. They were genuinely thankful Gin suggested the idea.

They just.

They were.

Changing in front of everyone else meant his body would be on display and—

even if

they didn’t

but

it was still

it was

a lot.

It was a lot and Dazai felt like he might—

“That’s fine,” he squirmed.

“That doesn’t sound very fine,” Gin frowned.

“I just um—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Gin cut in, “if you don’t feel comfortable with the idea we can step out when you’re changing. That’s no big deal.”

“No—no I’m fine.”

Tachi and Gin shared a look.

“Let’s just go already,” Dazai snapped, briskly heading towards the suits.

Gin groaned with an eyeroll, “Such a fucking drama queen.”

Higuchi and Gin found a few dresses, Gin’s all in black and Higuchi’s spread between tones of a forest green and sunshine yellow. Tachi, Dazai, and Chūya each picked out a few pairs of well-made pants and button-down tops. Their plan to share the family-style dressing room worked out well, as the room was quite large and unoccupied when they arrived. They went by the honor system, as Gin had suggested, everyone turning around until they were all done changing. Then, they’d face each other and the mirror to get a better look at their garments.

Gin looked stunning in just about everything. Chūya had a feeling she could pull off wearing a paper bag if she wanted to. Her clear skin, tall and slender build, and sleek, long black hair made her look more like a model than an ASM. Chūya was thoroughly amused as Tachi ogled her way more than once.

Though Higuchi wasn’t the same kind of drop-dead stunning as Gin, they looked rather adorable in all of her choices. They were smaller and curvier with blonde hair and large doe-eyes. She wore rounded gold-rimmed glasses that made her features look exaggerated, making each outfit extra cute.

Tachi’s biggest issue was finding a jacket to fit his broad shoulders without being too bulky as to drown out his slim physique. Chūya had the opposite problem, searching for pants that wouldn’t have to be hemmed drastically and a jacket small enough for his svelte frame.

Dazai was lanky, tall with a willowy figure. Like Gin, everything he tried on looked incredible, as if he were a model.

Except for the bandages peeking out above the collar of each and every dress shirt they tried on.   

They were on outfit number three when Chūya’s stomach growled.

“Getting hungry?” Higuchi asked as they finished lacing up the corseted bodice of a tea-length yellow dress.

“Guess so,” Chūya nodded, “I could go for some food pretty soon.”

“Me too,” Tachi agreed.

“Is everyone cool with Waffle House?” Gin posed to the group. They all nodded, Tachi and Higuchi giving an overzealous high-five at the suggestion.

“Your second dress, Gin,” Higuchi began assessing their final options, “that was so cute.”

“Hard agree,” Tachi complimented, “I mean, you looked killer in all of them, but that one was a show-stopper.”

“I liked your last one, Higuchi,” Gin gestured to the yellow dress, “it suits your personality.”

“T-thank you!” Higuchi stuttered at the compliment, “I think I’ll be getting it. What about you masc-presenting-people?”

“I think my last option was my best bet,” Tachi gestured to a navy blue sports jacket with matching pants.

“Yeah, same,” Chūya pointed at his own gray rendition of almost the same outfit, but with a crimson dress shirt, “though I think the pants might need to be tailored…if any of you are good at sewing?”

Higuchi beamed, “I am a costume designer after all!”

“Lifesaver, thanks a million.”

“It’s no problem!” She turned her attention to Dazai, “Any idea which one you’ll be getting?”

As they tried on their outfits, Dazai had grown progressively quieter. Now, they stared in a dissociative daze, barely registering anyone was even talking to them.

“Dazai?” Gin prodded. He snapped to attention.

“Hm?”

“Higuchi asked which outfit you’re going with.”

“Um,” Dazai picked at his oversized hoodie’s sleeve, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have a favorite?” Chūya asked.

“I—” Dazai looked away, “I don’t know.”

Gin and Tachi looked at each other, exchanging another look Chūya didn’t understand.

“Why don’t we put them all on-hold and you can pick up the one you like most tomorrow?” Gin suggested.

Dazai shrugged, muttering a brief, “Whatever.”

The moodiness felt out of place. The drastic change in behavior was equal parts confusing and concerning. Gender dysphoria? Chūya wondered.

The group left for dinner at Waffle House.

--

Eating at Waffle House in the south is truly an American staple. It is a wonderland of massive portions, bang for your buck, and tacky décor, fit for the perfect place to gossip. Waffle House is the type of place where you can strike up a convo with the serial killer next to you and not even bat an eye when you hear about them on the news the next day. Instead, you’d say something like, “Oh hey, Jim made the news! Interesting fellow, he is.”

This was Chūya’s first-ever Waffle House experience. He gaped at the golden waffles in front of him, doused in syrup and topped with a sprinkling of chocolate chips. There was a side of hashbrowns and a soda. The others had similar dishes, all set with different waffles, eggs, and the like. All except for Dazai, who just ordered a soda and biscuit, opting to mooch off of Chūya’s hashbrowns. Not-so-slyly, they reached over, stealing a forkful of hashbrowns, dipping them into ketchup.

“Hey! Why didn’t you just get your own home-fries?” Chūya pouted as Dazai stole yet another forkful.

“I’m not hungry enough for a full order,” Dazai reasoned in return.

“Oh, but you’re hungry enough to eat mine?”

“Exactly~ Everything tastes better off of chibi’s plate!”

“God, you really are the worst. You should have more than a soda and a single biscuit though. That’s not dinner.”

A shrug, “My therapist says to listen to my body and ‘eat intuitively.’”

Chūya raised a brow, “What on earth does that mean?”

“It means if I’m not that hungry, I’m not going to eat.”

“Oh.”

There was a brief lull before Dazai changed the topic with an instigative, “You’re tiny~”

“What??” Chūya’s jaw fell open, an incredulous gape, “What does that have to do with anything??”

“So you admit it then!” Dazai snickered, a gleam to his eyes that had not been there previously, “You admit you’re smol and adorable?”

Chūya burned a bright pink at the semi-compliment.

“Shut up, will ya!”

The others laughed, enjoying the bizarre mating rituals entertainment that was Dazai and Chūya.

They continued to eat and joke around, enjoying their dinner. Tachi was the one who started the gossiping. Not unlike Chūya, it was one of his own guilty pleasures. As a stage manager, his job was strict, rigid, and precise. In his personal life, he would take any excuse to have a little fun.

“Atsushi and Ryū. Thoughts?”

Higuchi sputtered at the remark, practically spewing their soda, “W-what do you mean? They hate each other! Are you—you’re not insinuating they um. That they—you know—”

“Gross,” Gin commented, sipping her coke, “this is my brother we’re talking about.”

“I’m just curious,” Tachi defended himself with his hands in the air, “I ran into them the other day and their ‘bickering’ sounded an awful lot like flirting to me.”

“R-really?” Higuchi looked crestfallen.

“Yep. Honestly, flirtatious is the only word I can use to describe it.”

“We don’t even know if they’re gay!” Higuchi protested, keeping her voice quite low.

Gin added her own thoughts in an equally hushed tone, “My brother’s bi and I’m pretty sure Atsushi doesn’t have a straight bone in his body.”

Higuchi averted her gaze, dejection clinging to widened doe eyes.

“Atsushi’s my suitemate,” Chūya chimed in, “I really like him.”

“Atsushi’s the best!!” Dazai added, stuffing a piece of his biscuit into their mouth, “He’ll make your job bearable.”

The father-child relationship that was Mori to Dazai was confusing. Chūya understood not everyone was lucky enough to have a solid relationship with their parents the way he did, but it felt like their discordance ran deeper.

“What do you think about the other musicians this year, Dazai?” Gin pried, curious.

Dazai snorted, “Pretentious. The usual. Orientation was yesterday and I’ve yet to meet anyone of interest among them.”

“That’s a shame,” Tachi shoved a forkful of waffle into his mouth, “I was looking forward to the new kids.”

“You never know,” Chūya suggested, “they might be cooler than you think.”

Dazai shook his head, “No, they’re not.”

“That feels like a pretty big generalization,” Chūya frowned.

“Trust me, I know my people,” Dazai countered, “they’re not worth your time.”

“I just—” Chūya felt something simmer under the surface, an inkling of annoyance at the broad strokes of Dazai’s point, “how would you feel if we talked that way about you?”

“You should talk this way about me,” Dazai scoffed, “sure, I’m more talented than everyone in this stupid program, but it’s not like my personality is any better than theirs.”

“Wow, that’s cocky of you to say,” Chūya retorted.

“I’m vapid and if you want to gossip about me, you probably should,” Dazai deadpanned.

“You’re not vapid though. You’re just being a dick.”

“I’m being myself.”

“You’re—”

“Alright, calm down, you both are pretty and both of your dicks are delightful,” Gin interrupted, “Dazai, quit being an asshole. Chūya was just being nice.”

A sneer, “Nice gets you nowhere here. Did you forget that? We’re in the fucking South.”

“What does that mean?” Chūya asked.

“It means everyone is ‘nice,’” Dazai answered, “doesn’t stop them from beating the shit out of you for being gay. They just smile politely while they bash your head against the wall—”

“Okay, okay jeez I get the point,” Chūya huffed. Then, quietly, he added, “That hasn’t happened to any of you, has it? Getting like. Beat up for being queer?”

Dazai looked away.

Everyone looked away.

Everyone was quiet.

Dazai fidgeted with their sleeve.

Their hands were shaking.

“Wait,” Chūya put the pieces together, “are you serious—”

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Dazai announced, standing abruptly.

An uncomfortable silence filled at their departure.

“What the hell? Was Dazai really…” Chūya asked, trailing off anxiously.

Gin, Higuchi, and Tachi whispered amongst themselves.

“He’s going to find out eventually.”

“I know, I just feel bad—”

“Dazai’s the one who brought it up.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Um hello?” Chūya waved, “I’m right here.”

They all sighed before Gin took the lead, “Sorry. I don’t really know the whole story but um. Dazai was a part-time student last year or something and um. One night, he was caught kissing a boy. Some other kid in the program.”

“Oh.”

There was a pit in Chūya’s stomach. He knew where this was going.

“Yeah. Like I said, the kid was a guy, and Dazai is masc-presenting and shit so um, the people who caught them—they were on the Grounds crew and pretty strong so um. They,” she winced, remembering the bruises and bandages and breakdowns and— “Yeah. It was bad.”

“What the fuck?” Chūya was livid, “What happened to those guys!?”

“The ones who assaulted them were fired. The boy Dazai was kissing left the program almost immediately. Dazai stayed until his class finished but um. Yeah he wasn’t really the same after that.”

“I don’t fucking blame them. That’s so fucked. I mean who fucking does that—”

“Are you done talking about me?” The sound of a high-pitched tenor approached the group.

“You brought it up. And he was going to find out anyways,” Gin defended herself.

“Whatever,” Dazai responded with an edge, “let’s talk about something that doesn’t make me want to kill myself.”

The topic was changed and dinner went along just fine.

--

# *  

A siren’s song. The entrance of lull lured him in. Budding recognition tickled the inside of his chest. Each note gleamed, murmured, and twinkled, resonating. It was a sound Chūya was enamored by.

The sound of Dazai playing.

It was unique with a quality you could only recognize the moment you heard it. Special.

The morning was pretty, a golden glow filling the air, accompanying cerulean skies of cotton candy clouds.

Chūya followed the sound, tracing it back to Dazai’s claimed practice room. It was the one with the reddish brown baby grand. Out of all the campus pianos, Dazai was convinced this one was the best. The keys felt nicest against the pads of long, thin fingers. The sound was clean and crisp and sitting down, something about it just felt right. They had explained this to Chūya just the night before, who didn’t totally get it. He figured Dazai just took pride in practicing in the one room with deficient soundproofing. Somehow, whenever Dazai played, the music seemed to bleed through the walls and into campus air.

Chūya approached the practice room, grinning ear-to-ear as he locked with chestnut eyes. The piece faded, coming to a close and wrapping up neatly in time with Chūya’s entrance. Chūya clapped.

“Box Office Chūya, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Dazai greeted, a flirtatious smile tickling his lips.

“What piece was that?” Chūya queried.

“Rachmaninov’s Prelude 4 in D Major,” Dazai answered nonchalantly.

“It was Rachmaninov? I knew I recognized it!”

“Yeah?”

“I had a feeling it was. It sounded really good.”

“I think you’re obligated to say that.”

Chūya shook his head, “No seriously, it sounds really impressive. I mean, everything you play does, but like. I don’t want to give you a bigger head than you already have.”

Dazai chuckled before explaining, “It’s my competition piece.”

“You compete?” Chūya’s eyes widened curiously, “That’s a thing?”

“Sort of,” Dazai shifted positions, “every year BMP has this massive, juried competition between all the musicians. The top 3 win a tuition-free summer with the program.”

“Oh shit. That’s sick!”

“Yeah. First place also performs in a solo concert. It’s a pretty big deal. I was a part-time student last year so I wasn’t eligible to participate.”

“That’s cool that you can now though!”

“Yeah.”

“So why that piece? Is there any special reason for it? Like it’s really good and all, but I’ve heard you play harder and flashier ones before.”

“It’s an emotional piece,” Dazai explained, “and my biggest critique as a performer is that, while my technical abilities are oftentimes flawless, I don’t exude enough emotion as I play. I need to work on stage presence and this piece facilitates that nicely.”

“I didn’t think you of all people would struggle with stage presence?”

A shrug, “I told you, I hate performing.”

“True. But you’re such like a—” Chūya searched for the word, landing on, “enigmatic guy—person. Sorry. I feel like that would translate really well to your stage presence.”

Dazai shrugged.

“But I um,” Chūya started uneasily, “I’ve been wondering about that, actually. And you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to but like. Why. Why do you play professionally if it causes so much stress?”

“I’m a prodigy,” Dazai replied, “I don’t have many other options.”

“You have plenty of options!” Chūya argued, growing passionate at the topic, “I don’t see why being a prodigy should limit you to one thing—”

“I’m a piano prodigy with the Mori Ōgai as my father,” Dazai corrected, “it would be wasteful not to put my talents to use.”

“Yeah, but if you’re not passionate about it—”

“Sorry,” Dazai interrupted, “I think there’s a misunderstanding here. I don’t like performing. I am very passionate about playing. I don’t like solos, recitals, that sort of thing. I’m fine in a pit or orchestra. I just don’t want to be the center of attention.”

“Oh. That makes more sense, I guess.”

They said nothing for a moment.

“How long have you been at it this morning? Can you take a break and join me for breakfast?”

Dazai gnawed on his lip, “I couldn’t really sleep so—well you don’t want to know how long I’ve been here,” they scratched their head sheepishly.

“Sooooo it’s the perfect time for breakfast?” Chūya nudged. Dazai grimaced, shaking their head.

“I can’t. My father is coming to listen today so,” they lowered their voice, “it has to be perfect.”

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself,” Chūya frowned, “and isn’t perfection an unattainable standard?”

“Not for me,” Dazai shrugged, “I just need to keep practicing.”

“You need a break. This isn’t healthy.”

“I don’t think you should be telling me what I need,” Dazai snapped. Chūya froze, taken aback.

“Jeez. Okay then,” he said, preparing to leave.

“Sorry,” Dazai instantly apologized, placing his head in his hands, “I’m being a dick. I’m just stressed.”

“You’re stressed because you’ve been practicing for hours and you’re exhausted. Probably hungry, too. Please just take a short break with me? Twenty minutes?”

Dazai exhaled, eyeing his sheet music and their increasingly shaky hands. They were starting to feel lightheaded and could definitely use another cup of coffee and some solid food.

“I—” they sighed, “I guess a short break for food won’t kill me.”

“That’s the spirit!” Chūya cheered, relieved.

“But I’m coming back afterwards to finish practicing.”

“Okay. I’m not asking for anything more than a short break and breakfast.”

--

“Your posture is poor, sit up straight. Loosen your thumbs—you’re playing with your wrist, you know better. Your octaves need to be tighter. We’re in 3/4 for God’s sake, count.”

The critique was endless.

“Again.”

They played.

“Again.”

He played.

“Again.”

They were two hours into Mori’s sit-in session, approximately 4 hours following breakfast, and Dazai’s everything ached. He regretted having a light meal, feeling the resurgence of hunger creep into the edges of their stomach. His hand tremors increased two-fold, causing them to hit wrong notes and mess up the leaps.

Chūya approached the practice room, a large plastic bag full of a healthy lunch in hand. He was about to enter to make his delivery when he overheard the practice that was still in session.

“Again. Osamu, do better. I know you can.”

“Right. I’m sorry.”

“What do I always tell you about apologizing?” Mori hissed.

“I’ll do better,” Dazai ducked their head in a nonverbal apology. They played. Messed up. Tried again. Messed up.

“You say you’ll do better, then you do this?” Mori sighed, displeasure lathering his tone, “I know you. You are a very talented pianist, but being lazy won’t make it in the professional world. You can’t give up because things get hard. Try harder.”

Dazai played again.

Again.

Again.

He played it perfectly.

“You’re too stiff,” Mori remarked, “where are the emotions? Those crescendos and accents are not mere suggestions. Again.”

Chūya cringed at the sight. At the way Dazai swayed, not with musicality but with fatigue. At the shakiness that crept up from their hands into their entire torso, at the way their breathing grew funny. They were clearly not okay.

“Again.”

Dazai tried. His hands stiffened, stopping in place.

“Osamu.”

It was useless. Their hands refused to move, refused to play. They couldn’t breathe as their chest grew tight and vision hazy. Their hands slipped from place, as he clutched his chest.

Mori grabbed him by the wrists, forcing the hands back into position. Dazai flinched. Chūya was disgusted with himself, unable to look away from the travesty unraveling before him.

“Play through it.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, but a command.

So Dazai did as he was told.

He played even though they couldn’t breathe.

Played even though the world spun and their hands tremored and—

It was perfect.

They played the piece perfectly.

“Was that so hard now?” Mori mocked.

Chūya couldn’t take it any longer.

He threw the door open, “They need a break!”

“Chūya?” Mori stared quizzically. Dazai did not look up, attention glued to his fingers, which were shaking so bad they refused to stay on individual piano keys.

“I—” Chūya backtracked, “I um. I brought lunch. I think Dazai should take a break.”

“So you are eating that crap from the cafeteria again?” Mori shot Dazai’s way, “I let you have a car here for a reason. I was wondering why your face was looking rounder. I doubt you want a repeat of last summer—”

“I brought him a salad,” Chūya snarled, “Dazai needs to eat.”

Mori turned in his employee’s direction, “I would advise you against telling me how to parent my son.”

“I just—”

“Please go,” the voice was quiet, meek and so incredibly un-Dazai like, “I’m fine. Just go.”

“But—”

“You heard him,” Mori waved Chūya away, speaking patronizingly, “Dazai and I are busy right now. You can come say hello after our session.”

Chūya looked at his distressed friend, then back at Mori. With grit teeth and far more self-control than he realized he was capable of, Chūya apologized, “I’m sorry for the disturbance,” he glared. He redirected his attention to Dazai, “I’ll come back in a bit. Okay? I’ll leave your lunch here.”

There was no reply as Chūya left the room.

--

As promised, Chūya returned to the practice room an hour later. He found it uncharacteristically empty.

“Dazai?” He called out, looking around. The only sign of the other’s presence was a bag with the untouched salad. Chūya cursed under his breath, picked up the limp salad, tossed it in the trash, and left.

He found Dazai in their room.

“Dazai?” Chūya knocked on the door. Their roommate Kaiji opened it.

“Hey! What’s up?” Kaiji greeted.

Chūya waved, then asked, “Is Dazai here?”

Kaiji eyed a lump of blankets.

At the same time, Kaiji and Dazai called out respectively:

“Yep!”

“No.”

“Dazai, I can hear you,” Chūya rolled his eyes.

“Go away. I’m sick.”

“No, I will not—” Chūya looked at Kaiji, “can I come in?”

Kaiji shrugged but stepped aside, “Good luck.”

Swift, Kaiji grabbed some things and left the room under the guise of “going to shower.” Chūya figured he was just looking to avoid the drama.

“What was that, today?” Chūya asked, keeping his voice gentle.

Dazai was burrowed under their blankets, only a mop of curly dark brown hair and a sliver of forehead visible. They were curled in tightly, hugging himself under the covers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sniffled.

“Yeah, you do,” Chūya replied. He sat down at the edge of the bed, giving Dazai some space but still close enough to make out their blanket-covered mumbling. “I knew your dad was strict but that was—that was really bad.”

Dazai groaned.

“Did you eat lunch?”

No reply.

“If I pick up something for you, will you eat it?”

“No,” it was soft and barely audible.

“Please? You have to eat and I’m sure you must be hungry by now.”

Dazai did not respond.

“How are you feeling?” Chūya switched up his tactics.

“Like absolute shit,” Dazai replied.

“Fair enough. The piece sounded good—”

“Everything was wrong,” Dazai suddenly unveiled himself, removing the covers from their head. Their eyes and cheeks were red and splotchy, an ugly contrast to the dark circles lining their eyes. His hair was messy and body hidden by an oversized hoodie. “Why!?” Dazai shot the rhetorical question, “I practiced for hours and I still managed to fuck it up.”

“You didn’t fuck anything up,” Chūya placated, “your father was being a dick with insane standards. He intentionally made you nervous and wouldn’t let you take a break.”

“Prodigies don’t take breaks.”

“That’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid.”

“All I’m saying is his opinion isn’t everything. You know the piece inside and out and he was a jerk for making you play through a—what, a panic attack?? Anxiety attack?? It looked like you could barely breathe.”

“My dad was an adjudicator for the competition last year. He knows what he’s talking about and if he says that I don’t stand a chance then why the fuck am I even trying?”

“I don’t know,” Chūya sighed, “why are you trying?”

Dazai pulled his knees up to his chest. He looked so small.

“I just want to play piano. I don’t want to do concerts or competitions or embarrass myself by screwing up—”

“You’re not going to screw up.”

“You saw how badly my hands were shaking, Chūya,” Dazai looked up, amber eyes wet and trembling, “it’ll only get worse the day of. If anything, my dad was just making sure I’d be prepared for what’s to come—”

“No, he was being a controlling dickwad.”

“Dickwad’s a stupid insult.”

“Stupid or not, it’s true. And the comments he made about your body? That wasn’t okay.”

“You didn’t see me last year,” Dazai grumbled at the floor, “I gained weight and then relapsed and it was really disgusting.”

“Gaining weight and relapsing isn’t disgusting. It’s scary and sure you probably shouldn’t just stop eating anytime soon—”

“Right. I’ll let the voice in my head know that eating disorders are a choice and I need to make a better one—”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Chūya groaned in exasperation.

“That kind of is what you’re saying,” Dazai countered before tossing out a brief, “whatever. I’m not making that mistake again.”

“Your body is fine the way it is. If it changes, that’s okay. Your father should be supporting your well-being, not tearing you down.”

“He just wants what’s best for me—”

“Whether that’s the case or not, there are far better ways to go about it. He shouldn’t be psyching you out and forcing you to skip lunch.”

Dazai sniffled, then rubbed at his eyes with his wrists.

“I just want to disappear.”

“Would it help if we left campus for a bit?” Chūya suggested, “I’m done with work for the day and I’ve been meaning to go hiking.”

Dazai thought about it.

“You don’t have to eat the food on campus. We can pick up whatever you’re in the mood for.”

“‘m not hungry.”

“Then we’ll pick up something after we go hiking. Okay?”

After another moment of silence, Dazai nodded, “Okay. I’ll go hiking with Chūya.”

--

They chose an easy trail, mostly out of Chūya’s concern for Dazai not having eaten in several hours. He was afraid anything too difficult would end up with them passing out, especially given how warm it was. With much convincing, Dazai had changed out of their oversized sweats and into a bulky t-shirt and cargo pants, which Chūya deemed more appropriate for the outdoor weather, considering it was approaching 80 degrees. Chūya himself wore a tank top and joggers. By the time they reached the end of their trail at a plateau in the mountain, they were exhausted. Chūya sat down on a large rock as Dazai flopped down on the ground, resting his head in between Chūya’s knees.

“I’m so sleeeeeeeepy,” Dazai whined, snuggling closer to Chūya’s legs.

“Yeah, I’m tired too,” Chūya said, stifling a yawn.

“Do we have to go back?”

Their voice was little.

“Hm?” Chūya hummed.

“I don’t. I don’t want to. Go back.”

“I know things were,” Chūya hesitated before settling on, “upsetting today. I’m sorry your dad acted the way he did. He was really out of line.”

Dazai held their frame tightly, “He didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“He didn’t have to talk down to you. He didn’t treat you kindly and that’s not okay.”

A shrug, “I’m used to it.”

“So it’s like that all the time?” Chūya wondered aloud, unable to stop himself.

“Basically,” Dazai clicked their tongue as he replied, “he’s always been difficult to please. That’s just the way he is. My siblings and I are used to it.”

“That must have been really hard. Growing up with that much pressure.”

“It’s whatever,” Dazai rested his head on top of his knees.

“It’s not—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Chūya swallowed his reply, “Okay. Sorry.”

They sat in a semi-comfortable silence.

Dazai forced himself up with a groan and big stretch. His joints creaked, popping with the motion.

“I’m going to be so sore tomorrow,” Dazai pouted.

“You don’t get much exercise, do you?” Chūya remarked. Dazai held his own fine while they were hiking, but Chūya’s stamina was significantly better. Granted, Dazai was running off of half a breakfast and a full serving of anxiety.

“I don’t workout, if that’s what you’re asking,” Dazai mumbled, “I’m not really allowed.”

“Wait—what?” Chūya was incredibly confused.

“It like. Can be a problem.”

“Isn’t working out supposed to be good for you?”

Dazai looked up at an empty sky, “Not when you do it compulsively. Or to compensate for eating.”

“That—” Chūya’s eyes filled with worry, “is that something you do?”

“Did.”

“Ok,” Chūya felt somewhat relieved, “I guess that like, isn’t good. I mean, you don’t have to workout, but it would probably be good for you to get out more.”

“Why yes, thank you doctor, I’ll get right on that,” Dazai replied sarcastically. He surveyed the area, walking around the plateau, eyeing the mountainous terrain below. “If I were to jump from here, would I die, or just break my legs? Or maybe my spine.”

It was silent.

“What the fuck?”

“I might break my spine, now that I’m thinking about it. Or maybe the trees would cushion my fall. I mean theoretically if I were to jump from over here—”

“Woah, okay you are standing way too close to the edge to be joking about jumping.”

Chūya marched over, guiding Dazai away from their precarious placement on the plateau.

“Not fair,” Dazai whined, “I just wanna jump—”

“You can stop joking,” Chūya snapped, “this isn’t funny.”

Dazai stopped. He broke free of Chūya’s hold before muttering something under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Chūya gave him a look, which Dazai promptly ignored.

“Let’s get some food,” Chūya abruptly changed the topic, realizing it was well-beyond dinner time.

Dazai wrapped his arms around his torso, looking down at their body before shaking their head.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yes, you are,” Chūya corrected him.

Dazai stayed quiet, making eye contact with the dirt below.

“Don’t let what he said get to you. Your body is fine the way it is. And if you wanted to change it, making yourself sick because you’re not eating isn’t the answer.”

The more they talked about it, the more anxious he became. They tried to think about their body as little as humanly possible. He closed his eyes in the shower, changed quickly, avoided mirrors, anything to forget the physical vessel in which they were forced to exist.

Talking about it was uncomfortable. Getting changed alongside everyone while shopping for a suit was uncomfortable. The idea that he was a human with hunger cues and nutritional needs was uncomfortable.

Everything about food and eating and living was uncomfortable.

“I’m not making myself sick,” Dazai argued, “I’m just not hungry.”

“It’s not good to go this long without eating in the heat. I don’t want you passing out. Okay?”

“I won’t pass out—”

“You don’t know that. And I really don’t want to carry you all the way back to campus.”

They fidgeted, squirming in place.

“Why don’t we get healthy shit? Like salads or something?” Chūya recommended, figuring the middle ground was better than nothing.

Dazai considered. He wasn’t exactly lying, sure he was ignoring hunger cues, but his appetite was virtually non-existent. Still, they weren’t keen on starting a fight and decided a compromise wasn’t the end of the world. Salads were low in calories, they could handle that.

--

He was up until 3 AM.

They practiced.

Ran the piece again, again, again.

Words from earlier branded on nimble fingers and tightened chests.

Breathe.

Play.

Exhale.

Repeat.

Breathe.

Play.

Exhale.

Repeat.

Breathe.

Play.

Play.

Play.

Play.

Play.

Play—

They don’t know how it happened, but they’re hyperventilating.

He loves piano. He loves playing. Sometimes, Dazai thinks it’s the only thing he’s even physically capable of loving.

But it hurts when he isn’t the best.

His wrists burn and chest burns and throat burns and eyes burn and there’s no making sense of this pain. There’s no making sense of the masochistic gleam greeting him in his own irises reflecting off the surface of the smooth reddish brown.

It hurts beautifully. In an ugly sort of pretty.

Dazai thinks that’s what he is. An ugly sort of pretty.

The kind of person that could be pretty, if only they weren’t missing that one thing.

Whiter teeth, longer lashes, muscular physique—there was always something he didn’t have.

Something that could really make him pretty. Not just ugly pretty, but pretty pretty.

Sometimes Dazai wonders if he plays pretty music to make up for the fact that he himself is so unpretty. To make up for the rot and decay on the inside, the putrid odor of atrophy.

Chūya is pretty.

He lets his thoughts wander off. Lets flashes of red hair and freckled skin take residence in his mind rent-free.

Chūya is so pretty.

His voice is pretty, his laugh, his eyes, those eyes, the oceans for irises lined by thick, orange lashes. The faint blush upon high cheekbones and a sculpted jaw. The curve of his ass and definition of lean muscles. Dazai would be jealous of him, were he not so captivated. Were his breath not taken away by the faint golden glow of the sun illuminating every inch of the masterpiece known as Chūya Nakahara.

He’s so caught up in the imagery of Chūya that they fail to realize the new song that escapes calloused fingertips.

Improvisation has never been his strong spot. Dazai likes sheet music. He likes sticking to the text, following the rules as they are written. He’s never had any interest in composing or improv, preferring a hundred times over to play someone else’s work of art. Yet, he’s improvising. The music flows out from within and he can’t bring himself to stop, to return to the Rachmaninov, to play the song he knows intimately, inside and out.

He plays, he plays, he plays.

He plays and thinks of Chūya.

Chapter Text

Chapter V: In the closet.

Dazai is gone for three days.

No word. A vacant practice room is left in their wake.

“Where were you?” Chūya scowled, his confrontation occurring in the depths of the cafeteria as he approached the table of friends, where a familiar bandaged bastard was grinning cheekily.

“This morning?” Dazai replied happily, “Practicing. Or wait, no, I went to that book sale at the college—”

“No,” Chūya hissed, “I mean the past three days, you ass! You haven’t answered a single call or text.”

They blinked passively, “Right.”

There was a moment of terse silence as Chūya sat down, thrusting his tray of food on the table. Tachi, Gin, and Higuchi didn’t exactly stare, but their curiosity wasn’t discreet.

“Well?” Chūya prompted.

Dark eyes averted as Dazai uttered a casual, “I was busy.”                                                                                                                                       

Awkward stillness settled as the table eyed each other.

“I was really worried,” Chūya muttered, “you literally disappeared for three days.” Chūya had searched everywhere for them, the practice rooms, their cabin, classrooms, the theatres—to no avail.

Dazai made eye contact with the ceiling.

“I had to take care of some stuff off-campus. But I’m fine now. Everything is fine!”

“But—”

“Oh! I have something to show you!”

“Don’t change the subject—”

Dazai rummaged through his backpack, shoving a mostly empty tray of food to the side. Despite his irritation, Chūya felt a bubble of relief to see Dazai eating properly again.

“Here!” Dazai bounced with excitement as he pulled out a slim green binder from his bag. “I probably killed a tree or two but look!”

Chūya skeptically handled the binder, flipping it open with curious fingers.

“No way,” he perked up as his eyes scanned the contents. Their other friends picked up their chattering again, content to ignore the two as the tension dissipated. “Where did you find this?”

It was the entire score of Bare: a Pop Opera.

“Honestly, it wasn’t as hard to scour the internet as I thought,” Dazai beamed with bright, eager eyes. “And you know what this means?”

Chūya bat his eyelashes innocently, “You’ll play through the entire thing as I belt out everyone’s parts?”

“Of course,” Dazai giggled, folding the binder back up and returning it to his bag. He was pleased as Chūya’s initial anger faded, “I knew you’d love it.”

“I do,” Chūya nodded enthusiastically, “but I thought you said you didn’t play showtunes? Aren’t they not in your repertoire?”

“They’re not,” Dazai agreed, “but um. My doctor said I should try playing some more music I like. For fun.”

Chūya’s expression wrinkled, confusion getting the better of him, “What kind of doctor prescribes more practicing?”

“My therapist,” Dazai answered curtly, “and um, she didn’t exactly suggest practicing more. Just that I should try adding more music I like in the mix. For fun.”

Chūya felt like an ass.

“Oh! Oh shit. Sorry. You didn’t have to tell me, I was just being stupid and thought you meant like doctor-doctor. Not that therapists aren’t doctors. They are! I just was—”

Dazai’s kind-hearted laugh interrupted his rambling, “Don’t worry about it,” his smile was as dazzling as ever. Chūya’s heart fluttered traitorously at the sight. “I know chibi was just confused.”

“Seriously, sorry about that.”

“No problem!!”

Chūya ate as Dazai spent the rest of the meal chattering about a movie Chūya had never seen.

“We’re heading back to the shop for board game night, if you two want to join,” Tachi offered as he, Gin, and Higuchi stood up to leave. Chūya glanced Dazai’s way, pleasantly surprised as Dazai simply shrugged, rather than giving an outright rejection in lieu of practicing.

“Cool,” Chūya replied, “I’m kind of tired but if we’re feeling up to it when I’m done with dinner, we’ll stop by.”

Tachi gave a thumbs up, then waved a quick “See ya!” as he chased after the others.

“Game night?” Chūya raised an eyebrow Dazai’s direction.

“What? I can’t like board games?”

“You can like whatever your heart desires,” Chūya took a bite of his food, chewing and swallowing before adding, “I’m just shocked you didn’t say no so you could practice more.”

Dazai shrugged, “I’m taking a break.”

Chūya nearly choked on his next forkful, “Taking a break??”

“Is that really so hard to believe?”

“Yes. Very. Absolutely—”

“Jeez, I get the picture.”

Chūya eyed Dazai expectedly. When no further explanation came, he prompted a quick, “Well?”

There was a long moment of hesitation.

“My uh. My therapist,” Dazai fidgeted with his fork, “she said it would be good for me. To um. Take breaks.”

“And practice showtunes?”

“I can do both.”

A pause.

“You haven’t talked about your therapist in a while. Is this a new one?”

Dazai shook their head, “No. I just haven’t had an appointment in a bit. She’s back in Japan so the time zones have been screwy.”

“Do you like her?” Chūya broached the topic gently.

“Yeah,” Dazai nodded, “I do.”

They sat in slight discomfort as Chūya finished his food. The cafeteria grew quiet as the other students and staff trickled out.

Chūya brought his empty tray to the back, returning with a determined vigor.

“Alright mackerel. Show tunes or game night, what will it be?”

--

# *

They giggled fitfully, kicking their legs in glee as they both laid on the most-definitely-not-sanitary floor of the practice cabin. The lid of the piano remained shut, though music played from Chūya’s portable Bluetooth speaker.

They had barely made it past the intro of You and I before losing it at Dazai’s “sexy Jason” interpretation.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Chūya smiled, his giggles finally subsiding as the more serious Role of a Lifetime played in the background.

“I don’t have much formal training,” Dazai started, “but I was in the school choir growing up.”

“Awww, baby Dazai used to sing in choir?”

“Yep. I was a true tenor.”

“Impressive.”

“And what about you, Mr. Stage Manager? Do you have a secret backstory of being a critically acclaimed performer?”

“Hah,” Chūya laughed, “it’s no big secret but yeah, I did perform first. Musical theatre was probably my first love. I just prefer the production side of things these days.”

“Any reason why?”

Chūya hummed as he thought, “It’s such an ugly and competitive industry? Like the amount of times teachers told me I’d be passed up on roles just because I’m not tall is so fucking stupid. There are so many shallow personalities and after a while, it’s no longer about the art. People just make everything about themselves. You know?”

Dazai nodded. He did know. They were grossly familiar with the egocentric nature of the performing arts industry, the way one could take something as ephemeral as performing and warp it into a soulless competition. A competition to see who could belt the loudest or look the prettiest under the effervescence of stage lights.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Dazai empathized.

“So yeah. That’s why I don’t really perform these days. I mean, I’ll do student productions here and there, but I’d much rather be the one putting together the performance, making sure it doesn’t crash and burn, that sort of thing.”

“That makes sense,” Dazai sat up, shaking his unruly curls to rid them of any dust and dirt from the cabin’s wooden floor. “As a current performer, I can tell you, you certainly dodged a bullet. Performing kind of sucks.”

“Yeah. I mean I loved it, but I get what you mean.”

Chūya remained lying on the floor as Dazai stood up, pacing in circles.

“My family is in town.”

“What?” Chūya’s interest piqued, though he was caught off-guard by the abrupt topic change.

“That’s why I was gone. My siblings are in town so I was visiting them.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“It was uh. It was. Um.”

‘Samu, why aren’t you eating?

Dazai, you have to take a break.

Why is daddy angry at you?

You have to eat. This is stupid. Eat.

You need to breathe. Just take a break for a few hours.

I’m confused. Did you do something bad?

“They’re a lot. My siblings,” Dazai replied, as if that answered all the questions in the universe. “And I didn’t expect them. Like, I didn’t know they were coming into town this early in the season. They weren’t supposed to come until the competition next month. So like. I was just.”

They averted their gaze before sitting back down on the grimy floor, pulling their knees up to their chest, “I was really overwhelmed. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Chūya approached the other, rubbing their back slightly, “Is this okay?” Dazai nodded. Chūya continued. “I’m not upset with you. I was just really worried. Especially after all the stuff with your dad. I just—” Chūya hesitated, chewing his lip in between sentences, “I didn’t think you were in the best place. Mentally.”

Dazai nodded, “I wasn’t,” they confirmed.

“Did seeing them help?”

Samu, you seriously need to eat.

“A little bit. Like, it was a lot and they’re pretty overbearing. But they care about me so that’s nice I guess.”

“Any reason they’re in town?” Chūya prodded. He was curious. Dazai didn’t speak much on the topic of his family and it made Chūya wonder about those dynamics.

“My sister Akiko attends med school in Japan, but is looking at an international specialized program out this way.”

“In bumfuck North Carolina?” Chūya raised an eyebrow incredulously.

“Yep,” Dazai exhaled, “the program would just be for the summertime, which is probably why she wants to attend. She doesn’t like me being all alone out here.”

“Even if your dad is with you?”

They grimaced, “Especially if dad is with me.” Dazai fidgeted with the bandages underneath the sleeve of his dark green hoodie, “We don’t have a good relationship. My father and me. Clearly,” Dazai gestured vaguely at the piano looming above them.

“Right. And your other siblings—did they just come along for the ride?”

“Yeah,” Dazai massaged his head, the subject actively a draining one to be discussing, “Akiko basically takes care of everyone. They’re supposed to be spending the summer in California with my mother, but knowing her she’s fucking off and the others—well Akiko is—twenty-three?” He paused for a moment before decidedly nodding, “Yeah, she’s twenty-three. Q is fourteen and Kyōka is ten. So when my parents aren’t around, Akiko has always been the one to take care of us. It makes sense that the others decided to tag along with her for the trip.”

“But if your sister comes here next summer, what will your other siblings do? Still go to California?”

“I have no idea,” Dazai shook his head with a groan, “I don’t really want to talk about this anymore. I just wanted to give you an explanation as to why I disappeared.”

“Right. Thanks.”

They sat in silence for a moment later before Chūya shot a mischievous smile Dazai’s way, pulling up a song on his phone, “Best Kept Secret?”

Perking up, Dazai smiled back, “Only if I get to be Jason!”

--

The event was lavish. Fancier than any party Chūya had ever attended. Though the cost of his formalwear was subsidized by BMP, he still felt underdressed. The outfit he had decided on from their shopping trip was a burgundy button down with slim-fit gray pants and a matching gray sports jacket. Complete with shiny new shoes and his signature choker, the outfit was sleek and fashionable. Atsushi was dressed in a similar degree of formality, though he wore a pale blue button down shirt with a tan jacket. Atsushi was the kind of kid who looked out of place in formalwear. Perhaps it was his boyish nature or youthful innocence, but seeing him dressed in business casual felt almost wrong.

“You gentlemen look very nice,” Mori greeted the two of them as they set up their registers and prepared for the day of work ahead of them.

“Thanks,” Chūya answered as Atsushi blushed bashfully.

“I’ll need you both to man the registers throughout the day,” Mori instructed, “you’ll each get a 30 minute lunch break, the timing of which you can decide amongst yourselves. I’ll be assisting the other staff with their respective booths and activities, so largely I will be unavailable. Please ensure at least one person is at the table at all times. If you need me, you can find me in-person or attempt to reach me through my cell. Is that clear?”

The two nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“Very good,” Mori dusted off his spotless blazer as he began walking towards the event hall, “I’ll come check on you two in an hour or so.”

“We’ll see you then,” Chūya waved as Mori left.

The hall they were in was a hybrid open-air space. It was wide and covered but the walls were mostly absent, leaving only the outside air, a type of pavilion.

“How many people come to this thing?” Chūya asked Atsushi.

“A couple hundred, probably,” he answered nonchalantly.

“Wow. Guess it’s going to be a busy day.”

“Sure will be! I hope you brought snacks!”

Chūya eyed his pitifully empty backpack, “Eh. I’ll pick some up during my lunch break,” he scratched the back of his head.

“Oh! You can have some of mine!” Atsushi chimed, “I should have warned you it would be a long day. Sorry about that!”

“No worries.”

“The food will be free for staff at least and last year it was soooooo good. The cupcakes are amazing.”

“Yeah? I’ll have to check them out.”

Atsushi ran over to another table to gather extra supplies as Chūya began setting up.

There was a tap on his shoulder. He turned around, but the tap switched to the other shoulder.

“Who the fuck—”

“Boo!” Dazai chirped playfully, boop-ing Chūya on the nose. A bright pink blush brushed Chūya’s face.

“What was that for??”

“Your nose just looked so very boop-able!” Dazai replied with a trickster’s glean.

“So that’s the outfit you went with? It looks great.”

Dazai fiddled with the hem of his blazer. They wore slim-fit black slacks, a blue button down, and a black blazer. It was the second outfit they had tried on at the store.

“You look really nice,” Dazai flipped the compliment Chūya’s way.

Chūya’s blush spread to his ears, “Thanks. So um. What are you doing here? Are you doing anything for the event?”

“I’m playing some background music in a bit,” Dazai answered, “not a formal concert or anything, just underscoring the event.”

“That’s really cool! Are you playing a specific type of music?”

Dazai shrugged, “Not really. Since it’s going to be a few hours I think I’ll improvise for the most part.”

“That’s neat,” Chūya replied enthusiastically, “I don’t think I’ve heard you improvise before.”

“I don’t do it often. But it does help with my nerves, since there aren’t many obvious ways to mess up.”

“That makes sense. Do you like it?”

With a nod, “I do.”

Chūya eyed the time on his phone, “So when do you start? And do you get a lunch break? I only get 30 minutes but if you want, we can coordinate—”

“I’d like that a lot,” Dazai beamed, “I’ll be taking a break around 1:30, if that works for you I’ll just meet you here?”

“Yeah, that’s great!” Chūya bounced, overzealous.

“Perfect~ I’ll come by then.”

Before Dazai left, Atsushi returned to the table.

“Dazai!”

“Atsushi!! Hi!!!”

They hugged, excited by each other’s presence.

“I feel like I’ve barely seen you since I got here,” Atsushi said as they let go.

“Probably because someone’s been locked away in a practice room,” Chūya teased. Dazai stuck his tongue out childishly.

“Speaking of—” Atsushi poked nervously at the hem of his shirt, “would you um, if you have time. And like, no worries if you don’t want to! But um. If you do, would you like. Want to give me some um, some more lessons this year?”

“Piano lessons?” Dazai lit up as Atsushi nodded, “Of course! I’d love to!”

“Yeah??”

“Yeah! You’re a really great student!”

Atsushi pinkened, embarrassed and overjoyed by the praise.

“Wow um, thank you!”

Chūya wondered how Dazai ever could have been a bad teacher to Akutagawa, seeing how kind and caring he was towards Atsushi. Maybe their personalities clashed.

“I have to get set up,” Dazai gestured towards a piano in the corner, “but I’ll stop by to annoy you sometime before our lunch break.”

“Sounds good,” Chūya chuckled before waving bye.

“It sounds like you and Dazai have gotten pretty close,” Atsushi remarked.

“Yeah,” Chūya shrugged, “I guess we have.”

--

The day was busy. It felt like every moment, there was some rich couple laughing about their frivolous purchases, slapping down their absurdly heavy credit cards. Chūya and Atsushi worked as efficiently as they could, exhausted by the time noon rolled around.

“Is it okay if I take my lunch now?” Atsushi asked considerately.

“Yeah, sure thing,” Chūya replied, “I think the crowd is dying down too so I should be good on my own.”

“Okay, cool. Thank you!! I’ll be back soon!”

Chūya offered a brief wave as Atsushi grabbed his things and skipped off to the food vendors.

Taking a moment to breathe, Chūya opted to check his phone.

FROM: Shirase :P

[10:31 AM]

YO!

Bro

hows it goin?

FROM: sis

[11:15 AM]

I hope you’re doing well lad. Please give me a call tonight, we haven’t spoken in several days and I’d like to talk.

FROM: Yuan!!!!!

[11:27 AM]

Hey Chū! Shirase and I were just talking about you. Miss ya!

Chūya smiled at the slew of texts, feeling surprisingly popular. He set to work, responding to them before a familiar voice caught his attention.

“Not slacking off on the job, are we?”

A meerkat grin greeted Chūya.

“Says the pianist who’s stopped playing?” Chūya retorted with an eyebrow raise.

“Sorry,” Dazai smirked, “I don’t think it’s possible to play and deliver cupcakes to cute boys at the same time.”

Dazai revealed a perfectly frosted chocolate cupcake he’d been holding behind their back.

“That’s for me?” Chūya asked.

“Surprise! Figured you might be hungry for a snack and the cupcakes here are criminal.”

“Aw,” Chūya cooed sweetly, “you didn’t have to stop just to bring me a cupcake.”

“Of course I did,” Dazai responded, “otherwise they’d all be gone!”

Chūya couldn’t stop smiling.

“Well, thank you,” he accepted the cupcake gratefully.

“I hope you like chocolate,” Dazai added, “I know you ordered a vanilla milkshake last time we went out, but I’ve seen you eat brownies and stuff so I figured it was a 50/50 shot.”

“I love chocolate,” Chūya replied, licking some of the swirling rainbow frosting off the top, “omg this is so good.”

“Right?? And the cake itself is sooo moist and yummy.”

“Seriously, you’re the best,” Chūya raved, a bit of frosting sticking above the corner of his mouth.

“You um,” Dazai moved in close, “you have some frosting on you.”

Chūya reached to wipe it off, comically missing the spot by a landslide.

“Here,” Dazai reached over. His thumb brushed against Chūya’s face, skimming his lips.

They were incredibly close.

He could smell the lingering chocolate on Dazai’s breath from his own cupcake, mixed pleasantly with mint shampoo and—

“Did you get it?” Chūya whispered. Dazai nodded.

“Mmhmm.”

They didn’t pull away.

Their hand lingered as—

“Dazai,” a stern voice barked, “are you distracting my employees?”

Like The Floor is Lava, Dazai and Chūya jumped apart at Mori’s arrival.

“No, sorry, I was the one who—” Chūya began, cut off.

“Apologies. I was just stopping by. I’ll be going now.”

Mori nodded skeptically, “Very well.” Dazai turned, stopping as his father called out, “Sit further away from the piano. The space between you and it was too little.”

“Okay,” Dazai nodded.

“You may be improvising, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t count. Play around with rhythm and focus on sticking to one key for a while.”

“Okay.”

“And the swaying—less of that. Sit still as you play, but not stiff like a robot. At least act like a human.”

“Okay.”

“And if you do eat lunch here, don’t go overboard. Please for the love of God, eat something healthy.”

“Okay.”

It was quiet. Dazai left.

“I apologize if my son gave you a hard time,” Mori spoke slowly, approaching Chūya. Skepticism still heavily laden on his tone. “He didn’t behave—” he paused before identifying the right words, “inappropriately towards you. Did he?”

“N-no,” Chūya stuttered, “no, he was fine. It was um. It was nothing.”

“I see,” Mori took Atsushi’s seat, lowering his voice as he spoke seriously, “Osamu can be rather. Flirtatious, shall we say?”

“We—we weren’t—you don’t need to worry about um about that or uh—”

“Last year it got him into quite a bit of trouble. I would like to avoid a repeat of that.”

Chūya’s brow furrowed, “Um. What do you uh—what kind of trouble?”

Mori tsked, “I do not have a problem with a homosexual lifestyle,” he spoke in a hushed tone, “but not all the students and staff are as. Accepting.”

A hesitant nod.

“Please, I hope you do not indulge his delusions. You’re allowed, and encouraged, to turn down any advances. Is that understood?”

“They weren’t um—” Chūya lost momentum as he locked eye contact with Dazai at the piano across the room. Dazai winked. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

Mori nodded, oblivious to the moment occurring under his nose.

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” he stood up, checking his phone. “Do you need anything?”

“No,” Chūya shook his head, “I’m okay. Thanks.”

“I’ll leave you be then.”

Mori walked off.

“What was that about?” Atsushi came in, interrupting Chūya’s racing heart. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Chūya responded a little too quickly, “it’s fine.”

“Okay,” Atsushi didn’t exactly believe him, but wasn’t one to pick a fight for no reason.

“What did you get for lunch?” Chūya swiftly changed the topic.

“They have this really good potato bar—”

--

“I feel like a high schooler ditching class to smoke under the bleachers.”

“Was my chibi like that? A rebel without a cause?”

Chūya blushed furiously at the possessive reference.

“Not really,” he replied before stuffing a forkful of mashed potato in his mouth.

Dazai laughed, taking a bite of his salad. Unliked Chūya’s high school comparison, they were not hiding under bleachers at the edge of campus. Instead, they were in a small janitorial closet located at the back of the room, carefully shielded from prying eyes. The privacy was wondrous after a morning of interacting with hundreds of patrons.

They sat on the floor, Dazai cross-legged and Chūya with his knees pulled to his chest. Above them was a single lightbulb that didn’t do much, but allowed them to see their food and each other with little effort. The closet wasn’t anything special, a few feet wide with just enough space for young adults to hide from the world.

“What were you like in high school?” Chūya asked curiously.

Dazai finished chewing a crouton before answering, “I was really quiet.”

“You?? Quiet??” Chūya gaped, “I find that hard to believe.”

Dazai shrugged, continuing, “I didn’t get along with any of the other kids so I kept to myself.”

“So you didn’t have any friends at all?”

They elaborated, “He wasn’t a friend per se but I met my old piano teacher while I was in high school.”

“Were they one of your school music teachers or something?”

Dazai’s eyes lit up, sparkling with flecks of endearment, “Odasaku was the best. He actually played piano and organ for the church in town. My school music teacher, Ango, was friends with him and asked him to sub for him once. Odasaku was hands-down the coolest person I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah? What’s he like?”

“He had a very straight sense of humor. Totally deadpan. He was super talented and could always pinpoint exactly what a piece needed.”

“How did he become your piano teacher?”

# *

They stayed after school to practice.

It was easier than practicing at home. Easier without screaming siblings and an overbearing father recovering from surgery and the guilt that that that that he that

They decided to practice in the school’s music room.

The piano there was nice. A well-tuned classic upright. They could spend hours playing if they wanted to.

They didn’t. Want to.

They didn’t want to.

They didn’t want to play.

Lately.

Since

with

because

when it

“I don’t care if you continue playing, Osamu.”

His father was upset.

Upset about the accident and—

“Do what you want.”

Dazai does not know what it means to “want.”

“I was staying after school, practicing—”

“Shocker.”

They played.

They played because they couldn’t tell if they wanted to play and maybe, by playing, they’d figure it out.

His hands shook.

They never did that before.

Not before the—

He played over and over and over. To get it right. He needed to get it right, needed it to be perfect because without perfection he was—and his hands shook which meant it wasn’t perfect and—

“He left something in the classroom I was in I think. A notebook or something. But um, he came in while I was playing. I didn’t realize he was there so I just kept going.”

It was

they played

they were

it had to be perfect it had to be perfect it had to be perfect it had—

The piece finished.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t—

“You’re a very skilled pianist.”

“I don’t really know how to take compliments, so I was kind of mean to him at first.”

“As if you know what talent is,” Dazai sneered.

Oda shrugged, “My opinion’s no better than anyone else’s, so you have a point.” The agreeable answer was confusing. “But I really enjoyed listening to you play just now. That was Satie?”

“Duh.”

Oda ignored their attitude, “You sounded really solid. But you seemed frustrated.”

 “I’m not.”

“Maybe I misread. It just—” Oda assessed the awkward teenager in front of him. With their too long limbs and brace-filled mouth, Oda couldn’t help but be reminded of his own days as a troublesome teenager. “Do you have trouble breathing, when you play?”

“I don’t know what you’re—” they paused.

They paused because

because they

they did.

“It was the first time anyone had ever pointed that out to me.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to answer that,” Oda added, “it just looked like you were holding your breath. Bracing yourself for bad news. I think that’s why you were struggling at some parts.”

With a scoff, “What the hell do you know?”

“Eh. Not much. And maybe I’m way off here. I don’t know what the experience of playing piano is like for you—”

“I’m quitting.”

“Things had been weird since um. Since my father and I got into the um. You know.”

Chūya’s eyes grew wide with recognition, “Wait, I—you were—you were there? In the car?”

“That’s a story for another day.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Why? Wasting all my precious talent?” He didn’t work to hide the bitterness in his tone.

A modest shake of the head, “It’s sad to see someone give up something they love.”

“I hate it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They were silent as Oda paced, eventually leaning on the side of the piano adjacent to Dazai’s seated position.

“I used to hate it too, I think.”

“Then why the hell do you play?” Dazai spat.

“I learned how to breathe. Had a really good teacher and realized the only reason I hated playing was because I was playing to be heard. I wasn’t communicating.”

Dazai averted his gaze, refusing to show the interest slowly piquing in his mind, “What does that even mean?”

“Music, like any art, is a form of expression. It’s how we take a sensation or experience that words simply are not enough to articulate and communicate it with the rest of the world. Art, music, they’re attempts to describe the indescribable.”

Dazai locked eyes with the gray, distressed carpeting.

“When I played to be heard, I pinned all my efforts and joy on my audience. I needed them to hear me, needed them to understand what I was trying to say. Everything depended on how they felt and reacted and, ultimately, ended in their approval. But when I learned how to communicate—” he sighed, wistfully gazing into an unknown distance, “I found my voice. I learned how to tell the audience what I wanted to say. Learned how to tell everyone my own narrative. I wasn’t limited by the way I was perceived or how other’s expected me to sound. I was speaking through my instrument, on my own accord.”

Chestnuts eyed cerulean.

“It was the most liberating discovery of my life.”

“Wow. He sounds like one wise dude.”

“Yeah,” Dazai chuckled lightly, “he was.”

“Was?”

A sad, sad smile.

“Shit.”

Silence.

“When did he—”

“January.”

“Like this January?”

They nodded, murmuring a soft, “Yeah. Almost six months.”

“Dazai, that—shit I’m so sorry. It sounds like he was really special to you.”

“Yeah,” their eyes were wet, “he was.”

“Do you um. Want to be comforted or touched or anything?”

They shook their head, wiping his eyes with the back of a bandaged fist, “I’m okay. I didn’t mean to get so emotional. Sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I just um, I haven’t talked about him really. Since he. So yeah. I guess I have a lot of feelings pent up.”

They sat in an understanding lull, underscored by the white noise of light chattering coming from outside the closet.

They continued picking at their food, each eating at their own pace, relishing in each other’s presence despite permeating silence.

“Thanks for telling me that,” Chūya was the first to speak, pushing his empty dish to the side, “I’d love to hear more about him. If you’re ever in the mood to talk or anything. No pressure, of course—”

“Thanks,” Dazai answered sincerely, “that means a lot. I’ll take you up on that some time.”

“Good,” Chūya nodded, “because I’m really interested in how you fell in love with piano.”

“Chibi’s interested in my passion for playing? Even though I spent our first date ranting on and on and on all about—”

“Yes,” Chūya rolled his eyes with a laugh, “I am very interested in your passions, even if that means I have to sit through another one of your never-ending rants.”

“My incredibly interesting never-ending rants,” they corrected.

“Sure, whatever you say.”

They giggled, nudging each other with their shoulders.

“Shit,” Chūya checked his watch, “I gotta get back to my shift. Don’t want to be late.”

“I should probably get back to playing too,” Dazai stood up, stretching his arms over his head like a cat.

Chūya reached towards the door, turning the knob—

That was odd.

“Everything okay?”

The knob wasn’t turning.

“Uh—”

At all.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think something’s wrong with the door,” Chūya frowned, yanking at the knob.

“What do you mean?” Dazai abandoned their empty plates, walking over to inspect the rounded door handle. The kind that doesn’t have a lock on the inside because they’re completely spherical and—

“Oh fuck.”

--

Chūya had a vendetta against the instrumentalist who took over for Dazai’s absence. They were quite possibly Chūya’s least favorite person in the world. Not because he knew them personally or anything, but because they played the tuba. A very loud tuba. The kind that was so loud, patrons and staff would never be able to hear the banging and yelling coming from the inside of the janitor’s closet.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Chūya slumped to the ground, exhausted after ten minutes of screaming over the blaring instrument. “I’m going to be in so much trouble.”

Dazai groaned, leaning his head on Chūya’s shoulder, “Don’t remind me.”

They both grimaced, cringing at the bizarre improvisation that was happening just a few feet outside the closet.

“Doesn’t this musician ever run out of air?”

Dazai sulked, “If I wasn’t so irritated, I’d be impressed.”

Chūya rubbed at his head.

“What’s wrong?” Dazai checked in.

“Hm?”

“You look kind of pale. Please don’t tell me you’re claustrophobic.”

Chūya shook his head, “Oh, no I just. I’m getting a migraine and my meds are by the registers.”

“Shit. Want me to turn off the light?”

“No, it’s fine—”

A particularly loud series of notes caused Chūya to flinch.

“Light is going off. But first—” Dazai reached into his pocket, pulling out a small case from his pocket. “These are my spares. I clean them every time I use them and haven’t worn them today. I think they’ll help.”

Inside the case were two small earbud-styled earplugs.

“What are these? Like Bluetooth earbuds or something?”

“No,” Dazai corrected, “they’re earplugs designed to block out background noise without canceling everything. So you can still hear the person you’re talking with, that sort of thing.”

“Huh,” Chūya picked up one of the black earbuds, fiddling with it curiously, “what are they for?”

“Sensory stuff,” Dazai explained, “I wear them all the time. You probably can’t see them with my hair in the way. But yeah these are my extras so they’re sanitary, I swear!”

“Are you sure it’s okay if I use them?”

“You have chronic migraines, Chūya,” Dazai pouted, “take care of yourself, please and thank you.”

“Well,” Chūya carefully slipped the earbuds in, pleasantly surprised at their effectiveness, “I guess I’ll give it a shot.”

Dazai nodded, putting in his own pair before reaching to the light, “And now I’ll turn the light off and operation Make Chūya’s Migraine Experience Less Awful will commence!”

It was adorable, seeing this caretaking side of Dazai. Chūya hadn’t expected it.

They pulled the string attached to the lightbulb, undisturbed by the darkness surrounding them.

“Does physical touch ever help?” Dazai asked.

“Um. How do you mean?”

“I mean, we’re stuck in here for the foreseeable future,” Dazai answered, “the least I can do is offer you a massage or something.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“I’m great with my fingers, Chūya.”

Thankful for the darkness hiding his blush, Chūya practically choked at the statement.

“Seriously!! If physical touch is your thing, then can I please massage you??”

“I mean—” Chūya shrugged off his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt before maneuvering to a face-down position in Dazai’s lap, “if you insist.”

Despite the darkness, Dazai knew exactly where to press to alleviate the pressure in Chūya’s tense frame. Small moans escaped his mouth at kneading motions digging into his sore muscles.

“Where the fuck did you learn how to do this?”

“I told you, I’m good with my hands,” Dazai replied.

“Remind me to call you up next time I get a migraine. This is seriously amazing.”

“Don’t mention it.”

It wasn’t as effective as Rizatriptan or Nurtec, but the combination of the earplugs, darkness, and Dazai’s fingers made the migraine experience a bearable one.

“It’s getting kind of warm in here,” Dazai commented after a while.

“Yeah,” Chūya hummed, “if you want to take off some layers I won’t complain.”

Had the lights been on, Dazai would have fixed Chūya with A Look™.

“Not like that!!” Chūya quickly retracted, “I mean like. I don’t mind if you are shirtless or whatever. Just um. Because it’s really hot! And like, I don’t know. We go on dates and stuff and—”

“Relax, relax,” Dazai hushed the other, gently pushing him back on his lap, increasing the weight of his massage, “I know what you meant. And as long as you don’t mind I’ll at least take off my jacket.”

Eventually, they ended up both entirely shirtless, cuddled in a corner.

“Stupid mountains have no cell reception,” Chūya complained, staring at his useless cellphone, which was on the lowest brightness setting, still too bright.

“How long have we been in here?” Dazai asked.

“About two hours,” Chūya yawned.

They cuddled closer.

“It’s only been that long?” Dazai mused aloud, “It feels like it’s been days.”

“I really hope I don’t get fired for this,” Chūya bit his lip anxiously.

“Don’t worry, I bet Atsushi will cover for you. He’s a terrible liar, but a good kid.” 

“Ha. Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Chūya snickered, then shifted positions, looking in the direction of Dazai’s frame despite the darkness, “What’s the deal with you two?”

“Hm?”

“Like, you teach him piano or something?”

“Yeah, I gave him a few lessons last year. He’s a quick learner.”

“I just. I was wondering because um, well Gin mentioned something about Mr. Mori’s kid teaching her brother and I figured she was referring to you—”

“Yeah. About that.”

Chūya removed his head from Dazai’s shoulder, listening intently.

“Did something happen?”

“Not really,” Dazai muttered, “Akutagawa just. He gets on my nerves. And I was only 16 when I was teaching him and 16 wasn’t my best year. I was kind of a jerk.”

“Yeah?”

“But it’s not my fault he’s untalented.”

“Woah—” Chūya jolted at the sudden irritation biting Dazai’s voice, “that’s really harsh.”

“He literally can’t count. Like he couldn’t even get fucking Ode to Joy right—”

“Wow okay, you’re kind of being an asshole about this.”

Dazai stopped mid-rant, “I just. I don’t like him.”

“Because you couldn’t teach him? Maybe you weren’t a good teacher.”

Dazai scoffed and Chūya imagines if it were light, he would catch an eyeroll, “Maybe I wasn’t a good teacher, but he’s the one who fucking worshipped me. It was obnoxious.”

“I don’t get it,” Chūya shook his head.

“He just—he was obsessed with me. And I don’t mean that in the Mean Girls way, I mean he was actually obsessed with me and it was weird.”

Chūya wasn’t sure how much of this he believed. He hadn’t seen the two interact yet, but from what he knew of Ryūnosuke, it was clear the guy didn’t show a whole lot of emotion.

“Anyways, Atsushi’s a far better pianist than Akutagawa will ever be. And he’s not fucking obsessed with me. I’m serious, Akutagawa used to dress like me, buy the same mechanical pencils as me, he copied everything I did—”

“It sounds like he looked up to you. Maybe he thought of you like an older sibling.”

“The attention made me really uncomfortable. He put me on this pedestal and that—” they shivered, stopping mid-sentence, “it just makes me uncomfortable.”

“But—”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

There was an awkward lapse in the conversation.

“Can you tell me more about your teacher?”

Dazai tilted their head to the side, a gesture gone unnoticed in the dark.

“I’d like to hear more about him. If you’re like. In the mood to talk.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll tell you more about Odasaku.”

--

They passed out on each other, still in the closet.

A few more hours had gone by and the event had definitely wrapped up.

Dazai stirred, cursing under his breath as he came to.

“Hey, Chūya—” he shook the other, gently waking them up.

“Hmmmm,” Chūya hummed following a sleep-riddled yawn.

“The tuba stopped. I think the event is over.”

Chūya jolted awake, “Shit. Do you think everyone left?”

“I don’t know—” Dazai grimaced, “I’m turning on the light.”

“Okay.”

They both flinched at the brightness of the lightbulb. Chūya put the earplugs back into their case, slipping them Dazai’s way. Dazai stuffed them in his pocket before snatching his shirt and buttoning it back up at lightning speed. Chūya followed his lead, putting his own shirt back on, albeit haphazardly.

“I’m going to try banging on the door again,” Dazai decided.

“Okay,” Chūya nodded.

With a fist, Dazai slammed the metal door, screaming as loud as he could until—

There was a sound.

“WE’RE LOCKED IN!”

The knob shook.

“I’ll get a staff member,” a muffled voice called out through the other side of the door.

“THANK YOU!!!” Dazai and Chūya both screamed in unison, hugging each other excitedly. They held their embrace longer than necessary.

It only took a few more minutes of waiting before the sound of keys jangling caught their attention. The doorknob shook as the metal door swung open.

“Thank you so much—” Dazai froze mid-sentence.

The janitor waved, leaving Dazai and Chūya alone with—

“Fyodor?”

Chapter Text

Chapter VI: Pretty to you.

The curl of his lips is the same, a dancing sneer rather than a smile. Mirthless, devoid, only an eccentric quirk ghosts his face. His gaze is lazy, scarlet and indiscreet as it trails their body in a blatant once-over.

He eyes Chūya, brow raising with a judgmental sneer before turning back to Dazai, “You didn’t learn your lesson the first time?”

“It’s not what it looks like—” Dazai defends.

“I suppose some things never change.”

“I told you, that’s not what we were—” Dazai is once more interrupted.

“You’ve lost weight.”

Chūya’s eyes widen at the commentary.

“I know,” their response is black coffee bitter.

“Good for you,” a smirk, “though you should be careful. A few wrong moves and you’ll be right back where you started—”

Dazai ignores the scrutinization.

“If all you want to do is criticize my appearance, we’re leaving—”

“Without a proper thank you?” Chūya stays silent as Dazai glares daggers. “Apologies,” Fyodor waves his hand nonchalantly, “I didn’t think I’d strike a nerve so easily.”

“Thank you for getting the janitor. We are leaving—”

The young man twills a lock of greasy, shoulder-length black hair, “How do you find being a BMP participant? Clearly you like the people well enough—”

Chūya cringes.

“It’s fine.”

“You’re paying ten-thousand USD for ‘fine’?” His eyebrow lifts once more with the query.

“I’m here on a scholarship.”

“Right,” Fyodor’s laugh is an ugly sound, one which Chūya is uninterested in hearing again. “Because your family could never afford this program without help,” the word is spit as though it were venom, “I forgot that some people face career-ending injuries, forcing them into early retirement.”

“Is there a reason you’re here? You’re not a participant. There’ve been rumors about some rat not talented enough to make it in.”

“Oh, but I am a participant. I’m here for the competition.”

“Is that even allowed?” Dazai asks, a mixture of genuine curiosity and bored annoyance.

“For strings,” Dostoevsky shrugs carelessly, expression eking indifference, “there’s a three-week intensive program that culminates in the competition. That is why I’m here.”

“Right. You didn’t get into BMP, but still flew all the way from Russia to lose to me in a competition. Cute.”

Chūya would be lying if he didn’t acknowledge the relief and slight turn-on that came with the surfacing of Dazai’s ego. Still, the entire situation he was witnessing made something in him stir uncomfortably.

“You sound awfully cocky. You haven’t overcome that hand tremor of yours, have you? They must be shaking out of excitement.”

Dazai spared a glance at his hands. They were shaking.

“Making fun of a medical condition? I didn’t realize you stooped so low these days.”

“Ah. Calling over-medicated a medical condition. That’s a new one,” Fyodor mused aloud, a hand propped under his chin, “I don’t mean to jest, I’m merely stating the facts. I don’t know how you ever diluted yourself into thinking you could become a professional musician with hands like yours. I’m sure your lifestyle choices don’t help.”

Dazai’s head snaps to attention, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know,” Fyodor replies flippantly, “tremors are exacerbated by low blood sugar, overexercising, the like. If that pesky eating disorder comes back, I’m sure you wouldn’t so much as be able to play an octave,” a sly grin morphs, “am I wrong?”

“I’m in recovery,” Dazai’s fists clench in futile attempts to quell the tremors, “I don’t know where you’re getting these absurd claims from—”

“I saw you last summer, you know,” Dostoevsky crossed his arms, shifting his weight, “I knew you intimately. I saw the way you acted when you started getting a little chubby—”

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Chūya snarls, no longer able to stay silent.

“Like what? Relapses are a very common thing,” Fyodor points out unhelpfully, “we wouldn’t want you passing out in the middle of rehearsal and making a fool of yourself, now would we?”

“I am doing just fine,” Dazai spits, “so you have nothing to worry about.”

“Right.”

It is silent for a moment as they glower each other’s way.

“I don’t think we’ve met before,” Chūya eventually interjects, accompanied by his own steely stare.

“Is this your new boyfriend, Osamu?” Dostoevsky poses with a curious tilt of his head. Dazai breaks his eye contact, eyes darting around the vicinity.

“No, he’s not. Don’t say shit like that in public,” they growl, “you of all people should know better.”

“Forgive me,” Fyodor laughs, “but I don’t think your preferences are much of a secret on campus—”

“You’re one to talk. It takes two to fuck.”

“What are you talking about?” Chūya scrunches his brow with fervent curiosity.

“Chūya, this is Fyodor Dostoevsky. Fyodor, this is Chūya.”

The introduction was lackluster, to say the least.

“Hi,” Chūya addresses skeptically.

“And now we’ll be going. Goodbye Fyodor.” Before Fyodor can manage a reply, Dazai grabs Chūya by the wrist, leading him out of the hall and back towards the path to the cabins.

“What the hell was that about?”

“Congratulations,” Dazai lets go of Chūya’s wrist, “you’ve officially met my ex-boyfriend.”

--

“Are you okay!?? Where were you?? Did something happen?? I’m so glad you’re back!! I was so so worried when you didn’t answer your phone!!” Atsushi doted on Chūya like a worried mother hen.

“I’m really sorry for the trouble. Was Mori—”

“I told him you got food poisoning and had to leave early.”

“Oh my god,” Chūya put a hand on his chest, thoroughly relieved, “thank you so much. I owe you big time.”

“You don’t, it’s fine,” Atsushi replied, “all I want is to know what happened. Because Dazai also disappeared and if you two were,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, despite the fact that they were in the safety of their cabin’s common area, “hooking up, after what happened last year that’s incredibly risky—”

“No, no it wasn’t like that at all,” Chūya protested, explaining, “we got lunch together and decided to sit in the janitorial closet to be away from the crowds because it was really loud but the um. Someone locked the door from the outside and we got trapped.”

Atsushi’s eyes nearly flew out of his head.

“Holy shit!! Are you okay?? That’s terrifying!”

“Yeah—we’re fine. I’m really tired though and have to give my sister a call.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry for pestering you—”

“No you’re totally fine,” Chūya waved the worry away, “I’m really thankful you covered for me.”

“It’s no problem!!”

“I’ll be in my room,” Chūya pointed at his door, walking away slowly.

“Okay!”

It was an awkward departure as they split.

Once in his room, Chūya flopped down on his bed. The cell reception wasn’t half bad, for a change, so he gave his sister a call.

“Hey ane-san,” he greeted tiredly.

“Chūya? You sound exhausted.”

“Long day.”

“Oh?”

“It’s uh. It’s complicated.”

She hummed before responding, “Would you like to talk tomorrow? You should get some rest—”

“No, it’s okay,” Chūya dismissed, “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, lad. Dads miss you as well.”

“Aw. I miss them too. I miss all of you. And my friends from school.”

“You’re still getting along with all your coworkers?”

“Oh yeah, totally. It’s just—it’s not like I’m lonely, I just miss everyone. You know?”

“Yes, I understand.”

There was a brief lull before his sister cleared her throat. Her voice shook imperceptibly.

“Lad. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Um, okay?” Chūya sat up, leaning against the wall with an uneasy tone.

“I. The other day. I was,” she stopped in between fragments of a sentence with out-of-character hesitation.

“Is everything okay?”

“I don’t.” A pause. “I don’t know.”

--

They ate dinner together in silence.

“Is there a reason you were unable to play the rest of Prelude?” Their father’s tone is stern, seeping with disappointment.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” Dazai responded, continuing to eat his cafeteria baked potato. It was rare that he and his father dined together, even rarer to be doing so in the cafeteria. It was technically closed at this hour, but there were special privileges of being the Mori Ōgai and child.

“Funny,” his father continued to eat his salad, speaking in between bites, “Nakahara said the same thing.”

“We ate the same food,” Dazai clarified, “I think that’s what made us sick.”

Another moment lapsed.

“Osamu,” Mori heaved a bone-tired sigh. He placed his fork back on his plate, interlacing his hands with each other as he spoke, “I try very hard to be accepting of your,” a pause, “life choices. But you know what being irresponsible got you last year?”

“Dad—”

“It nearly got you killed.”

“I—”

“Not to mention your relapse.”

“It’s not the same—”

“I see you making the exact same mistakes as you did last year. Hooking up with other boys, eating carelessly—”

“That’s not—”

“If you remain this blase, you’ll be putting both of our names at risk.”

Dazai let his fork clatter on his plate, shoving their food away.

“What the hell do you want me to do? I’m not hooking up with Chūya and I can’t live off of salads like you.”

Mori smiled coldly, “It’s not a bad idea to monitor your weight. You can perhaps keep a log of how many calories you’re consuming—”

“So a food journal.”

“Precisely.”

A long beat.

“You know, that’s what I did when I was starving myself.”

Mori’s brow knit with concern, “We don’t want things getting out of control like last year—”

“I didn’t even gain that much weight! You and everyone else were the ones making a big deal out of it!”

“Your health is a very big deal, and if gaining weight is going to cause another relapse then I’m simply suggesting we get ahead of it—.”

“You can’t tell someone with an eating disorder to restrict their calorie intake—”

Mori frowned, “Are you not recovered?”

“I—I am,” they stuttered.

“Then how is this a problem?”

“It’s—” they couldn’t find words to articulate, “it just is. I can’t do that stuff, dad! It’s triggering.”

“You kids and your ‘triggers’,” Mori promptly brushed off the concern, “if you want to willy nilly eat whatever you want, go right ahead—”

“Dad—”

“Just know, I might not have the patience to deal with another stint in the hospital.”

Dazai glared at his unfinished food. Part of him wanted to finish it purely out of spite, while the other felt sick to their stomach at the idea of eating anything after that conversation.

“I just want what’s best for you, Osamu. You know this. I just want you to be healthier.”

--

The biopsy was inconclusive.

The biopsy that Chūya didn’t know his sister had.

The one to find out if maybe she was sick again. If maybe she wasn’t okay. If that lump she found was actually a problem. If maybe she’d end up at another hospital and Chūya would be thousands of miles away, separated by seas, unable to be there for the woman who’s always supported him no matter the circumstance.

It’s mortifying.

Hospitals and prognoses and doctors with phony smiles and too young Chūya far too little to understand why sister looked so pale and thin. Why sister couldn’t make it to his choir performance or first musical. Why sister was always sick.

Why sister might be dying.

Prelude was only a few days ago, but it feels like entire lifetimes from the person he is now to who he was. The carefree demeanor of a boy hiding with his crush in the janitor’s closet feels foreign, wrong considering all he knows now.

He’s not allowed to be happy. Not while she’s sick. Not while she may be barred from this very same happiness, ripped away from the prospect of anything resembling joy.

Chūya should not be allowed happiness.

Even as he gets a rare text from Dazai, despite shitty cell reception.

Even as Tachi invites him to a night out in town.

Even as he gets better at his job and earns praise from his boss.

Nothing makes this emptiness go away. He wonders if he’ll ever be back to normal.

Chūya doesn’t know. All he knows is the tests were inconclusive and his sister might be dying. Again.

--

He feels sick.

They stare in the mirror in fruitless attempts to discern dysmorphic fictionalization from reality.

He can’t.

The words of their father ring in their mind, freshly brewed. They can’t tell if their thighs bulge and stomach or arms are soft. He pinches his skin, attempting to figure out if the lines he sees are imprints from his bandages or stretch marks.

They want to throw up. To take the food they’d forced down only hours ago and expel it elsewhere.

It’s fucked up and fatphobic and wrong, but Dazai would rather die than gain weight again.

Granted, he’d rather die than do a lot of things.

Still.

His father had a point, he can’t imagine going through that again. The stares, the ridicule, pointed looks and invasive questions. He hates himself, loathes his body. The less of it, the better. They wish they could separate his soul from his physical form. Wishes he could live as an entity. Wishes he could disappear.

If only he could disappear.

Maybe he’ll relapse do as his father says. Write down what he eats.

Yeah.

He can choose to take care of himself, to put their health first. To be more careful with what they eat. That’s not relapsing. Relapsing would be restricting to so few calories that the day is spent on an axis, tilting. Relapsing would be hiding things from his friends and family, wearing baggy clothes, forcing their fingers down their throat.

Keeping a food journal isn’t relapsing.

He thinks it’s a good idea, actually. A solution to his problem. And that’s what Dazai needs right now, solutions.

The sound of the door startles him. His roommate Kaiji waltzes in, clueless to the intimate displays of sickness he is interrupting.

“Hey,” Kaiji addresses his roommate somewhat awkwardly, “you good?”

Dazai stands topless in front of a full-length mirror behind his armoire. His torso is mostly covered in bandages, though the ones on his arms have been loosened, exposing thick and thin red and white lines.

They hug their torso tightly.

Dazai simply nods before reaching over and tossing on his favorite oversized hoodie. The forest green one that smells perpetually like Oda.

There’s a lull of discomfort, a painful quiet in the air.

“Are you um,” Kaiji fumbles over his words before settling on, “are you okay?”

Dazai blinks owlishly, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Kaiji eyes the now-covered arms where cloth had slipped up and histories etched in pain eroded, “Your um. I don’t mean to pry but uh—”

“They’re not new,” Dazai is quick to answer, “and I have a therapist.”

“Oh. Okay.”

There’s another uncomfortable pause, a stale silence hanging between them.

Finally, Kaiji speaks, another demonstration of concern, “Make sure you’re eating enough.”

Dazai snaps to attention, startled.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It just,” Kaiji looks away with a shrug, “it means eating isn’t an optional activity.”

Dazai stuffs their hands in their pockets, “I can’t fucking win, can I?”

Kaiji frowns, confused.

“What do you mean?”

A pointed glare with a chilly laugh, “Last year, I ate too much. This year, I’m not eating enough? But I’m still eating too much to be thin. What the fuck do you people want from me?”

“Dude, chill, I just meant—”

“Don’t call me a dude.”

“Right. Sorry. Look,” Kaiji’s gaze shifted back Dazai’s way, “I didn’t know you last year so I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just worried because I can see your ribs and you were staring at your reflection like—” he pauses, taking a breath, “I work in theatre. Okay? I’ve seen some shit. I don’t know what’s going on in your head, just make sure you’re eating.”

Dazai grabbed his binders of sheet music, shoving them in their bag.

“I’m sorry if that makes you upset—” Kaiji moved to apologize.

“No! You’re fine! I’m not upset~” Dazai trills.

“Oh. Really?” Kaiji asks, uncertain.

“Absolutely,” Dazai smiles brightly, “thanks for having my back, man.”

Dazai is being sincere. He appreciates the concern.

Even if the voice is now decibels louder than before.

You can do so much better.

You’ve made such great progress.

Just try harder.

It’s better than the alternative.

Better than—

“I’m going to pester Chūya. Will probably be back late. Have a goodnight if I don’t see you!”

Confusedly, Kaiji blinks with a brief, “Yeah um, sure. Okay. See you.”

--

Chūya stared aimlessly at his wall.

There was a knock.

“Chūya?” Atsushi’s uneasy tone bleeds through the door, “Dazai’s here. He asked if you were free.”

“One sec.”

He stands up, running his hands down his outfit in attempts to de-wrinkle his salmon short-sleeve button down. It’s futile and he accepts this with a sigh before opening the door.

“Hey—”

Dazai barges in.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

Chūya blinks several times in a row, “Where is this coming from?”

“Am I pretty?”

“Uh—” Chūya stammers, “yes. Yeah. Very. You’re very pretty, Dazai. Why are you asking me this?”

Dazai grabs Chūya by the shoulders, “Say it again.”

Azure locks with chestnut.

“You’re pretty, Dazai.”

“Again.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Their grip tightens, voice shaky.

“Again.”

“You’re so incredibly pretty. Everything about you is beautiful—”

“A-again.”

They hiccup quietly, hands tremoring.

Chūya places his own calm hands gently on either side of Dazai’s face.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Dazai’s cheeks are wet and Chūya’s fingers are wet and he breathes softly, reassuringly, “but you’re going to be okay.”

“Does Chūya mean it? Does he really think I’m pretty?”

A nod, a whisper, “Yeah. I really do.”

They lean in closer, face red and hot and sticky and

“Will Chūya kiss—”

Lips crash against lips. The taste of peach Chapstick mingles with the aftertaste of peppermint tea.

The world glows, hues of shimmering brass glimmer all around as golden hour shines through the parted curtains skimming the bedroom window.

Hands roam torsos as bodies crumple onto the bed. Dazai clings to Chūya tight enough to bruise.

“You’re so beautiful,” Chūya murmurs in between kisses, his hands rubbing Dazai’s back.

They speak with their mouths without saying a word. Speak with closed eyes and clenching fingers and soft moans. Converse with their bodies until no sentence is left unsaid.

Dazai’s eyes flutter with pleasure as Chūya nips at his neck, ear, jaw. They swoon at the feeling of warm fingers slightly too large for such a small body, touching and caressing, making their presence known. Piano hands run up and down a wrinkled top, tracing Chūya’s svelte frame with the motion. They separate briefly.

“Chūya isn’t lying to me. Is he?”

Strawberry brows furrow, “You don’t believe me?”

Meager attempts to blink back the wetness creeping into their eyes, “I want to. Believe you. I just,” they trail off. A chaste kiss tickles their forehead.

“That guy from the other day,” Chūya whispers, “you said he was your ex?”

A nod.

“We only dated a few months.”

“Did seeing him upset you?”

Another nod. It wasn’t a complete lie. Next to the conversation with his dad and the plethora of comments his body seemed to be earning him lately, the interaction was quite upsetting.  

“God, what a dick,” Chūya muttered under his breath.

“Yeah.”

“Was he like that while you were dating?”

Dazai considered for a moment, “Sort of. Not at first. It doesn’t matter, though. I don’t plan to see him outside of required activities.”

Chūya fights to piece together what had happened. To get a better picture of Dazai’s distinct mood swings. To understand how they got it into their head that they were anything other than stunning.

The story from their shopping excursion crosses his mind. That thing that happened.

How Dazai had been hooking up with another participant when—

“That was him?”

“Hm?”

“The guy you were with when like. You know,” Chūya gestured vaguely. Dazai made a face. “When like. The Grounds Crew like. You know?”

They froze, abrupt.

“I should go.”

“Wait! Sorry I didn’t mean to pry um, we don’t have to talk about that.”

“Really, I should um—” they scrambled up, readjusting their top.

“Dazai—” Chūya called out helplessly, “I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

“You’re um, you’re right,” Dazai kept his gaze averted, no longer running away but not exactly keen on staying, “he was with me.”

It was quiet as Chūya absorbed that information.

“Shit,” he finally murmured.

“I um. I really don’t want to talk about—”

“Sure, sure. Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up. It’s no wonder you’re upset.”

“I’m. Yeah.”

Dazai stood uncomfortably in the middle of the room before Chūya joined them. He wrapped his arms around Dazai’s waist.

“Is this okay?”

Dazai answered him with a kiss.

“A verbal answer would be nice,” Chūya smiled cheekily, “verbal consent is sexy, you know?”

“It’s perfect,” Dazai whispered, breathing haughtily before leaning in to kiss Chūya once more.

They kissed and held each other and even though Dazai still didn’t feel beautiful, he felt.

--

The season was in full swing. Workshops, rehearsals, concerts, it felt as though they were constantly busy. Mealtimes clashed, as Dazai had rehearsal when Chūya had break and Chūya had work when Dazai had an inkling of free time. They did their best to see each other early mornings and late nights. Chūya wasn’t built to be a morning person, he needed his sleep. Dazai on the other hand, was in his prime from midnight to 8 AM. They joked about wanting to be nocturnal and Chūya had a feeling they were half-serious.

The other participants seemed nice enough. Chūya really only met them if they came to request comp tickets for their concerts or student tickets to see their friends perform. For the most part, they seemed like average people. Chūya was consistently surprised and irritated at Dazai’s sweeping generalizations towards them.

Of course, then there were people like Fyodor Dostoevsky.

“I’d like student tickets for the Bach on the seventh, the Berlioz on the ninth, Saint-Saëns that’s—” Fyodor casually flicked his smart watch, “today.”

“Anything else?” Chūya asked through grit teeth, forcing a polite smile as his boss worked directly behind him.

“Yes,” Fyodor hummed, “I’d like the Stravinsky and Liszt. And for all of these performances I’d like to be seated where I can see the pianist’s hands.”

That was a funny thing about the classical music community, everyone made a big deal of wanting to see the pianist’s hands. Chūya had never thought about this, despite being a lover of classical music. It made sense of course, Chūya would much rather see an instrumentalist’s work than their face. Still, the request threw him off. Maybe it was because he knew Dazai would be performing at least half of those concerts.

“Unfortunately,” Chūya said with a cold smile that implied the circumstances weren’t that unfortunate, “student comp tickets are random. I can’t choose where you’ll end up seated.”

Fyodor raised a brow, “Sure you just don’t want me looking at that boyfriend of yours?”

Chūya hissed as though he’d been burned, thankful Mori was seemingly engrossed in a phone call.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Chūya spat, “and I seriously can’t choose where you sit. Do you want your tickets or not?”

There was an unenthusiastic sigh, “Whatever you say, Nakahara.”

After situating his tickets, there was a momentary lapse where Fyodor mumbled something under his breath.

“What?” Chūya snapped.

All he was presented with was a wave as Fyodor grabbed his tickets and left.

On his way out, he came crashing into—

“Dazai?”

“Fedya—” Dazai coughed, correcting himself, “Fyodor. Hi.”

“Hello.”

Their stand-off was awkward and ended anticlimactically with Dazai forcing his way past. As he arrived at the window, they made sure Mori was still engrossed in his call, buying Dazai a couple of minutes of real estate.

“Brought you something,” Dazai smiled, sliding a cookie on a napkin through the bottom of the teller window.

“Aw,” Chūya cooed, “where did you get this?”

“Someone’s birthday during rehearsal. Guess the director found out and wanted to surprise us.”

“That’s really sweet,” Chūya smiled, then glanced at the cookie with a small laugh, “heh. Literally.”

“Nerd,” Dazai replied affectionately. “How’s work today? Other than needing to call an exterminator for that stinky rat Dostoevsky, at least.”

“It’s been alright,” Chūya shrugged, “a steady pace. Can’t complain.”

“Hm,” Dazai nodded before flashing a wicked grin and lowering his voice, “wanna go out tonight?” Chūya tilted his head before shifting his eyes Mori’s direction, then back to Dazai. Dazai rolled his eyes, “Come on,” he kept his voice low.

“Any special occasion?” Chūya asked.

“I just need a night to let loose. Vibe. That sort of thing. I’ll probably be tense from—”

Before Dazai could finish, his father hung up the phone, shifting his attention Dazai’s way.

“Dazai. Are you harassing my employee again?”

“No sir,” Dazai replied with a meerkat grin.

“I find that hard to believe,” Mori sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Have you finished doing what you came here to do?”

Dazai shot Chūya an expectant look, “Just think about it,” he said before nodding at his father, “I’ll leave you to it—”

“Do not forget,” Mori interrupted him, “your mother and siblings will be arriving around 6:30—”

“Yep. I know,” Dazai bit back an eyeroll, “I have to get going now, rehearsal calls!” With a quick wave Chūya’s way and no formal goodbye towards their father, they left.

“Chūya,” Mori addressed the younger one as Dazai walked off, “I presume you will be joining us tonight?”

Chūya frowned, “For…?”

“For Dazai’s birthday dinner.”

“His bir—” Chūya stopped mid-sentence, realizing how snaky Dazai had been about the entire situation, “it’s his birthday?”

A nod, “Yes, it is. Seeing as this is a family affair, we typically would not allow guests.”

“Oh. That’s okay. It’s not—”

“However,” Mori continued, “it is his birthday and he has such few friends. If you would like, you are welcome to join us.”

“I wouldn’t uh—want to intrude—”

“It would be a nice change of pace, seeing as he really does struggle with his peers. Perhaps his mother will worry a bit less if she sees proof that he isn’t entirely isolated, as he usually is.” With that, Mori gathered some files and proceeded to the door.

--

# *

After his shift, Chūya finds Dazai in his usual practice room.

The piece he plays is eerie. Strange and unlike his normal repertoire. The melody is haunting, played with unexpected vigor. It’s lethargic in a way, dragging its feet, though the energy as each note played is anything but. It’s as if they’re anticipating every twist and turn, so married to the song that it would be foolish for them to even miss a note.

His fingers skim across the keys, delicate. They brush each, one at a time, two at a time, chords and octaves. The song sounds almost wrong in how sad it is. Chūya feels wrong listening to it. As if he’s interrupted a moment of intimacy. They’re dancing precariously with this reddish-brown instrument, a duet between artist and artwork. It’s spectacular in its beauty. Unafraid and uncomfortable.

The song aches. Something about the way Dazai’s fingers twitch on the keys, how they tense and struggle to breathe throughout. It’s so quiet, so soft, yet he’s breaking down with each note. Chūya wonders, not for the first time, if Dazai really is as okay as he pretends to be.

Then again, he thinks about himself. The own charade he’s been putting on these days, the empty smiles that don’t quite reach ocean eyes. It’s not that Chūya is actively unhappy. He is happy. With Dazai, especially, he is happy.

But he thinks of his family.

His sister.

The people he can’t help but feel as though he’s abandoned.

The thoughts are swilling in his head and it’s as if, next to Dazai, Chūya too, cannot breathe. Chūya too, feels shaky like trembling hands, his chest heaving with each note. This song is too much. Something about it is too much and Chūya needs it to stop.

But it doesn’t.

They play and play and play. It feels like something bigger is coming. Like this piece is on the precipice of a new discovery, of a new universe, of something Chūya’s too terrified to witness.

He’s never felt this way about Dazai’s playing before. It’s visceral and hits hard, clenching at his heart. It’s always been one Dazai’s most appealing traits, the way his music reaches into Chūya’s body and grasps at his consciousness, shaky fingers wrapping around his very soul with each note. Dazai’s music has always left Chūya feeling elated.

Not this song, though.

Not the way this melody plagues and stalks and looms. It’s different than the Saint-Saëns, which is as playful as it is eerie.

This one is different, as it pierces Chūya’s chest. As it stings like a wasp, searing and sharp and perhaps he is allergic to this tune, to this very song, to the notes being played too quietly for a scream so loud.

It’s provocative and Chūya almost wishes he has the stomach to be impressed.

But he doesn’t.

He isn’t impressed, he is petrified.

He is petrified and trapped in his mind, trapped by this song, enraptured by dread. By the feeling that something is coming. Something awful. Something bad and terrifying and inescapable and

he feels

it’s as if

that

he can’t process it. Can’t understand what he’s feeling. Melancholia?

He thinks about his sixteenth birthday.

The way he woke up, so excited to celebrate with everyone except—

No one was home. Because Paul had to work and Arthur had to take his sister to the hospital. Because money was tight and Paul couldn’t afford a day off and Arthur didn’t want to wake Chūya up early on his birthday but that meant

he was

all alone.

Chūya was all alone.

And there was a little cupcake left for him on the table, next to a note. A small, neatly wrapped box that contained his first cellphone. Something he’d been so so so excited for but now, couldn’t care less about.

Because he was lonely.

Because she could be dying.

Because his parents weren’t home.

Because he was selfish.

Because he is selfish.

Because all Chūya has ever cared about is himself, is how his sister’s death would impact him and his family and his life and maybe he never cared about her at all

maybe he doesn’t care about his sister at all

maybe he doesn’t love her as much as he should because he is a bad brother and he can’t imagine—

he can’t make these thoughts stop.

The spiral is inescapable.

# *

Shit.

Chūya can’t do this.

He can’t think or breathe or focus because this song is eating away at him, this song is slicing his wrist and painting with the blood. Dazai wields imitation ivory keys as knives, each one of them decorating Chūya’s body in scarring slices, marring his very being.

The song doesn’t just speak to him, it shrieks at him. It slaps him across the face. He breaks into a sweat and he’s on the ground?

When did he get on the ground?

When did he hunch over and grow smaller and smaller—

He wants to die.

Chūya wants to die. Because his sister is sick again.

Because he is away from her.

Because this song hurts.

Because Dazai hurts.

Because someone, something, this instrument that should be lovely and ethereal and safe is no longer. It is not safe.

Chūya is not safe. Not here. Not with this piece speaking the thoughts Dazai’s never voiced aloud.

Something is very wrong.

Dazai is not okay. Chūya is not okay. This song is not okay.

He feels like screaming. Like crying and shouting and begging to be heard because there is so much pain eating away at his chest. The sensation of which, is unbearable. This song is unbearable, Dazai’s contorted face, the fingers that fly like a dictator’s marionettes. He cannot articulate what is wrong, other than everything. Cannot dissertate why the world spins and everything he’s fought for so long to repress yearns to escape, claws at his chest, itching to seep through spiderwebbed hairline fractures.

It's all too much.

Everything is too much.

Everything is—

Chūya thinks maybe Dazai has always been in this much pain. That, since their very first encounter, he’s been salving open wounds. That Chūya has been too oblivious to notice, too selfish to want to notice. Because that’s what he is. It all comes back to this, to his selfishness, to his—

He is selfish

he is selfish

he is selfish

he is selfish and full of self-detestation.

Chūya has never had low self-esteem, but listening to this song, it’s as though the only answer is abhorrence. To abhor self. This song weeps, sobbing a tale of self-loathing and Chūya has fallen victim. He cannot escape its grasp. He is drowning. Dazai is drowning him in their own sorrows.

Because this is Dazai’s fault.

These feelings that Chūya cannot escape are Dazai’s fault. He’s the one making this happen. He’s the reason Chūya is selfish. It’s all his fault and Chūya can’t see straight, it’s all his fault and Chūya hates himself, it’s all his fault and—

What is he thinking?

What is going on?

Why the fuck is he so angry at Dazai?

Why the fuck is he—

He is confused.

He is angry.

He is sad and scared and

Quiet.

It is quiet.

It is quiet as Dazai notices the small figure in the doorway. The song tapers to a lull as their fingers lift.

“Chūya?” Dazai wrinkles his brow. His voice is far too calm for someone who nearly broke down mere moments ago. For someone who’s just thrown up their heart, expelled the demons of self. “Why are you on the floor?”

Chūya is—

Right.

He’s still on the floor.

He blinks, then stands up. Rubs at reddened eyes. Pretends he’s fine, the way Dazai pretends they, too, are fine.

“What…was that?”

Dazai can’t help the fleeting smile that breaks past his prior concern, “My favorite piece of all time. What did you think?”

“It was. Um.”

“That was only the first part though. There’s like, a bunch more pages. Fifteen more minutes or so. It’s a string quartet, actually. Do you know how hard it was to find a piano transposition? I literally spent months digging this up and was about to transpose it myself but—”

Chūya’s eyes are wet.

“Are you crying?”

Rapidly, he shakes his head.

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Sorry,” Chūya feels guilty. He averts his gaze, “That piece was just. It was a lot.”

“I’m sorry,” Dazai immediately deflates.

“No!” Chūya cries out, “No, you’re okay. It was good. Like, really really good. Why isn’t that your competition piece?”

Dazai shrugs, “My dad doesn’t like it.”

“Why not?” Chūya distracts himself from these unwanted feelings with probing questions.

“It hits a little too close to home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just. I relate to it a lot.”

“Yeah? What’s it about?”

“Suicide.”

The air is frigid.

“Oh.”

they are quiet they are quiet they are quiet everything is quiet everything is

“Sorry. If that makes you uncomfortable—”

“It’s fine.”

Chūya doesn’t know what to say.

So he doesn’t.

With haphazard gracelessness, he changes the topic.

“You could have told me it was your birthday, shithead.”

“What?” Dazai blinks, nearly getting whiplash from the conversational redirect.

“Your father told me. Why did you lie to me?”

“I wasn’t ‘lying’ to you,” Dazai tilted his head to the side, still confused, “you’re taking this rather seriously—”

“Of course I am!” Chūya bit back, “You were lying by omission. And now your father invited me to your family dinner which is sure as hell going to be uncomfortable—”

“Wait—what the hell? He invited you to my dinner? What the fuck?

“Yeah, he did,” Chūya frowned, then clarified, “actually, he assumed you already invited me. Are you mad about it? About the idea of me coming?”

“I—” Dazai glared at the floor, “I hate family dinners. And it’s my birthday. I hate that too.”

Chūya narrowed his eyes skeptically, “Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

Dazai shrugged, “I figured you’d find out sooner or later.”

“You could have told me.”

“I wouldn’t want you making a thing of it,” Dazai replied, honest. “I really don’t like my birthday and if you were to bring me a gift or something, it would have just made me upset.”

Chūya sighed, rubbing his temples before plopping down on the bench next to the other.

“See, if you had just told me that to start, I wouldn’t have gotten mad.”

“Is—” Dazai paused, “Is chibi-Chūya actually angry with me?”

Chūya shook his head, “No. I’m not. I just wish you were more honest with me. You didn’t have to lie because you were embarrassed—”

“I wasn’t lying,” Dazai pouted, “it really was someone’s birthday in class. That someone just happened to be me.”

Chūya shook his head, not exactly in the mood to argue semantics.

“Do you want me to go to this family dinner, or not? I don’t want to intrude—”

“Do whatever,” Dazai shrugged.

“Come on. Don’t be like that—” Chūya protested.

“Don’t be like what? Indifferent? I couldn’t care less if you came.”

“Uh, wow, okay,” Chūya gaped at their blatant apathy. “Fine, then I won’t—”

Dazai held up his finger, signaling a moment of pause as they answered their vibrating phone.

“Mother. Hello. Yes. I will be. I am. Hmmhmm. Okay. That’s—that’s fine—I said that’s fine I just—” a long pause, “oh. A new reservation? Different—yes, okay. You didn’t have to but—” another pause, “fine. That’s fine. Yes. Yes, we’ll be there. Okay. You too.”

“Is everything okay?” Chūya asked cautiously. Dazai smiled a plastic-y grin.

“My mother has moved our reservation.”

“Oh. Any reason why—”

“Because there will now be 7 attendees.”

“What do you—” Chūya paused, “fuck.”

“I hope you enjoy family drama, Chūya!! You’re in for a treat tonight!!”

--

Dazai’s family was. A lot.

They all sat in a private room of a nearby Italian restaurant. Dazai does not like Italian food.

It was fancier than Chūya had expected, based off of Dazai’s description of the place, and he felt nearly underdressed in his polo and jeans. Dazai had explained at one point that his family’s financial situation was, like most things in his life, complicated. On one hand: they had money. From when his father played professionally, from his mother’s family. They weren’t poor per se. On the other, there was barely any income. His mother didn’t work but lived lavishly and his father’s ability to work in the arts was extremely limited, resulting in poorly paying administrative roles. That, on top of four kids each with their own medical problems, meant that money was more often than not, tight.

Still, public appearances mattered to them. Despite being divorced, both parents showed up to big events, birthdays, and holidays. Dazai claimed they liked the illusion of a happy family more than the prospect of being one.

Chūya couldn’t quite get a read on Dazai’s mother. It seemed like, the way he was with the other BMP participants, Dazai was being too harsh, judging her as vapid.

“Chūya, sweetheart, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” Tane greeted with an overzealous hug. It reminded him of his father Arthur, who was always quick to welcome any of his friends into their little family.

“It’s great to meet you too.”

“Osamu rarely calls,” Tane complained, “but when he does he absolutely raves about you.”

“Does he now?” Chūya asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, about how much of an annoying slug you are,” Dazai, for his part, turned a bright shade of rouge, quickly averting his gaze. He gestured to the restaurant, “Let’s go in. I don’t want to keep dad and everyone waiting.”

Their mother ruffled their hair affectionately, grabbing Dazai’s wrist and pulling him towards the building. Chūya caught the flinch.

The kids inside were busy being menaces to society.

Akiko was describing to her father her most recent fascination in brain surgery on living specimens while Q shoved straws up their nose to pretend to be a walrus and Kyōka played hide-and-seek with herself.

“Really Ōgai,” his mother glared, “you can’t control the children for five minutes?” She snatched the straws out of Q’s nose, earning herself a death glare before picking up Kyōka and plopping her back in her seat.

“Tane,” Mori greeted bitterly.

Chūya took his seat in between Akiko and Dazai. Q and Kyōka sat across from them with Dazai’s mother next to Dazai at one head of the table, and Mori at the other.

“Are you ‘Samu’s boyfriend?”

“Your hair is funny.”

“Do you like working at BMP?”

Dazai’s siblings were just as talkative as Dazai himself. They asked a slew of questions, never pausing for more than half of Chūya’s answer.

“We’re um, we’re not uh—not dating—” Chūya replied to Q’s question, eliciting narrowed eyes and a contemplative stare. Q was nonbinary but their parents weren’t exactly respectful of “they/them” pronouns. So their siblings and Chūya referred to them one way, but their parents another. They wore black and white diamond print bell-bottoms with a tight black crop-top and neon pink nail polish. Along with their longish hair and feminine features, the fourteen-year-old could really pass for any gender.

Dazai’s sisters were less eccentric, but still unusual. Akiko was intimidatingly beautiful and reminded Chūya much of his own sister. She was in med school and had the dark circles under her violet eyes to prove it. Chūya was sure, that on top of taking care of her siblings at her mother’s place this summer, would be enough to drive anyone to exhaustion.

Kyōka was small, the youngest of the four. She was mostly quiet but seemed to pick up on every single one of Chūya’s insecurities. Perhaps it came with being related to Dazai, the way she could call him out for the littlest things he assumed no one would notice. The frizziness of his hair, his awkward laugh, and his bouncing leg—she called them all out at one point or another. Never malicious, just matter-of-fact.

“So, Chūya, I’d like to hear all about you,” Tane prompted with an excited clap.

“Chill mom,” Dazai stepped in, “we literally just got here. Let him look at the menu first.”

“I don’t mind,” Chūya smiled politely, “I’m really thankful to be here.”

Chūya did his best to peruse the menu and answer all of Tane’s questions.

“Such a gentleman! Sweetie, you could learn a few lessons in manners from this boy,” Tane addressed Dazai before turning back to Chūya. “And what do you do at Bennington? Are you a musician like my son?”

Mori sighed, visibly peeved.

“Oh, no,” Chūya corrected, “I work with your um—”

Mori interjected, “As I mentioned earlier, he works under me, Tane.”

“Right, right,” the woman waved the explanation off, “silly me. I’m always so forgetful. Did you know I almost forgot it was my son’s birthday today?”

Chūya laughed under obligation.

“I’m terrible, really,” Tane giggled, “though I’m sure that boy wouldn’t mind if I did forget today. Would you, hon?”

Dazai shook their head, continuing to eye the menu, “Doesn’t matter to me.”

His mother shivered, “I don’t know where he got that despondence from. Must be your side, Ōgai.”

Mori simply hummed.

Turning her attention back to Chūya, “Are you a performer at all?”

Chūya nodded, eager for the change in conversation topic, “Yeah, sort of. Or well, I used to be. Now I do stage management and production.”

“That’s very nice,” Tane smiled, a saccharine expression that felt more than a little forced. “My Osamu is probably jealous of you, he despises being the center of attention.” She placed her hand on their arm, “Don’t you, sweetie?”

Another flinch.

“Yeah. I don’t like attention,” Dazai agreed.

“He stands out in the family, the only one of us who doesn’t like to be the center of attention.”

“Kyōka doesn’t like attention much either,” Akiko corrected.

“Don’t you, dear?” Tane asked her daughter. Kyōka shrugged.

“It’s fine.”

“See? You don’t have to be boisterous to like attention,” Tane laughed at her own comment, disregarding Akiko’s frown.

The conversation continued like that, with Tane making sweeping generalizations about various family members and Akiko occasionally stepping in to correct her. Chūya was starting to see where Dazai picked up that habit from.

After the waiter came by a second time to check if they were ready to order, they finally began looking at their menus.

“You should order the salmon,” Tane pointed out, stabbing a perfectly manicured French tip onto Dazai’s menu.

“We’re not in California, mom,” Dazai’s lips turned downwards, “I’m not ordering fish.”

“Ōgai tells me you’re trying to slim down,” she continued, “fish is good for that.”

Dazai’s hand curled into a fist under the table. Chūya watched.

“Don’t say shit like that to them,” Q snapped irritably, “they’re going to throw up dinner if you make a big deal of it.”

Chūya appreciated Q stepping in to defend their sibling, but couldn’t help the feeling that there was a better way to do it.

“Q—” Akiko scolded the younger one, “leave him alone.”

“What,” Q threw their arms in the air, “I’m not saying anything that isn’t true. That’s what they did on Christmas when you kept saying he was—”

“Shut up—” Dazai hissed as his father spoke simultaneously.

“Did he now?” Mori raised an eyebrow.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Dazai and Q spoke on top of each other clumsily.

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” Dazai shook their head vehemently, “I’m in recovery and I’m not looking to change my body anytime soon so can we please drop this?”

Tane and Mori exchanged a look, a rare moment of allyship between them.

“We just care about your well-being, sweetie,” Tane cooed, “and your face is starting to look a little round again—”

Chūya desperately wanted to intervene, but knew it wasn’t his place. With all his luck, he’d make the situation even worse than it already was. Still, watching Dazai’s face fall at the comment fractured his heart.

Dazai’s hands shook under the table. Impulsively, only visible to Akiko, Chūya took one in his own. He pressed their furled fingers into the warmth of his palm, a moment of grounding that seemed to help. Dazai took a deep breath, his fingers tremoring marginally less than before.

“If you think I should order the fish, then I’ll get it,” they gave in.

Tane smiled that fake-lovely smile, “That’s my boy.”

--

Dinner was uncomfortable. Chūya didn’t know what to do. Couldn’t think of anything that would make the evening flow smoother than the cobblestone pavement under the trolley. Dazai’s siblings ate quietly for the most part, except for Q who had a bad habit of loudly proclaiming controversial opinions, taking joy in watching the bloodbath of disagreements unfold.

Chūya tried to keep conversation topics to the mundane, things like school and work. Still, it seemed their parents had it out for them, as Dazai was under constant scrutinization. Whether it was how much or how little he ate, not practicing enough, not getting enough exercise, not prepared enough for the competition—they managed to pick apart every piece of his life. For a birthday dinner, it felt very juxtaposed.

“Hey, are you okay?” Chūya whispered to Dazai as his parents and sister were in a heated political argument (most definitely caused by Q). His food was barely touched.

“I’m fine,” Dazai muttered.

Q glared, “Eat.”

Spitefully, Dazai picked up a forkful of salmon, shoving it into his mouth to appease his younger sibling.

“I can find an excuse for us to leave,” Chūya offered, keeping his voice quiet, “like say I’m getting a migraine or something.”

Dazai shook his head.

“I really appreciate that. But this is fine. My parents are just like this.”

Chūya understood. As much as he wanted to protest, he knew it wasn’t his place. It was up to Dazai and their own comfort level in the situation. No matter how upset it made Chūya, he had to respect how they wanted to do things.

“So, Chūya,” Akiko found an out of her conversation with her parents, content to see mother and father turn on each other. Dazai and Kyōka began making towers with the sugar packets on the table. “Are you liking your work with BMP? I’m really glad Dazai’s met a new friend.”

Like with his own sister, Chūya appreciated her natural, motherly warmth.

“I do like it,” Chūya replied, “your dad’s a good boss and the actual job is easy enough. I like meeting all the musicians and theatre kids. And getting to hear everyone play. There was the Shostakovich—shoot, which one was it?”

“Number 5,” Dazai and Mori responded simultaneously. Father and child exchanged an uneasy look before going back to their respective conversations.

“Right,” Chūya laughed, “Shostakovich number 5. It was fantastic. I got to listen to the whole thing after my shift yesterday and I was blown away. Of course, Dazai was incredible. I’m really excited for the Stravinsky piece they’re doing tomorrow night, Dazai thinks it’s right up my alley.”

“That’s really great,” Akiko smiled broadly, “I’m glad you have a passion for this type of thing. You mentioned you have a sister who’s a music teacher too, right?”

Chūya nodded, “Yeah, my older sister teaches little kids in Paris.”

Teaches.

As if she still

because right now

she can

she can still

she hasn’t.

Hasn’t stopped. Hasn’t had to—

Yet.

Because they don’t know what it is right now. Yet. They don’t know what’s happening yet and she might be okay and “taught” might remain “teach” and maybe she’s okay—

“Chūya? Are you alright?”

He blinked profusely.

“Sorry. Um. You were saying?”

Dazai shot him a glance from the corner of his eye, but nothing was said about the interaction.

Akiko looked Dazai’s way, “I haven’t updated you in a while, but I’m still looking at med programs down here for summer next year.”

Dazai’s eyes widened, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d still be in Japan during the schoolyear, but I’d spend the summer near you.”

“Wow. I knew we talked about it but I thought maybe you forgot or something.”

Akiko nodded, lowering her voice, “I don’t like leaving the kids at home, but Q will be old enough to watch over Kyōka next year and I think it would be good if you had another family member around. One who’s not musically-inclined, at least.”

Dazai wasn’t sure how he felt about this. He wasn’t interested in the idea of his youngest siblings fending for themselves in California while their mother fucked around, but having a stronger support system in the area would be a huge win.

“I’d really like that,” he settled on, “I’d like having you around.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I—”

Dazai does not enjoy being the center of attention. He is indeed thankful they are dining in a private room, because having everyone sing Happy Birthday as a very large cake is delivered to him in front of an audience would be pure hell. As it is, the happening is hellish, though cushioned by the fact that they are in privacy.

His face turns a bright red hue, embarrassment and anxiety intermingling.

“Um. Thanks,” Dazai blew out the candles, stared at the cake, then back up at his parents. He shoved the cake towards the middle of the table, “I’m pretty full—”

“You hardly touched your fish,” his mother pouted, “besides, you’re the birthday boy. You should have some of your cake.”

Akiko frowned, “If Dazai’s not hungry, we can just box some up—”

“Are you trying to make your mother upset?” Tane complained, an edge underscoring her voice.

“It’s not about you,” Akiko protested, “it’s Dazai’s birthday, and if he doesn’t want anything else we should respect that—”

“Please do not tell me how to be a parent, Akiko,” Tane glared, “this is none of your business.”

“Fine,” Dazai hissed, “it’s fine. I’ll have some. It’s whatever.”

He just couldn’t fucking win.

No matter how much he ate or didn’t eat, did or didn’t do, it was never enough, never right. Nothing Dazai could do would ever be right.

Chūya thanked the family awkwardly as Mori passed him a slice of the cake. It was vanilla and Chūya wondered if that was even a flavor Dazai liked, or another assumption made by their mom. They all picked at their cake in uncomfortable silence.

The quiet was eventually interrupted as their father cleared his throat, “Your mother has requested we take a family photo. Chūya, if you wouldn’t mind?” He passed his cellphone Chūya’s way. Chūya nodded, standing up to take a picture of the distorted family.

Tane and Dazai wore equally plastic smiles. Mori kept a stoic face. Akiko smiled awkwardly, coaxing Kyōka to crack a tiny grin. Q stuck their tongue out.

"Say cheese!”

Chapter Text

Chapter VII: with you

Dazai suggests they go out. “Let loose” after that disaster.

Chūya could not be more thrilled.

Going out is not something Chūya does often. Not out of lack of want, but lack of funds. So, when Dazai mentions how desperately they want to blow the birthday check their mother wrote them, Chūya can’t help the anticipation rumbling in his chest.  

“Where do you want to go?” Chūya asked casually. They’re on his bed, biting each other’s lips and licking at teeth and feeling every sliver of visible skin. Chūya revels, he loves making out with Dazai. He loves the little moans that slip out, the way they suck in their breath as Chūya finds his most sensitive areas. Dazai, in turn, adores kissing Chūya. He adores the smirks and fluttering eyelashes up against their cheek. The hands slightly too big for someone so small feeling their way around, as if they’ve known Dazai his whole life.

As soon as they returned to Chūya’s dorm, Dazai practically jumped him. Piano hands roamed a small, now-shirtless, frame, growing curiouser with every inch.

“Anywhere,” Dazai whispered, voice airy with yearning, “as long as I’m with you and some alcohol.”

Chūya’s lips quirked at the response, “Okay, I’ll choose. But we should ask someone to give us a ride so we don’t have to worry about DD.”

Dazai pushed Chūya onto the bed, kissing harder, grinding up against him with their bony hips. “Mmhmm," he agreed. A slight moan exited Chūya’s lips, unable to be helped.

“Maybe—” Chūya gasped as Dazai nipped a particularly sensitive area of his collarbone, “Atsushi—would—fuck—” his eyelids fluttered as Dazai began sucking on his nipple, tongue playing games of Ring-Around-the-Rosy. “Dammit, Dazai,” he laughed, breathy.

“I’m sure Atsushi would be up for it,” Dazai answered in between kisses. “But first, I want more of this.”

Chūya wrapped his arms around Dazai’s neck, pulling them closer, “As if I could say no to you.”

--

The bar was dark, crowded. There was nothing special about it, a wall of liquor, a small dance floor, and plenty of warm bodies squished a little too close together. Dazai wore his earplugs, thankful for the background noises they blocked out. The music was loud and the two had to strategically place themselves at the farthest end of the bar to be able to hear each other.

“How are you feeling?” Chūya asked uneasily as he failed to flag down the bartender.

“Dandy~” Dazai replied with a plastic grin. Chūya frowned.

“It’s okay if you’re not feeling great after everything—”

“Excuse me!” Dazai called out loudly to the bartender, interrupting Chūya, “I’d like a whisky on the rocks, please.”

“I’ll have a cider,” Chūya grumbled.

After both flashed their IDs, the bartender prepared their drinks.

“Cheers!” Dazai clinked his glass with an unsatisfying plink against Chūya’s can of cider.

“What are we toasting to?”

Dazai shrugged, “Well, it’s almost midnight, which means my birthday will be over soon. We can toast to that.”

“To your birthday?”

Dazai shook their head, “To it being over!”

Chūya laughed incredulously, “Whatever you say, mackerel.”

The two clinked their drinks together once more, another less than satisfying sound. Chūya took a few sips of his as Dazai downed half of theirs in one go.

“Easy,” Chūya warned, “you didn’t have much at dinner. We don’t want you getting sick.”

Dazai shrugged, smiling lazily, “I’ll be fiiiiiine!”

The atmosphere was vibey. They had chosen the closest bar to the music center, though it was hard to find one open late in the Bible Belt. Perhaps that’s why it was so crowded, it was one of the few places open past midnight on a weekday. Lights flashed blues and pinks and purples all prettily highlighting Dazai’s high cheek-bones.

“Hey,” Chūya caught Dazai’s attention.

They tilted their head to the side with a small, “Hm?”

Chūya beamed a radiant, flirtatious grin, “You’re pretty.”

Bright rouge bloomed on Dazai’s cheeks, spreading up to his ears.

“Chūya’s just being nice,” they gulped back the rest of their drink. Chūya reached a hand out to skim the side of Dazai’s cheeks.

“You’re really, really pretty.”

As if it were possible, Dazai blushed more, averting his gaze.

Chūya leaned over, whispering into their ear.

“Chūya—” Dazai whined, “don’t tease me like that!”

“Like what?” Chūya came even closer, pulling Dazai’s body into his own. Dazai groaned.

“If we get beat up tonight, it’s your fault.”

Chūya rolled his eyes, “Sure, sure.”

“I’m serious,” Dazai’s tone was anything but serious.

Reluctantly, Chūya pulled away, laughing as Dazai’s shoulders visibly slouched at the lack of Chūya’s body heat. Dazai tugged at the short sleeve of Chūya’s button down, willing his attention once more.

“Wow, you’re really needy, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” Dazai chewed on his bottom lip.

“Can’t say I blame you,” Chūya winked.

They stayed in their corner throughout the night, imagining the life they could have if they were exhibitionists.

Before they knew it, they were piling into the back of Atsushi’s car, positively wasted.

“Did you two have fun—”

Atsushi was cut off as Dazai tackled Chūya in the backseat. They promptly began making out.

Atsushi let out an unamused laugh, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

--

It was innocent enough—writing down what they ate.

That was it. No calories or sugar content or measures of fat—just the factual item that was consumed, with the purpose of eating healthier. There was nothing wrong with that.

It was fine. They were fine. Normal people did this. They could watch what they ate without relapsing. He was fine.

Everything was fine.

--

“No.”

“Come on!!”

“I said no. I don’t want to go.”

“Please??”

“What’s so great about the beach?”

“Literally everything,” Chūya deadpanned, “besides it’ll be a big trip, I’d hate to leave you behind—”

“I’m perfectly content practicing—”

“Oh my god. Please do not tell me you’re skipping the only beach trip of the season to practice,” Chūya let out an incredulous sigh. Dazai huffed.

“The competition is really soon. I need to make sure—”

“The piece sounds fantastic, Dazai. You said it yourself, you know it like the back of your hand.”

“That’s not enough.”

They glared at each other, reaching a stalemate.

“I’m not going to the beach.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Dazai and Chūya sat under one of the many pavilions on campus, Dazai scowling as Chūya continued listing off reasons they should go to the beach.

“It’s perfect weather out!”

“It’s too hot.”

“The ocean will cool you off!”

“So will a shower.”

“We can collect seashells!”

“Which will take up space in a shelf in my closet, never to be seen again.”

“We can—”

“No.”

“But—”

“Nooooooooooooo,” Dazai whined, “I don’t wanna.”

Tachi and Gin passed by, unintentionally interrupting the trademark bickering.

“Hey! Long time, no see,” Tachi greeted.

Gin eyed them skeptically, “Shouldn’t you be packing for the beach?”

Chūya pouted, “Dazai doesn’t want to come.”

“What!? Come on!” Tachi looked Dazai’s way incredulously, “It’s like, the only beach trip of the summer. It’s going to be so worth it!”

“Some of us aren’t particularly keen on getting sand everywhere. And beaches in California are way nicer.”

“So?” Gin shrugged, “Doesn’t mean you can’t have a good time on the east coast.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Why not?” Gin asked.

“I just told you. Sand literally gets everywhere.”

“Is that seriously the only reason you don’t want to go? You’re scared of a little bit of sand?”

“Sure,” Dazai shrugged.

“I haven’t gone to the beach in actual years,” Chūya nagged, “I really want to go with all my friends.”

“And you can,” Dazai said reasonably, “and then you and I can hang out tonight after you’ve washed every grain of sand off of the crevices of your body you didn’t know existed.”

“If you change your mind, we’ll be heading out in an hour,” Tachi said, waving as he and Gin walked towards their respective cabins.

Chūya tugged at Dazai’s gray t-shirt sleeve, “Please come.”

“No.”

“Seriously, I don’t want you to miss out!”

“I won’t.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“What will it take to get you to—”

“Hello Chūya,” Mori greeted them, walking along the path coming from the opposite direction of Gin and Tachi. “Osamu. Did you get my text?”

“No.”

“Your mother’s flight was delayed, she is now flying out tomorrow. She would like to spend the day with you. She will come by in an hour so please give her a call as soon as you can—”

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I can’t—” A saccharine tone.

“I’m sorry?” Mori furrowed his brow.

“I’m busy today.”

“With…?”

A beat. Then, “We’re going to the beach! Isn’t that right, Chūya?”

“I—”

“It’s our one beach trip of the summer! You don’t want me to miss that, do you?”

Multiple people (Two. There were two of them.) glowered in Dazai’s direction.

“I thought you didn’t like the beach?” Mori’s brow rose.

“I’ve turned over a new leaf, father. I think it will be an absolutely swell time.”

Mori, who did not look the slightest bit convinced, shrugged, “Fine. Just please tell your mother—”

“Okay I will!!!” Dazai stood up, grabbing his things, “We gotta go get ready! Bye!”

He pulled Chūya aggressively by the wrist, dragging him towards their own cabins.

Chūya seethed, “I fucking hate you, you know that?”

--

Bennington is in the southern half of North Carolina, bordering South Carolina. It’s not particularly close to the coast, resulting in a three-hour drive to the beach.

Dazai decides the fluctuating sine and cosine curves of car sickness is preferrable to any torture his mother would subject him to, so he suffers in silence.

“Are you okay? You’ve been really quiet?” Chūya asks as Gin and Tachi chat in the front and Higuchi naps in the other window seat. Being the smallest, Chūya got stuck in the middle.

Dazai nods, face tinged slightly green.

“You don’t get carsick, do you?” Chūya asks warily. Dazai offers a weak, unconvincing smile.

“Me? Carsick? Not at all.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No, I just—” they hit a particularly deep pothole, the jerking motion triggering Dazai’s gag reflex. He covered his mouth with a hand, swallowing with urgency.

“Do you need us to pull over?” Chūya whispered.

“No—I’m fine. I’m—” Dazai closed his eyes, ignoring the nausea, “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“Tachi? Can we stop by a drugstore?” Chūya interrupted the conversation occurring in the front of the car.

“Sure. Is everything okay?”

“Dazai’s getting carsick.”

“I’m fine—”

“I get carsick too,” Gin commented, fishing through her purse, “here—” she passed them a small bottle of Dramamine, “it’s the non-drowsy kind so you should be okay. Do you need water?”

Dazai gently shook his head, immediately regretting the action. He opened their own water bottle and downed the meds.

“If you need anything, let me know,” Chūya said as Dazai leaned on the car window, eyes slammed shut. Their hand grabbed Chūya’s own one, squeezing it tightly. They held hands for the entirety of the drive.

Despite it being non-drowsy medication, Dazai was lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of whirring down the highway, much like Higuchi. Chūya, Gin, and Tachi busied themselves with playing the “My Cows” game. The game was simple: every time you passed a field of cows, the first person to shout, “My cows!” would get a point. If you drove past a cemetery, you could kill another player’s cows by shouting, “Kill your cows!” and, thanks to Tachi’s additional rules, if you passed a church you could double your points by “baptizing” your cows. They continued to making increasingly absurd rules, such as passing a school and “educating” your cows or passing the only Synagogue in a 100-mile radius and “Bar Mitzvah-ing” your cows for a special triple-point bonus. Chūya had never, in his life, been around so many cows.

As they arrived at the beach, they lost track of the game, though Gin was fairly convinced she was the victor. Tachi promised he’d buy her some ice cream as her prize.

It didn’t take long for everyone to unload the car, each person grabbing a beach chair and bag with their things. Being the end of June, it was hot and the beach was as busy as Chūya imagined.

“Why are there so many people?” Dazai complained to no one in particular.

“Because it’s summertime, mackerel,” Chūya rolled his eyes. Dazai scuffed his sandals against the sand.

“I don’t mind walking a little further to get away from everyone,” Tachi said.

“Yeah, same,” Higuchi added, “I’m not a big fan of crowds either.”

“Let’s try that way,” Gin pointed to the right of the group.

Following much debate, they set up shop at the edge of the beach. It was as far as they could get without crossing over into private property. Though there were still people near them, it was the most secluded option they could fine.

The beach chairs were all set up, towels laid out, umbrella perched, and everyone was in the middle of putting on sunscreen and changing into their swimsuits. Gin and Higuchi wore matching black bikinis they picked out during a recent shopping trip, while Chūya and Tachi wore blue and green swim trunks, respectively. Chūya didn’t exactly brag about it, but he never minded how wearing a swimsuit gave him the opportunity to show off his abs. He was hoping to get some extra attention from Dazai who was—

“Aren’t you getting changed?” Chūya wrinkled his brow as Dazai sat on a beach chair, still in his street clothes. They wore a short-sleeved blue hoodie with a pair of bulky cargo shorts. Bandages covered their arms, neck, and much of their legs.

“Why? It’s not like I’m going in or anything.”

“We’re at the beach,” Chūya said, “you should wear a swimsuit.”

“Why?”

“In case you change your mind? I don’t know. You just should. You can leave your top on, just take off your shorts.”

“That’s hot.”

“That’s not!!! I didn’t mean!!!”

“Relax,” Dazai laughed as Chūya flustered, “I know what you meant. But I won’t change my mind, so you can leave me be now.” They reached for a book from their tote bag.

“But you might,” Chūya argued.

“But I won’t,” Dazai said in return, flipping open one of his many music theory textbooks.

“Don’t you want to go in the water for a bit?” Tachi intervened with an interested look. Dazai shook his head, paying greater attention to the textbook than the surrounding conversation.

“No thanks.”

Chūya groaned irritably, “You’re so fucking stubborn. And why the hell did you bring a textbook to the beach?”

“To learn music theory.”

“The beach is for relaxing—and you already know music theory!”

“The Circle of Fifths is very relaxing. What can I say, Chūya. I’m hungry for knowledge,” Dazai deadpanned.

“Dammit Dazai!”

“Oh my God, will you two stop it already?” Gin threw her hands up in the air with an annoyed gesture, “if Dazai wants to be boring, it’s not worth trying to stop them.”

Chūya simmered.

“This means I’ll be here to watch the stuff,” Dazai reasoned, “so you can all play in the ocean and fuck around or whatever.”

“That’s true,” Higuchi said, “I always hate going to the beach and not knowing where to put my things because I don’t want anyone taking anything. I mean, it’s a very safe area, but you know.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Tachi agreed.

“Then we’re all settled?” Dazai asked rhetorically, “Nobody has qualms with me sitting here, minding my own business?”

They all came to (reluctant) agreement and continued on with their beach day.

--

Chūya and Tachi swam in deep, riding the waves as they came. Higuchi gathered seashells as Gin made a game of sneaking up on the boys, pretending to be a mermaid. They all laughed, basking in the warmth of the glistening water and cool, sea-salt breeze overhead.

Dazai was perfectly entertained, accompanied by several beach towels, tote bags, and a cooler. They didn’t mind boiling like a baked potato or trying to focus on blurring text of their third textbook of the afternoon. Really, Dazai was quite satisfied. Anything, (and really, he means anything) was better than spending the day with his mother, who was continuously texting him, begging for proof pictures of his “fun.” They snapped a few pics of the ocean and their group, sending them over to appease her. Bothered by the very thought of his parents, he stuffed his phone back in their bag.

“I want my victory ice cream!” Gin giggled, chasing Tachi as they ran back to the beach chairs.

“Ice cream sounds perfect right now,” Chūya agreed, following after them.

“Did someone say ice cream?” Higuchi perked up, also returning to the towels.

The group dried off as they spoke.

“Alright, ice cream it is!” Tachi cheered, “We passed that place at the entrance when we got here. Gin and I can go and get them.”

The group nodded, listing off their orders.

“Chocolate chip for me, please!” Higuchi said.

“I’ll take chocolate with rainbow sprinkles,” Chūya said.

“Dazai?” Gin asked, “What do you want?”

They kept their gaze on the textbook they were most definitely no longer reading, “I’ll have—”

you’re disgusting

“I’ll—”

you don’t need it

you don’t need it

they were right everyone was right you’re disgusting you’re disgusting you’re—

“I’m um. I’m okay, actually.”

“Are you sure?” Tachi asked, “It’s on me!”

“I thought you were just paying for mine?” Gin interrogated unhappily, “I’m the winner.”

“Now we all get to be winners,” Tachi nudged her shoulder playfully.

“MEAN.”

“But seriously,” Tachi addressed Dazai, “what are you in the mood for? I’m feeling chocolate for sure.”

“Um. I—”

What if you have to take off your shirt? You’re already gross as fuck.

You’ve been doing so well.

“Yeah. I’m um. I’m okay. Maybe later.”

Chūya eyed Dazai, who kept his gaze down.

“Okay, I’ll have my phone so call me if you change your mind,” Tachi said as he and Gin turned and walked towards the entrance of the beach. Their hands skimmed each other as they walked.

“God, those two are all over each other,” Higuchi laughed aloud, “I’m going to hop back in the water for a bit.” She waved and ran off.

Chūya wrapped himself in his faded maroon towel, situating himself on the beach chair next to Dazai’s.

“Are you okay?”

“Certainly~”

A plastic grin.

Too bad plastic melts in the heat.

“Are you really not in the mood for ice cream?” Chūya asked in a lowered voice. Dazai did not respond. “Don’t listen to that stuff your parents said. They’re wrong. You’re allowed to eat what you want—”

“I’m just trying to eat healthier. Nothing extreme.”

“Is that—” Chūya hesitated, “is that safe? For you? To like, focus so much on that?”

Dazai’s eyes narrowed, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Your um. You know,” Chūya alluded, “I just. You should be careful.”

“Right.”

“I mean it—”

“No, seriously,” Dazai’s tone shifted from despondent to sincere, “I’m really glad you care about me, Chūya. But I’m fine. Okay? I’m not going on any crazy diets or whatever, I’m just trying to be healthier. I’ll talk to my therapist about it and I’m sure everything will be fine.”

Chūya nodded. He could get behind Dazai working through this with his therapist.

“Yeah, okay. That’s fair.”

Reaching over, Dazai traded his textbook for a sketchpad and some pencils.

“You draw?” Chūya asked, intrigued.

“Eh. Sort of. Here and there. I used to a lot more as a kid, but really Q and Kyōka are the artists of the family.”

Mindlessly, they began sketching. A few minutes of amicable silence passed as Chūya moved to the ground to build a sand castle and Dazai drew. Higuchi returned, soaked with a large smile on her face.

“That was so refreshing! What are you two up to?”

“Sand castle!” Chūya answered, practically bouncing with delight.

“More like a sand blob,” Dazai snickered. Chūya playfully whacked their ankle.

“Don’t make me get sand all over your sketchpad.”

“It’s not nice to make threats, chibi!”

“Why, you—”

“Oh wow! Is that Chūya?” Higuchi gaped at the drawing in Dazai’s lap, “It looks just like him!”

Dazai’s reddened cheeks were clearly the byproduct of sunburn and nothing more.

“Wait, what?” Chūya’s curiosity piqued, “I wanna see.”

“Nooooo,” Dazai hugged the pad against their chest.

“Pleeeeease?” Chūya begged. Dazai shook their head.

“It’s not good.”

“They’re lying,” Higuchi commented, “it’s amazing.”

“It’s not—”

Before they could finish their protests, Gin and Tachi arrived with everyone’s ice creams. Dazai stuffed the drawing back in his bag before anyone else could remark on it.

Chūya busied himself with his ice cream cone before turning to Dazai to ask, “Can I see the drawing later? When we get back?”

With an eyeroll, “No.”

“Pleeeeeeeease?” Chūya offered his best puppy dog eyes. Dazai couldn’t help the way his heart clenched, how the bright blue looked even more vibrant than the sea backdropping them. In the rays of the sun, his irises shimmered, an alluring, ephemeral quality to them.

“Maybe.”

The compromise was worth it to see the massive grin that broke out on Chūya’s face.

--

The day was warm to start, and the afternoon had only gotten hotter. Dazai hated to admit it, but even under the shade of the umbrella, he was starting to swelter in his attire. They definitely didn’t want change and have Chūya to think he was right.

That would mean being wrong and Dazai loathes this.

Except

it also

it means

that

they’d have to.

They’d have to change.

They’d have to change and remove their shirt and

ugly ugly ugly, gross, hideous thing

and maybe switch to the swim trunks they secretly brought

which would show off even more of their legs and their body

ugly, ugly thing

and sure, he had bandages, but that wasn’t enough. Bandages couldn’t hide

the gross, the fat, the revolting, the heinous

bandages weren’t enough.

But it was really hot.

It was really hot and Dazai swears the world looks fuzzier than it did moments ago.

Chūya looks fuzzy, too. Chūya, who’s talking to him and saying words that—

Funny. Dazai can’t tell what he’s saying.

Dazai can’t tell what’s going on, where he is—

He thinks, maybe he didn’t eat today? They’ve been doing really well at not skipping meals, but they had felt nauseas and maybe they’d forgone lunch on that principle and—

“Shit! Is he okay?”

“I think they fainted.”

“Fuck, it’s the fucking heat.”

“Does anyone have a water bottle?”

“I have the cooler, here—” Tachi reached into the cooler and pulled out an ice cold water bottle. Higuchi gave it to Chūya, who placed it against Dazai’s cheeks.

A minute passed before Dazai stirred, slowly regaining consciousness.

“Holy shit,” Chūya put a hand on his heart in relief, “don’t scare me like that.”

Dazai blinked blearily, pushing Chūya’s hand with the water bottle away from his face. “What?”

“You passed out, dumbass,” Gin glared, thrusting a granola bar into Dazai’s tremoring hands.

It was in the wrapper which meant it listed the calories and the number was kind of high and—

Wait.

We don’t do that anymore.

Right.

Right, Dazai doesn’t count calories.

However much is in the granola bar is okay. Dazai can eat it. Dazai has permission to eat. They have—

“Can I eat this?” He looks between Gin and Chūya with shaky saucers for eyes.

“Of course,” Gin replied, incredulous, “that’s why I gave it to you.”

They blinked, conscious but not quite back to reality.

“It’s okay?” They asked again, “I can eat it?” Their voice became little, “I’m allowed?”

Gin blinked, an odd feeling settling in the pit of her stomach at the familiarity of—

Like when they were—

When they were young and—

And he’d get upset and his mother would—

“You’re okay, Dazai. I’d like you to eat the granola bar for me. Can you do that? You’re allowed.” Her tone was gentle, leagues different than how she normally spoke to them.

Dazai shrunk in on himself. They seemed impossibly small.

Dazai looked at the calories.

He stared.

They couldn’t—

his chest was tight

they couldn’t breathe

they couldn’t—

Dazai clenched and unclenched his fists. They repeated the motion over and over.

“Dazai?”

It hurt. Everything hurt. It was too much, everything was too much. The sun and the voices and children laughing and scents of ice cream and sea salt and the way their shorts rubbed against their hips and stomach and how their bandages clung to their body and

Dazai clasped his hands over his ears, abandoning the unopened granola bar on the sandy towel below. They curled inwards, humming.

“Are they okay?”

“What should we do?”

“I think they need space,” Chūya stepped in, “do you guys mind giving us a few minutes?”

Higuchi and Tachi nodded, walking back towards the ocean to give him time. Gin hesitated, chewing her lip, “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him like this.”

Chūya looked at Gin gravely, “I think he’s overstimulated.”

“Yeah,” Gin agreed. “Let’s give them a minute to calm down. At least he’s not hurting himself.”

They stayed quiet, trying their best not to stare. Chūya busied himself with staring down any beach goer who threw a dirty look their way.

A few minutes passed before the humming quietened.

“Hey, Dazai, it’s just me and Gin,” Chūya tapped them on the wrist, “we’re the only ones here. You’re okay.”

Their eyes snapped to attention.

“Chū.”

“That’s me,” Chūya smiled haphazardly, “are you okay?”

They shook their head.

“What about your fidget toys?” Gin offered, “Did you bring any?”

Dazai nodded, a shaky finger pointing to his canvas bag. Chūya reached in and pulled out a small metal box with different knobs and buttons. Hastily, Dazai accepted it. He busied himself with the toy, clenching it tightly.

After a few minutes, Dazai spoke.

“Sorry,” his voice was small and shaky, “that was really weird. Sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Gin comforted.

“Are you okay?” Chūya asked again.

He was about to reply yes on autopilot, but took a moment to think before answering, “No.”

“Okay,” Chūya let out a tight exhale, “how can we support you?”

In a painfully quiet whisper, “IthinkImightberelapsing.”

“Hm?” Chūya asked as Gin furrowed her brow, both unable to hear. “What did you say?”

“I said I skipped lunch,” Dazai frowned, playing with the box more aggressively.

“Well, that’s not good,” Chūya looked at Dazai with a worried expression, “any reason why?”

They eyed Gin, then Chūya, then Gin again before shaking their head, “I’m sorry for startling you.”

“It’s okay,” Chūya reassured, “were you like, overstimulated?”

“Uh—” Dazai hesitated, trying to figure out how to explain the situation, “I think so. I don’t really know. I get like this sometimes. Gin can attest to that.”

Gin nodded but didn’t remark further.

“Anytime I make noises or hum or something it’s for grounding and when I cover my ears it’s usually because I’m overwhelmed and want to disappear. Sometimes I stop talking. It’s kind of weird. I don’t really know why I’m like this.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” Chūya replied.

“Thanks, both of you, for waiting it out with me.”

“It’s no problem,” Chūya answered for both of them.

“Is it okay if I tell the others you’re feeling a bit better?” Gin asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay now. Thanks.”

“Cool, I’ll be back in a bit,” Gin said as she went to chase down the rest of their group.

Another moment passed before Chūya looked up cautiously, “Eating ‘healthier’ doesn’t mean skipping meals—”

“Please don’t lecture me on that right now,” Dazai deflected.

Chūya grimaced, “Fine. Look, I know it’s not our business why you don’t want to wear a swimsuit, but I’m really concerned about you passing out again. Maybe you should go into the water?”

“I don’t—” Dazai bit the inside corner of his mouth. Kids were laughing and screaming not too far away and they quickly threw in their earplugs to tune it out. They felt a little bit silly for not putting them in earlier. “I don’t want to be shirtless.”

“Okay,” Chūya said, “what if you wore a t-shirt with swim trunks? Or you can honestly leave on your hoodie, it is short-sleeved, and just go in for a little bit?”

“I don’t know. Wet bandages might be too much for me.”

Chūya was considering as Higuchi came by, “Hey,” she greeted softly, “sorry to interrupt, Gin said you were feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Dazai replied, “I’m okay now. Sorry for scaring you earlier.”

“Oh, no worries! I wasn’t scared! Just concerned.”

“I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“It really is alright,” Higuchi said. “Did you have something to eat?”

They eyed the abandoned granola bar, “No. But uh—if we have anything else, I think I’d like something.”

Higuchi rattled off the items in the cooler, and Dazai ended up with an apple and half of a peanut butter sandwich. The voice in his head was not pleased, but at least the world stopped spinning.

“You know, it’s really hot over here,” Higuchi commented as Dazai finished their food. “Maybe, if you don’t want to go in the water all the way, you can bring your chair closer so the water will hit your ankles? That might cool you off!”

Dazai and Chūya exchanged a look.

“What do you think mackerel?” Chūya asked optimistically, “Wanna give it a shot?”

“Yeah, that’s a really good idea. Thanks Higuchi.”

“It’s no problem!” They blushed, “I’ll stay with our stuff for a while, I need a break. You two can get settled wherever!”

It didn’t take long before Dazai was situated in his beach chair right next to the edge of the ocean, the waves and seafoam consistently lapping at their ankles. They left their earplugs and book with Higuchi, but wore a pair of extra dark sunglasses to block the glare.

“You feeling ok?” Gin asked, coming over to check on the two.

“Yeah. I’m really sorry about earlier—”

“Don’t apologize,” Gin protested, “we’ve known each other since we were kids. This isn’t anything new or startling, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Did you want more company? I was thinking about sitting down for a bit.”

Dazai looked at Chūya, then at Gin, “Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

She sat down on the wet sand, not minding how the ocean tickled her butt with each pull.

Soon enough, they were joined by Tachi. Not long after, once they all agreed leaving their things unattended for a few minutes wasn’t the end of the world, Higuchi sat down alongside them.

They sat by the ocean, letting its breeze fill their nostrils and water skim their toes. Dazai wondered what this feeling was

If maybe this is what it was like to have friends.

--

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

Dazai doesn’t recall how he ended up at Chūya’s. Still, they are absolutely not complaining. They blink in quick succession, taking in the four walls that are not their own bedroom.

“Did you sleep okay?” Chūya asked.

It took a minute, but the events of the prior day came flooding back. Their time at the beach, the panic attack, how he was so sleepy that Chūya said he should just spend the night and not walk the whopping five minutes back to his own cabin.

“Yeah,” Dazai yawned, “I slept well.”

“And you’re feeling okay?”

An enthusiastic nod. After having dinner the night before, the voice in their head was furious, but they felt physically fine. Their emotions were regulated again and the world was no longer on an axis.

“Yep, I’m feeling okay,” their reply was mostly honest.

“Okay enough for me to kiss you?”

Dazai cracked a smile, “Always.”

They kissed, cradling each other’s bodies close. Chūya slept half-naked with just a pair of boxers on while Dazai wore baggy sweats. Thankfully for the two of them, the AC was kept on high and running throughout the night.

Chūya began scratching their head, petting his fluffy curls like a cat. Dazai mewled at the attention, practically purring at the sensation of trimmed nails against his scalp.

“You’re not much different than a cat, are you?”

“Meow.”

Chūya laughed at Dazai’s reaction, wrapping his arms around Dazai’s torso, rocking him back and forth, “You’re fucking adorable, you know that?”

“Chūya’s embarrassing meeeeee,” Dazai cried, despite very much lapping up the attention.

“You’re too fun to embarrass I guess,” Chūya kissed the crook of his neck, eliciting a slight moan. His lips brushed the gauze lining their body. “Sleeping in these can’t be comfortable,” he remarked, approaching the topic delicately.

Dazai shrugged, “‘s fine.”

Chūya’s fingers hovered over the fabric, “You don’t have to wear them around me if you don’t want to. I won’t like, judge you or whatever for like. You know?”

Dazai blinked owlishly, “I don’t know?”

“I just mean like. I won’t judge you for whatever is under them. Like, it’s not my business and I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable if you didn’t want to talk about it—”

Shaking their head, “Not yet.”

“You’re not ready?”

“Yeah,” Dazai admitted, “I don’t um. It’s not that I don’t trust Chūya, I do. I just. I’m not. Like—”

“You don’t have to explain it to me, I respect whatever you want to do. I just didn’t want you to feel obligated to wear them around me, especially when we’re sleeping.”

Dazai hummed a noncommittal, “Okay.”

“Whenever you are ready,” Chūya added, “I’ll be here.”

Dazai curled in further in, resting their head against Chūya’s chest. His heart thrummed, its steady beating grounding him in the present.

“We should probably get you some breakfast before your work-study shift,” Chūya suggested. Dazai had just started their work-study program as a TA for the music education classes they had participated in the prior year. The work-study was a requirement of their scholarship and Dazai figured the randomized assignment could have been worse.

“Chūya should sleep more so he won’t get a migraine,” Dazai countered.

“I’m up now though,” Chūya replied, “and craving eggs.”

Dazai said nothing.

“Are you not hungry?” Chūya asked, rubbing Dazai’s cheek with his thumb. Dazai tilted their head downwards, averting his gaze.

“Not really,” Dazai said. Though, as if on cue, because their body has a vendetta against them, his stomach growled.

“I think your body says otherwise,” Chūya chuckled. Dazai furled inwards, wrapping their arms around their torso tightly, shaking their head.

“Just ignore it,” he muttered under his breath. Chūya’s expression morphed, playful shifting to concerned.

“‘Ignoring it’ doesn’t sound like listening to your hunger cues.”

“Is Chūya my therapist now?”

“No,” Chūya reached over, pulling Dazai back into his arms, “I’m just you’re concerned friend who wants to make sure you’re eating enough.”

“I am.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Chūya mused, keeping his tone light despite the gravity of his words.

“You heard my parents,” they muttered, “they said—”

“You aren’t looking to change your body. Remember? That’s what you told them the other day.

“I know, but—”

“Everything they said is irrelevant. You’re allowed to eat, Dazai. What they said wasn’t fair to you and there’s nothing wrong with your body.”

Dazai bit his lip, nodding despite the skeptical voice screaming in the back of his head.

The one that told them they were better off sick

better off dead

better off—

They ignored it, they ignored it, they ignored it.

“I just—” Chūya sucked in a terse breath, “I know you said last year things got kind of bad. And yesterday you said you skipped lunch. And like, I just don’t want that to happen again—”

“My dog worries too much,” Dazai’s tone lilted upwards in pitch, “I’m okay.”

“Oi, I’m not a dog,” Chūya growled, not exactly helping his case, “and if you’re okay, then we should probably eat breakfast. Since you’re hungry and all.”

he didn’t want to they didn’t want to they didn’t want to he didn’t want to he didn’t

“I should practice. I’ve been slacking off—”

“You can practice after we eat,” Chūya held his ground.

Dazai groaned. He knew he wasn’t getting out of this one.

“Okay,” they said, unenthusiastically pulling away from Chūya’s hold.

They grabbed their clothes from his backpack and headed to the bathroom to change.

“You can change in front of me, you know,” Chūya mentioned as Dazai reached for the doorknob.

“I know,” Dazai mumbled.

He left the room.

Chūya knew Dazai had their quirks. They’d been more prevalent as of late, but that didn’t really bother Chūya. He respected them and made a point to support their comfortability, even when it didn’t make sense to him. Chūya yawned, grabbing his own change of clothes. After dressing, he scrolled through his phone as he waited for Dazai.

A few minutes passed and they returned, clad in a bulky t-shirt and joggers, despite the heat. Chūya knew better than to question it.

“Ready?”

A shrug.

Chūya took it as a signal of agreement.

“Cool, let’s go.”

Breakfast was relatively uneventful, save Dazai pushing around eggs aimlessly amidst light chatter. Everyone was sunburnt and exhausted, but mostly in a good mood.

“What should we do for the fireworks this weekend?” Tachi asked, digging into his hashbrowns.

“Fireworks?” Chūya tilted his head curiously.

“Yeah! For the Fourth,” Tachi explained, “Independence Day and all that.”

“Oh. I forgot that was a thing,” Chūya hummed. Then, with a shrug, “I dunno. It’s not like I’m an American citizen, I don’t really care about celebrating.”

“You should still check out the fireworks shows,” Higuchi suggested, “they’re absolutely stunning down here.”

Chūya eyed Dazai, whose gaze remained pointedly blank.

“What do you want to do?” Chūya asked quietly. Dazai shook their head.

“I don’t like fireworks.”

“Really?” Tachi gaped, “That sucks. They’re fun! I could have sworn you came to watch them with us last year.”

“No, I stayed here. I probably will do the same this year. Thanks for the invite.”

“Do whatever you gotta do,” Tachi responded, “what about you, Chūya? Do you want to come with?”

“Yeah,” Chūya nodded animatedly, “I’d be down for that. I’ll see how I’m feeling day-of though—sometimes that stuff can trigger a migraine.”

“Right,” Gin hummed, “no worries. If you’re up for it, just let us know.”

“Totally.”

They continued to eat through a stretch of silence.

“So, Dazai,” Higuchi was the one who spoke first, “how’s your competition prep coming along? Are you excited? It’s only a few weeks away!”

Dazai flashed an award-winning grin, “It’s going really well~ The piece is in good shape, so it’s just working on presentation at this point.”

“That’s great!” Higuchi said, “Do you think it’ll be a tough competition?”

“Yeah, probably,” they acknowledged, “I mean, the kids here aren’t all that talented, but they work really fucking hard on this competition. Even the ones who are here on money alone have worked their asses off for this.”

“You’re so pretentious,” Chūya rolled his eyes. Dazai flash another grin.

“You love it.”

“Shut up!” Chūya flustered, “I’m getting more food,” he grumbled, standing up and bringing his tray to the front.

--

Chūya wants to go see the fireworks. He really does.

But—

He winced.

They were loud.

It felt like everyone who lived downtown was out to get Chūya, setting off their own chaotic fireworks starting as early as 8 PM. Chūya flinched nearly every time he heard the sound, rubbing his head as the first inklings of a migraine took claim. Tachi, Gin, Higuchi, Kaiji, Atsushi, and Ryūnosuke all had plans to see the fireworks as a group and he really hated missing out on it. Chūya and Dazai were both invited, but Dazai was AWOL and considering how much Chūya’s head already hurt, he had a feeling it wouldn’t be a very fun trip. He texted their friends, sending a quick apology for not being able to join. Tachi told him to feel better and shared their location, in case he changed his mind.

Chūya tried a myriad of techniques to ward off the headache. He took his medication, put in earbuds with calming music, turned off the lights—not much helped. He wondered where Dazai had run off to, figuring maybe he could coax another massage out of them. It seemed to help last time he had a bad attack, so it wouldn’t hurt to try again.

Ignoring how bright everything appeared, Chūya set off on an adventure to find his stinky mackerel. He checked the practice room first, surprised to see it was vacant. The only other place Dazai would possibly be was his room. Chūya approached the door, knocking gently.

“Dazai?” He called out. There was no response. Chūya knocked a bit louder, “Hey, Dazai, are you here?”

Again, no response.

Maybe Dazai was taking a nap? That wouldn’t be entirely out of character.

Considering there are no locks on any of the doors at BMP, Chūya decided it wouldn’t hurt to check if his theory were accurate. He turned the doorknob, heading inside, “Dazai! I’m coming in! Just want to make sure you’re doing okay.”

He entered the cabin, surprised to see the bedroom empty. Chūya frowned. Dazai would have told him if he were going out and it seemed like they really don’t like fireworks so—

Chūya flinched at the series of Boom! sounds coming from outside.

“Shit,” he cursed, rubbing the sides of his head. He was about to leave when he noticed the bathroom door shut with its lights off.

Growing up, Chūya’s family was not the kind to close doors if no one was in the room. If they weren’t using the bathroom, the light would remain off and door would rest slightly ajar. This meant, when Chūya saw the bathroom door closed, even with the light off, something felt wrong.

He knocked.

“Dazai?” He asked, keeping his voice light. There was no response. “I’m um,” Chūya started, “if you’re there, I’m coming in.” He reached over and twisted the doorknob, pulling the door open with little force. He used his phone flashlight to see what was going on without having to turn on the light.

Sure enough, buried in the corner of the bathroom was Dazai, crumpled and terrified. He wore his earplugs and curled in on himself, hands on his head.

“Hey, Dazai, what’s going on?” Chūya asked. Dazai looked up, eyes wide and wet. “Hey, you’re okay,” Chūya cooed. “Are you able to hear me?”

Slowly, Dazai removed his earplugs. They were different than the pair he usually wore, presumably designed to block out more noise than just background sounds.

“Chū?”

“That’s me,” Chūya squatted, smiling softly. There was another Boom! of a firework. They both flinched. “You really don’t like fireworks, huh?” Chūya asked. Dazai shook their head rapidly. “Any reason why?”

Dazai curled in further, whispering, “I don’t like loud noises.”

Right. He’d forgotten Dazai had mentioned this before.

“That’s fair,” Chūya remarked. There was another Bang! causing Dazai to cover his ears with his hands. “You can put your earplugs back in. I just um. I wanted to see what you were up to.”

“Why isn’t Chūya with everyone else?”

“I got a migraine,” he chuckled, scratching the back of his head, “I’m no fun.”

“You…” Dazai trailed off.                                                                                            

“I’ll leave you alone if you want, but,” Chūya started, “I can also sit in the bathroom with you and distract you until the noises stop?”

Dazai’s eyes widened dramatically at the proposal, “Chūya would really do that? Even with a migraine?”

“If you wanted, of course,” Chūya answered sweetly, “it’s entirely up to you. Though if you’re up for it, I might need to borrow your extra earplugs again.”

Dazai chewed on his lip until a particularly loud firework jolted them. The sounds increased and Dazai found himself shaking. Quickly, he nodded, “Please.” He then fiddled in his pockets before pulling out the small earplugs case. Chūya readily accepted.

“Would it be okay if we turned on the lights and played a game?”

“A game?”

“Yeah, like cards or something? Something where we can keep our earplugs in without an issue.”

Dazai considered, then, like a small child, his face instantly lit up, “Chess!!”

“Oh cool!” Chūya responded, “I love Chess. Bring it on!”

Within a few minutes, Chūya had located the Chess board and Dazai migrated to the bathtub. Chūya laughed, joining them.

They put the game in front of them, placed their earplugs in, and shared a smile. Dazai leaned over unexpectedly, wrapping his arms around Chūya’s small frame. He didn’t say anything, but Chūya knew exactly what they were communicating.

Chapter Text

Chapter VIII: red!!!!

They were inseparable.

It was a rarity for one to be seen without the other. Like a package deal, Dazai came with Chūya and Chūya came with Dazai. If one was feeling down, the other came to cheer them up. When Dazai was anxious around mealtimes, Chūya would sit with him in the practice room, giving them the time and space they needed away from people. When Chūya’s fear about his sister’s health grew overwhelming, Dazai would sit with him, hold him as he cried and shook and thought too much about the world. They had their support system figured out and neither wanted it any other way.

Chūya yawned, exhaustion eking his bones. He’d been staying up later and getting up earlier to make time to see Dazai around his busy practice schedule and Chūya’s own work schedule. He didn’t mind going out of his way to make things work, but the tiredness was getting to him.

“Are you okay?” Atsushi pried, as Chūya notably spaced out for the second time that conversation.

“Hm?” Chūya hummed.

“I was asking how your shift went. Is everything alright?”

“Oh. Yes. Fine. Sorry,” Chūya dismissed the concern, “just kind of tired. I might take a nap.”

Atsushi glanced at his phone, which read 5 PM.

“Maybe you should take a walk, I know that always wakes me up!”

Chūya considered, “That’s not a bad idea,” he stretched his limbs like a cat, “I suppose some exercise couldn’t hurt.”

He wondered if Dazai had gone to dinner.

Chūya’s not built for stationary work, a desk job, and the like. He enjoys getting his hands dirty building sets and prepping props. Calling cues and running around backstage. As much as he’s enjoying his exposure to art administration, he dreads the long hours of sitting in a chair.

“I’ll go see what Dazai’s up to,” Chūya added, smiling internally at the thought of the other.

“You two spend a lot of time together these days,” Atsushi commented harmlessly. “Is something like…you know?”

Chūya cocked his head to the side, resembling a confused puppy.

“Like. Are you two like. Do you think you’re going to. In secret?”

“Oh,” Chūya paused before whispering, “like, date?”

Atsushi nodded embarrassedly, “Yeah um. Just because you’re really always together! And like, again, here isn’t the best place to be gay or queer or anything but you two would be really cute as a couple. Not to sway you in either direction, of course! You should only do what you’re comfortable with!”

Chūya giggled at Atsushi’s awkwardness.

“I don’t know where we’re headed,” he answered honestly, “but if we end up together, I wouldn’t be complaining.”

No, he absolutely would not complain.

Atsushi nodded, chewing on his lip as Chūya waved.

“I’ll be back later.”

--

“What are you doing?”

he was writing one day

during workshop

recording lunch

Just the items. Just the factual items he ate.

No calories, no fat, no sugar—just items. So they could say they did eat and it was healthy shit and their father would get off their case and

and accidentally

he really didn’t mean to

really didn’t do this intentionally

it was really, really an accident and

Calories he happened to memorize years ago just happened to end up on the page and someone just happened to be sitting next to them and—

“Don’t tell me that’s what I think it is.”

Dazai bristled at the slippery voice snaking into his eardrums. Being in the same workshop as Fyodor, even one of the shorter ones, was pure hell. Even worse was how they ended up seated next to each other because Dazai was late and of course that was the only seat available.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he slammed their notebook shut, shoving it into their bag.

“Didn’t you learn your lesson last year?”

“I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re referencing, or why you’re referring to me, Fyodor,” Dazai shot back. It really was an accident and denial seemed like the best option when it came to the rat who stopped at nothing to make their life actively harder. Fyodor rolled his eyes.

“Playing dumb doesn’t suit you, love,” he countered. At the pet name, Dazai recoiled.

“Last I checked, you and I weren’t in each other’s lives anymore,” they hissed, packing up his things to leave the workshop as their session wrapped up, “meaning, you don’t have the right to act ‘concerned’ about me.”

“I just don’t want you making a fool of yourself again this year,” Fyodor sneered, “I distinctly remember how much you loved being the center of attention when Tachi caught you with your fingers down your throat—”

“Fuck off, Fyodor,” Dazai stood, turning to leave. Fyodor grabbed his arm. They flinched. “Get off me.”

“Seriously though,” Fyodor lowered his voice, an instant shift in the gravity of his tone, “I know I’m being a dick, but I do care about you. I mean it. I really don’t want this summer to end with you in the hospital again.”

“What would you know?” Dazai retorted, “You didn’t even stick around—”

“I saw your finsta posts. I knew you were relapsing—”

“Yet you chose to leave the moment I actually needed you.”

They were the only ones left in the classroom, everyone else having been dismissed, the instructor oblivious to the argument occurring under their nose.

“Can you really fault me for leaving after what happened to us?” Fyodor snapped, “Criticizing me for taking care of myself is unfair.”

“I was also taking care of myself!”

“By throwing up and starving yourself? Interesting technique.”

“I was coping as best as I could,” Dazai retreated from Fyodor’s grip, staving him off, “I’m sorry that I didn’t know how to perfectly respond to a traumatic event.”

“You act like you were the only one traumatized by that night. Why?” Fyodor questioned, his tone softening as genuine confusion entered his voice.

“Because!” Dazai hissed, “You weren’t—” he stopped mid-sentence, immediately correcting, “you left before things got worse.”

“I went to get someone for help.”

“Yes. You left.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dazai averted their gaze, “I’m not relapsing. My dad suggested I keep a log of what I eat. I didn’t mean to write the calories—it was,” they looked down, burning rouge, “a force of habit.”

“What the fuck?” In honesty, Fyodor was shocked by this turn of events. “Your father told you to do this? Is that not triggering?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Dazai—”

“Save it,” they walked to the door. Fyodor followed.

“Why would he tell you to do that?”

Fuming, Dazai flipped back around, “Because he thinks I’m going to fucking relapse again because apparently I eat too much these days. If this is what gets him to shut up about my fucking body, then I’ll do it.” They threw their head back with a sardonic laugh, “Man, I am so sick of everyone, literally everyone talking about my body. My parents, my fucking roommate, you,” he snarled, “none of you actually give a shit if I’m okay. You didn’t care when I was actually happy! All you saw was my stupid body changing and suddenly that implied I was unworthy of basic fucking human decency.”

“I only commented on it back then because you seemed self-conscious—”

“That’s a load of bullshit. You commented on it because you weren’t attracted to me anymore because you thought I was disgusting.”

Fyodor’s eyes widened, “I’ve never thought that about you.”

A scoff, “Right. Sure.”

“I mean it,” Fyodor emphasized, “I was seriously concerned for your health.”

“I don’t want to hear your voice anymore,” Dazai sighed, bone-tired exhaustion breaching their frame, “I want you to leave me alone.”

“But—”

“Don’t.”

Dazai left.

It didn’t take long for him to reach Chūya’s cabin. Unfortunately, the boy in question was nowhere to be seen.

“Is Chūya here?”

“No, he just left!” Atsushi answered, “But I think he was looking for you.”

Chūya, simultaneously, had showed up to Dazai’s cabin.

“Is Dazai here?”

“Haven’t seen him since workshop,” Kaiji replied.

They each made their way back to their respective cabins, dejected, when—

“Oof!”

“Ow!”

“Dazai??”

“Chibi!!” Leave it to Chūya to brighten the skies of a cloudy day. A ray of sunshine, the rainbow after the storm that was Dostoevsky. Dazai couldn’t help the twinkle in his eyes as they beamed Chūya’s direction.

“I was just looking for you—” Chūya started. He was cut off as Dazai excitedly jumped in.

“Let’s watch the sunrise!”                                  

Chūya blinked, “What?”

“The sunrise tomorrow! We should watch it.”

“When is that? Like 4 AM? We’d have to be on the road by 3.”

“Mountain sunrises are soooooo pretty. They always help me when I’m feeling down. It’s definitely worth it!”

“Are you? Feeling down?”

“Are you?” Dazai deflected.

“I don’t know if I could get up that early,” Chūya deflected.

He wasn’t thrilled by the prospect of waking up at the unholy hour of 2:30 AM, but was enticed by a morning sunrise along Dazai’s side.

“Or, we could just not sleep!” Dazai suggested.

Chūya frowned, “And trigger a migraine? No thanks.”

With a wince, “Sorry. I should have thought about that.” They visibly deflated before realizing, “don’t you have off on Thursdays?”

They were right, Chūya finally had a free day with absolutely nothing planned.

“Rehearsal got pushed and my first workshop isn’t until eleven,” Dazai continued, “we’ll be back from the sunrise before seven and can sleep through the morning. You can sleep as late as you want and I’ll just set an alarm to leave in time for class! Would that work?”

“Actually,” Chūya nodded, “yeah. That could work. I don’t have any plans for tomorrow so I guess I’d be free.”

“Really!? Chibi will stay up to see the sunrise with me!??”

Their excitement was too precious. Chūya beamed, “Yeah, I guess I will.”

Dazai clapped excitedly before throwing his arms around Chūya’s neck, pulling him into a wide hug.

“Oi!” Chūya was caught off-guard by the gesture, but giggled at the affection. He adored this. The slightest bit, he pulled away, looking them in the eye, “Do you want to grab dinner? The dining hall just opened.”

Imperceptibly, Dazai tensed. They pulled away a few inches, “I uh. I should get back to practicing.”

They hit their limit for the day.

“Surely you can take a break?”

(Not that they actually started counting calories again or anything.)

(They didn’t.)

“I um. The competition is only a couple of weeks away.”

(No. They just wrote the individual foods. The calories were only there by mistake.)

“It’ll only be 30 minutes. And you need to eat.”

(Though sometimes, they did write goals. Not goals as in weight goals or anything. Just targets they should hit to stay on-track. So their father would finally stop commenting on his body. That’s all it was.)

(He was just looking for less attention.)

“I really need to practice.”

He wasn’t relapsing. He was being responsible. He wasn’t setting incredibly unrealistic standards, he wasn’t playing with dangerously low numbers in weight or restriction. They weren’t even restricting, just making life easier. Eliminating choices.

Because before, they had so many choices. He could eat anything! And the possibility of eating something that was “unhealthy” is so high when anything is the pool to choose from.

(Eating disorders serve a purpose. They protect us, allow control. Simplifying choices, a distraction. They’re more than staring at yourself in the mirror. They’re more than refusing to eat fried food or sticking to the same low-carb protein bars for weeks at a time. Limiting the pool means less choices means less to think about means a quieter voice in their head and they’d be damned if they did anything other than try to get that voice to finally shut the fuck up.)

So he’s narrowed the pool. They’ve made it easier to choose what to eat and how much to eat all for the purpose of taking care of himself.

Dazai was just taking care of himself.

“I’ll bring you dinner, then,” Chūya sighed, disappointed.

Dazai bit his lip, chewing incessantly.

“You really don’t have to—”

“Skipping meals isn’t good. You have to eat something.”

The concern woven into Chūya’s features tugged at Dazai’s heart. Knowing he was its source was all the more upsetting.

Guilt jousted with disorder brain.

“I guess practice can wait 30 minutes.”

Of course Chūya won.

“Yeah?” Chūya visibly perked up.

It’s not like Dazai was relapsing.

“Yeah.”

He was fine.

“Dinner it is, then!” Chūya grinned, grabbing Dazai by the hand.

How could Dazai say no to that smile?

“Dinner it is~”

--                                                                                          

Breathtaking. The sunrise is enchanting, fantastical and otherworldly. Chūya is caught off-guard, by its effervescence. Basking in stunning awe, Chūya forgets his sleep deprivation. The sky reddest Chūya has ever seen in nature, more vibrant than any rose or peony in his parents’ garden back home in France. Deep magentas seep into the frame, followed by an underscore of tangerine.

Chūya ogles at the sight, mesmerized by the universe and all its wonder.

“I told you it was worth it,” Dazai smiles an ever-cocky grin.

Chūya rolls his eyes, a playful smirk dancing upon his lips. “Yeah, I hate to let that ego of yours grow even bigger, but you were right about this one, mackerel.” They sit on a particularly large rock, well-placed on the overlook.

All they see is sky and trees and pink and red and mountain. Dazai leans his head on Chūya’s shoulder. They close their eyes for a moment, “Is this okay?”

Chūya nods, “Yeah,” wrapping an arm around them. “Is this okay?”

Dazai snuggles in closer, melting into the touch with a soft whisper, “Perfect.” And it is. The sky and the world are at peace in this very moment. There’s a certain charm in the experience of a mountain sunrise and Chūya feels like a better person for being a part of it. He feels like a better person with Dazai wrapped in his arms, with the weight of their head comfortably resting on his shoulders. Dazai says something under his breath.

Chūya nudges them, “Speak up, mackerel.” Dazai blushes, burying his head further in the crook of Chūya’s neck.

“I said,” he speaks as quiet as the trembles of wind fluttering by, “I might be falling in love with you, Chūya Nakahara.”

This time, it’s Chūya’s turn to blush. He doesn’t look away.

“That’s convenient,” he responds, “because I just might be falling in love with you, too.”

Dazai tilts their head up, peering into Chūya’s oceans for eyes, “You really mean that?” Even quieter than before, his voice is barely audible, breath tickling at Chūya’s ear. Chūya does not respond verbally, though he does answer. Their kiss is long, warm and passionate. They shift closer together, holding each other as if they’ll disintegrate the moment either lets go. Chūya’s bare arms brush against the plush fabric of Dazai’s oversized hoodie. They find solace in the puzzle pieces of each other. They fit together like a mosaic, each a little broken, prettier together. Miraculous.

Maybe it’s fast and maybe they shouldn’t be using such big words when it’s only been a month, but time moves differently in the heat haze of Bennington, North Carolina. The days are weeks, weeks are months, and months are years. They feel as though they’ve always known each other, like there’s never been a world without Dazai and Chūya, Chūya and Dazai. As if, in every possible universe, they’re drawn together by that crimson thread wrapped around their fingers. No matter how far apart they drift, they will always find a homecoming in the lighthouse of each other.

Dazai’s thick lashes flutter open, “Can this moment last forever? I don’t want anything else. Just you.”

For the first time in weeks, he’s not fearing the competition, playing compulsively, obsessing over composers and music and death. He is enamored wholly by the man at his side.

Chūya answers with more snuggles, wrapping his arms tighter around Dazai’s frame. He rubs their back lovingly, peppering the top of his head with kisses and the like. Their life has never felt so perfect before, so right. But here they are, perfect and right and exactly where they need to be. It’s in this moment that Dazai realizes how long they’ve been waiting for a person like Chūya to come into their life.

Chūya has never felt this way about a person. Not about girlfriends or boyfriends of dating past. Never has his heart been so noteworthy in entwinement. He’s never loved and been loved in this way. He’s never experienced this shade of yearning and though the world is new, it feels as if this was the way it’s been all along. As if he’s living life the way it was meant to be, rosy colored glasses and a red sky with Dazai by his side.

The sky grows lighter, the pinks softening as lavender and azure intermingle. Reality materializes, but Chūya and Dazai remain.

“I don’t know what it is about you,” Dazai murmurs, “but when I’m with you, it’s like nothing else in the world matters. You know?”

Chūya nods. He does know. He understands, intimately, what Dazai articulates on his behalf.

“Yeah, I do,” he shares, “it’s weird we only met a month ago. It feels like I’ve known you my whole life.”

“I agree,” Dazai nods vigorously, shifting positions to look up at the brightest oceans he’s had the pleasure of diving in.

They’re silent for a long moment before Dazai fidgets.

“Do you um. Are you. Like,” they continue to cut himself off. Chūya is patient, unbothered by their hesitation. “The term ‘boyfriends,’” they add, “does that. Is that something you’re like. You think applies to um. To us. Is that something you’re like. Interested in?”

Chūya hums, pondering the question as if it’s a question at all. As if he hasn’t already made up his mind about everything he wants.

Though something is

stopping him.

Something nags.

This memory. The last time they—

“Why do you keep wasting time with that boyfriend of yours? You’re abandoning your friends.”

“Do you seriously not care about us?”

“Chūya, you can’t keep slacking off, the Sheep need you.”

Chūya is silent and Dazai immediately regrets asking too much. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes haphazardly, “that was brash of me to assume you’d um. That you’d want that. I’m really sorry—”

“Wait,” Chūya interrupts.

“We trusted you.”

“It’s not you.”

He exhales deeply.

“You’re a shit leader. A shit person, a piece of—”

“Something happened,” he interrupts the mounting tension, “at my college. With my improv group.”

“The Sheep?”

“Yeah.”

“You never cared about us.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dazai asks, treading carefully. Chūya nods.

“Yeah. I think that would be good.”

Dazai waits patiently as Chūya gathers his thoughts.

“When I started university, I was the president of our improv troupe, the Sheep. I ran it with my best friends and like, we had a ton of fun. It was one of my favorite theatrical experiences. It was just like—” he smiled with the fondness of memory, “I loved every minute of it.” With a slight clearing of his throat, his tone shifted, all mirth dissipating, “Then um, I started dating this boy. He’s a friend of mine now, but at the time Shirase and I were an item. He wasn’t a member of the Sheep, just a groupie, basically.”

Dazai nodded, he recognized the name from other stories Chūya had shared about school.

“I don’t come from money so I have to work a lot in school, both in academics to keep my scholarships and a few jobs to pay the remainder. My parents help when they can, but they’ve got their own shit to deal with. I’ve kind of been on my own with all of this. And being an international student is fucking expensive. Anyways, I uh, I was working like, three jobs on top of keeping up my grades and stage managing shows and dating Shirase and I sort of—”

“Why weren’t you at rehearsal?”

“That’s not the performance structure we agreed on. We switched to A-B-A-C-B-A, remember?”

“What’s gotten into you? Don’t you care about us?”

“I guess I’m not a superhero. I couldn’t do everything at the same time and I started to neglect my duties as the improv troupe president.”

“I don’t blame you,” Dazai empathized, “it sounds like you were doing way too many things. That’s completely fair that stuff would slip through the cracks.”

“That’s what my sister said too,” Chūya nodded gravely, “but my friends weren’t as. Understanding. I think they felt kind of betrayed when I left them to do other things. Not that I left or anything, I was still troupe president but um. I guess I was pretty much absent more often than not.”

Shirase had always been interested in improv. He liked watching Chūya and his friends make up scenes and play pretend every Friday and Saturday night.

Shirase was interested. Curious. And when the opportunity came—

“Your boyfriend usurped you??”

“Yeah,” Chūya sighed tiredly. The sky was beginning to morph into daybreak blue. “He joined the Sheep, broke up with me, and they kicked me out. Then he became president.”

“Holy shit,” Dazai whispered, “Chūya that’s fucked. That’s so unfair to you—I’m sorry.”

“So I guess um,” he scratched the back of his head, “I mean, we’ve smoothed things over since and he’s apologized. They all have. But like. It’s still a sore spot for me and I’m kind of afraid of something like that happening again.”

“I get it,” Dazai hummed thoughtfully, “I don’t think you have anything to worry about with me though. I don’t think I’ll be stealing any ASM gigs from you anytime soon or kicking you out of the Box Office. No offence, but I’m not exactly envious you’re working with my father of all people.”

Chūya agreedw, “Logically, that all makes sense.”

“Hey,” Dazai placed Chūya’s hand in his own, caressing it gently, “if this isn’t something you’re ready for, we don’t have to put a label on it. We can take this at whatever pace you want. Okay?”

A minute passed.

“Shit,” Chūya muttered, “Dazai, I really—”

“It’s okay. I’m not upset or anything—”

Lips crashed, interrupting their thoughts. It was a hungry sort of kiss, the kind of an insatiable craving.

“I want this,” Chūya whispered, “I want you.”

“I want you too,” Dazai replied breathily, “if you’ll have me?”

“Fuck it,” Chūya kissed him again, again, again.

--

Ordinarily, Chūya loved when his sister called. He loved to rant about his latest shenanigans, things he and Tachi and the crew were up to after work, updating her on his relationship (!!!!!) with Dazai—Chūya loved talking to his sister.

He did not like this conversation.

“Hey sis. Dads,” Chūya waved with an awkward smile. It was weird, the way it was suddenly so difficult to talk to the people with whom he was unbelievably close. He couldn’t articulate it. He wanted to gush over his new boyfriend and wanted to hear all about what his sister and parents were up to, but there was something in the gravity of their expressions that stopped him.

Something wasn’t okay.

“How are you? What’s going on?”

“It’s nice to see you, lad,” his sister smiled politely. Chūya preferred video chatting his family rather than talking on the phone, having the visual cues to help him understand what was actually on their mind was invaluable. Of course, this meant he had an up-close-and-personal view of the anxiety lingering amidst.

“Chūya,” Paul started, “it’s been a while since we’ve all sat down to talk as a family. How are you? How is work treating you?”

“Oh it’s fine,” Chūya answered uneasily, “everything’s going well.”

“Good, that’s good,” his other father, Arthur, smiled.

There was an uncomfortable lull of silence.

“So, Chūya,” Paul continued, “this call was actually your sister’s idea. She wanted to talk to all of us, as a family, about what’s been going on.”

Chūya nodded, feeling his heart clench.

He knew where this was going. It was all too similar to the family meetings they had when he and his sister were kids and his sister was sick and—

“Kōyō, honey,” Arthur addressed the young woman sitting primly by his side, “if you’d like to start.”

“Thank you,” Kōyō crossed her legs, shifting her weight, “Chūya, I appreciate how supportive you’ve always been of me. I have some upsetting news and I do not want you feeling guilty because of how far you are from us. I don’t want you sacrificing your happiness just because there’s some…uncertainty in my life right now.”

“Um. Okay.”

“The first biopsy was inconclusive but. Well, I went to a new doctor and. They. They found something.”

His heart thundered.

“It’s cancerous.”

His world was collapsing.

“It’s going to require radiation treatment and chemotherapy. The doctors think we can fight it, but it’ll be an uphill battle.”

The world was spinning, life was spinning, he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t

“I don’t want you worrying about me. I will be just fine—”

“How can you say that?” Chūya snapped. “There’s no way you’re going to be just fine, Jesus sis—they’re putting you on fucking chemo!”

“We know how hard it is to hear this,” Paul placated, “but you need to trust that your sister will be alright—”

“Of course I trust Kōyō,” Chūya shot back, “it’s the fucking cancer I don’t trust! How do you expect me to be calm when I just found out my sister’s fucking dying—”

“I’m not dying,” his sister reasoned, “I’m sick, but with modern technology—”

“I think I need some time,” Chūya interrupted, “I’m sorry I just—I need time. Can I call you back later?”

“Chūya—” Paul interjected, only to be cut off by his daughter.

“It’s alright, I understand,” Kōyō said sympathetically, “it’s a lot to take in. Whenever you’re ready to talk, just let us know.”

“Yeah um thanks. I have to go.”

--

There was a fervent knock on Dazai’s door.

“Chūya!” Dazai chirped happily, “What are you—” he frowned at Chūya’s reddened eyes and splotchy face, “is something wrong? What’s going on?”

“I can’t fucking do this,” Chūya coughed, tears pricking the corner of his eyes.

“Kaiji’s out. Come in,” Dazai ushered his boyfriend inside, pulling him close. They led the smaller one to his bed, sitting him down and rubbing his back. Chūya immediately buried his head in the crook of Dazai’s neck. Dazai wrapped long arms around the small torso. He stroked Chūya’s hair soothingly and kissed the top of his head.

“You’re okay, Chū. You’re okay.”

“She’s going to fucking die,” Chūya cried aloud.

“Is this about your sister?” Dazai asked softly.

“My sister’s going to fucking die while I’m in stupid fucking North Carolina and I can’t even be there for her! I’m a shit brother and—”

“You’re not a shit brother. You’re a fantastic brother. I know this is hard for you right now. But there’s nothing you can do. This is completely out of your control and it’s not fair to beat yourself up over it.”

“I just—I don’t know what to do,” Chūya groaned frustratedly, “I don’t know how to make any of this better.”

“I don’t think you can,” Dazai spoke into the top of Chūya’s head, “maybe this is just the way things are. And it sucks and it’s awful and not okay, but that’s just the way things are.”

“I hate that,” Chūya pulled away, his head ending up in his hands, “I hate how I have no fucking control over anything.”

“You and me both,” Dazai sighed. “Sometimes shit is just like this.”

They sat in painful silence, each keeping to themselves for a moment, each experiencing a different shade of blue of helplessness of all the things that ache the most.

Chūya didn’t like to think of his childhood. Not that he had a bad childhood. He didn’t. It was fine. His childhood was fine.

He doesn’t remember anything from before he and his sister were adopted by their fathers, and that doesn’t bother him in the slightest. His fathers have always been kind, caring, and loving, and after seeing the trainwreck of a display that was Dazai’s family in action, Chūya is extra grateful for the household under which he was raised.

That doesn’t make it any easier. In fact, he wonders if it makes everything worse. Positivity doesn’t erase crying and screaming and asking why sister is always sick. It doesn’t hide the dark bags under Arthur’s eyes or wrinkles creasing Paul’s forehead. Their love didn’t rewrite the facts of the matter.

And now, old enough to understand what’s going on, Chūya is scared shitless.

And—

This call.

This stupid fucking call.

Fuck. He can’t stop thinking about this phone call with his sister.

“You’re doing everything you can,” Dazai assures, “give yourself a break. There’s only so much you can do.”

“I know.” It’s reluctant, but true.

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel less awful?” Dazai asked, large chestnut doe eyes blinking up prettily.

“I don’t think anything can make me feel better.”

“Not even a massage? Or a serenade? Or belting the entire soundtrack of Bare? Or croissants or—”

Chūya couldn’t help but crack a smile at his boyfriend’s attempts to cheer him up.

“I suppose a massage couldn’t hurt,” he answered softly.

“Say no more!” Chūya quickly stripped his t-shirt before laying back down. Dazai straddled his back, sitting comfortably on Chūya’s butt to get just the right angle. Chūya’s lips quirked in a half-smile at the sensation.

The tension relief was almost immediate, as Dazai kneaded the sore muscles wrought with stress. He was a master of his craft, rubbing his thumbs in to just the right places. Chūya moaned at the comfort that came with the gesture.

“You shouldn’t be allowed to be this good at something. This should be an actual crime.”

“You can be the Bonnie to my Clyde any day,” Dazai flirted in tandem with his massage.

“Nerd. But seriously, this feels amazing.”

“My chibi’s so tight. So stressed!!”

“For real,” Chūya mumbled into the comforter. Dazai’s massage increased in intensity. Fingers danced against pale, smooth skin.

“I can’t guarantee I can kiss you all better, but I can still kiss you,” Dazai spoke breathily, trailing his fingers lightly down Chūya’s back.

“That, you can,” Chūya replied, whispering into the plush pillow below him.

Dazai ran his thumb across pale shoulder blades, tickling with the briskness of the touch. They leaned down, pressing soft kisses up and down Chūya’s spine. Chūya melted into the touch, nuzzling further into the soft pillows and blankets below.

“You’re really pretty, Chūya,” Dazai whispered against his ear. Chūya blushed brightly.

“Where’s this coming from?”

“I just thought you might need to hear it,” Dazai nipped at his ear, licking its edge.

A small smile crept onto Chūya’s face. Though it was hidden from Dazai’s view, he had a feeling it was there.

“I love the fact that you’re my boyfriend,” Dazai continued his praise, hands exploring even further throughout the length of Chūya’s body.

Chūya flipped over, jostling Dazai’s precarious perch in the process. They both tumbled onto the bed, giggling all the while.

“What was that for?” Dazai laughed, kissing Chūya on the cheek, then nose, then lips.

“I wanted to look into your eyes while you said all that nice stuff about me,” Chūya rouged even brighter.

To reward his bravery in admittance, Dazai wrapped his arms around Chūya’s torso, pulling him in and kissing his cheek again. They swayed side-to-side, Chūya laughing at the overwhelming amount of affection he was receiving.

“I’m sorry life is being so awful to you right now,” Dazai said in between kisses, “but I hope this is helping a little bit.”

“It’s helping a lot-a-bit,” Chūya replied honestly, kissing Dazai in turn, “thank you for being my boyfriend.”

“Thank you for being mine.”

--

He’s been feeling great. Riding the high of their almost “love-you’s”, cherishing each stolen kiss and wink from across the hall. They’ve been busy, but when they are together, Dazai feels unstoppable.

Unstoppable. Right now, that’s the only way to categorize how he feels. He’s not agonizing over what to eat, he’s getting more air, practice is going well, and he has Chūya by his side. Dazai is feeling really, really good.

It’s different than before. The more time he spends with his boyfriend, the less concerned he is about his body, about what he’s eating. They don’t feel the need to count calories or write down everything he eats, because he has Chūya and Chūya is falling in love with him and that’s all he’s ever really needed. To be fallen in love with by someone, he too, is falling in love with. They treasure the idea of Chūya loving them and every time they run into each other, it feels more magical than the last. Dazai wraps his arms around Chūya from behind, kissing his cheek real quick before running off. Chūya brings Dazai dinner when his practice sessions run too late. He’s starting to feel good in his body again. Sure, it’s not perfect, but it’s perfect enough for Chūya to love and that feels incredible.

They go on dates and dance together in their bedrooms. They kiss and explore and Dazai lets him see them topless (though still bandaged)—let’s Chūya see more of him than he ever shows anyone.

He, in turn, sees more of Chūya than Chūya ever shows the world. He holds Chūya in the dark when his migraines overwhelm and all he can do is crumple in pain. They smooth Chūya’s hair and whisper sweet nothings as Chūya cries about his sister and updates he refuses to disclose. Dazai holds him and murmurs all the beautiful things that Chūya is. Their almost-love is exquisite, and neither of them have ever felt this cared for before.

Dazai feels good.

He feels so good that he’s not even anxious about his father’s insistence on sitting in on more of his practice sessions. Dazai’s playing has improved and he can handle some criticism. Especially with Chūya waiting up for him at the end of a long day. Maybe his father won’t even comment on his body. Maybe things will be perfectly fine.

Maybe—

“Osamu. Be honest with me. Are you relapsing?”

What?

“What?”

No. Not anymore.

“No. Why would you ask me that?”

Dazai has barely stepped two feet in the practice room when the line of questioning comes. He is absolutely unfit, ill-prepared for this.

“I received a visit from your friend. He’s very concerned about you.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Dazai laughs, dubious towards the accusations coming out of his father’s mouth, “I don’t have friends.”

Disregarding the remark, “He said you have been skipping meals again.”

“Who is ‘he’?” Dazai snaps.

“Your friend, Fyodor,” Mori answers with a casual wave of his hand. As if he didn’t know exactly who this Fyodor is, as if he didn’t know exactly who Fyodor is to Dazai, as if nothing ever happened last year. As if Fyodor is just a “friend” and nothing more. “He asked me to check in on you so we wouldn’t have a repeat of last year.”

“Dostoevsky barely talks to me,” Dazai replied with confusion, “of course he doesn’t see me at mealtimes, it’s not like we sit together.”

“I see.”

There’s a silent standoff between them.

“I’m concerned about you,” his father utters and it takes everything in Dazai’s power not to go ballistic.

“Why? I’m literally fine. Better than I’ve been in forever, even,” Dazai tries to explain.

“It’s—” Mori starts, then stops. He starts again, “Well. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were relapsing right about now.”

Dazai freezes.

“What are you talking about?”

No.

“Your carelessness is catching up to you.”

He can’t do this. Not as he’s getting better, he’s supposed to be getting better, he was finally starting to get better—

“What do you—”

The voice in his head cackled. The one that understands exactly what his father is saying.

Dazai is separated from his body. His chest is tight and he cannot breathe.

You need me.

He can’t breathe.

You need me, you need me, you need me—

The voice. It’s back. It’s back and it’s loud, it’s screaming and he can’t think anything except for this voice, this tantalizing voice that promises he’ll feel better if only he listens—

“What are you talking about?”

“Your mother and I warned you this would happen.”

This isn’t happening. No.

No, no no no no no no no.

No.

This isn’t happening again. His body isn’t changing. He’s exactly the same as he was weeks ago. Dazai is exactly the same and he is perfectly fine and everything is perfectly fine and his body is perfectly fine and he—

“Anyways, your mother will be back in town this weekend, in preparation for the upcoming competition. She would like to take you suit shopping.”

“Why. I just bought dress clothes for Prelude.”

“Do they still fit?”

“That was like, two weeks ago! Of course they fit!”

“Regardless,” Mori waves his wrists flippantly, “this will make your mother happy so I have no choice but to implore you to attend.”

“I don’t want to. I don’t need a new pair of pants, I need a new pair of parents,” Dazai hissed furiously.

“That is enough,” Mori snapped, voice rising to an unbearable volume in the smallness of the practice room. “You will go shopping with your mother this weekend and that is final.”

“No.”

Dazai’s eyes watered, hands shaking. Their body curled inwards as his breathing grew labored. Mori sat in place, helpless as Dazai hunched in the corner, holding himself tight.

“You don’t have a choice, Osamu. Spending time with your mother isn’t an optional activity—”

“I’m not going!” Dazai snapped.

“Yes, you are,” Mori stood up, towering over his child.

“No! I’m not!” Dazai screeched, a full-blown temper tantrum on the horizon, “I’m not spending time with that bitch! I’m not—”

Skin on skin.

Red.

Silence.

“You do not speak that way about your mother,” his voice was so low, practically a growl.

Dazai stayed still in stunned silence.

“Your mother and I may be separated, but you know better than to speak about her this way.”

Silence.

“Do you understand me?”

A nod.

“Use your words.”

Quietly, “I understand.”

--

It’s not that he stopped eating.

He is eating.

Maybe a bit less than he was.

But he’s still eating. He’s still okay. Dazai is still very much okay.

It’s not out of control and he won’t let things get bad again. They know too much to go back to the way they were. They’re doing so much better and a few skipped meals or ignored hunger cues means nothing compared to the amount of time they’ve been clean.

He sees less and less of Chūya, though it’s not on purpose. When their paths do cross, there’s this faraway quality to his eyes, as if Chūya is looking at someone that’s not Dazai, but perhaps wearing a Dazai suit. It’s a sad affair.

Dazai keeps to himself. He ignores Fyodor’s attempts at conversation, attends class and rehearsals, practices, practices, practices.

His hands are shaking more than before. They ignore it. They ignore the occasional spasm coursing through their body.

Sometimes, it feels like he’s on a cloud. At other times, stepping on a bed of broken glass. They crave attention, yearn for the gentleness of being held—but that’s comfort. They have a disorder for that. He doesn’t need people. Not while he’s sick. Because he is a toxin and he will soil the water and Chūya wouldn’t think twice about drinking tap.

He focuses on his playing. On his piano. On being thinner.

He’s fucked up one too many times to even dream of getting his father’s approval—but if he can win this contest—

If he can prove—

They don’t know what they’re trying to prove, just that they need to do it.

They do know how many calories are in the salad they forced down for lunch and that has to count for something.

“Hey!”

Chūya’s voice feels too soft, wrapping Dazai up in a weighted blanket they don’t deserve.

“Hi,” they miss him, want to be drowned by him, want to be devoured by Chūya, Chūya, Chūya.

“How are—” he stops, “what happened to your face?”

Apparently the cover-up Dazai used wasn’t doing its job as it should.

“I uh. I walked into a door.”

“How?”

“You see,” Dazai sheepishly scratched the back of their head, “there was this door, and I didn’t see it, so I walked right into it.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah!! It was really embarrassing.”

Chūya narrowed his eyes skeptically, “Are you lying to me?”

“No! I wouldn’t lie about this!”

Dazai may be an instigator, but he wasn’t the type to start a physical altercation, no matter how much of an annoying little shit he could be.

“You should really be more careful,” Chūya commented.

Dazai giggled, “Yeah, probably.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s nothing serious,” Chūya dismissed the concern in his chest. “Do you want to get coffee? My shift doesn’t start for a few hours and Tachi said pit rehearsal was moved.”

“Sure!”

Dazai cradles the inklings of affection coming from that hopeful, dopey grin.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

And that’s all it takes before they’re heading to Chūya’s car.

Dazai likes Lyric, the town coffee shop. They don’t list the calories in their drinks, but he does know what brand of milk they use and that’s enough for him. It doesn’t matter much though, he started taking their coffee black again. If Chūya notices the change, he doesn’t mention it.

“Want to share a pastry with me?”

Dazai considers. He knows how many calories and how much saturated fat is in a croissant and their vision is fuzzy in the corners and their balance threatens to give—

It’s not that he isn’t eating. They just haven’t eaten in a while. At least, nothing substantial. A half of a granola bar here, an apple there. They don’t get all that hungry in the summertime, anyways. Why would they eat if they’re not hungry? That’s not how that works.

Though the world is starting to tilt and he’s been good so he figures—

“A croissant?”

Chūya’s flashes a thumbs up, “You got it.”

Dazai brings his iced redeye to the small table by the windowsill, sitting down before their vision can flood further. His sister once told him, if he gets dizzy, he should lie down or put their head between their knees. The floor isn’t much of an option, so they opt for the latter.

By the time Chūya finds him, the world has yet to stop tilting.

“You okay?”

There it is again. The languid worry ill-suited for such a pretty timbre.

“I’m fine,” Dazai waves off the concern, “just the heat. I think it’s getting to me.”

“Here,” Chūya nudges the plated croissant and his water bottle close to Dazai’s curled in form, “this will help.”

He’s not wrong. Food definitely would help. But that. That means.

They’d have to—

It’s this part.

The part where he has to—

It’s not hard.

Should not be this hard. But Chūya is

staring

and the weight of the world is

looming

and Dazai feels as though he’d rather die than eat.

They shake their head as much as their compromised form allows.

“Just a few bites and some water to make the dizziness go away?” Chūya really is right. Disordered or not, they should try. It’s the only way he can make the dizzy spell stop.

But they can’t.

They just can’t. The longer he waits, the greater the expectations, the harder it gets. He can’t do it. He can’t, they cant.

They take a sip of water, but make no move for the food.

“Dazai—”

They can’t do it. But the world is spinning

and they are shaking

and they feel like crying because

suddenly

 nothing is in their control.

He is sacrificing bodily autonomy for a wider thigh gap and as he craves the food that’s directly in front of him, his resolve falters and he wonders if it’s worth it.

They want to stand, get up and remove himself from the situation, but he thinks it might send him crashing down. He wants to be held but is so petrified that Chūya, who’s made of nothing if not porcelain care, might shatter on impact.

Their breathing is growing funny as they sway in their seat, the familiar sensation of panic clawing at their throat.

“Please tell me what’s wrong.”

Wow. Chūya is so nice. So kind. It’s wasted on them.

He can’t speak, can only hold themself tightly, only cling inwards and shrink even further.

“What do you need?” Chūya tries again, pursuing a different tactic. “Do you want to go to the car?”

They feel unstable, like their emotional foundation has cracked. He’s afraid to look up. Afraid that people are staring, despite the small crowd of a Wednesday morning.

Somehow, they manage a nod.

“Okay,” Chūya’s expression softens, “I’ll get a to-go bag for our food. I’ll be back in a minute.” True to his word, Chūya is back before Dazai can even process his being gone. His mind is moving slower than ordinary.

They manage to lift their head, a sudden wash of nothingness flowing through their body. They don’t know what’s going on but manage to stand on quivering legs. Chūya takes their drinks, precariously balancing everything while offering an arm to steady Dazai.

When they make it to the car, something in him snaps. Maybe it’s the prevalence of Chūya’s scent, this sensation he associates with safety. Maybe it’s embarrassment of not even being able to go to a coffee shop like a normal person. Or the anxiety of not being able to talk, to vocalize the needs he can’t begin to understand. Whatever the reason, Dazai breaks. They feel their cheeks heat up as their eyes leak, staining their reddened face. They clutch their chest as their breathing is once more labored. Chūya turns on the car, flipping on the AC before climbing in the back to join the convolution that is Dazai in the backseat.

“Do you want to be held?”

He should say no.

They should say no.

They should—

He nods his head.

“C’mere,” Chūya wraps small but strong arms around his constricting torso. “I don’t know what upset you,” he starts in between coos of gentle reassurance, carefully constructed comfort, “but whatever it is, you’re going to be alright. You’re going to be okay.”

Only Oda has ever managed to make him feel this safe.

It only takes him a few minutes of being held to calm down. They severely underestimated the power of physical touch.

“I’m sorry,” Dazai croaks out.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Chūya continues uttering words of comfort.

“I think I was just. Overstimulated.”

It’s not a lie. But certainly not the full picture.

“That’s okay. You don’t need to explain yourself or your reactions to me.”

They nestle in further to Chūya’s hold, leaning his head against the other’s chest. He likes how Chūya’s car smells, its lingering scents of Chūya and cigarettes despite the claims that Chūya hasn’t smoked in months.

“Do you want to head back?” Chūya asks in the quietest whisper.

“Soon,” Dazai replies, “I just. Can we stay like this?”

Chūya nods, “Of course. Whatever you need, Dazai.”

--

They don’t speak of the breakdown as the week comes to a close. Though they handle each other with care. Tip-toeing in a fine China cabinet.

# *

The piece he plays is light. It’s a bit chaotic but airy and delightful all the same.

Chūya likes listening, the way he always does. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that something is off. That this piece isn’t as lovely and trite as it seems.

It’s upbeat and strange and almost hurts to listen to. That’s how happy and delightful it is, so much so that it is painful. It’s not overtly concerning, but a strange experience all the same. Chūya is curious. He listens and waits and as the piece comes to a close, he asks about it.

“Not gonna lie, that’s kind of a weird one,” he says bluntly. Not in a mean way, just straightforward.

“Yeah,” Dazai doesn’t turn around as he rearranges their sheet music, preparing for the next piece of his repertoire, “it’s more Shosty. He’s a weird dude.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s the one who wrote the suicide song.”

“Oh.”

“But this one isn’t about suicide! This one’s happy!!”

“Yeah. I guess it is.” 

“It literally translates to ‘A happy tale,’ or something like that,” Dazai informs.

“Really? That’s a bit on the nose,” Chūya replies. Dazai just shrugs.

“It was the first piece I learned after the accident.”

“Wow, really?” Chūya’s eyes widened at the thought.

“Yeah. It’s atonal.”

“What do you mean?”

“I um,” Dazai shifted, changing positions and facing Chūya. He patted the bench next to him, gesturing for Chūya to join. Chūya did so and Dazai continued. “The accident my father and I got into. That one. You know. I was um. I was really depressed after it. Like, really not okay. And some stuff happened and I tried to kill myself a few times and—”

“Wait, what?”

“But it was okay! Because it didn’t work obviously, I’m still here, and the doctors put me on this medication that works really well but makes my hands shake. I mean, they already shook before, and the accident made it worse, but they really shake now—”

“You can’t just gloss over what you said about trying to kill yourself. Especially not with how obsessed you are with that suicide song. Are you still—”

“Actively suicidal?” A blasé shrug, “Yeah. I think so. Probably.”

“Dazai—”

“But yeah, my hands shake really bad. Like, you’ve seen it, but it’s really really bad and when I first went on medication I could barely play anything—”

“What do you mean you’re actively suicidal?”

“Oh! Just that I do this suicidal ideation stuff. Like I think about it a lot. And I probably always will. Really, it’s nothing to worry about. Anyways, the story—” Chūya’s brow furrowed as Dazai continued to speak with vigor. “Odasaku saw how badly my hands were shaking and how it kept messing me up, so he gave me this atonal piece to learn. If I mess up, it just sounds intentional! The piece is kind of weird and doesn’t make much sense in the traditional musicality of it, which is why it was perfect for shaky hands! It’s really special to me.”

Chūya’s head spun with all Dazai was rambling at him. He was concerned and anxious but touched all the same. He was touched by the level of trust Dazai placed in him.

“You promise you’re okay?”

“Of course!” Dazai smiled broadly, “I’m fantastic, Chūya. Especially since I have you now!! I promise I won’t try and kill myself anytime soon. Okay?”

“I don’t think that sounds as reassuring as you think it does.”

Dazai pouted. Then, he grabbed their boyfriend’s hands, clutching them in their own.

“I can’t promise I won’t feel suicidal. Or that I won’t attempt to kill myself in the future. I can’t make promises like that. But I can promise you that I’ll tell you when things are getting bad. Okay? I’ll reach out if I need help. Is that enough?”

“Really? You promise?”

“I promise.”

Chapter Text

Chapter IX: how did we get here

# *

To

rip off his

skin.

Dazai wants to rip off his skin.

To remove the layers of skin and fat and muscle until all that’s left is bone.

Dazai wants to be made of bone.

He wants to disappear.

Wants to disappear and disappear and disappear and die.

Maybe Dazai wants to die again.

He plays.

If he could rid himself of this physical form, they would.

They’d disappear

they'd will away their existence

until

they’re only a shadow

nothing more

nonexistent

Dazai prays for a world in which he is nonexistent.

He plays and prays

plays and prays

plays.

Plays through the despair through the nothingness through the end of the world

plays and plays as though this is the only thing he can trust because

because maybe

maybe it is

maybe this is all Dazai can trust

maybe this is the only experience Dazai can partake in immersion

Because maybe there’s nothing else.

there’s nothing else there’s nothing else there’s nothing else

all that exists is Shostakovich and this overwhelming cavity in his soul, the cavernous pit that should house a heart or a soul or something other than

Nothing.

Dazai is Nothing.

He is Nothing.

Chūya stands in the doorway of the practice room, a disturbing sensation creeping through his spine, tingling one vertebrae at a time. He stands and interrupts intimacy. Interrupts the undeniable malice eking off a hunched frame, a showing for a party of none.

He is abnormal. Dazai knows this, because if he were normal, he’d stop. They’d be happy where they are, with what they have, how he looks. Dazai should be happy. He’s found Chūya, he’s at Bennington, he’s alive, physically healthy, and here.

Dazai is not normal.

Dazai is unhappy.

Unhappy and empty. A black hole for insides, miasmic decay, rot, a putrefied existence. Dazai is putrefy. A vile heap of sick. If he’s not careful, Chūya will crash right down with them, the inevitable descent.

It deteriorates, his playing, his insides, their everything. Loud, chaotic, frantic.

It’s careless and so unlike any of Dazai’s typically poised displays of artistic craft. His breathing mimics the intensify of the tempo and Chūya aches with the concern compounding in his chest. His chest constricts, hands tremble, breaths come shallowly.

Except

Chūya doesn’t have time to break down.

Not when Dazai is so clearly not okay.

But neither is he.

Chūya is not okay. Chūya is hurting and petrified and thinking a little too hard about that conversation they had in the practice room only a few days prior.

He promised he’d say something. They promised, they promised, they promised.

They promised they’d say something.

Can Chūya trust what they say?

As the playing devolves in its erratic nature, Chūya’s struck with a thought: Is this music? Is this art or pure, unadulterated pain? This hideous thing, this amalgamation of sound, is the penultimate experience of self-destruction.

It’s too much.

It’s a rarity, interrupting a piece.

“Dazai!”

The music swells, deafening. Haphazard and it won’t stop it won’t stop he just needs it to stop for everything to stop for

Chūya is physically prying shaking hands away from their place on smooth ivory.

“Dazai, stop. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Dazai crumples. His hands twitch and shake, but he says nothing, numb.

Chūya rubs his back, whispers kind things in his ears.

“What’s wrong?” Chūya’s tone lilts lovingly. “Is this about your parents? Did they say something insensitive?”

Dazai’s head remains burrowed in Chūya’s hold as he mumbles a muffled, “It doesn’t fit.”

“What?” Chūya’s brow wrinkles, “What doesn’t?”

“They were right,” a humorless, ugly laugh. “My fucking parents were right.”

“What doesn’t fit?”

“My stupid fucking suit from Prelude,” their voice remains monotone but borders a scoff more than a conversational tone. “It’s tight and it’s been barely three fucking weeks. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m already fat and disgusting and—”

“Hey, no, don’t talk about my boyfriend that way,” his embrace strengthened. “Are you sure the clothes didn’t shrink in the wash or anything?”

“I don’t know,” Dazai shook his head quickly, “I don’t remember. I don’t know.” Their voice cracks and for the first time since he’s spoken, the flood of emotion spills. “I just hate myself so fucking much. I hate my stupid fucking body. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.”

“Breathe. You’re okay. Just breathe, Dazai. Just breathe.”

Inhaling is hard.

“I promised myself this wouldn’t fucking happen. But I’m an idiot, fuck I’m such an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Chūya hushes, stroking unruly curls, “you’ve been taking care of yourself as best as you can. So what if a pair of pants are kind of tight? You’re going to get new ones—”

Dazai recoils, a moth drawn too close to a flame, feeling the repercussions of its lure. “You don’t get it. You don’t know how humiliating this is for me.”

“Everyone’s body changes at some point in time. I had the ‘freshmen fifteen’ or whatever and sure it was a little embarrassing, but it wasn’t a big deal. I just got different pants and got into working out and everything was fine—”

“No,” Dazai hisses, a venomous undertone, “that’s not fair. Everyone’s acting like my body is their business. Everyone comments on it and I’m the one with an obsessive brain. I can’t just ‘get into working out,’ do you fucking get that?”

Chūya frowns, “No,” he replies honestly, “I don’t get it. I mean, you’ve mentioned it’s a problem before, but I don’t really understand. Can you explain it to me?”

Dazai curls in, pulling his knees to his chest, “When I work out I just. I don’t stop. I’m really obsessive and I would work out for hours at a time and it got—it was so bad. I would monitor how much I ate and how many calories I burned. I passed out while on the treadmill one day and hit my head. That was around the time I had to be hospitalized.”

“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“So yeah. When my body changes I can’t just fucking workout like a normal person. So I just stop eating because that does the job—”

“You told me you’re in recovery. And how is that any better than passing out on a treadmill?”

Dazai does not reply.

“Not eating isn’t the answer here. Didn’t you mention something about having a nutritionist? Do they help?”

“I haven’t had a meeting with them in a really long time,” Dazai responded. “She’s back in Japan. And I’m afraid if I bring it up to my parents, they’ll freak out and send me back to the hospital.”

Chūya’s eyes widen, “Wouldn’t they be glad you’re being honest, addressing the situation?”

“They’ll just panic,” Dazai rolls their eyes, “they always do.”

“What if you didn’t tell them? Just like, saw the nutritionist on your own?”

Dazai chews his lip, “They pay for it. I don’t have a lot of money and my work-study goes straight to tuition so it’s not like I have a whole lot of spending cash.”

“Shit,” Chūya exhales, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to make this better for you. If it helps, I really don’t think your body has changed that much. It looks the same to me as it did the start of the summer.”

Dazai makes eye contact with the ivory keys in front of him, “Chūya’s lying to me.”

“You don’t believe me?”

They shake their head, “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“No, seriously,” Chūya argues, “I mean yeah, I’m trying to make you feel better. But I’m not lying about this. I really think you look the same. Your body is perfect the way it is.”

The quiet suffocates.

“Dazai?”

They turn, reluctantly making eye contact with anxious ocean eyes.

“What?”

“I’m really worried about you.”

They cringe. It hurts, knowing he’s to blame for Chūya’s stress and anxiety. Chūya, who is the kindest person Dazai’s met, who has enough to worry about without Dazai actively making things worse.

A deep breath and a forced grin, an eerie thing that doesn’t reach their eyes, “I’ll be fine, I’m just making a big deal out of nothing. Ignore me.”

“I’m not ignoring your pain. I think you need some help.”

The room chills.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just. Look, it doesn’t have to be something as drastic as the hospital—but you can’t just not eat and expect everything to be okay. I know you don’t want me worrying but it’s so clear that you’re not doing okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re actively having a breakdown.”

Their unruly chocolate curls shake, vibrating with the direction of their head. That empty smile plasters itself back in place, “I’m fine~”

“Come on, don’t pull this shit on me.”

They do not respond. Tension mounts.

“Are you still seeing your therapist, at least?”

Another wave of numb, “Sort of. The time zones make it hard.”

“Right. I think you mentioned that. When’s the last time you saw her?”

A shrug, “Around my birthday.”

It is late July.

“Will you please schedule a session with her and be honest about what’s happening?”

Hugging himself, Dazai turns his head to look towards the door, Chūya can’t help but think he’s eyeing the exit. Their voice is small and unexpectedly vulnerable, “If I talk to her, will Chūya stop worrying?”

“Maybe. I’ll try. I just need to know that you’re okay, and you not eating is not okay.”

“I’m fine, Chūya,” Dazai stands up, single-handedly deciding their conversation is done. “Really, I’m fine.”

“Love—”

“I’m going to go back to my cabin and wash up. I’ll email my therapist and set up some time to talk this week. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” A nervous pause. “Are you sure you should be alone right now?”

“Of course. I’m fine.”

“But—”

“I’m feeling a lot better already, I promise.”

Dazai leans over, kissing Chūya on the cheek before heading to the door.

“We can even get breakfast together tomorrow.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

He leaves. Chūya can’t shake the upset.

--

Chūya is right, they should not be alone right now. But they are.

They’re alone and their thighs sting and wrists sting and it’s been a while since—

but it’s the only thing that helps them breathe again—

He knew it was a bad idea, knows he should have just accepted Chūya’s comfort.

But he couldn’t. He can’t.

They care about Chūya, maybe even love him. They really, really do. But sometimes, he just doesn’t get it, can’t get it. That’s when it gets tricky. Because Dazai can’t explain it. He is suffering and can’t be expected to educate his boyfriend on every little thing his disorder controls. It’s not fair to either of them, how difficult it is to understand a mental illness you don’t have. And Dazai wants to tell Chūya why sometimes he says the wrong thing and why this is so hard for him, but it feels impossible. Explaining feels like the most challenging task in the world.

The red stripes that coat raised skin, white lines, and faded pinks, this is easier than explaining his neurosis to anyone.

Regret floods instantaneously alongside relief.

The idea of focusing on the discomfort of clothing rubbing against his scars as a distraction almost makes it worth it. Almost.

Dazai’s been clean for nearly a year and it sucks that he’s taken so many steps back. Not for the first time, he finds himself wondering what’s wrong with them. What is their brain missing that everyone else seems to have.

He stares at the new decor. It’s pretty. And every other part of Dazai is ugly—hideous.

He stares at the scars and let himself feel pretty.

--

Suit shopping was—

“Baby, this would look absolutely darling on you!”

Hell.

“I don’t do bowties, mom.”

“But you’d look so cute!”

In Dazai’s opinion, it was too soon for his family to be back in town again, even with the competition right around the corner. He couldn’t fathom where their flight and hotel money was coming from.

“Straight tie or nothing. Those are our options.”

Tane sighed, an aggressive thing, “Why do you insist on putting up a fight over everything I say?”

“I’m not,” Dazai groaned, “I just hate bowties. I always tell you this.”

“‘Hate’ is such a strong word—”

“Well I feel very strongly about my dislike of bowties.”

“But you’d be just the cutest little thing with it—”

“Mom.”

“Fine, fine,” Tane dropped the subject, and the tie.

They continued shopping.

On a more pleasant note, Dazai was pleased to learn he and his mother had similar tastes in suits. They were drawn to the same colors and styles, typically sleek and slim-fit. Meandering the store, they would each choose a few options, which they then compared to one another. At one point, they even chose the same outfit, Tane cooing fondly over the interaction. Dazai laughed awkwardly. It was almost sweet. Almost endearing.

Things were better, for a little bit. They were going okay.

“Baby, what’s your size?”

“I. Um.”

Until that.

It’s a normal question to ask while shopping for clothing. It’s a reasonable question and reasonably, Dazai should have an answer. At one point, he thinks he even did have an answer but right now, in the throes of sick and depths of disorder brain—

“I’ve got it.”

Tane frowned.

“Your weight is nothing to be embarrassed by,” she smiled a little too sweetly, a little too plastic-y. “Besides, you’ll shed those extra pounds in no time. Now, what is it? Your size?”

“I’ve got it,” Dazai repeated himself, grabbing the first outfit he could find in a size larger than he usually wore.

This was going to be a long day.

--

Chūya was feeling alright. It was an okay day. He was still concerned following his boyfriend’s breakdown earlier in the week. Though, it was promising that Dazai did in fact show him the email he sent his therapist, proof that he was making an effort.

He facetimed his sister, grateful to see she was feeling well, not yet weakened from the chemo treatment she’d be starting soon. The future of what was to come was looming, but he did his best to remain optimistic.

His phone rang, another video call coming in. This time from—

“Hey love,” Chūya greeted his boyfriend warmly, “what’s up? Are you—” he stopped, noticing reddened, wet eyes through a pixelated screen. “Are you okay?”

Dazai shook their head.

“Where are you?” Chūya’s tone latched with worry.

“My mom is in town,” they hiccupped, “we’re shopping. I’m in the dressing room.”

That spelled trouble.

“Yikes.”

“Is it okay if I like. Complain? And talk about some kind of hard shit? Like, do you have bandwidth? I know I’ve been kind of awful lately and I don’t want to make you more worried—”

“No, it’s totally okay,” Chūya said, second-nature, not really considering his answer, whether or not he did have bandwidth, “I’d rather you be honest than keep secrets from me.”

Dazai sniffled, then continued. “It’s the usual shit. My mom keeps making these stupid comments about my body and how much nicer I’ll look when—whatever it’s just really triggering shit.”

“Fuck. That’s bullshit.”

“Right!?” Dazai released a frustrated groan, “It’s really upsetting me and everything I try on here—” they shook their head, “she has a problem with everything. I have a problem with everything. My body, the clothes, the way the clothes look on my body, how they fucking feel—I can’t win.”

“I’m sorry you’re dealing with that. That sounds really hard.”

“Yeah. It’s been super triggering. Like—” they hesitated, “Fuck, Chūya, it’s so bad.”

“Shit. Really?”

A nod.

“I lied to her about eating lunch and I think I’m emotionally unregulated right now because I need to eat but I’m too scared to ask for a snack.”

“That’s no good,” Chūya said, worry welling in his chest, “do you think you can sneak out and get something while she’s distracted?”

Dazai shrugged, “Maybe? I’m not sure. She’s been breathing down my throat all afternoon.”

“I think it’s worth a try,” Chūya spoke encouragingly. “It’s important that you have something in you, even just to help you regulate. You know?”

“Yeah. Chūya’s right,” Dazai wiped his face with their bandaged wrist, “Chūya’s always so smart.” Chūya blushed brightly at the praise.

“Just worried,” he amended.

“Still smart,” Dazai acknowledged, “and cute.”

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one making you feel better?” Chūya asked with a laugh. Dazai smiled in return.

“Just talking to you is helping.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Dazai sniffled once more before turning his gaze towards the door. There was a muffled sound, to which Dazai replied, “One sec!” They redirected their attention to the phone, “The wicked witch is calling. I’ve got to go.”

“Will you be okay?” Chūya gnawed his lips worryingly. Dazai hummed.

“I think so. But um. Is it okay if I text Chūya a bunch and ask him to say nice things about me?”

“Oh. Like compliments about how pretty you are? How you light up the room with your smile? The way your music sings to my soul? How you have the most dashing eyes and gorgeous cheekbones and—”

Dazai giggled, covering his face with his hand embarrassedly.

“Yes, all of that,” they answered with a fervent blush.

“Perfect. Because I have a lot more where those came from.”

Dazai blew a kiss at the camera, “Almost-love you, Chūya.”

“Almost-love you too, darling. I’ll text you.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Chūya got off the phone, exhaling with a deep sigh. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t concerned about his boyfriend. Still, he wanted to trust him. Trust that the work they’d done in therapy and treatment centers would be enough to get him through this rough patch. Chūya needed to respect all Dazai had done up to this point to claim recovery.

Still, Chūya had a bad habit of obliterating his own boundaries. Finding the fine line between being a caring boyfriend and giving up too much of himself was a challenge.

Chūya shook off the concern. He was fine. As long as Dazai was fine, Chūya too would be fine. He just had to make sure Dazai was okay.

Things would be fine.

--

Chūya has a weakness for plushies. He has a sneaky suspicion Dazai’s not much different.

It’s less than a week before the competition and Dazai has been. Not good.

Skipped meals, practice sessions until 4 AM, missed work-study shifts—

Things have been bad.

It’s for this very reason that he decides to take Dazai’s upset into his own hands.

(Because Chūya may not be perfect, but he has spent his entire life helping others feel better.)

“Get in, loser,” he rolls down the window of his car, pulling up to Dazai’s cabin a la Mean Girls fashion, “we’re going shopping.”

“Huh?” Dazai looks up sullenly. His eyes are distressed and they vibrate with nervousness.

“We’re going shopping,” Chūya repeats himself. Dazai shakes their head.

“I don’t need anything—”

“Where we’re going is special. It’s a surprise—not a normal shop.”

Dazai picks at the skin beneath his nails. His thumb is raw, dry blood caked under the trimmed nail.

“Please?” Chūya asked with large, wobbly eyes.

As much as Dazai doesn’t want to leave campus, he also doesn’t want to disappoint Chūya. They sniffle before entering the passenger side of the car.

The drive is quiet and Chūya can’t help the concern eating away at his insides. Dazai does not look good. They are pale and their under eyes are bruising with sleeplessness. He wears oversized clothes that drown him out and Chūya can’t help but think how impossibly small he looks despite everything.

“Did you have lunch?” Chūya asks, not expecting an honest answer.

“Yeah,” Dazai’s quick to reply, only adding to Chūya’s suspicion.

“What did you have?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Dazai.”

An eyeroll, “A sandwich.”

Chūya doubts his boyfriend, but lets it go. He’d talk them into having dinner later, which was better than nothing.

They drive in terse silence before Dazai asks if they can put on some of his favorite classical music. Chūya obliges and they continue driving with Chopin underscoring the journey. Chūya’s knee bounces nervously while Dazai picks at the frays of his bandages underneath their hoodie sleeve.

It’s a long, but scenic drive. Blue mountains in the background, a clouded sky, and rays of golden sun peeking out beneath. Perhaps it’s the quiet of the drive or lull of classical music, but Dazai seems to be calming down the farther away they are from campus. In fact, by the time they approach the next town over, he’s fallen fast asleep, small puffs of air leaving his mouth with soundless snores. Chūya pulls into the parking lot, then kisses their cheek, the best kind of alarm clock.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he grins as Dazai nuzzles into their shoulder.

“Five more minutes.”

As excited as he is for the surprise he’s set up, the dark circles he noted earlier are a compelling argument for Chūya to linger. He kisses the top of their head, “Five more minutes.”

Chūya’s heart flutters. His patience is worth it for the little smile Dazai offers in return.

Much to Dazai’s dismay, five minutes passes in, well, five minutes flat. Chūya kisses him awake once more, showering them with love and affection.

“Time for the surprise, love,” he ruffles Dazai’s hair, kissing his cheek again.

“Okay,” Dazai yawns, moving to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Where are we?”

“This way!” Chūya exits the car, dragging Dazai through a maze of sidewalks in an unfamiliar shopping center. It takes a little navigating and some Google Maps skills, but they make it in one piece. Immediately, Dazai lights up at the sight of the retro toy store. Overwhelmingly red and gold, the shop is tall and narrow. The windows are dusted with decorative frost, the words The Stray Dogs Toy Store etched in loopy script. Despite being a very American store, its very presence seeps nostalgia. Dazai beams Chūya’s way.

“How did you know?” Gone is the anxiety-riddled young adult. In their place is a wide-eyed child, thrumming with excitement.

“Just a hunch,” Chūya answered with his own sly grin.

“I can’t believe my chibi is taking me to a toy store!! This is such a great date idea!! Why didn’t I think of it!! Can we go in?? I want to go in!!”

It was like Dazai was a completely different person. Excited and passionate, eager and lively. Full of life for the first time in too long.

Chūya wrapped his arms around Dazai’s torso, kissing their neck softly, “You might be the most adorable person I’ve ever met.”

Dazai turned around, wrapping Chūya into an enormous hug before whispering in his ear, “Can we go in? Can we??”

“Lead the way, mackerel.”

The first thing they noticed upon entering were the lines of old-school games outlining the store. That, followed by row after row of soft plushies. Dazai ogled, immediately setting to work with the task of naming their favorite toy in every section.

“This one is Teruko. And he’s Jōno. And oooh this one is Tetchō, Jōno’s lover.” Chūya chuckled at the progressively sillier relationships Dazai built between the toys’ fictional lives.

“Find anything you want?” Chūya asked as they reached the second floor, which mostly housed children’s books and art supplies.

Dazai fidgeted with his sleeve, looking impossibly young.

“Which one do you want?” Chūya asked softly, as if talking to a small child. “It’s on me.”

Chestnut eyes widened, “Is chibi sure? I can Venmo—”

“Nonsense,” Chūya snuck in a quick kiss after making sure no one was on the floor with them, “this is your date. I want to make it extra special for you.”

Dazai burned burgundy at the comment. Then, sheepishly, he said, “I want Jōno. But I can’t separate him from Tetchō, that would be so mean. Like, they hate-love each other, but that’s still love. You know?”

“What about both of them?” Chūya offered, grabbing Dazai’s hand and leading him back down the stairs to the plushies.

“Is Chūya sure?”

“Absolutely,” Chūya replied, “anything you want, love.”

Dazai bounced with joy, picking up the mouse plushie (Tetchō) and cat (Jōno). He hugged them tightly before bringing them to the register. The older woman working smiled fondly, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

“Excellent choices,” her voice was warm and genuine. Kinder than the fake niceness the two were used to hearing in the area. She rang up the cat plushie, reading the total.

“You forgot the second one—” Chūya commented. The woman fixed him another kind look.

“That one’s on me.”

Chūya and Dazai exchanged glances of confusion, “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” she replied warmly. Chūya noticed a small rainbow pin clipped to the name tag on her chest. “You two are always welcome here.”

Dazai and Chūya thanked the woman profusely before making their way back to the car. Snuggling his new friends closely, Dazai cooed, “They’re perfect, Chūya!! Absolutely perfect!!” Dazai’s happiness was infectious and Chūya found himself grinning ear-to-ear.

“Anything for you, mackerel. Anything for you.”

--

He was doing it again.

They stared at the notebook full of tiny handwriting, perfectly drawn kanji.

It was easier to hide this way. After the Dostoevsky incident, he opted not to write in English.

Breakfast, skip lunch, dinner, the calories, goals, actualities, it was all there.

He lied to her. His therapist. Or, well, didn’t tell the whole truth.

But he did schedule an appointment which he did have.

She didn’t need to know they were counting calories, picking at his skin, staring at their reflection in the mirror. Drinking coffee for meals and ignoring hunger cues and riding out the mood swings as he spiraled deeper in the sick.

Dazai’s a good liar.

He’s started lying to Chūya, more than here and there.

They lie so much that they start to believe it. Relapsing, relapsing properly, feels like coming home.

It smells like a childhood bedroom, reeks of reminiscence. It feels like opening your favorite book you’ve read ten times, ignoring the required reading sitting next to you. Dazai missed this. He missed being sick.

Counting calories is thrilling. Hitting a goal and seeing the changes. It’s harder to hide as the week stretches on. He’s not lying, he convinces himself. They’re just omitting parts of the truth. He can tell Q figured it out, knows what’s going on, but they don’t say anything. They throw Dazai knowing looks, but neither of them bring it up. Dazai doesn’t care. He’s allowed to hate his body and want to change, to chuck his recovery out the window in favor of the beast with whom he is so intricately acquainted. He’s allowed to miss concerned glances and distrustful stares. The way his family scolded and harped on them when they refused to finish dinner or threw up lunch.

There’s an uncomfortable feeling that takes residence in his chest amidst the blatant lies. When he tells everyone he is doing okay. When they say there’s nothing to worry about, that they’re listening to their body, that they’re putting effort into being better.

They’re not.

It’s getting bad again.

They are actively choosing to listen to the disorder voice, actively choosing to be sick. They are choosing to ruin their life.

He’s convinced it’s better than the alternative.

He can’t go through that again. Can’t cope with the humiliation of no longer being thin and willowy and pretty. He can’t deal with not being the thinnest one in the room.

He basks in the relapse. Treasures its preciousness as if it’s been here all along. And perhaps it has. Perhaps he’s never healed, just placed another bandage over his bandaged appendage. Maybe he’s just getting what he deserves. They deserve to be sick.

Chūya’s not stupid and can only be deceived for so long. He will find out just how out of hand it’s getting, and he will hate Dazai for it. Because Chūya’s sister is sick. She is sick not of her own volition while Dazai has made a choice. He is to blame.

Everything hurts when he thinks about things this way, when he considers his own self-sabotage, while Chūya’s sister clings to the threads of health that slip through her fingers. He wonders if Chūya will hate him, when he finds out. If he’ll rescind his feelings towards them, curse and scream—or worse. Treat them as a stranger.

Perhaps Chūya will be cold.

Treat him like they haven’t held each other, like they never kissed passionately on the mountains backed by a pink sky and scent of summer rain.

Dazai doesn’t think they can handle that. The estrangement threatening to overturn their relationship.

Still, they can tolerate the emotional pain of rejection far more than the shame of self-loathing. Perhaps it’s a sacrifice they can make. Dazai shouldn’t be loved anyway. Not when he himself barely understands the act. It would be foolish, is foolish to offer their toddler displays of affection to someone as exquisite as Chūya. Dazai is a fool, and now, like the fool he is, they’ll give up another bit of beauty in exchange for sick, sick, sick.

--

He is sitting with Chūya and people he might consider to be friends. People who are normal, whose laughs and smiles are real, who experience the world as active participants, not omniscient perspectives so far removed from life that they can only stare on the outside, look in and imagine inclusion. That’s not to say Dazai is excluded, there is no ostracization by anyone other than himself.

He stares down, scrutinizes the food in front of him.

It’s just a salad. Dazai can eat a salad. He’s been good.

Everything aches.

“Isn’t that funny?” Higuchi prompts, and like a functioning member of society, Dazai smiles, nodding all the while. He’s missed the entire conversation up until this point and has no interest in participation. It’s wrong, he absolutely should feel indebted to these kind people for treating someone as ugly as he as their own. They should be grateful, not disgusted by the sheer concept of human interaction. Yet, the cavernous hole in his chest gapes, threatening to swallow their world whole. He is lonely, despite everyone. Despite Chūya’s hand under the table, lingering on his knee. Despite Tachi’s beckoning grin and Higuchi’s warm tone. Everyone is kind and open and Dazai is nothing but harmful, a toxin they’re incidentally inhaling.

“Are you okay?” Dazai is asked as Chūya locks eyes, voice no more than a respectable whisper. Chūya is sweet like that, careful not to draw attention to the doll bursting at the seams.

“Of course~” Dazai lies through his teeth.

“Are you sure?” Chūya asks, “You haven’t touched your food.”

It’s true. A tragic miscalculation on Dazai’s part. They are playing the role of human and humans should eat at mealtimes. Even if the thought of food in their stomach makes them physically sick. The critiques of his mother and father ring loudly in his head. Their dysmorphia is an uncontrollable force and no matter how many times Chūya says they look exactly the same, he can’t buy in. They look as hideous as they feel.

“Just not very hungry,” Dazai answers in attempts to appease the concern. It does little to aid the situation, as Chūya’s frown merely settles further on his face.

“I didn’t see you at lunch.”

They don’t have the heart to be honest, to explain that they are very much not okay. Their insides twist and mind skews reality and no amount of comfort will make this salad easier to choke down.

“It’s the heat,” he lies with practiced ease before forcing himself to take a bite, “it knocks out my appetite. I’m sorry to worry you. I promise I’m fine.”

Chūya nods, albeit skeptically. He wants to believe his boyfriend, is trying to believe them.

“If you need to go to the nurse, just let me know.”

Dazai beams his most convincing smile.

“Will do!”

Dinner continues, though Dazai is acutely aware of the glances thrown his way throughout. They eat their food begrudgingly and pretend the urge to vomit is nothing more than a passing notion. Dazai pretends to be okay, and maybe if he tries hard enough, he will be.

“Hirotsu’s throwing his bonfire early this year,” Gin announces, “it’s the day after the competition. Are you all coming?”

Chūya is eager, but eyes Dazai warily.

“Chūya’s really excited to go,” Dazai answers on his behalf, discreetly placing their used napkin on top of their half-finished meal.

“Are you coming too?” Tachi asks, eager.

Dazai and Chūya move to speak simultaneously.

“I’m not—”

“You really should—”

Dazai smiles, though his eyes are not cheerful.

“I have to practice.”

Tachi tilts his head confusedly, “The bonfire is after the competition. Besides, it will be lit! LIT-erally. I’m on FIRE today.”

Gin flicked his forehead playfully, “Shut up, nerd.”

“You should come!” Higuchi smiled brightly, “It’ll be so much fun. They always have good food, good music—they might have a live band playing!”

“I’ll pass,” Dazai laughed awkwardly, “parties aren’t really my thing.”

“You came to the Tony’s watch-party,” Chūya mentioned. Dazai shrugged.

“That was different.”

“Not really,” Tachi countered, “it’s the same people, plus a bonfire.”

Dazai picked at fraying bandages under the sleeve of his bulky hoodie. His arms stung.

“I don’t think it’s my thing.”

“Come ooooooon,” Tachi whined, “just come for like, an hour. Then you can leave and practice or do whatever you want.”

“That’s a good idea,” Chūya offered, “we could go for a little bit and then if you don’t like it, I’ll give you a ride home.”

Dazai desperately wanted to say no.

He didn’t want to go to any party or—

But Chūya looked crestfallen when Dazai said he wasn’t going.

And now, Chūya looks wonderfully hopeful.

Dazai can’t take this away from him.

“Fine. I’ll go.”

Chūya radiated with joy.

“But only for a little bit,” Dazai clarified, “and I need you guys to tell Hirotsu to keep his dog inside while I’m there. I’m serious on that one.”

“Can do,” Tachi offered a salute.

Dazai took a deep breath. It was just one party. One party, one tiny dog. He’d be fine.

They’d be fine.

--

Chūya can’t sleep. He’s been getting migraines every day, most definitely triggered by stress. He can’t help it. Not with the phone calls about endless doctor’s appointments and Dazai’s untouched meals. Not with the way everyone around him is deteriorating, his sister growing paler and Dazai looking gaunter. No one is okay, which means Chūya has to be okay, but he can’t—he isn’t. Chūya does not have the capacity to be okay, to be—

But it’s the day before the competition. He has to be there for his boyfriend. He can’t just abandon him, not when they need his support the most. An ugly part of Chūya feels resentment. Resent for them needing him. Resent for the fact that he is the in the precarious position of being somebody’s support system, somebody’s everything.

They haven’t actually seen each other in a while. Or at least, a while in their standards. Each day feels like a week in the heat haze of a Bennington summer, and it’s been a few days since they’d properly hung out. The space is probably a good thing for them. Everyone needs space, and maybe in that time, Dazai has been getting better. Maybe it’s they’re not actually relapsing, they’ve just lapsed. A short-term affair that could be as good as sorted now. As always, Chūya strives for optimism. Somebody has to see the light at the end of the tunnel and that person might as well be him.

He opens his phone to text his boyfriend.

Want some good luck cuddles?

Dazai responds right away with a series of emojis that make Chūya smile. Like their toy store date, it feels like Dazai is back to their normal self. Chūya responds with a time and his own kissing emojis, prepared for a night that he’s sorely missed.

--

Dazai doesn’t look bad—

He looks sick. It’s only been a couple of days since they went to the toy store, but in that time, Dazai has clearly not gotten better. If anything, things are worse. They are pale in the way that shows they haven’t been leaving their practice room. The ugly circles under their eyes are darker, chestnut eyes themselves duller. Despite their parents’ commentary, Chūya had always thought Dazai was thin. Even with Dazai’s most recent concerns about his body, Chūya can’t help but think how sallow he looks. They wear a hoodie and joggers, dressed warmly despite being July.

Chūya stares.

He stares as concern thrums in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do, how to help, how to make this better—

“Chibi? Are you okay?”

Chūya blinks profusely, ripped out of his spiral.

“Are you?”

Chūya’s throat is dry as the question slips out.

“Of course?” Dazai responds with an uncertain lilt in his inflection, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You—you just—” Chūya stammers before settling on, “the competition. It’s tomorrow. Aren’t you like, nervous?”

They shrug, “Not really.”

“But you’ve been practicing non-stop for weeks. Aren’t you worried about messing up?”

Dazai seems far calmer than Chūya had anticipated, “I mean, sure. A bit. But I know the piece really well and my instructors all think I’m ready, so there’s nothing I can do if I fuck up.”

“Oh.”

Chūya sits down on his bed, feeling a little bit stupid about everything. Maybe Dazai really is okay.

“Is chibi okay? You look kind of pale.”

Chūya considered his reply, considered his concerns and assumptions and the stress he was under. He knew he wasn’t okay—but Dazai didn’t need to know that. Not the night before the competition.

“Just—haven’t been sleeping much,” he opts for. Dazai frowns.

“Sounds like my chibi’s really the one in need of cuddles.” Chūya forces a smirk.

“Yeah, guess so.”

Dazai strips his hoodie, revealing a bulky t-shirt and bandaged arms underneath. They sit on the bed, wrapping their arms around Chūya’s small torso. He plants kisses on the nape of Chūya’s neck.

Chūya enjoys this. He repeats it over and over in his head, I enjoy this. I am enjoying this. He almost believes it.

Until—

“Are you enjoying this?” Dazai asks with a frown, “You’re really tense. Do you have a migraine?” He doesn’t say as much. Dazai pulls away, “Do you want me to stop?” Chūya gnaws at his lip, trapped in his thoughts. Dazai’s worry amplifies with the passing moments of quiet, “Did I do something wrong?”

That snaps Chūya to attention.

“No,” he remedies, “sorry. I’m just off tonight. Can we lie down?”

Dazai nods, “Whatever Chūya needs.” They crawl under the covers. Naturally, Chūya would be little spoon. Tonight, they’re facing each other, arms wrapped around each other’s bodies.

Chūya can’t help the anxiety compounding, the stress that’s taken up permanent residency in his chest.

Hot tears prick the corner of his eyes and he is helpless to stop them as they trickle down his face. Dazai brings his hands up to Chūya’s reddened cheeks, fingers gently brushing the tears away.

“What’s wrong, Chūya?” Dazai whispers and maybe the care is too much. Maybe Chūya loves Dazai so much, it hurts. It certainly feels that way.

“I just—” he croaks out through a series of sniffles, “I want you to be okay.”

Dazai’s brow creases with confusion, “I am okay.”

Chūya shakes his head, “No, you’re not.” He eyes the rest of Dazai’s body indiscreetly. Dazai gets the picture.

“Really, I’m totally okay,” he attempts to shove away the concerns, “you don’t need to worry about me—”

“But I do!” Chūya’s voice raises, though his heart clenches as Dazai flinches. “I do worry about you! And I can’t ignore this. I can’t ignore everything that’s going on!”

Dazai doesn’t know what to do. They feel empty in a nice, comforting way. Dazai wants to be there for his boyfriend and prove that he’s okay—but he wants to stay empty. The emptiness helps. They feel prettier, more confident, like they can breathe for the first time in months. If only Chūya could be happy for them. He wishes Chūya knew how much better he feels right now.

(Except for the emotional upset.)

(The roller coaster of dysregulation.)

(The light-headedness and loss of coordination.)

(The pain in his stomach and lows as potent as the highs.)

Really, Dazai feels good.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Chūya,” Dazai, in vain, repeats himself, “I’m safe. Okay? We’re both safe.”

Chūya chokes on his cries, “Everyone is dying—”

“I’m not dying.”

“Have you looked in the fucking mirror?” Chūya can’t help but snap, “God, Dazai, you look like a fucking corpse!”

Dazai’s heart beats rapidly. Their chest grows tight.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” they deflect.

“You’re not fine or okay. You’re sick,” Chūya snarls despite his boyfriend’s obvious discomfort with the topic.

Dazai pulls away, confused and upset and hurt.

“I should get some rest,” they stand, ignoring the fresh wave of dizziness washing over them. Chūya notices the way they sway dangerously upon standing.

“Jesus, you can barely stand up straight. You have a problem—”

“I just lost my balance. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t have a problem. He can’t have a problem because problems need to be solved and Dazai doesn’t want to solve this, would rather leave the wound to fester if it means liking his body again. Dazai doesn’t have any problems. None that Chūya can solve, at least.

“You should get some rest too,” Dazai coaxes, “it’s a big day tomorrow.”

Everything in Chūya hurts.

“Wait!” Chūya calls out, “Don’t leave. Please don’t leave.”

It feels as though, if Dazai leaves, he might never make his way back.

“We’re both tired,” Dazai reasons, “we should really get some rest. We can talk about this after the competition—”

“It can’t wait!” Chūya screams, “Please!”

Dazai stops. He turns around, suddenly sullen, eyeing his boyfriend’s compromised form on the bed. They approach him, sitting back down.

“You have my attention,” he says earnestly. Chūya sniffles, not quite sure where to start. He hugs himself, grounding in the physicality of the action.

“I know you’ve been lying to me.”

An uncomfortable silence washes over them.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dazai immediately denies.

“Yeah, you do,” Chūya snorts unfunnily, “you don’t have to hide it. I know you’re relapsing.”

They freeze.

“Chūya—”

“It’s really scary, you know? When your sister is dying and your boyfriend is killing themself. It’s terrifying.”

“I’m not killing myself—”

“You are. You are actively not eating. That’s fucked.”

“So, what?” Dazai sighed, tone one of agitation and defeat, “Are you just looking to attack me or something? I don’t know how I can make this better—”

“I don’t want to attack you,” Chūya backpedals, “I don’t want that at all. I want you to feel safe enough to tell me when you’re struggling. I want you to ask for help when you need it.”

“I’m really okay—”

Chūya shakes his head again, “You said you don’t know how to make this better. You do. You do know how and it involves getting help—”

“What? You want me to go to the hospital again? I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what getting help looks like for you right now,” Chūya answers, “but I think it means talking about this in therapy and telling your parents.”

“I don’t—” Dazai starts before cutting himself off. He curls inwards, twisting away from his boyfriend. “I don’t want to.”

“Don’t want to what? Get better?”

They shake their head.

“Tell them. I don’t want them to know things have been. Like. You know.”

Despite all of the things, Chūya was thrilled to hear Dazai at least admitting that things weren’t okay. To have proof that he wasn’t in as much denial as Chūya initially thought.

“I know it’s hard.”

“I just—” Dazai groaned, irritation welling in their chest, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t want to let Chūya down but I don’t want my body to be gross and awful. I don’t want my parents breathing down my throat and another summer of stupid meal plans and constant check-ins and no freedom.”

“I think the only way to avoid those things, the no freedom stuff, is by getting help now. I don’t know how to help with your body image, honestly that’s way beyond me, but I think talking to someone will make a huge difference. I just need you to try.”

“If I—” Dazai averted their gaze as they spoke, “if I tell my dad. And like, start to go to the nutritionist again. Will Chūya stop worrying about me?”

Chūya’s heart leaps optimistically, “I can’t promise I won’t worry about you,” he starts, “but it would make me feel a lot better.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

They chewed their lip, considering what Chūya said. He cared about his relationship.

He also cared about being thin. About control. About—

But seeing how petrified Chūya was. How frightened he was for Dazai’s health—that hurt. That hurt almost as much as the comments from his parents and looking in the mirror. Maybe it hurt even more than that.

Maybe—

“Okay.”

He exhaled.

“I’ll talk to my dad before the competition tomorrow.”

Ocean eyes lit up like a sea of stars.

“Really?”

Dazai turned Chūya’s direction, pulling his boyfriend into his side, nuzzling him close, “Really.”

Chapter Text

Chapter X: i lied

He wasn’t nervous. Not at first.

Not before a night of restless sleep, tossing and turning, apprehension plaguing an exhausted mind.  

It was five in the morning when they hit, the myriad of anxieties. They chewed the skin under their practically non-existent nail. Chūya lay fast asleep under the covers. Dazai was still up. Still overthinking.

He could do this.

They would talk to their dad and tell him things had been hard lately. That he needs extra support.

His dad would understand.

Then they’d go to the competition, Dazai would do just fine, and things would be okay. He wouldn’t be hospitalized against his will and the competition would be just fine and everything was going to be just fine.

Everything was going to be okay.

He eyed the smallness of Chūya’s furled form. A pang of jealousy stabbed in his empty stomach, the way his boyfriend looked so soft and little and innocent like this. The jealousy was short-lived, quickly morphing to concern, then determination at the sight of a no longer a flaming sun, but the flicker of a match. Subdued.

He could do it for Chūya. He could change for Chūya.

--

Chūya woke up to a half-empty bed accompanied by a scribbled note.

I’ll talk to my dad today. Went to go practice. Almost-love you <3

Chūya held the note up against his chest, practically crushing the small piece of paper in his overzealous grasp. He was scared. Nervous and concerned, but also hopeful. Hopeful, because Dazai said he would try. Hopeful, because things were going to get better now.

Chūya yawned, a deep inhale. Stretching his arms high in the air, he let out an exhausted sigh, flopping back onto the pillow. Tiredness seeped at his bones despite his supposed full night of sleep. Still, excitement tickled in the back of his mind. For the first time in a little too long, things were looking up.

The time on his phone read 9 AM, which was surprising. Chūya usually woke up closer to 7:30 AM on most days, especially when he had work, even if his shift wasn’t until the afternoon. He must have been overtired, in dire need of rest. With another smaller stretch and a yawn, Chūya sat up in bed, picked up his phone, and sent a text to his mackerel.

I’m proud of you. You’ll do fantastic today. Promise me you’ll eat?

It only took a few moments before Dazai replied, Promise.  

All he needed to read was that one word to feel reassured.

With that, he got dressed and ran to the dining hall, eager to make it before they closed. Being later than normal, most of his friends were finishing up their food, leaving Chūya by himself for the morning. His box office shift started at noon and ran until the start of the competition that same evening. Luckily for Chūya, Mori gave him permission to sneak into the last row to watch the competition as soon as they finished counting their tills at the end of the day. All he wanted to do was watch his boyfriend perform, no matter how precarious the previous night’s conversation had been.

Chūya felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders following their conversation, no matter how difficult it was to have. Hard conversations were like that—they’d happen and they’d hurt but at their conclusion, it was obvious it was all for the better. Things, though nowhere near perfect, were on their way to being alright. Finishing his eggs, he smiled to himself. He could get used to this feeling. The feeling of things getting better.

At work, there was an indescribable thrumming in the air. The phones rang constantly. Parents called to request their last-minute, forgotten tickets. Students called to make sure their parents received their comps. It seemed everyone was ready for the competition to come. By the time evening rolled around, Chūya was vibrating with anticipatory impatience.

The thought of Dazai’s conversation with his father weighed on his mind, but Chūya found himself so busy that he didn’t have a chance to text his boyfriend to ask how it went. Still, he trusted his boyfriend when they said they’d talk to their father. He would find out after the competition the results of it all.

At 6 PM sharp, following Mori’s instruction, he began packing up, unable to contain his eagerness for what was to come. He was going to watch his boyfriend kick Dostoevsky’s ass. He was going to watch his boyfriend kick everyone’s ass. Pride swelled in his chest. Nothing could wipe the smile off his face.

“You seem really excited, Chūya,” Atsushi commented shyly, “are you looking forward to the competition?”

“Absolutely!” Chūya replied with a small bounce to his step, “I think it’s going to be really cool. Plus I never get to see the musicians perform solo pieces. That’s so rad.”

“It is!” Atsushi agreed, “I’m so excited to see Dazai play, I haven’t heard their piece yet but he told me it’s Rachmaninov, which is insane!”

“It’s fantastic,” Chūya responded, internally noting Mori’s curious eyebrow raises throughout their conversation, “it’s a great piece and Dazai’s done a really good job perfecting it.”

“He has,” Mori interrupted.

Chūya blinked. Mori continued.

“My son has done an excellent job preparing for the competition. I expect nothing but the best.”

They continued locking up, the conversation shifting to new, arbitrary subjects.

“Oh, my sister’s calling me,” Chūya glanced at his vibrating phone, “is it alright if I take this?”

“Yes, you may,” Mori replied as Chūya finished cleaning up his station.

“Thanks,” Chūya said, quickly exiting the Box Office. He wandered outside in the warmth of the evening, standing under the shade of a large oak tree as he answered the call.

“Hey sis,” he greeted the video call with a nervous grin, “is everything okay?”

His sister’s expression was unreadable.

“Ane-san?”

Gently, poised as ever, she shook her head.

“I’m sorry, lad. I’m not. I’m. It’s.”

Chūya’s face fell, “What’s going on? You can tell me. I won’t be mad or anything.”

She took a deep breath, the kind you take with your eyes closed. The kind that says something is coming.

“I um. It’s a long story. But there were problems with chemo and well,” she hesitated, sighing deeply, “I’m getting surgery. A double mastectomy.”

--

Chūya stumbles into the concert hall in a daze, choking on the memory of his sister’s words, on the sadness of reddened eyes and anxiety of terse expressions. Higuchi waves at him, having saved him a seat while Tachi and Gin work backstage. Chūya barely has it in him to wave back, but sits down next to her.

“Are you excited??” Higuchi asks, as cheerful as ever. She’s dressed in a yellow flowy skirt and white button down, the epitome of brightness. It’s not until she’s met with uncharacteristic silence that she realizes things are not okay. “Is something going on?” She asks with a slight frown.

Chūya shakes his head, “No. No, it’s fine. Everything is. It’s—”

# *

Music swells as the competition begins. It’s Dostoevsky who goes first. Of course it is.

Chūya can barely concentrate, can hardly hear anything other than the shivering timbre of his sister’s fragile voice. Kōyō is anything other than delicate, and to hear her as nothing more than a glass ornament teetering an edge is unbearably painful.

My sister is not okay.

The thought plays like a scratched record in his head.

My family is not okay.

We’re never going to be okay.

We’ll never be okay.

We’ll never—

The music surges, encompassing the world around him. Achingly sad. The vulnerability. Tragically wonderful.

But Chūya is too swallowed up by his own depths of sadness to care. His heart thunders as he shakes, knee bouncing, fingers clenching and unclenching, searching for a form of regulation.

The song continues.

His thoughts continue.

Loud and unforgiving, everything warps. Stressed and scared and all he can think of is his sister all by herself on an operating table, his sister in the pain of recovery, the chance that even this drastic procedure might not be enough to save her. The chance that she can go through all this pain and still die.

It’s too much.

Tears prick at the corner of his eyes as he fights to stay calm. As he fights to stay seated and breathe and tell himself things are going to be alright.

(They’re not.)

(They won’t.)

Chūya relents the fact that the piece is objectively stunning, even performed as a solo, lacking its piano counterpart. He relents how it’s helping to ease his mind, a calming lull in spite of all.

The piece whispers and coos and utters sweet nothings in his ears. Cradles him like a crying child, holding him close, letting him know he’s not nearly as alone as he thinks, feels.

He has never hated Dostoevsky more.

There’s nothing to be done. He can’t do anything but accept the meager comfort of a song not even intended for self. Of a song he should absolutely not find comfort in.

Like everyone else, he claps politely at its conclusion. Claps and rubs at his eyes.

“Do you need to step out?” Higuchi asks, all too aware of Chūya’s upset now that the musicians transition, a trumpet player preparing to take Fyodor’s place.

Chūya quickly shakes his head, “I’ll be fine until Dazai plays. I’m just not feeling well.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods as the trumpet player starts. Digs his nails into the flesh of his palms. Breathes in and out and in again.

He was fine. Chūya was fine.

--

Dazai is tenth to play. He fiddles with his suit sleeves behind the wings, occasionally picking at the fraying bandages peeking out. The outfit is a little uncomfortable, a little big on him despite having fit just a few days ago. Or, he thought. He thought it fit then. He’s not sure anymore. Maybe it was always a size too large. Maybe he’s hit his goal and—

They feel good. Good about playing, about the piece. Except—

No. No, they feel good.

They feel really good. There’s no reason for him to feel anything other than good right now, than prepared. They feel very prepared.

Even though they lied to Chūya. Because they didn’t actually talk to their father.

He feels a little bad about that, a little guilty.

But he didn’t have time. He tells himself, they didn’t have time to talk to his father. And that was fine because he would eventually.

Their hands are shaking, which is almost odd, because they don’t feel particularly nervous. Though their head swims and vision speckles—

He shakes it off.

Performance anxiety is not about to get in the way of victory. It always rears its head at times like this. It’s nothing they can’t handle.

The flautist before him finishes with the fervent flare way a flautist is expected to have. Dazai steps forward, preparing to take their place. As one exits, the other enters.

Dazai bows, sits at the piano, and breathes.

He closes his eyes, places hands upon the keys, and begins.

# * 

Playing in front of an audience, as always, is something they detest. He loathes the spotlight, loathes being the object of everyone’s attention. Because that’s what it feels like: objectification.

Still, they play. They play, and play, and play.

One note, the next, and the one after that. They’re all perfect. The piece is played with a degree of perfection Dazai has not yet mastered in his practice sessions with his father. The notes dance and sing and emotion fills the empty void that is ordinarily his heart. The music tells a story, the audience its eager witness.

It all feels surprisingly lovely, surprisingly ephemeral. For the first time since Oda’s death, or even the since the accident, playing in front of people feels right. Like this is where he’s meant to be. He belongs on a stage, they are a performer, this is their life. They’ve chosen this and not without reason.

Things have been bleak for so long, he’s forgotten how to operate without pessimism in toe. But this song, their playing, their performance in front of all these people—it makes him want. Want the optimism that things will be okay, that he will be okay, that maybe, just maybe they will be more than okay.

Dazai can get better. They can get caught up on their recovery and be the boyfriend Chūya deserves. Anything is possible as he sits and plays and hits the epitome of perfection. Their music is perfect and if Dazai tries hard enough, he too can be perfect.

The music, the magic he’s crafted, it culminates, adrenaline flooding at each note stroked like a paint brush on the canvas of the next great work of art. He paints and paints and—

There are little dots.

Little dots clouding his vision.

But he feels good. He feels fine.

They feel—

They can’t remember the last time they ate.

He plays. It’s not any less beautiful.

There’s a wave of nausea. Light-headedness.

Plays and plays and—

A wrong note.

Dazai plays a wrong note.

He plays a wrong note because his fingers are shaking and his body is shaking and when did they start shaking? When did the world around him become so dark and—

He can’t see.

The world is dark and he can’t stop shaking and they don’t know what’s happening because everything tilts it’s tilting it’s tilting it’s tilting

The piece hurts everything hurts and how can something so exquisite be this painful? It’s cruel and sharp and Dazai is confused and

--

“What happened?”

“Is he breathing?”

“Get the nurse!”

The audience whispers loudly, chaos and disarray incarnate. The stage management crew rushes about. Tachi barks orders at Gin, who relays them to the others. Security personnel is beckoned, running out with Tachi to Dazai’s collapsed form, upper half strewn across the keys of the grand piano gracelessly. He is pale, a stark contrast to the jet black instrument.

Tachi chews the corner of his lip as he assesses the situation.

Dazai does not stir.

Chūya cannot breathe.

He cannot breathe because that was the most incredible performance he has ever seen and it’s been interrupted. It’s been ruined.

Dazai’s ruined everything.  

He cannot breathe because Dazai collapsed and what if he’s dead and what if he’s—

What if he’s dead?

what if he’s dead what if he’s dead what if he’s dead what if he’s

“Chūya! You’re okay—you’re okay, Dazai’s going to be okay—”

It’s Higuchi’s high-pitched voice that works overtime to calm down his erratic breathing and clamoring pulse.

They take him away, they take his body away and Chūya can’t do it any longer. He leaps from his seat, thankful to be all the way in the back as he runs to the nearest exit. Higuchi stumbles behind to catch up.

As soon as he reaches a trash can, he retches. She holds his hair back as he coughs up breakfast and lunch, as he chokes back tears, as he feels his life crashing down in front of him for the second time today.

Because Dazai is not okay.

Dazai is not okay and Dazai is dying and Kōyō is dying and Chūya is helpless and alone and everyone leaves him and he is not okay and it’s actually Chūya who is not okay, it is Chūya who is dying when he has to be okay to keep everyone else okay Chūya has to be okay he has to be okay he has to

He’s not.

Chūya is not okay.

Chūya is not okay, as he coughs and sputters, putrid insides tainting the outside world.

“You’re okay, Chūya,” Higuchi strokes his hair, skims his forehead as he breathes heavily. The touch is soothing. It reminds him of his sister, though the thought of her and everything else makes his stomach roil once more.

It’s then that he realizes how guilty he feels. Because he owes his sister much more than a video call every other day. He should be there for her. He should be by her side.

But Dazai needs him.

But his sister needs him.

Everyone needs him and he cannot be everyone’s everything—

The sobs come quick and loud and ugly and soon he is cocooned, enveloped by Higuchi’s warmth as they bring him close to their chest, a tight embrace. They hold him whisper kind things in his ears, tell him everything will be okay, that Dazai will be just fine.

Chūya can only hope they’re right.

--

The first thing Dazai notices when he comes to, is that he is cold. Not just chilly, but frigid. He shivers, pulling the blanket up higher on his frame.

That’s the second thing he notices: the blanket. They notice a blanket and as they blink back into their body, they register that they are in a familiar room.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” the campus nurse, a brunette woman Dazai has met once or twice before, smiles emptily. “How are you feeling?” Her tone is blunt and clipped. Dazai can’t tell if he likes that.

“Cold,” he answers plainly.

The nurse scribbles something in a notepad before nodding her head.

“Your blood sugar is low and you’re dehydrated. I’ve hooked you up to some fluids.”

Dazai nods, not quite processing what’s been said. The third thing he notices: the IV in his arm, peeking out under the sleeve of his button down. He never realized the medical center on campus was equipped with more than just the basics of care.

“Eat this,” she passes a protein bar his way. They do not want it but he doesn’t know why. Softening the slightest bit, she sighs as he does not move to touch the food. “Sweetheart,” she says gentler than he presumed her capable of, “you passed out. You need to eat something.”

“I—”

What?

“I—”

The memories of the past twelve hours drown his thoughts, overflowing like a waterfall breaching a dam. They gasp.

“The competition!” He yells, now alert, “What happened? I was competing, I was playing I was—”

“I don’t know,” the nurse is back to her cold self, “they just brought you here and said you collapsed.”

He remembers playing.

He remembers playing and shaking and

and the piece started off perfect except

except it wasn’t because

because he started shaking and their vision started to speckle and

“No. No, no no no no nonononono—” he groans, throwing their head in their hands.

He’s interrupted by the sound of footsteps and a loud knock. The nurse answers the door.

“I’d like to speak to my son. Is he awake?”

“Yes,” the nurse nods, not giving it another thought, “I’ll give you two space.”

In this moment, Dazai wishes she were kinder. Wishes she was like the nurses at the hospital who asked him before visitors were allowed in. He wishes this because his father’s face is stiff, which means he’s enraged.

Mori glares at his child, though Dazai cannot see, as they still have their head in their hands. He curls in further as his father speaks.

“Osamu.”

His voice bellows in the quietness of the room.

“You’ve been disqualified from the competition.”

Their heart petrifies.

“Once again, you’ve disappointed me.”

He covers his ears.

“You’ve disappointed all of us.”

“I’m sorry—” Dazai utters, but is cut off as his father storms towards him.

“You have humiliated yourself, humiliated me. You have put not just your own reputation at stake but my reputation as a father and coach. Do you have any idea how detrimental the consequences of your actions are?”

They shake.

“I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry!”

“That’s not enough—”

“I didn’t mean to! I’m so sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Osamu—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

It hurt more than last time.

Dazai cradles his cheek, stunned into silence.

His father fumes, glaring furiously, “You are an embarrassment.”

They keep their gaze down, staring aimlessly at their lap.

“I have no more words to waste on you,” his father spits, storming towards the door. He swings it open, practically crashing into Chūya on the other side. Nothing is said as Mori walks straight past his employee, encompassed by a wave of fury.

Dazai does not look up as Chūya enters. The door closes quietly behind him. Everything is wrong. The meek look in his eyes, the anxiety-riddled expression on his face, the way he practically vibrates with nervousness. He looks so small, so unlike the larger-than-life persona that is Chūya Nakahara.

“Dazai?”

They keep their head down.

“I heard—he was yelling and it sounded like he—” Chūya bites down on his lip, hard. Dazai says nothing. “Did he hit you?”

No response.

“Dazai—”

“You should go.”

Their voice is barely above a whisper.

“We have to talk about it. About all of it.”

They shake their head, voice unbearably soft, “No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do.”

Dazai does not respond.

“That time—the bruise—that was your dad. Wasn’t it?”

The silence is excruciating.

“Come on, ‘Samu,” Chūya sighs, looking utterly defeated, “don’t do this. I can’t be here for you if you won’t let me.”

“I want to be alone.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Dazai buries his face in their arms, “Just go already!”

“Stop pushing me away.”

“Leave!”

Chūya recoils, then snaps like a rubber band stretched to its limit, “No! No, Dazai, I will not leave.” He roars, irate, “Do you know how scared I was when you collapsed? I thought you died. Higuchi held my hair as I fucking puked up my guts thinking I just watched my boyfriend die on stage.”

Relinquishing their hold on their head, Dazai jolts upwards, “But I didn’t die. Right? I’m still right fucking here!”

Chūya leans forward, reaches out, but backtracks, “Can I touch you?”

Dazai bristles, “No.”

“Tell me how to comfort you.”

“I don’t want to be comforted,” Dazai bites back, “I want you to leave me alone.”

They stew in silence, Chūya unmoving, Dazai glaring harshly.

“I need to tell someone, you know.”

“What?”

Chūya eyes their now-bruising cheek, “That,” he gestures vaguely, “I have to tell HR or someone.”

Dazai stiffens, “You absolutely don’t.”

“He literally hit you. Twice!”

“It’s nothing I’m not used to,” Dazai mutters under his breath, averting their gaze.

“That doesn’t make it okay!” Chūya balks.

“You cannot tell anyone,” Dazai hisses in a vitriolic timbre.

“I have to—”

“No, you don’t. If you tell, my dad will lose his job. I’ll lose my reduced tuition and my family can’t afford full price, even with my work-study.”

“I’m sure they’d figure something out if you talked to admissions or the people in charge—”

“It’s too risky,” Dazai shoots down the idea, “you can’t tell anyone. I need you to promise me, Chūya, promise me that you won’t tell anyone.”

“I can’t do that—”

“Yes, you can! You have to! I’ve already lost this stupid fucking competition, I humiliated myself in front of everyone, please don’t take this away from me.”

Chūya gnaws on his lip, head shaking. Everything about this feels abhorrent.

“This isn’t right. What if he wasn’t your dad? Staff can’t physically assault students. That’s not okay. What if he does it to someone else—”

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Chūya groans, exhaling deeply. His hands interlace, supporting the back of his head, his elbows splaying outwards. Ocean eyes travel up and down, giving his boyfriend a blatant once over. They are in their dress shirt and bandages, their pants hidden by the scratchy white blanket the nurse had given him. As he’s told Dazai time and again, Chūya can’t actually tell if their body had changed. If anything, it looks like the suit he’s wearing is a size too large. He looks the same as Chūya recalls at the start of summer. It’s worrying, the thought of someone at a physically healthy weight starving themself because their parents practically told them to. Then again, the prospect of anyone at any size starving themselves is enough to make him nauseas.

The untouched protein bar sitting on Dazai’s blanket covered lap is noticed.

“Can you eat that? We can talk about everything else when you have food in you.”

Glowering, Dazai pointedly ignores the protein bar.

“Just a little?” Chūya coaxes.

Dazai picks up the bar, staring at its nutritional panel as if it were poisoned.

“Only if you don’t look while I eat it,” he whispers uncomfortably.

Chūya nods, “Okay.” Turning around, he opts to gaze out the small window to the right of the cot. He’s busied himself with eying a bluejay while Dazai nibbles sparingly at their food. They finish half of the bar before putting it down.

“You can turn back around.”

Chūya does so, frowning at the half-finished food, but not remarking on it.

“We should talk about it.”

“We just did—”

“No, I mean. About you passing out. We should talk about that.”

A scoff, “What’s there to talk about? I passed out and got disqualified, it’s not complicated.”

“You promised me you’d eat today—”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“That’s bullshit!”

They flinch at the harshness of their boyfriend’s tone. Chūya lets out an exasperated sound of irritation.

“You need help—”

“I know.”

“And I’m guessing you didn’t talk to your dad about it at all today—”

“Sorry, I was too busy getting slapped across the face to say anything.”

“Well that wouldn’t have happened if you just told the truth!”

They stare each other down, anxiety and guilt and irritation bubbling between them.

“Wow.”

“Wait—wait Dazai, that’s not what I meant—”

“It’s my fault my dad hit me. Thanks for the reminder.”

“It came out wrong—”

“No, it came out exactly how you meant. Because this whole thing is my fault. I’m not actually sick and I’m not actually trying and of course my dad would fucking hit me because I egged him on, I provoked him—”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?! Telling the truth?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I’m just—I’m really upset. I thought—” Chūya pauses, shaking the slightest bit, “I thought you died.”

Dazai laughs humorlessly, “If only.”

“Will you quit it?”

Dazai snorts.

“I’m serious,” Chūya scolds, “that was really fucking scary and I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you mean?” Dazai asks confusedly.

“I don’t—” Chūya starts. He stops, takes another deep breath, then exhales the buildup of stress compounding in his chest, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what?”

More hesitation.

“Do what?” Dazai repeats himself.

Chūya slams his eyes shut through his whisper, “Be with you.”

It’s as if all the air has left Dazai’s body, pangs of hurt stabbing like knives in his chest. “What are you talking about?”

He doesn’t want to continue. Chūya doesn’t want to say anymore but knows he has to, knows he owes Dazai this much, at least.

“I don’t know if I can be with someone who won’t get help for their problems.”

“I’m fine—”

“Jesus Christ, Dazai you literally collapsed on stage. That’s not fine!”

“I’ll talk to my parents—”

“When!? Because you promised you’d do that today, just like you promised you’d eat and—”

“This isn’t fair—you’re putting all this on me the day of my stupid competition. That’s not fair, give me some fucking time—”

“You don’t have time!” Chūya practically screeched, his breath quickening with each argument, “This is serious. If you wait—”

“I’m not your sister, Chūya. I’m not dealing with cancer or some insane sickness outside of my control. I’ll be fine—”

“You’re right, you’re not my sister. My sister gets help when she’s sick. You—”

“I told you, this stupid timeline you gave me isn’t fair!”

“When are you going to get help?”

“Soon.”

“When is ‘soon?’”

Chewing on his cheek, Dazai thinks, “Well considering my parents were at the competition, for all I know the minute I go back to my room they’ll ship me off to the hospital.”

“If you go to the hospital, will you try and get better?”

Dazai massages the sides of his head, his turn for a migraine.

“Sure.”

“Dazai.”

“What do you want me to say? I don’t want to go to the hospital.”

“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do—but maybe it’s for the best.”

“Whatever.”

A long pause.

“So you’ll talk to your parents tonight?”

“Sure.”

Chūya eyes the unfinished food.

“And will you please finish that?”

Like a brat, Dazai tosses it onto the floor.

Chūya snaps.

“You’re a fucking child.”

“You’re controlling.”

“You’re sick.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“Fuck you, Dazai. I don’t even know why I’m wasting my time right now.”

“Then quit wasting it! Go away!”

“Whatever. Come get me when you’re ready to be an adult again.”

Dazai rolls his eyes, but otherwise does not respond. They watch as their boyfriend waltzes out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

--

“You collapsed!” Tane cried.

Dazai sat on the couch in his father’s cabin as his parents loomed over him, yelling all the while.

“It’s not a big deal—”

“It is a very big deal, Osamu,” Tane urged, “your health is important.”

“I know—”

“If you knew, you’d still be recovered,” Mori lectured. Dazai scowled.

“I am in recovery.”

His mother was not impressed, “Your weight is all over the place this summer. One second, you’re overeating and the next, you’re passing out. What is going on with you?”

“This isn’t fair!” Dazai spat. He was almost certain his siblings were eavesdropping in the other room. “You wanted me to lose weight. That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“We didn’t tell you to starve yourself,” Mori scoffed.

Tane interjected, “We just wanted you to be healthier.”

“I’m not starving myself.”

“You passed out,” Mori snipped.

“I was just exhausted—”

“You’re lying to us,” Tane hissed with her classic, passive aggressive, saccharine tone, “honey, I hate it when you lie. You know that.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. And your mother is right,” Mori added, “we just wanted you to be healthier. This—” Mori gestured vaguely, “is not what we told you to do.”

“You said I needed to lose weight! I don’t fucking get it!”

“That’s not what we said—” Tane retaliated.

“That is what you said!” Dazai screamed, “You’ve spent all summer criticizing my body and now you’re acting like I’m crazy! That’s not fucking fair!”

They were shaking.

They were shaking and it was too loud and too bright and they couldn’t focus.

“We just want you to be okay.”

“We only want what’s best for you.”

“Liar! If you wanted what’s best for me you’d leave me the fuck alone.

“Osamu.”

“Shut up!”

“We didn’t want this summer to end with you in the hospital. Again.”

They couldn’t tell who was speaking.

“This program is stretching it, we can’t afford another stint in the hospital if you’re just going to repeat your behavior year-after-year.”

“It’s not my fault—”

“Perhaps we should send you back to Yokohama. You were doing much better there—”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“You should have thought of that before you decided to, once again, ruin your life.”

The world was out of alignment and Dazai could not think. Could not hear or see or focus. All they could do was make sounds. It was the culmination of one of the most stressful days of his life. From the competition to the conversation with Chūya in the nurse’s office, to the unexpected confrontation with both of his parents. It was all too much. He couldn’t take it any longer, shrieking a series of high-pitch noises.

“What is he doing, Ōgai?” Tane shot a worried glance at her ex-husband.

Mori reached over to Dazai, who promptly freaked the fuck out. They cried out, curling in further on themself. His breathing was labored as he started hitting himself.

“Calm down,” Mori grabbed Dazai’s hands, forcing them to remain stationary. Dazai whined louder.

Akiko, who was indeed eavesdropping, couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Dad, let go of him!” She called out, running over to her panicking sibling.

“Akiko, wait outside—”

“No, you’re making it worse. I can handle him—”

“Do not tell your father how to parent his son,” Tane scolded harshly.

“That’s rich,” Akiko rolled her eyes, “and also, I’m not having this argument with you right now. Dazai needs support. They don’t need—” she gestured at her father’s near-bruising grasp on Dazai’s wrists in conjunction with his swollen cheek, “they don’t need that.”

“He’s hurting himself.”

“Please, let me take care of him,” Akiko begged.

“No—”

There was massive crash! from the other room.

“Oh no!” Q’s sardonic voice echoed from the hall, “I accidentally dropped my mug. And there are sharp pointy shards all over the floor. What ever shall I do.”

Cursing under her breath, Tane stood up, dusting off her spotless pencil skirt, “Sweetheart, did you make a mess? I’ll be right there.”

“Send dad in too!” Q yelled out, “There are so many pointy things!”

Mori glared at the doorway, then glanced over at the petrified Dazai and back to Akiko. “You’re sure you can handle him?”

“Yes,” Akiko assured her father, prying his hands off of Dazai’s wrists, “we’ll be fine. Go help Q.”

Reluctantly, Mori let go. Dazai immediately recoiled, clasping his wrists against their chest. Their father left the room.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Akiko cajoled her sibling softly, “it’s just Akiko now. I’m not going to touch you if you don’t want that.”

Chestnut eyes widened, trembling and watery. Everything was scary and everything hurt and

“You’re okay,” Akiko repeated herself, “I don’t have any toys on me but—”

Kyōka wandered in, a bunny plushie in her arms, “You can hold Bunny,” she offered the soft toy to her older sibling. Warily, he picked it up. “They’re a very soft bunny,” Kyōka stated matter-of-factly.

“Thank you, Kyōka,” Akiko said to her little sister with a genuine smile. Kyōka nodded, then trotted off to the other room, all too intuitive for someone so young. Redirecting her attention back to her sibling, “Do you think you can talk?”

He wanted to.

He should.

They should. They should know how to talk. They should know how to say words and articulate what was going on in their head but they

they

they couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t—

They shook their head rapidly, clutching the bunny tight.

“That’s okay,” Akiko added, “do you want to be held or touched?”

Dazai covered his ears with his hands, the bunny haphazardly falling to his lap.

“Right. Overstimulated. Got it. Do you have your earplugs on you? I might have some—”

Dazai forgot his in his cabin, they were still in his suit pocket from before he changed. They shook his head. Akiko opened her cross-body bag and pulled out a pair of cat-shaped headphones, “They’re not earplugs, but if you want you can put on music? Or just block out some noise. Whatever you need.”

Shakily, they removed their hands from their ears, grabbing the headphones and placing them on his head. He tried to plug the aux cord into his phone, but his hands shook so much, they couldn’t get the insert to align with the port.

“Here,” Akiko reached over, careful to avoid touching him for too long as she helped him slide the jack into place. They tried to open their Spotify app, but again ran into issues with their tremoring fingers. “Let me guess,” Akiko asked aloud, “the suicide song?” Dazai nodded. She pulled up his music, putting on Shostakovich’s String Quartet no. 8.

Between the bunny, music, and the space from their parents, Dazai could finally ground himself. He hummed softly, a high-pitched sound to keep him steadied. Their sister let him take care of himself, occasionally eying the door to make sure their parents wouldn’t come wandering back in.

Truthfully, Akiko was depleted. She was bone-tired, running off of pure adrenaline and stress. Seeing her sibling collapse on stage earlier today awoke the anxious fear she had been repressing for months on end. She spent the entire summer telling herself that Dazai would be fine, that he was recovered, that they would be okay, that they were making friends and making progress and—

It wasn’t enough. Friends, progress, none of that mattered to the disorder.

“You’re okay, Dazai,” she whispered, knowing full-well her sibling couldn’t hear her, “I’m here. You have friends now. You’re going to be okay.”

--

The next day comes far too soon and everyone is on edge.

Dazai wonders if he ever got “better.” If the treatment in the psych ward actually helped. If all these years, one therapist after another, inpatient and outpatient and nutritionist—did it really help?

He thinks about this as he stares at his untouched dinner. It’s just him and Chūya, alone in the practice room. He knows Chūya is staring, knows he’s worried. But he can’t bring himself to eat. It’s hard, so so hard when all you can feel is the weight of their eyes peeling you apart, bit by bit. The weight of expectations settling on your shoulders and suddenly you feel so much heavier than before. You feel so incredibly heavy, carrying the weight of everyone else, there’s no room to be hungry. Because the expectation is that you’re sick, so you shouldn’t eat. Because if you do eat then that means your not sick and if you’re not sick, then this grotesque state of being is fine is okay you are fine and okay when really you feel like you’re dying dying dying

So you just

you don’t.

You don’t eat because they expect that you won’t eat and you have to meet that expectation otherwise you’re fine and clearly you cannot be fine.

Dazai is not “fine.”

Chūya has been keeping a close eye on him all day. He’s been making sure Dazai has meals, even if they end up unfinished.

“At least try to have some,” Chūya coaxes as he finishes his own food, looking up to see Dazai’s barely touched dish. Dazai does not reply. They’ve been eerily quiet this entire time. “Come on, Dazai,” Chūya groans as his boyfriend doesn’t even make an effort to pick up his fork or touch his chicken. “You need to eat,” Chūya lectures, feeling as though he’s talking to a small child rather than a full-grown adult. Dazai is busy spacing out. He is far away from the practice room. Far away from dinner and disorders and Chūya. Dazai is very far away from Chūya. He doesn’t know if—when he’ll be back.

Chūya is sick of this.

He’s sick of the anxiety and the worry and constant concern and the fact that everyone in his life is decomposing and Chūya is useless. Chūya can do nothing to help anyone and so

he lashes out

gets mad

furious

screams.

Chūya screams.

“For fuck’s sake, Dazai! My sister is fucking dying! She is actively trying not to die. Some people don’t eat because they’re actually sick, not because they want a stupid wider fucking thigh gap!”

He hates himself for the words coming out of his mouth, but he can’t bring himself to stop.

Dazai snaps to attention, brought out of their reverie, “Actually sick?”

“Yes, my sister is actually sick with cancer. Have you even been listening to me—”

“Actually,” Dazai chews on the word, repeating himself, “she is actually sick.”

“That is what I just said.”

“Right. Because I’m not. I forgot, this is all a choice.”

Chūya freezes. He knows he’s fucked up.

“Right. I’m choosing this. I’m choosing to be sick because it’s not actually—” tears well up in his eyes and Chūya absolutely feels like the world’s worst boyfriend.

“That’s not what I meant—” he tries to take back the words, but they’ve already been said.

“I’m fine. That’s what you’re saying,” Dazai’s expression crumples, then morphs as his tone grows frigid, “me and my fucking disorder are just fine. “

“You’ve been the one pretending to be fine this entire fucking time. Don’t be like this.” It’s the wrong thing to say, but Chūya can’t help crawling into the hole he’s dug.

A manic grin distorts Dazai’s features, “I guess I just forgot how completely not sick I am! Maybe I should break some dishes and slice my wrists with the shards. Or—”

“Dazai, stop—”

“I can hang myself again! You know, Q wasn’t supposed to be home—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I should just fucking kill myself, shouldn’t I? Stop wasting the air of people who are actually trying to stay alive and actually deserve it and—”

“Dazai!” Chūya screeches and suddenly, Dazai is no longer twenty-two, eating dinner with his boyfriend. No, he’s sixteen. Sixteen and at the piano with a father who blames him for everything. He is sixteen with no control over anything and his father is pissed and Dazai’s fingers ache and—

Dazai cowers. He holds up his arms, bracing himself for the blow they know is inevitable. They wait and wait and—

“I’m sorry,” Chūya is quick to backpedal, “Dazai, I’m so sorry. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. I’m mad, but you’re safe. Okay? You’re okay. I didn’t mean what I said. I’m sorry.”

Dazai shakes, their entire body vibrating.

It’s quiet as Dazai regulates. As they blink back into their body, back into being twenty-two, back into being safe, even if his boyfriend is angry.

Because Chūya would never hurt him.

They choke out, “I’m sorry,” shaking their head, “I’m being a brat.”

“Just take some deep breaths. You’re okay.”

“I’m really sorry. Chūya’s right.”

“No, I’m not. What I said wasn’t cool.”

They stew in another moment of clipped silence.

“I think we’re both just really tense right now. Maybe we should lie down and cuddle or something.”

Dazai nods in agreement, “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Chapter Text

Chapter XI: I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry

Dazai doesn’t know if he’s going to be sent to the hospital again. It’s not that his parents are taking his preferences into consideration, they’re not. It’s more about affordability. He doesn’t know if they can afford to send him to the hospital again. And so he gets to sleep in precarious freedom for a little longer, waiting, waiting, waiting.

“It’s lovely to see you, Dazai, Chūya,” Hirotsu smiles warmly, “I’m glad you were able to make it.”

Everyone’s been rather polite, not mentioning what happened. Dazai and Chūya arrive at the bonfire, greeted with the same tiptoeing around it. The bonfire Dazai very much does not want to be at. But campus isn’t exactly where he wants to be these days either. In all honesty, there’s nowhere he’d like to be. Everywhere is basked in complete social embarrassment.

“It’s great to see you too, Hirotsu,” Chūya responds on their behalf, “thank you for having us.” Dazai waves with a bright, plastic smile. It hurts.

The drive to the party was uncomfortable.

Still, they’re fine. Dazai is fine and whatever he has going on with Chūya is fine and Chūya is just fine so really, everyone and everything is fine.

“We have plenty of food and drinks for everyone,” Hirotsu’s husband Fukuzawa gestured to the setup, “please, help yourselves.”

“Thanks, we will!” Chūya beamed, leading Dazai towards the food.

Dazai was still off. Still on edge. They felt foreign in their own skin, as if he’d been devoured whole by a snake and all he could see and feel were the insides of the beast. They needed a drink.

“This looks so good,” Chūya commented on the barbeque, trying to stay positive. Dazai’s stomach churned as he filled his plate up with food he had no intentions of eating.

The party was in full swing, a delightful assortment of decorations draped the fence of the backyard, followed by string lights and a mid-sized fire pit. Their friends sat huddled around the fire, Atsushi and Ryū arguing, Higuchi ogling Ryū, Tachi ogling Gin, and Gin ogling her fries. Music played lightly in the background, smooth jazz that set a classy ambiance.

Chūya eyed Dazai’s anxious form, “Hey. Are you okay?”

No. They’re not. They want to throw up.

“Never better!”

Chūya’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, merely grabbing Dazai’s wrist and pulling him towards their group.

“Hey!” Chūya waved happily. The rest of the group paused their conversations to greet them.

“Hey,” Tachi started nervously. Dazai waved with an uncharacteristic shyness.

“Dazai,” Ryū greeted, “It’s nice to see you. I hope you’re feeling better.”

They stiffened, unwanted memories flashing in their head at the comment. Flashbacks of playing and the world going dark and

“Um yeah. I am. Thanks.”

The moment of discomfort is fleeting, as Atsushi waves eagerly their way, “I’m so glad you two made it!!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Chūya grinned. Dazai flashed a quick thumbs up before eyeing the nearby table that posed as a makeshift bar.

“Do you want a drink?” Dazai asked Chūya quietly.

Chūya shook his head, “Nah. I drove and I don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck here if you need to leave at any time.” Dazai’s gaze softened at the blatant display of care.

“Oh,” he breathed out stress they didn’t realize they were carrying, “I appreciate that.” Then, after a moment, “Is it okay if I drink?”

“Oh um. Yeah,” Chūya answered uneasily, “yeah. I guess that’s fine. Just make sure you eat, ok? I don’t want you drinking on an empty stomach.”

Dazai nodded. He didn’t plan to finish their food, but Chūya didn’t need to know that. They handed their plate to Chūya for safekeeping and made their way to the bar.

“A not-so-secret secret relationship? Love me some drama.” An unfamiliar voice greeted Chūya. Turning around, Chūya noticed a scrawny guy dressed in a Sherlock Holmes styled outfit.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“Ranpo. I’m the hosts’ son,” Ranpo explained, “I know Dazai, but I don’t know you.”

“Chūya,” he offered, “I work at the box office.” He ignored Ranpo’s comment about their relationship.

“But you’re—”

“Ranpo!” Dazai smiled, returning with a mixed drink in hand, “I see you’ve met Chūya?”

“You’re ‘not-public-boyfriend’, yes, I have.”

Dazai blushed profusely at the comment.

“We’re um. We’re not—”

“Save it,” Ranpo stuck his tongue out childishly, “and eat your dinner.”

“Of course~”

Ranpo fixed Dazai with A Look™.

Chūya, not for the first time in the night, eyed Dazai warily.

“Relax, I’m on it,” Dazai laughed awkwardly before taking a fry. Ranpo glared.

“If you get shit-faced tonight don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” he added before waltzing off.

“That was um,” Chūya started in between bites of his own food, “that guy’s kind of weird. Or kid. Whatever their pronouns are.”

“He/him,” Dazai informed, “and he’s just like that. He knows too much for his own good and sees through people really easily.”

“So he knows you haven’t been eating? Was he at the competition too?” Chūya put the pieces together. Dazai shook their head adamantly.

“He just knew me last year when I was going through a hard time.”

Chūya spared a skeptical glance.

“But I’m doing way better this summer,” Dazai emphasized, “so there’s nothing to worry about~”

As if collapsing in the middle of competitions never occurred

as if his parents weren’t constantly making comments about his body

as if they weren’t on the verge of another trip to a treatment center.

“Come on, let’s hang out with everyone~”

--

Drinking is an activity that is high in calories, but Dazai knows the trade-off is well worth it. They loosen up almost immediately, which he’s sure has something to do with the lack of food in his system. Of course, Chūya notices, but he doesn’t comment on it. In fact, as much as he is irritated and concerned, he’s kind of relieved to see Dazai this animated. It’s been a while since they’ve been this carefree and it quells Chūya’s anxieties in an unusual way.

“Osamu. Chūya,” Fyodor strolls up to them, greeting them curtly.

He got second place in the competition.

“Fedya!” Dazai cheers, drunk out of his mind, “You came!”

“Jeez, are you wasted already? It’s barely 8,” Fyodor remarks.

“I’m havin’ fun!” Dazai slurs, stumbling a little bit despite standing in one place.

“Easy there,” Chūya and Fyodor reach out simultaneously to steady them. Fyodor quickly retracts his hands, allowing Chūya to do the job, “Hey, maybe we should get you some water?” Chūya suggests.

Dazai shrugs, “Water’s good. I like water. It has no calories.”

“Right,” Chūya replied with a grimace, “Fyodor can you um, just like, watch them while I get some—”

“Sure,” Fyodor nods.

Despite their disinterest in each other, Dazai is a common ground between them and Chūya knows Fyodor won’t pull anything inappropriate in public.

“Fedya’s babysitting me!! That’s so sweet of him!” Dazai cooed, stumbling yet again.

“Easy, love,” Fyodor steadied them, “how much did you have to drink?”

“Uhhhhh,” Dazai paused as he considered, “two drinks. Yessir, two!!”

“And did you eat anything today?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dazai slurred haphazardly, “I feel great!!”

“You really should make an effort to eat,” Fyodor replied. Dazai snorted.

“Why would I do that? I’m prettier this way.”

There was a terse moment as Fyodor considered his statement.

“Osamu,” he started with a weighted sigh, “I never meant to make you feel unattractive. I know I said some things last year about. You. And um. Your body.”

“Heh. Yeah, Fedya told me I was getting gross—”

“I never said that.”

A shrug, “That’s how you made me feel. When you told me I was eating too much—”

“I never meant it like that. I just noticed your body was changing and got concerned about your health—”

Dazai frowned, “Is this your way of apologizing?”

“Right,” Fyodor placed a hand on Dazai’s shoulder, “I shouldn’t be making this about me. I want to apologize for the things I said and the way I made you feel. I didn’t mean to trigger you.”

“Okay.”

“Really, I—” he was cut off by a bark.

A bark from—

They freeze.

The two of them freeze because that’s the sound of a dog and that time there was—

Dazai’s drunken eyes widen monumentally, flooding with fear. Instinctively, Fyodor pulls Dazai in close, holding them to his chest.

“They—they said the dog wouldn’t—that it wouldn’t—” Dazai tripped over his words, quivering in Fyodor’s arms.

“You’re okay. You’re okay, Osamu, I’ve got you.”

Dazai shakes harder, oblivious to the crowd that’s gathered around, cooing at the creature that’s made an appearance.

At first, Chūya is delighted to see the puppy. It’s small and soft and ekes of cute. He’s ready to pet it and give it all the love it deserves when he remembers—

This dog should be inside.

Dazai is afraid of dogs.

Dazai is—

Chūya bolts over to the quivering Dazai, embraced in Fyodor’s thin arms.

“Are you okay?” Chūya asks, concerned.

Dazai shakes, making a small noise in reply.

“Can you please ask Hirotsu and his husband to bring the dog inside?” Fyodor asks in a clipped tone, holding Dazai tighter.

Chūya can’t help the pang of jealousy clutching his chest.

“Sure,” he replies, “give them some water,” he places the cup on the table next to them and heads to Hirotsu and Fukuzawa.

Hirotsu apologizes profusely for the debacle, calling their dog Fukuchi inside.

“We’re terribly sorry,” Fukuzawa, too, apologizes, “someone must have left the back door open. He’s small and sometimes slips out. My husband will make sure he stays in our bedroom for the remainder of the party, but I understand if you two would like to leave.”

“I think we’ll be okay—”

Chūya stops mid-sentence as he sees Fyodor usher Dazai away from sight.

“It’s alright,” he finished, “I’ll um—I’m going to check on Dazai.”

Chūya follows the trail from his boyfriend and Fyodor, leading him to the garage. They’re huddled in the corner, where Fyodor is holding Dazai’s trembling frame.

They speak in hushed whispers.

Dazai recoils, hugging himself tightly.

Chūya frowns.

Dazai looks at Fyodor, then shakes their head profusely.

Fyodor continues speaking, far too quiet for Chūya to hear from such a distance.

Biting their lip, Dazai moves in close. Too close. He whispers something inaudible in Fyodor’s ears.

Chūya can’t hear the conversation between them. He does, however, see as Dazai kisses—

He sees Dazai kiss Fyodor.

Dazai, his Dazai is kissing Fyodor Dostoevsky.

“What the fuck is going on?” Chūya immediately leaps out of his spot in the shadows of the garage, confronting Dazai and Fyodor.

Dazai pulls away, stunned.

“Dazai, what the fuck?”

Before they can utter any sort of explanation, Dazai crumples and loses it. They curl onto the ground, breaking down in a full-out sob. Fyodor looks just as shocked and confused as Chūya feels.

“What the hell is happening?!” Chūya snaps, equal parts puzzled and livid. Fyodor stammers as Dazai sobs louder.

Unwillingly, there are voices coming from behind, a crowd of spectators entering the vicinity.

Chūya does not care, he’s enraged, “Dazai, what the fuck is going on?”

Dazai is freaking the fuck out. They’re scratching their arms and crying and—

“I’m touching you and bringing you inside,” Ranpo’s high-pitched voice interrupts the tantrum, “the dog’s in my dads’ bedroom, we’ll go to my room.”

Dazai clearly isn’t a fan of being touched, but is too incoherent to protest as they’re dragged inside. Chūya tries to follow, only to stop as Ranpo snaps, “Stay out here.”

“But—”

“Don’t question me,” Ranpo adds, taking Dazai by the hand and leading them inside.

The crowd that has gathered around grows quiet, whispering to each other murmurs of what they just witnessed.

“Is he okay?”

“Didn’t he collapse yesterday?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

Chūya turns back around to face Fyodor, hissing angrily, “What did you do to him?”

“What are you talking about—”

“Don’t you dare try and tell me you weren’t kissing each other just now,” Chūya growls, “I fucking saw you. Why did you kiss them—”

“Dazai kissed me,” Fyodor exclaims. “I don’t know why,” he adds honestly, “but you should probably ask them about it.”

“No—no you’re lying. Dazai hates you. He hates—”

Except Chūya saw. Fyodor isn’t lying because Chūya saw it happen. He saw Dazai lean in and Fyodor’s eyes widen with confused shock.

“He kissed you,” Chūya says, meek and helpless.

“And then proceeded to have a meltdown, yes,” Fyodor replies with a suspicious calm to his tone.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“It’s complicated—” Fyodor begins, stopping as Chūya interjects.

“Cut the bullshit,” he glares, “why the hell did he kiss you and why is Dazai so fucking terrified of dogs? Was that just an excuse so you’d hold him? Maybe they’re not even afraid of dogs and they just—”

“That’s enough,” Tachi interrupts, emerging from the spectating crowd. He approaches Chūya with a calm, collected expression, placing a hand on the other one’s shoulder, “Chūya, calm down.”

“No!” Chūya yanks his shoulder out of Tachi’s grasp, “I will not ‘calm down’ until someone gives me a straight fucking answer for once in my fucking life!”

“Easy—” Tachi restrains Chūya again as he prepares to lunge at Fyodor, ready to give him a piece of his mind, “I don’t know why they were kissing, but I can guarantee, Dazai is terrified of dogs. They weren’t making that up. I’m sure they can explain all of this in the morning, when you’ve both had a chance to calm down. He’s drunk and—”

“Stay the fuck away from him,” Chūya snarls Fyodor’s way, “don’t fucking touch him!”

“They’re not your property,” Fyodor argues, instigating further.

“Well they’re sure as hell not yours,” Chūya snaps with a murderous glower.

“You need to chill out,” Tachi warns.

“Can I—” Chūya exhales, defeat taking over his form, “I want to leave.”

Gin works overtime to clear the crowd as Tachi continues placating Chūya.

“Have you been drinking?” Tachi asks. Chūya shakes his head no. “Okay. Ryū is a DD. He can get Dazai home if you want to head out now.”

Chūya glances at the house, back at Fyodor, and at his own hands. Everything is crumbling around him. His sister’s health, Dazai’s health, his own relationship—everything Chūya has is disintegrating in his touch and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

--

It’s late afternoon by the time Chūya wakes up. He’s thankful Atsushi is covering the day, as he doesn’t think he has the strength to make it to work anytime soon.

“What the hell—” he stifles a yawn as he checks his phone, seeing five missed calls from Dazai, followed by a series of nonsensical texts.

Chūya yawns a second time, hoisting himself up in bed. His head throbs and he reaches into his bag and takes his migraine medication on top of a pain reliever, knowing that is the only way to make the next few hours bearable. He knows he should eat breakfast, but the thought of solid food makes him nauseas. He should probably call Dazai back and—

Fuck.

The events of the previous night come flooding back into his head. The events of the past week.

The lying, the passing out, the dog, the breakdown, the kiss—

Chūya can’t tell if he needs to talk to Dazai or spend the rest of the summer ignoring him.

There’s a little voice in the back of his head though, nagging at him. Nagging that something’s not okay. Dazai wasn’t just drunk, he was trashed. He was trashed and coming out of a panic attack and looking back at it, the entire situation made no sense.

They kissed Fyodor. Why would they do that?

Chūya’s head spins, though the spiral is cut short by a knock at the door.

He stays in bed, offering a brief, “Come in?”

Dazai looks haggard. Their hair tousled, dark bruises underlining reddened eyes, and splotchy cheeks glowing crimson in the morning light. They are dressed in the same clothes from the previous night, a baggie t-shirt and cargo pants. His bandages are in a state of disarray and though most of his skin is still covered, Chūya can see patches of redness where Dazai scratched a little too hard peeking out from under the gauze.

“I’m really sorry, Chūya,” is the first thing they say, sniffling all the while.

It is way too early for this.

“Hey um. Can we do this later?”

Chūya is too tired for this. Too tired for broken relationships with broken people and broken hearts.

“Um. If you’re uh—” Dazai shifts their weight nervously, “if you’re going to end things with me I’d rather you do that now.”

“I—” Chūya pauses, their words registering, “you’re the one who kissed someone else. Clearly I’m not enough—”

“No, no it’s not like that at all,” Dazai assures, “I can explain. Or um. Sort of. I can sort of explain. But um. If you want me to wait I can um. I can wait.”

Chūya maintains a cold front, though he’s not heartless and finds himself offering, “Let’s make coffee, then talk.”

Dazai nods and follows as Chūya makes his way out of the warmth and safety of his bed and into the humid kitchenette. It’s silent as Chūya puts the kettle over heat and scours his shelves for anything edible. He pulls out two granola bars, tossing one to Dazai. They hesitate, making no move to open it as Chūya tears his own open. 

The coffee is ready in a matter of minutes, and soon they’re sitting in the living room, poor AC circulating to the best of its ability, the machine humming as it works a little too hard to do its job. They’re lucky it’s a mild afternoon, but that doesn’t stop the room from being uncomfortably sticky. They sip at their coffees.

Chūya’s about halfway through his cup and fully through his granola bar when he clears his throat, “Eat that,” he points to Dazai’s untouched food, “then we can talk.”

Dazai shakes their head, “I’m not hungry.”

“Dazai.”

They shake their head again. Chūya gulps down the rest of his coffee in one go.

“Eat the fucking food or I’m not listening to you.”

He ignores the way Dazai shrinks at the harshness of his tone. Ethical or not, the threat seems to do the trick as Dazai moves to unwrap his granola bar. He’s a third through when he places it back down on the table nearest him.

“Can I explain now?”

Chūya looks at the food, at Dazai, and back at the food.

“Finish it.”

“I can’t—”

“You absolutely can. It’s a fucking granola bar, Dazai. I’m not asking you to eat Christmas dinner.”

Their hands shake and their torso shakes as his face crumples, looking all too much like the past night.

“Please, just let me explain. I’ll eat the rest after. I promise.”

“Not like those mean anything to you, but sure. Fine. Prove me wrong.” Chūya shoots with a threatening gaze.

Dazai nods, looking far too withdrawn for his comfort. Guilt pricks at Chūya’s chest.

Hugging his frame tightly, Dazai hunches inwards as he starts, “I um. I’m really sorry. I uh—” their hands shake around their coffee mug. He places it down on the table, holding his hands in each other to steady their tremors. “Fyodor and I have a complicated history. Which you know. We um, we met through a program with our schools. My school did a trip to Russia and we met there. We dated for a few months, long-distance. Then we both came to BMP for the same part-time program and things got kind of like. Messy. We weren’t really nice to each other and we broke up. Or like, tried to?”

“Okay.”

“But we were both—we—one night we got drunk and like. Wanted to have breakup sex or whatever. Our roommates were home though, so we found a spot on campus that we thought was secluded.”

They began pinching at their bandages, scratching at the raw skin beneath them.

“Some of the Grounds crew guys got out late and were walking their dog. It was a large one, I don’t know the breed but um, it must have heard us while we were. You know. And it started barking and ran over to our spot. We were tucked away but it wasn’t an entirely closed off space—we were really drunk but um. Yeah. We didn’t really have time to react and—” Dazai froze, eyes blown-out and bleary. They scratched at their skin harder. “Sorry, sorry, I need a break.”

They sat in silence, only the sound of Dazai’s scratching and birds chirping as their backtrack.

Chūya stood up, bringing his trash into the kitchenette before grabbing something from his room. He came back with a metal cube with different spirals and gears attached to it. “Here,” he offered the toy Dazai’s direction. Dazai looked confused. “It’s a fidget,” Chūya explained curtly. Dazai accepted, fiddling with it for a bit until he was calm enough to continue.

“So um. Anyways,” Dazai exhaled deeply, “they found us. And I um. I never really liked dogs. I got attacked by one when I was little and like. It’s not like the dog really hurt me or anything, but um, I don’t know. I was young and it was scary and even the cute ones kind of freaked me out. So um, yeah we were. Like. Doing shit and this dog comes bolting over to us barking and of course it’s not on a leash, so I freeze up. We were both still drunk and they found us—” they winced, their grip tightening around the metal cube, “you already know what happened. Or like, the general stuff. They beat the shit out of us. But um, Fyodor was a little more sober than me I guess because he got away and went to get help but um. The guys. They. Like. When he left they just. They,” Dazai continued to cut himself off, settling on, “it was really bad.”

Chūya’s blood ran cold.

“What did they do to you?”

Dazai shook his head, clamming up, “I don’t talk about it.”

“Dazai—.”

“Chūya, I can’t.”

“That’s not fair—”

“It’s my trauma,” Dazai bit back, quickly shifting from meek to aggressive, “I don’t owe you that story.”

Chūya scoffed, “You fucking kissed another guy. I think you owe an explanation—”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m giving you. If you don’t like what I have to say then maybe we shouldn’t even be having this conversation!”

“You’re being unreasonable—”

“I’m setting a boundary—”

“That’s a shitty boundary.”

“You’re being a shitty boyfriend.”

They shared a scowl, tension mounting, thick in its viscosity.

“Why did you kiss him,” Chūya stated more than asked. Dazai fidgeted.

“After he left to go get help—they—that thing happened. They did things to me and now the wires are all crossed in my brain.”

“I genuinely cannot understand what you’re trying to tell me without context.”

“I just—forget it.” They stand, dropping the metal cube onto the couch.

“Wait, no, talk to me,” Chūya coaxes.

“I sound fucking crazy. I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”

“Yes—you can. Look, I’m sorry I’m giving you a hard time, okay? I want you to feel safe enough to tell me about these things—”

“That’s the thing, Chūya! I don’t feel safe! I never feel safe! But when Dostoevsky came and got me after—after they.”

“Dazai. You don’t have to tell me. But you can. Okay? I’m sorry for pressuring you, but I promise I won’t judge you or anything if you want to talk about it.”

Tears pricked at their eyes as they balled their fists, standing in place, “Have you ever been orally raped, Chūya?”

He’s met with silence.

“There were five of them and one of me and I was just some little faggot to them and no doesn’t mean anything when you’re a greedy little slut so um.”

Sniffling, he wiped his eyes with the side of his wrist.

“They took turns telling me to…to…”

“Dazai—”

They shook their head, “And I just wanted to get the taste out of my mouth, I just needed to get the taste out of my mouth and Fyodor came back with security and I couldn’t stop thinking about that taste their taste and I—”

Tears trickled down reddened cheeks.

“I just wanted to get the taste out of my mouth.”

Chūya stared blankly. There was nothing he could say to that.

They stayed in place, Chūya staring as Dazai cried.

“Jesus fuck, Dazai,” Chūya finally broke the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

Chūya’s mind was spinning. He was hurt by everything and hurt by what Dazai did and hurt by the fact that Dazai had only just now told him about all of this but—

But Dazai was hurting too. Dazai was actively triggered by something and embarrassed and clearly remorseful. Chūya wanted to forgive him but wanted to stand his ground but wanted to—

He doesn’t know what he wants, actually.

Chūya doesn’t know how to handle any of this. He’s dealt with some Title IX cases at his school, involving some of his friends, some of the Sheep even—but they were never about him. He’s never been—

Everything was fucked.

“I’m really embarrassed by it,” Dazai spoke up, “I know it was wrong and even if we weren’t like. Secret boyfriends or whatever, it still isn’t how I should have responded to the situation. It was just a dog and I felt so stupid, I just really needed to—” he stopped, breathed, and continued, “I was triggered and activated. Everyone was staring and I thought I was betraying you and I was drunk and I keep screwing everything up—”

“Slow down,” Chūya spoke in a voice significantly calmer, gentler than moments ago. “Take a deep breath, okay?”

Dazai tried to breathe but struggled to formulate a proper inhale-exhale. He sat back down on the couch, returning to fiddling with the metal cube from before as they spoke.

“I really didn’t mean to hurt Chūya. I know I’m responsible for my own actions—”

“You are,” Chūya nodded in agreement. Then, after a brief pause, he continued, “I also get you were triggered. I get it.”

Dazai wiped at his eyes again, “You—you do?”

“I mean, I don’t. I’ve never been. You know. But I get being triggered,” Chūya commented.

“I really didn’t mean to hurt you and I understand if you want to call this off but just know that I really really like you and would do anything to apologize and regain your trust—”

“I really like you too. But I’m going to need some time to think about this. I’m not—” he paused as he considered, “I’m not mad about why you did what you did. I’m still hurt though. And it’s um. It’s more than last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s—” Chūya eyed the half-eaten food, “it’s a culmination. Your disorder is spiraling out of control and my sister is in and out of the hospital every week and I just don’t know how long I can do this.”

Dazai placed the metal cube on the table beside his half-eaten food, “Are we breaking up?”

“I don’t know.”

--

He hasn’t spoken to his sister in a few days

mostly because

it’s

it’s the guilt

the bone-crushing guilt that comes with

being so far

he’s so far away, so far away from her, so far away from his family—

and it’s his fault

he’s not there for her and she needs him and

so he calls

he calls and they talk and he doesn’t even mean to say it, but the words slip right out:

“I’m coming back home.”

“What? Chūya what are you talking about?”

“I can’t do this—sis. I can’t sit back and watch while you’re in pain and not do anything about it—”

“No, lad, that’s not what I want. I want you to complete your program—”

“I’ve already stayed sixty days here which meets my school’s requirements. My boss will understand. Please, let me do this for you. Let me be here for you.”

“Are you certain about this, Chūya?”

A deep exhale, “Absolutely.”

“And you’re fine leaving behind your friends, Dazai, everyone—”

“They’ll understand. If they don’t, then they aren’t very good friends.”

Dazai will understand. He knows he will.

Besides, they’re only one conversation away from being broken up. It won’t matter much anyways.

“I’m doing it, sis. I’m coming home.”

--

Dazai is tired. Exhaustion seeps in everything he does. Shockingly, he doesn’t lock himself in their practice room. Instead, they lay in bed. Lay in bed and refuse to come out.

He doesn’t come to meals and just barely has enough energy to shower throughout the week. They look miserable when Chūya stops by with lunch in hand.

“Dazai?” He knocks before slowly opening the door. The lump on the bed burrows further beneath their blankets. “I brought lunch. Will you come out?”

It’s evident Dazai has not been eating.

They do not respond beyond a muffled series of sounds.

“Please?”

It takes all Dazai’s energy to remove the covers from his face.

“What.”

It’s a statement more than a question.

“Please eat this.”

Dazai shakes their head, ignoring the wave of dizziness it triggers. Chūya can’t help but snap.

“Are you even trying?”

Dazai does not respond.

“I’m leaving.”

At first, Dazai doesn’t understand the weight of what’s said. His eyebrows furrow and he looks at Chūya confusedly.

“You just got here? I’m sorry—I’ll eat some of it—” he croaks out with their rusty, unused voice.

“The program, Dazai. I’m leaving Bennington.”

Indifferent confusion morphs into pained anxiety, “What are you talking about?”

“I mean my sister is getting a fucking double mastectomy and I can’t do this. Okay? I can’t stay here when she needs me—”

“What about us?”

Apparently, it’s the wrong thing to say, because Chūya is fuming the second the words slip out of Dazai’s mouth.

“My sister’s dying—”

“Wait, no I didn’t mean like that—”

“All you care about is some stupid summer fling! You don’t give a shit about me or the real problems in my life—”

“I’m sorry—no, no I didn’t mean it like that at all—I do care—”

“Do you, though? Because last I checked all you cared about was your stupid calorie counting—”

“That’s not fair!” Dazai yelled, coughing at the strain, “I have a fucking disorder!”

“Yeah, I know! I know all about your stupid disorder, you don’t shut up about it!”

“Chūya, you’re being really mean.”

“Good! Let me be fucking mean! I’m angry, Dazai! I’m just so fucking angry!”

Dazai flinched, curling inwards.

“I’m being mean because I’m so mad that I have to break up with you, but I can’t do this!”

The air grew stale and uncomfortable.

Chūya shrunk back into himself, his bravado fading as he spoke softly, “I’d rather you hate me than miss me.”

Dazai sat up straighter, shifting positions and shaking his head, “I don’t care how mean you are. I’d never hate Chūya.”

“I’ve been such a shitty boyfriend to you—”

“No—no you haven’t. I’ve been the shitty one. You’re right, I’m so obsessed with myself and I haven’t been there for you when you needed me and—”

“Maybe we’re both shitty boyfriends.”

“Yeah,” Dazai glanced down at his lap, as if the blanket he was under held all the answers they craved. “I’m sorry for being a shitty boyfriend, Chūya.”

A nod, “I am too.”

There’s a silence that’s more amicable than not. It settles around them as they each breathe at their own pace. Dazai sits utterly still as Chūya fidgets with the hem of his short-sleeved shirt.

“Are you still breaking up with me?” Dazai eventually asks, voice barely audible. Chūya nods.

“Yeah. I am.”

Dazai nods.

“I understand.”

It takes a little bit of effort, but Dazai stands, willing away the tilting of the world with the motion. He approaches Chūya.

“Can I hug you?”

Chūya nods.

They embrace.

They hug and hold each other and for a few seconds, pretend everything is fine.

Chapter Text

Chapter XII: things that were

“Again.”

It wasn’t perfect.

“Again.”

He played.

“Again.

It was so far from perfect, it was—

“Damn it, Akutagawa,” Dazai sneered, his nose flaring with irritation, “I keep telling you it’s 1 e + a 2 e + a and you start on the second breath, which is the ‘e’ of the 1 e + a. Get it right.”

“I’m trying—”

“That’s your excuse? Trying doesn’t get you into classical conservatories, succeeding does.”

It was a lecture the sixteen year-old knew by heart. One he’d memorized since it was first taught to him the moment stubby little fingers met ivory wonder.

“I’ll do better,” Ryū ducked his head in apology, trying again. He messed up.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Why couldn’t he get it right? Why couldn’t he get this one, stupid exercise right? Then again, these days it felt as though he could never get any of them right.

“We’re done for today,” Dazai stood, packing up his things despite there being ten minutes left in the lesson.

“But we still have time—” Ryū protested.

“You think you can actually give me something worthwhile to work with in the next ten minutes?” Dazai glowered as Ryū nodded avidly.

“Please. Let me try.”

With a melodramatic groan, Dazai sat back down on the chair next to the piano bench. At least the lesson took place in the school’s music room and not in either of their homes, that would be a recipe for disaster.

Dazai does not like teaching. He loathes it, actually. It was his dad’s suggestion, a way to make some money and practice, become a better musician. Perhaps Dazai would like it better, had he been teaching another student. But no, his very first (soon to be last) protege was obsessed with him. They’d been neighbors all their lives and Dazai was never a fan of Ryū. He didn’t like their “follower” personality, the way he never stood up for himself. How he was always trying to copy Dazai. Dazai got a skateboard, so Ryū begged for a skateboard. Dazai listened to Chopin and Shostakovich for fun, so Ryū did too. Dazai got clear braces, so Ryū got clear braces. Even when Dazai purposefully switched to hideous neon pink braces, Ryū copied him. Of course, as they got older, it was no surprise that Ryū would beg for piano lessons from the person he looked up to the most.

Now, only one month into their weekly lessons in the school music room, Dazai was losing his mind. With each wrong accidental or missed count, he bristled. Had his father been teaching, Ryū would be on the floor, sobbing, his dreams shattered with disillusionment. Dazai’s been there. He’s suffered through screaming and hitting and every shade of a passive aggressive smile. It’s the foundation behind his skill and craft, so he believes. He’s being so unbearably nice to Ryū and the kid still can’t get it right. That’s one of the things he hates most about teaching: he can teach technique, but he can’t teach talent.

They sat through another ten minutes of failed attempts and haphazard apologies before Dazai moved to leave, yet again.

“I’m sorry—” Ryū began, cut off as Dazai whipped around.

“You don’t actually enjoy this, do you, Akutagawa?” He snarled.

“I enjoy spending time with you. Learning from you—”

Dazai swallowed a choked laugh, “Messing up every other note is fun for you?”

“Well, not fun, but—”

“You’re not good at this. Why are you still playing?”

“I um. Because I—”

“Face it,” Dazai continued meanly, “you’ll never make it as a professional. Not if you only play to impress me. You have to play because you genuinely enjoy playing—”

“I do—”

“I don’t buy that,” Dazai approached the door.

Ryū shifted his weight awkwardly, “Should we schedule our next lesson?

Dazai huffed, “You give me a call when you get that Hanon down. We’ll schedule then.”

“But—”

“You want to be good at this? Right?”

“I do.”

“Then do as I say and don’t just try harder, do better.”

“I will. Thank yo—” Dazai left, slamming the door behind him.

As Dazai left the music room and entered the hallway, a familiar voice caught him off-guard.

“Is everything okay?”

As an occasional sub and close friend of the music teacher Ango, it wasn’t uncommon for Oda to be found nearing the music room. He rested with his back against the doorway of the faculty lounge, looking concerned by whatever was overheard from the nightmarish lesson.

“Peachy,” Dazai replied. Dazai didn’t like Oda. He respected him enough to beg his father ask for a few lessons, but that was different. Dazai needed a new piano teacher and Oda just happened to fit the bill. It was an act of necessity, nothing more.

“Do you teach?” Oda asked curiously. Dazai shrugged.

“Sort of. It’s stupid.” Oda hummed, but did not comment further on his pupil’s irritability. More often than not, Dazai was ill-tempered these days.

“If you ever want to talk about it, I don’t mind listening,” Oda eventually offered.

Dazai rolled his eyes.

“Whatever.”

--

One hour after school every other day. That was the cadence of Dazai’s lessons with his father. With his Oda, things were different. Purely due to logistics, his schedule was different. Once-a-week lessons, choosing their own practice schedule—the new dynamic was foreign to him.

“I want to make sure you have time for breaks,” Oda had told him when proposing the new schedule, “you’re still a kid. You need time to see your friends and finish your schoolwork.”

Dazai glowered harshly, “I don’t have friends. And I get straight As.”

“Then you can use the time to watch TV. Read, draw, write, go on walks. There are a lot of things to do other than practice.”

Dazai huffed. He was never one to admit to being wrong and it was hard to accept the possibility that there was merit in taking a break. When it was just him and his father, breakdowns from overwhelm or stress were prevalent, nearly a part of the lesson’s routine. They’d practice their scales and warm-ups and lose the ability to breathe as their father began pointing out every single one of his flaws. Oda’s lessons couldn’t be farther from that.

They started off with some music theory as he expected, then they would dive straight into improvisation exercises, something he and his father never explored in detail. Oda would give him a few chords or a specific key to play around with, and Dazai would have free reign from there. No matter how awful it sounded, Oda would find something positive in what he played. They aimed to make the ugliest sounds, hoping to elicit some form of criticism from their teacher, but was constantly baffled by Oda’s reactions.

“I like your creativity,” Oda would say, “you play a lot of macabre and don’t shy away from eerie sounds. Keep it up.”

No matter how “badly” Dazai tried to play, Oda was continuously supportive. Dazai didn’t understand. His hands still shook as a result of the accident, but they shook less when he played around Oda. Still, Dazai was certain he hated playing. He wasn’t a pianist out of desire, but out of obligation. That’s what happens when you invest your entire life into a practice—it consumes you. It wasn’t like he looked forward to every week’s hour long lesson. Not like he wanted to practice out of enjoyment, not just out of obligation or perfection’s sake. Dazai did not want to be a pianist again.

Dazai retained the standing that he had no interest in being a pianist.

Even if the lessons were his idea.

And he could tell his playing was improving.

And—

--

For a brief while, things were going well. Surprisingly well. Lessons with Ryū were still the worst part of his week, but his own lessons with Oda were good.

“I can tell you’ve been working really hard on the Liszt,” Oda complimented as he and Dazai wrapped up their lesson. They were in Dazai’s family home for a change. Typically, lessons were at Oda’s place, but his piano was being tuned so they opted to practice under Dazai’s roof.

“Yeah, I like this one a lot—” Dazai started, unfiltered and unrealizing of how animated he grew as he described the piece.

“Your passion shows. Great work today,” Oda praised. Dazai blushed a fervent pink. They didn’t think they would ever get used to Oda’s kind words about his playing. It was so vastly different from the reality with which he was acquainted.

“I’ll um. I’ll see you next week?” Dazai asked uneasily, shifting his weight between his feet. Oda ruffled his hair affectionately.

“You got it, bud.”

Dazai walked his teacher to the door, waving and biting back the smile creeping onto his face.

The feeling was difficult to recognize. This experience of accomplishment. It felt good. It felt like something he could get used to.

Something—

“Your mother is moving to California.”

The voice snuck up from behind, causing Dazai to jolt out of their reverie.

That was. Unexpected.

“What?”

“Why?”

“Where?”

“Are you getting a divorce?”

The siblings crowded their father, brimming with questions and concerns.

This had been a long time coming. Their household was no stranger to nights of arguing, non-stop screaming matches that increased two-fold following the accident. Like clockwork, their mother left in the early hours of the morning, only to come back late at night, in a drunken stupor or high as a kite. They, as a family, had learned to live with it. To cope with a majorly absent mother.

“She will be living in a rehabilitation facility,” Mori explained, “she will likely be there several months.”

“So you are getting a divorce?” Q antagonized.

There was a long, telling pause.

“I don’t know.”

“Why can’t she go to rehab here?” Akiko asked, brow creased with an unsatisfied frown.

“She has family out there,” Mori elaborated, “she would like to be closer to your grandparents.”

“And further away from her kids~” Q giggled, a violent grin painted upon their face.

“Yumeno, please—”

And so the conversation went. Dazai didn’t particularly care for his mother. She was the type of person who, in Dazai’s mind, liked the idea of having kids more than actually having them. The kind of person who really shouldn’t have had the right to become a parent. Though, not all his memories were bad. As children, their mother was doting and kind. She loved dressing them up and toting them around while going shopping, showing off how well-mannered they were.

For Tane, parenting was fun until it wasn’t. Her children grew older and began to struggle. Akiko, though she excelled in academics, was often getting in fights with kids who tried to bully her. Dazai similarly maintained academic success, but struggled to socialize and connect with others. Q was constantly getting into trouble and by the time Kyōka reached school, Tane had disconnected entirely.

Despite the fact that Tane didn’t do much more than clean when she was around, her absence was somehow deafening.

Mori’s motor skills were impaired by the accident, meaning simple tasks like doing the dishes and cleaning were monumentally harder than before. Akiko stepped in, filling her mother’s role with practiced ease. Q complained, Kyōka cried, and Dazai practiced.

He practiced, but it wasn’t perfect. He practiced, but his father said nothing, the silence even more agonizing than constant critiques. The grand piano that once played the most complex of pieces, was now reserved for only one pair of able hands. He wasn’t guilty. He just needed it to be perfect. He wasn’t guilty, because the accident wasn’t his fault. He just needed to be perfect. It wasn’t, it wasn’t, it wasn’t. Dazai was just a kid. A reckless teen who said the wrong thing, pushed the wrong buttons at the wrong time. A kid who didn’t realize starting that argument would have consequences greater than a scolding. A teen who didn’t realize they’d get into that accident all because his father couldn’t focus and—

it's all his fault

it’s all his fault

it’s all his fault

And the piece is imperfect.

Everything is Dazai’s fault.

Their mother, to Dazai, had been a distraction. Someone he could take his anger out on without consequence. He could yell and scream and say the nastiest of profanities knowing she would be far too intoxicated to recall the conversation in the morning. Their mother’s absence unintentionally led to facing the consequences of their actions. It led to his stomach churning, stress and anxiety stockpiling, and ever-present guilt filling his gut.

Things got worse.

Nothing is okay. Dazai is not okay.

He’s mean.

He screams at Akutagawa, pushing the boy to the brink of tears. He’s mean to his siblings, mean to Oda. They do bad things. They misgender Q and call Akiko a fake, want-to-be mother. They tell Kyōka to stop crying and threaten to throw out her toys as she grows more upset. He pushes his father until the bruises littering bandaged arms are too many to count.

Dazai won’t eat.

He won’t. He subsists off half a protein bar here, coffee there, the occasional salad. He’s getting used to the world tilting on an axis. They are used to ignoring his hunger cues. They’re used to feeling empty.

Honestly, it started as an accident. They didn’t eat because they weren’t hungry. That was the problem: they were never hungry. So they didn’t eat.

People started getting concerned. Something about that. It felt good. He liked skipping meals, ditching lunch to hide in the school music room. He liked the concern that painted the doctor’s face during his height and weight check. Liked being in the lower percentile. Not unlike his mother, Dazai is an addict at his core. Once he’s found his dopamine, that’s all there is. He has to hold on. Dazai is addicted to being sick. He’ll do anything to stay this way, to be thinner and prettier and in control of something for once in his fucking life.

--

Ryū figured it out first.

The Akutagawa’s lived next door. Having parents who were frequently at work or occupied, Ryū and Gin spent much of their childhood with Dazai’s family. Tane was a stay-at-home mom, so there was always someone around to make sure they did their homework and were fed.

Dazai was, historically, a private person. Even within the four walls of their home, they kept to himself. On a rare occasion, he’d confide in his older sister. Otherwise, he stayed quiet.

# *

The first time Ryū heard Dazai play, it was magic. Their playing transcended time, space, and reality. His fingers flew and the world grew soft around the edges. Everything felt simultaneously simple and intricate in ways little Ryū had never experienced. He was enamored and entranced by the art that Dazai so casually made. It was ethereal. Ryū could not look away.

He never meant to idolize Dazai, but it happened. In Ryū’s book, the pianist could do no wrong.

If Dazai wore clothing a certain way, Ryū would too. If Dazai began reading a new book, so would Ryū. When Dazai took up art lessons, Ryū did too.

And of course, when Mori suggested Dazai offer him piano lessons, there was no world in which Ryū would turn the offer down.

Dazai’s disdain for Ryū was no secret. Every interaction with him came with heaps of unwanted attention.

Dazai does not like attention, nor compliments, nor the constant fawning that made them feel like a fangirl’s object of affection rather than a human being. Humanity was already a foreign concept to them, they didn’t need anyone else objectifying him further.

The accident happened and their income was stunted. Things grew more and more expensive and, in his father’s eyes, Dazai owed it to the family to help make ends meet, especially as their mother was in rehab.

“No.”

“The Akutagawa’s are very financially secure,” his father proclaimed, as if that were Dazai’s actual concern, “Ryūnosuke has been wanting lessons for quite a while now, it would be the perfect opportunity—”

“I don’t want to.”

“I suppose you don’t want the new Gameboy either? Or new clothes—”

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

“Your sister already got a part-time job as a tutor. It’s your turn to pitch in.”

“I’m not Akiko, dad. I don’t like people and I especially don’t like Akutagawa.”

Mori frowned irritably, “What did that boy ever do to you?”

They rolled their eyes, “You wouldn’t understand.”

Mori sighed, exasperation heavy in the gesture, “There’s no need to be such a drama queen—”

“I’m not—”

“You are the second eldest and shirking off yet another responsibility is not an option.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Language.”

“Why do I have to do this? It’s not my fault mom’s snorting coke and drinking herself sick—”

“None of this would be the way it is if you took a moment,” Mori’s voice rose, “to think before acting. You know very well how we got into that accident—”

“It’s not my fault!” Dazai hissed, “The accident wasn’t my fault!”

“So you didn’t spend the entire drive antagonizing—”

“I didn’t—I didn’t think—"

“That’s your problem, Osamu, you don’t think. You simply act like a child with no regard to anything or anyone.”

It was a nightly pulse of an argument. It didn’t matter that he was sixteen and unmedicated for a host of mental illness symptoms. It didn’t matter because he was old enough. He should know better than to push his father’s buttons while they’re driving.

“You need to take accountability for your actions.”

“It’s not my fault.”

“Do you realize how much strain you’ve put on this family?”

“It’s not—”

“Quit playing victim. You’re not the one who lost everything—”

“You didn’t lose me,” Dazai whispered, voice a little too soft, a little too scared.

“I lost my career, everything I love,” Mori spat bitterly “you’re irresponsible and the reason this family is falling apart—”

“I’m not—”

Mori’s motor skills may not be up to par due to the injuries, but the man hit just as hard as always. Dazai cradled his cheek, suppressing a whimper.

“You are nearly a grown-up,” Mori fumed, “it’s about time you started acting like one.”

Dazai stood. Still and shaky and terrified.

“Now,” Mori snarled, “when will be your first lesson with Ryūnosuke?”

--

They were miserable. Each day felt worse than the last. Like he was trudging along mindlessly, wading through one helpless day after another. Guilt ate at them, gnawing at an empty stomach.

It wasn’t his fault it wasn’t their fault it wasn’t his fault it wasn’t their

(But what if it was?)

The thoughts lurched, haunting their every move. Dazai was not okay and Ryū noticed. He paid attention to the near chronic headaches and wave of dizzy spells that constantly seemed to plague his teacher. He saw the petulance and mood swings and exhaustion. Ryū could tell something wasn’t right.

It was an abnormal lesson when it happened. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling well or was just in a good mood, but Dazai was being awfully nice to Ryū. It helped that Ryū was having a good day, practically nailing each of the exercises Dazai had assigned him. For once, Dazai was almost satisfied with his pupil’s progress. They reached the conclusion of the lesson with a simple nod.

“Good work.”

Two words Ryū was convinced he’d never hear from his teacher’s mouth.

It was a fleeting moment, which Ryū lapped up like a malnourished dog begging for scraps.

“Thank you Dazai—” Ryū was cut off as the door to the music room was slammed shut. Ryū couldn’t help the smile that broke out onto his face at the compliment. Couldn’t help the butterflies in his stomach or glow in his chest or—

He packed up his things, frowning at the last notebook left. It was splayed open on the floor, meaning it must have fallen during his lesson. Ryū wondered if it was Dazai’s. To be on the safe side, he opened it, looking for the owner’s name.

He flipped through the pages, curious by all the dates and numbers.

Lists of food labelled “good” or “bad.”

Pictures of unhealthily thin models and thigh gaps and bony ribcages and—

There were goals. Dangerously low goals and—

He recognized the penmanship. There was no doubt that this notebook belonged to Dazai.

Ryū couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know what to do, just knew that he couldn’t do nothing. Not when everything was starting to make sense. The mood shifts, lethargy and fatigue. The way their clothing hung loosely on their frame, his awkwardness anytime someone offered him a snack, how he avoided lunch hour and seemed to sustain on black coffee alone.

Dazai had a problem.

A really, really bad problem.

Ryū didn’t know what to do, how to help without making the situation worse. He had a penchant for making things worse. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t reconcile ways to make this better.

Who was he supposed to tell? He couldn’t stay quiet on this, but obviously it was Dazai’s personal, private business. Ryū was already on thin ice around him. One wrong move and he was bound to lose the threads of respect Dazai barely held for him. He couldn’t risk that, couldn’t risk disappointing Dazai again. He was a fuck up. Fuck ups are no good at helping others.  

Ryū was useless.

Still.

He couldn’t help but worry.

Worry about those dangerous numbers that only spelled trouble. If they were really eating so little as that journal said, he was bound to end up at the hospital. This wasn’t good. This was a crisis and no matter how much of a fuck-up Ryū was, he knew he had to do something. Tell somebody.

He thought through all the adults he could talk to.

His own parents were distant, more often out than not. It was unlikely they’d listen or have a solution even if he did bring it to their attention. They weren’t exactly neglectful, but certainly would not be considered attentive.

Dazai’s father was recovering from surgery and never had a picture-perfect relationship with his child. Their mother was in the States for reasons unknown to Ryū and though his older sister Akiko was an option, she was always so busy and difficult to track down.

He thought about talking to his own sister about it all, getting her opinion on the situation. Still, he didn’t want to betray Dazai’s privacy. The less people who knew, the better. As he considered, the door to the music room crept open.

“Ryūnosuke, it’s good to see you,” Oda greeted pleasantly.

“H-hi—” Ryū stuttered, just barely finding it in himself to speak.

“Is everything okay?” Oda frowned at the boy’s anxious expression. Ryū gnawed on his lip, chewing it until the faint taste of metal filled his mouth.

“Oda-sensei,” Ryū started, “suppose you’re um. Worried about someone. What would you do?”

Oda approached Ryū, leaning on the piano as he spoke, “Well, that depends. What did they do that’s worrying?”

Ryū considered, “Say, hypothetically, they were doing something that was harmful to themself. Hypothetically, how would you handle that?”

“Is the person hypothetically a student?”

“Hypothetically, yes.”

“Ryū,” Oda looked the other in his eyes, cool blue meeting an onyx abyss, “is there something you’re struggling with?”

Ryū deflected, “Let’s say hypothetically it’s someone who doesn’t like you but you care about them and you don’t want them to get hurt but they are hurting and it feels like there isn’t anything you can do—”

It clicked.

“Are you worried about Dazai?”

Ryū froze, a deer in headlights.

He did not respond.

“If I were worried about someone, whether they liked me or not, if they were hurting themself, I’d talk to someone they trust and ask for help. It’s too much responsibility for one person to bear on their own.”

Ryū averted his eyes, distracting himself with the hem of uniform.

“You’d tell someone, even if you thought they’d hate you forever?”

“If it meant keeping them safe,” Oda nodded gravely, “yeah, I would.”

There was a long pause as Ryū considered. As he debated, as he fought the internal battle between want and need and reality.

He spoke no louder than a whisper, “I found this.” The notebook was thrust into Oda’s hands. He held it carefully, then began to flip through.

It didn’t take long for the gravity of the situation to sink in.

“This is…” Oda trailed off, worry creasing his brow. Looking up, he nodded at Ryū, “Thank you for telling me. I know how hard situations like this can be.”

Ryū looked towards the side, avoiding eye contact as he murmured, “I don’t want him to die but I don’t know what to do.”

“Thank you,” Oda repeated himself, “I don’t want you worrying about this, okay? I’m the adult and I’ll handle the situation.”

“But—”

“Please,” Oda interrupted kindly, “let yourself be a teenager. Okay? Dazai’s life isn’t your responsibility.”

Turning his head slowly, Ryū blinked away the tears pricking the corners of his eyes, “Thank you, Oda-sensei.”

“You’re welcome.”

--

There’s a knock at the door. Dazai cannot hear it.

He cannot hear it over the screaming match he’s having with his father. Round two.

“I’m not you!”

“If you want to be a professional, you have to start taking this seriously—”

“I am! I take piano very seriously!”

“You’re lazy. Your rhythms are wrong and for god’s sake, we both know I taught you how to count so quit making excuses.”

“I’m not making excuses, I was just improvising—”

“Is this what we’re paying your teacher to teach you? Nonsense?”

“That’s not—”

“You are an incompetent pianist. There are students out there who are younger and more talented than you. You—”

They have arguments more often than not these days. Now that his mother’s not around to take the fall. Sitting and scolding might be a more accurate descriptor, as he sits and scolds them all, no sibling excluded.

Q stays at a friend’s house nearly every day. Kyōka hides from the loud noises in her room and Akiko keeps a very, very close eye on Dazai. She’s the only one who’s noticed, actually.

The way they stopped eating at dinner.

How they drink coffee for breakfast and leave without a bag for lunch.

She’s the only one who’s noticed up until now—

“Dazai?” Akiko addresses her sibling as though the fight that’s occurring is nothing more than the misunderstanding of a squabble, “Your piano teacher is at the door for you.”

Mori used to be Dazai’s piano teacher. Right until the accident.

Dazai rubs at his reddened eyes, bolting out of the room, grasping any excuse to leave.

Akiko considers lecturing her father, telling him to lay off, that the damage he’s doing to her sibling’s self-esteem is irreversible. But she can’t. She can’t say that unless she wants to cover up more bruises, so she stays quiet and vows to keep a closer eye on her sibling.

Dazai exits the house, stepping onto the porch where his new-ish piano teacher greets them. They wipe their eyes once more, praying the redness isn’t too noticeable.

“I didn’t think we had a lesson today?”

“We don’t,” Oda confirmed. He changed the topic swiftly, “Do you and your father fight often?”

“You heard?” Their voice was small and fragile.

Oda nods in reply, “I did.”

Dazai shrugs, wrapping their arms around their torso tightly. He can feel his ribs and the sensation keeps him from falling apart at the seams.

“Dazai, I came by because there’s something serious I wanted to discuss with you and your father—”

“No!” He doesn’t mean to yell, but the word tumbles out of them. “I—I mean—he’s just really stressed right now and I don’t want to—” provoke him, make him hate me more than he already does.

Oda looks between the house and his car.

“We can talk about it here, or if you’d like we can go to my house and talk about it over tea.”

Dazai flinches, “What is ‘it?’” he asks, cautious.

“I’m concerned about you,” Oda replies vaguely, “and—” he pauses, looking at Dazai, taking in the sight.

They are in a hoodie and sweats, practically drowning in the fabric, but it’s nothing new. Bandages swathe his neck and Oda wonders what lies underneath—

“I think you should come back to my home for the rest of this conversation,” Oda announces abruptly. Dazai is unused to this steely tone coming from his teacher, who was so often gentle and soft-spoken. It is jarring and he can’t suppress a flinch. “Only if you’re comfortable with that, of course,” Oda added on a softer note.

Eventually, Dazai nodded, “Okay.”

The drive to Oda’s place was short and silent. Dazai had told Akiko they were going to run through a new piece and though she was confused, she trusted Oda more than any other adult in their lives. If anyone was safe for her sibling to be around, it was him.

When they arrived, Oda put on a kettle of tea and set out some snacks, “In case you’re hungry,” he said encouragingly. Dazai did not touch them.

Typically, Oda would be spending the Saturday with his daughter, but knowing he had to have this conversation with his student, he dropped her off at Ango’s for the day.

They sat down at the table, settled with two steaming mugs of peppermint tea before Dazai broke the silence.

“Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

Oda nodded.

“I found something of yours in the music room the other day,” he began. Dazai paled. Oda continued, “I’m sorry that I didn’t realize you were struggling—”

“What are you talking about?” Dazai asked stiffly.

Oda grimaced, reaching into his bag, pulling out an all too familiar, small black notebook.

No.

No, no no no no no no.

No.

That was his notebook.

That’s where he—

“Where did you get that?” Dazai spat.

“You left it in the music room,” Oda repeated.

“What?” Dazai shook his head, “I was only there yesterday with Akuta—” He paused mid-sentence. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You didn’t find anything—he snitched.”

“It doesn’t matter how I found it—” Oda started, cut off by Dazai’s rage.

“That piece of shit—he’s probably getting off on how good of a person he thinks he is right now. That bitch—I hate him, I hate him.”

“Ryū is just concerned about your safety,” Oda placated, “and I am too. I understand you’re mad, he was just doing what he felt was the right thing for your health—”

“I didn’t ask for him to give a shit about my health! Or you! I’m fine!”

“Dazai,” Oda raised his voice, not angrily but stern, “these numbers are dangerous.”

“I’m still alive.”

“Anorexia is a serious, deadly illness—”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dazai snapped, “I don’t have—I’m not—I’m not that. I’m fine.”

His chest has caved in and he feels his insides collapsing. Dazai cannot breathe, cannot see straight, cannot do anything except panic.

“It’s not—that’s not—”

He wants to die.

He wants to die because he likes the concern, but no one has ever referred to it like that. No one has ever called it that.

He wants to die because he is not sick he is not sick he is not sick he is not—

“I’m not mad at you. You’re okay—”

Dazai is very much not okay.

“I know this is hard and scary—”

“You don’t know anything,” Dazai hissed, shoving his tea as far from him as possible. The mug shook as some liquid spilled out onto the wooden table below. No one moved to wipe it up.

“You’re right,” Oda answered calmly, “I don’t understand what you’re going through. But I can’t ignore this.”

Dazai shook his head, wiping at his eyes, “Yes, you can.”

“No,” Oda hummed quietly, “I can’t.”

“Please—let me have this,” Dazai choked, “I need this. Please, I need this, I need this—”

“I know it feels like that, and I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“You. You won’t?”

“I won’t. But I can’t act like this isn’t going on.”

Dazai growled, “What does that mean?”

“It means, I’ll have to talk to your parents.”

“No,” Dazai’s felt his cheeks grow hot and sticky, “don’t do that. Please, don’t do that.”

“I wish things were easier. You need support right now.”

“Stop telling me what I need—”

“I’m sorry,” Oda apologized, bowing his head, “but I’ll do my very best to make this as painless as possible—”

“I hate you.”

“I’m—”

“I hate you. I—”

“It’s okay to be upset.”

“I hate you. I hate you—don’t say anything!” Dazai begged fervently, “Don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare—Odasaku if you tell them, I’ll kill myself. I’ll fucking kill myself—”

“Breathe—breathe, it’s okay. You’re okay, Dazai. You’re okay,” Oda approached the couch cautiously, as if the person perched upon it were no more than a stray kitten. “You’re going to be okay. I’m sorry,” Oda apologized, sitting down on the couch next to the sobbing teen, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“NO!” Dazai clawed at the bandages at their throat, the feeling of suffocation too strong for comfort.

Dazai was activated for 32 minutes. After 32 minutes passed, he began to calm down. They wrapped their arms around their knees, ducking his head in the process. Oda did his best to comfort them throughout the panic attack.

“We don’t have to talk about it anymore today—” Oda started.

“I’m not sick,” Dazai cut him off, “I’m fine. I’m fine,” his voice was hoarse with upset.

Dazai wasn’t sick. He couldn’t be sick. He was the reason life was so hard for his family as it was, he couldn’t go around making things worse.

“I’d still like to talk to your parents about this,” Oda started.

“Please don’t—”

Oda shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable for the first time since the start of their conversation. Dazai curled into the furthest most corner of the couch, arms wrapped around his limbs in attempts to make himself small, small, small. “I understand you and your father don’t have the um. The best relationship.”

Dazai knew what he was talking about. They stayed quiet a moment longer, then fiddled with his bandages again.

“We’ll figure something out,” Oda relented, “we can plan to have the conversation next week, talk through some options before we bring it up. Okay?”

There was an aching moment of long, unhealthy silence.

“I’m sorry,” Dazai whispered.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Oda cooed kindly, “you’re safe here. Okay? You’re always safe with me.”

“I’m just making your life harder,” tears streamed down their face, no longer contained, “that’s all I do, make everyone’s lives harder.”

“That’s not true—”

“It is! It fucking is,” he continued, though his words lacked the furious bite they had moments before.

“This is not your fault,” Oda interrupted, “you didn’t choose to be sick.”

“Please don’t make me leave,” Dazai begged with pleading eyes, “everything is shitty but I don’t want to go to a doctor or hospital or—” Dazai rambled a mile a minute.

“Breathe, Dazai. Breathe.”

Dazai slowed down, taking a stuttering breath.

“We’re going to figure something out. Okay? You’re going to be okay.”

--

Dazai lived with Oda following a few months in an inpatient rehabilitation facility. His father had agreed to the suggestion, clearly ill-equipped to handle his recovering child. Though he was nervous about leaving his other siblings alone with their father, he knew he was the most antagonistic of the group, which usually resulted in a physical altercation. Even Q, who was an instigator at their core, didn’t provoke Mori nearly as much as their older sibling did.

It took work and care and support, but things were getting better. Dazai enjoyed spending his time with Oda and Oda’s daughter Sakura. Oda was avidly encouraging about his recovery and for the first time in a long, long time, life felt as though it were on the mend.

The first time Dazai visited Bennington, it was with Oda.

Oda was hosting a piano workshop and got permission to bring Dazai along while his daughter stayed with Ango.

They spent the week hiking in the mountains, making music, and watching sunrises together. Dazai was still nervous about eating in front of others, so they’d bring his meals back to a small, tucked away gazebo where the two would finish their food together. Oda never pushed Dazai. Even on the days he didn’t eat enough or spent more time organizing his food than chewing it, Oda was calm, quiet, and patient. It was beautiful. Everything about his time with Oda was.

Dazai sits in the tucked away gazebo, alone. He’s never taken another person to this place. Not Fyodor, nor Chūya. It’s seven months to the day since Oda’s passed. Chūya has left for France and Dazai is all alone.

The gazebo overlooks a lake full of overgrown foliage. The sun is setting and it would be maybe breathtaking had Dazai not been so miserable. An untouched dinner sits next to him, alongside his will to live. He considers diving in, jumping into the lake and “taking a swim.”

He doesn’t.

Though he takes a mental inventory of the reasons he’s still alive:

Odasaku

Chūya

Piano

Siblings

His list is meager and thinking of any other reason for his existence borders meaningless.

They wonder if this is when they’ll die. If this is the opportunity he should take to finally off himself. There’s no one around to stop him—not with Chūya gone. Things would be better that way. Everyone would be better. The people others claim are his friends wouldn’t have to worry about him, Chūya could focus on his sister, his family could afford to take care of everyone else for a change, without Dazai and his problems being the center of attention.

The temptation screams in his ears, yelps and cackles and fills his mind with thoughts of self-loathing, of worthlessness. Dazai really does make everyone’s lives hard. He’s ruined Akutagawa’s self-esteem, single-handedly shattered his own family’s fragile menagerie of being. They’ve hurt Chūya and Tachi and Gin and Higuchi and Atsushi—really anyone who has ever given a shit about Dazai, none are excluded from the toxin he emits.

They eye their fraying bandages, it’s been a few days too long since he’s showered and changed them, evidence by the discomfort of grimy buildup beneath them. He is disgusted by himself.

He should really do everyone a favor and hurry up and die.

--

This summer was supposed to be different.

He just had to go and—

Their neck burns.

It was supposed to be fun and kind and end anyway other than with a hospital stay.

It doesn’t matter though, nothing does. Not as Dazai finds himself in another hospital, conversations about psych wards and rehab facilities all on the table all over again.

He’s despondent, depressed. They want to die—they want Oda. Dazai wants to be with Oda again. That’s what he tried to do. He tried to be with Oda and now his neck hurts.

Apparently, he doesn’t get that right, the privilege to return to the person who made him feel the safest. Instead, Dazai’s forced to live in the detested reality of their life. He lays in his hospital bed, closes their eyes, and thinks about all of these things. They drown out their parents’ concerned voices and their siblings’ cries. They drown out the image of Tachi’s petrified face.

They ignore it all and fall back asleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter XIII: Interlude

Tachi wasn’t supposed to see. He wasn’t supposed to be there that late at night, wasn’t supposed to be picking up whatever object he’d left behind during the day, because of course he had the keys. Tachi wasn’t supposed to see—but he did.

Chūya found out through Tachi.

Through a text message.

Then, they Facetimed. Tachi explained.

Dazai was standing on a chair, rope around his neck. Apparently the beams in the scene shop were the “perfect” height.

Tachi got to him just in time.

“I thought you’d want to know.”

For an ugly, ugly second, Chūya blames himself. Self-disdain amalgamates into mortification. His heart is aching and cracking and he wants nothing more than to find Dazai and smack him upside the head for pulling a stunt like this. He wants to scream, to tell him how stupid they are because they are loved. They are loved by so many people and what right does he have to go and throw all that love away, to act like none of it matters. He doesn’t care if they’re broken up, Chūya knows they’re still in love.

That’s why it hurts so badly.

He wants to call him, to hear their voice and prove to himself that they’ve survived, that Dazai’s alive and, not well, but not he’s not dead either. Chūya’s thumb hovers over the contact name in his phone, the light glowing, illuminating in the darkness of his bedroom. Millions of thoughts and memories and what-ifs swirl through his mind. He’s torn, still craving the space they desperately need from each other. Eventually, he caves. The thoughts and anxieties and compound and he finds himself pressing their name and the little green phone button.

The call goes straight to voicemail. He tries again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Nothing.

Chūya spends the rest of the night locked in his room, imagining the sound of Dazai’s voice and crying.

--

Chūya thinks he should feel better than this. He thinks some of the worry and anxiety should have dissipated, but it hasn’t. Not yet. Despite being home and with his sister and dads, he still feels wrong. Shouldn’t he feel the slightest bit better?

He doesn’t.

If anything, he finds himself feeling worse. As though he’s missing something.

He wants to enjoy his time home, his only real responsibility being to support his sister through the challenging time, but he can’t. Not with the impending surgery, the anxieties radiating off his dads no matter how diligently they try and hide it. Kōyō herself is different. She’s changed from the free-spirited, older sister he knows and loves. It’s not as though she’s changed drastically—she’s not unkind or uncaring, it’s that she does not have the privilege of being selfless right now. Her personality is monopolized with illness. With a mind and body actively revolting in double-time, there’s little she can do other than focus on survival. She doesn’t have the time or bandwidth to allocate to being a good, attentive older sister. Instead, she is riddled with stress, concern, fear. She stares in the mirror seconds too long, her eyes always shifting towards her chest. Like her fathers, she tries to hide her worries, but is ultimately unsuccessful.

Chūya notices. He notices the glances and strain on self-image and some days it’s almost like he never left BMP to begin with. Some days feel terribly similar to staring at Dazai staring at self in a mirror far too cruel for an object so mundane. And though his sister does not have an eating disorder and is not “body-checking” as Dazai called it, it still feels far too familiar for comfort. In an instance, he’s brought back, dangling on the precipice of reality and a memory of what was.

Chūya’s used to the lack of attention, always the one in the waiting room, never the patient. Stage managers hang back, they don’t need the applause or limelight. It doesn’t bother him, it never has. The problems Chūya faces aren’t serious, anyways. He has never been raped or hit by his dads the way Dazai has. He’s never been sick, fighting for his life like his sister. He thinks maybe he had it rough before he was adopted, but it’s not like he remembers any of that, so there’s no use dwelling. Chūya is fine and has always been fine. He eats three meals a day and sleeps at least seven hours each night. Yeah, he has chronic migraines, but it’s a condition he would hardly classify as harmful.

When it comes to Chūya, there’s nothing to worry about—he is and has always been fine.

At least, that’s the narrative he spends the early weeks of autumn telling himself. It’s one of the reasons he’s so caught off-guard when his parents come to talk to him two days after his sister’s surgery.

“Your father and I would like to apologize,” Arthur begins. Chūya’s jaw nearly hits the ground in confused awe.

“What are you talking about?” His brow creases, he couldn’t be more puzzled if he tried.

“We haven’t been paying very much attention to you lately,” Paul continues, stepping in, “our focus has been on your sister—”

“Right, she’s the one with cancer,” Chūya interjects, “of course your attention is on her.”

“It doesn’t mean we should be ignoring you in the crossfire,” Arthur adds.

“I don’t get it,” Chūya shakes his head, his unruly flaming curls flipping this way and that, “I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“How are your migraines?” Paul pivots, “It’s been a while since we’ve checked in about them.”

“Oh. They’re okay. Really, it’s all fine.”

They’ve been worse, actually, returning in a daily cadence. He has trouble staying asleep, addled with worry. Lack of sleep is a trigger as is stress as is—

“Are you eating enough?”

“Drinking enough water?”

“Sleeping enough?”

“Getting outside—”

“God, dads, calm down. You’re making it sound like I’m a dog or something,” his heart twinges at a memory as soon it slips out. As he does best, he ignores it. “I told you, I’m fine.”

His dads exchange a look.

“What?” Chūya frowns.

“Whatever happened to that boyfriend of yours?” It’s Paul who brings it up. Chūya immediately averts his gaze.

He’s thought about Dazai often, far more often than he thinks is considered healthy, but he hasn’t spoken about them since returning home. Of course, there have been bigger, more important matters at hand, so it never really came up. Still. He wonders if this is the type of thing he should have told them sooner.

“We um. We broke up.”

Paul’s face is etched with concern, “Was it the long-distance?”

With a shrug, “Something like that.” A moment of uncomfortable silence a beat too long lapses. “Are you guys done interrogating me now?”

“We’re just worried about you, sweetie,” Arthur replied. “We have a lot of time to make up for.”

“Really—you guys are okay. It’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” Arthur continued, “you are a big deal. Don’t lose sight of that, Chūya.” Paul, who has always been the stoic of the two, nods along.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Chūya reassured for what felt like the umpteenth time. “I promise I’m doing okay.”

His fathers exchanged one last look before nodding.

“Alright,” Paul smiled, “but remember, you can talk to us about anything.”

“We mean it,” Arthur agreed, ruffling Chūya’s hair affectionately.

“And with that,” Paul concluded, “our interrogation is complete—”

“For now,” Arthur interjected before roping Chūya into a tight embrace. Paul joined in. They hugged and held and whether he wanted it or not, Chūya was the center of it all.

--

Recovery is going well, better than Chūya or his dads anticipated. His sister is in high spirits and though she has her fair share of rough days, the atmosphere of the house is starting to pick up. There’s less drear and gloom and more laughter. More hope and joy. He still has migraines, but they’re lessening as the dynamics in the household shift. They’re approaching November when the subject is broached.

“Chūya,” Kōyō calls out to her little brother as he walks by her room, where she is resting. “Do you have a minute, lad? I’d like to talk to you.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Chūya enters, taking a seat in her desk chair. He spins around twice for good measure.

The room is pretty, covered with ornate decorations and all sorts of knick-knacks. Kōyō doesn’t mind living with her dads. As much as she would like her own space, she enjoys her childhood bedroom that’s been redone to mature alongside her over the years. Perhaps, now that the surgery has gone fairly well, she’ll start looking at apartments again.

“What is it you wanted to talk about?” Chūya asks uncertainly.

“Ah, yes,” his sister redirects her attention to her brother, “you have been a remarkable rock for me, lad. I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me these past few weeks. Truly, I am indebted to you.”

“No, you’re not,” Chūya smiles, shaking his head, “I was just being a good brother. You’ve always been there for me—I’m just trying to live up to your example.”

“I’d say you’ve done a spectacular job at that,” she laughs, a genuine little sound, “which means, there’s something else we have to talk about.”

Chūya tilts his head to the side, not unlike a confused dog.

“School,” she supplies. The weight of the word hits him like a freight train.

School means the United States, means leaving France, means leaving his family. Again. It means anything can happen—his sister could get sick again, or maybe his dads, or maybe—

“I see you spiraling,” his sister called him out, “and I want you to take a few deep breaths. Nobody’s going anywhere.”

He does as he’s told, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

“Have you thought about going back for the second half of the term?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to go back,” Chūya’s frown permeates, his brow furrowing as he speaks, “I do. Just not yet?”

“I see,” his sister nods her head in understanding. She pauses, reframing, “but you can’t avoid your life forever.”

Chūya shakes his head, “That’s not what this is,” he explains, “I’m not avoiding my life—it’s just too soon. You’re only barely in recovery and dads are getting older—”

“We’ll be just fine, lad. Please don’t use us as an excuse not to live your life.”

With a scowl, “What are you talking about?”

“I overheard your conversation the other day,” she starts, “you broke up with your boyfriend to be here for me. That’s a monumental sacrifice.”

“It wasn’t—” he stopped, exhaled, continued, “it wasn’t like that. There was other stuff going on.”

“Like?”

He stayed quiet.

“Lad, you know you can talk to me about anything?”

Chūya averted his gaze, “I don’t want to worry you.”

Concern knit fuchsia eyes, “What is there for me to worry about? Did he treat you poorly—”

“No,” Chūya cut her off, “that’s not it.”

“Please lad, I can’t promise I won’t worry about you, but I can’t support you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

He maintained eye contact with the floor.

“Really. It’s fine.”

“Chūya,” his sister spoke assertively, “what aren’t you telling me?”

Abruptly, he bit his lip and stood, heading towards the door, “It’s nothing, ane-san. Don’t worry about it.”

“Please, Chūya—”

“You should get some rest.”

The door shut quietly as Chūya exited the room.

--

They had the same conversation the next day.

And the next.

A week passed. A week of guilt-tripping and begging for answers that her brother refused to share with her. It’s not that Kōyō didn’t respect her brother’s privacy—she did. The real issue was her brother’s fear of burdening her. The fear, at its core, was unfounded.

She refused to back down. Relentlessly, she pestered her brother, reminding him how readily available she was to talk through things, no matter how difficult a topic. That was the thing about Chūya, he was a caretaker. It didn’t matter how many times she could tell him she was there for him, he would be too busy caretaking her to acknowledge the weight of her words.

When it comes to Chūya, persistence is key. Kōyō learned this as an adolescent, taking care of Chūya meant being pushy. She called him into her room each day, reminding him that he wasn’t alone, that his sister and dads were both there for him the minute he felt safe enough to disclose what was on his mind.

One week later, and her efforts paid off.

They sat in her room once more, Chūya spinning the desk chair as Kōyō sat up in bed, crocheting a scarf.

“Dazai was…” Chūya gnawed his lip, the familiar taste of metallic flooding into his mouth, “he was. They were um. They were sick.”

“How do you mean?” Kōyō pressed. Chūya fumbled over his words

“Not like um. Not like sick-sick. Like, he WAS sick. Is. He is sick. But not like. Not the same way as. You know.”

His sister eyed him curiously, “I’m not sure I follow.”

Chūya groaned before muttering something unintelligible.

“What was that, lad?”

He repeated himself, just as quiet.

“I’m sorry, I still can’t hear you.”

Chūya huffed irritably, raising his voice a smidge.

“Dazai had an…” he trailed off.

“A what?”

“An eating disorder!” Chūya snapped, practically screaming, “He was starving himself! You were both dying and there wasn’t anything I could do—” Chūya sniffled, the dam breaking, “I was so useless! All I could do was watch you both suffer—”

“You have never once been ‘useless’ Chūya Nakahara,” his sister scolded kindly, “you are the most caring, loyal, supportive person I know. I don’t care how it felt, you have never been and never will be ‘useless.’”

Chūya wiped at his eyes. He climbed onto the bed not unlike a small child, curling into his sister’s warm, safe embrace. They laid together like that, cuddled close on her bed. Chūya sobbed. His shoulders shook, frame wracking with each cry. Everything hurt, the festering of raw wounds. His sister’s embrace, a salve, a visceral reminder that Chūya was no longer alone. Or that, maybe, he never was.

“Have you kept that a secret all this time?” His sister gently prodded, running delicate fingers through freshly washed ginger curls.

“Sort of,” Chūya answered honestly, “Tachi and our friends caught on though. We never talked about it, but everyone sort of knew what was happening.”

Kōyō kissed the top of his head, a motherly gesture, “I’m sorry you had to go through all of this on your own. It sounds frightening.”

“It um—” he hesitated, closing his eyes before continuing, “there’s um. Something else happened.”

Braiding a lock of her brother’s soft hair, Kōyō waited patiently. After a moment, he continued.

“When I came back, right before your surgery um. Tachi called me and told me that um. Apparently Dazai like. Tried to kill himself.”

The air shifted, tension mounting. Kōyō pursed her lips, looking down at her younger brother. Like this, situated in her arms, he looked unbelievably small, unbearably young and little. This child, a boy who was just barely a man, carried boulders, the weight of the world on too-tiny shoulders. She could barely stand the thought.

“What happened to him?”

“I’m not sure,” Chūya replied, “Tachi found him and mentioned he was taken to the hospital but I don’t know much else beyond that. They haven’t answered any of my calls or texts so I’m in the dark.”

Something in her sparked, an ignited flame of fury. Anger—rage that someone could make her younger brother endure this. That someone he loved could be so selfish, to think Chūya would be just fine after all this—she was livid.

“This isn’t right,” she voiced confidently. Chūya nearly stumbled out of her hold, so thrown off by the edge in her tone.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Dazai has no right, putting you through all of this.”

“I don’t think they’re in a sound state of mind—” Chūya started, but his sister cut him off.

“That doesn’t matter. His irresponsibility for their own life is actively causing you pain, Chūya. That’s not okay.”

“Dazai’s sick—”

“Yes, and his sickness is impacting your life.”

Chūya stayed quiet.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he mumbled under his breath. Kōyō took pause, ceasing her tirade for a moment. She nodded.

“I don’t like you keeping secrets from me. But I suppose I see why you did it. Why you didn’t tell me.”

They were quiet. Chūya curled back into her embrace and the two laid back down, entangled and quiet as the evening stretched on.

--

Winter arrives a little too fast for everyone’s liking. Time moves oddly these days. Chūya has not heard from Dazai since August. That doesn’t stop him from thinking about them. Chūya thinks about Dazai nearly every day. He regrets the way things played out, the ending that came all too soon for budding romance—if that’s what it even was. Chūya’s been doubting its validity as of late, been doubting that what they had was as real as he thought it was. Time moves differently outside of Bennington and it’s borderline absurd to think they knew each other for less than three months.

It's Christmas, then New Year’s, then Chūya is back in the States come January. It took months of convincing, all three of his family members talking him down from the ledge of anxiety just to get him to agree to return for the second semester. His sister is doing better. Not great, but better. Well enough that she all but forces Chūya to return to classes, claiming him to be an active hinderance to her recovery, should he continue to withhold from his studies. It’s a low blow, but after much contemplation, Chūya obliges. They agree to nightly Facetimes and he returns to New York.

“King! It’s great to see you!” Shirase and Yuan are the first ones to greet him upon his return to the school dorms. Shirase slaps him on the back as Yuan tackles him into a massive hug.

“It’s been ages!” Yuan coos, lapping up Chūya’s boyish awkwardness.

“It hasn’t been that long,” Chūya laughs.

“It’s been almost a year!” Yuan counters. Shirase smirks at Chūya’s disbelief. Amazing how much can change in 365 days.

“We’re glad to have you back, man,” Shirase ruffles Chūya’s hair and it all feels so terribly right. He’s missed this.

It’s upsetting how easily Chūya falls back into his routine of courses, work, and improv. How quickly he adapts to being back. Guilt floods his system, guilt at selfishness because he’s missed this. He’s missed being a college kid.

Stage management has always helped him feel in control. Knowing everyone’s cues, the blocking, props plots, it’s helped him feel secure, like people need him. Because that’s the type of person Chūya is, someone who needs to be needed. Stage managing Tales of the Lost Formicans might be the most challenging piece Chūya has ever worked on, and he is beyond grateful for the distraction. With a complex plot, hundreds of cues, and a massive team on his side, Chūya is able to forget. He throws himself into his work, forgetting the stains of summer, the fear of sisters dying and guilt from boyfriends who refuse to take care of themselves.

Anytime someone asks Chūya how his summer went, he responds with a plastic smile that could rival one of Dazai’s own. “I learned a lot,” he explained, “but had to leave early because of personal matters.” That’s all anyone gets out of him, even his friends. Shirase and Yuan manage to get a little bit out about the boyfriend and breakup, but it’s the bare minimum.  

Chūya tries not to think about Dazai. He tries not to think about the starvation or the pain or the suicide attempt. He tries not to think about their story of being attacked and raped. He tries to steer clear of any summer relics, visceral reminders. It’s a simultaneously challenging and simple feat. There weren’t many things exchanged between the two of them over the summer, and for this he is grateful. Still, it’s not exactly easy to act like the pianos in the rehearsal studios don’t exist. He doesn’t ignore what happened, but he actively avoids thinking about it, all too painful. It’s going well, this avoidance. Work and classes and theatre consume his life.

February comes around and that’s when things change.

There is an international orchestra coming to his university for a special benefit concert, and Chūya has been selected to stage manage the performance. He’s thrilled, though his heart twitches a bit at the memory of instrumentalists and concerts all too recent for mending hearts. Still, he accepts willingly and prepares for the challenges that may lie ahead.

He prepares for memories to resurface, for discomfort, for anxiety. He prepares for a lot of things—seeing his ex-boyfriend Dazai Osamu is not one of them.

--

To be fair, Dazai forgot which university Chūya was attending. He also had no idea if Chūya would be in school or still home in France with his family. He also also did not think his father would let him return to school or participate in the international orchestra.

They’ve been out of inpatient for a few weeks, though they’re struggling to eat again and Dazai has a feeling if he doesn’t get his act together soon, he’ll be sent back for more intensive treatment. Dazai has spent the past four months bouncing between psych wards and treatment centers and is just barely stable enough for his father to allow him to travel. Apparently being a soloist with the international orchestra is the opportunity he needs to “repair” their image.

It’s been an interesting few months in his household. Akiko attends med school and works rotations full-time while Q and Kyōka still live with their father. Their mother is back in California. Other than navigating Dazai’s care, their father has had his hands full, balancing a new full-time job on top of everything. It’s made for a unique change in dynamic, as Mori is much too tired to argue with his children over every little thing. Dazai is still on eggshells, but their relationship is far less tumultuous than it was over the summer, thanks to Mori’s new distractions. Neither know if they’ll be returning to Bennington in the coming summer.

It’s not the first time he’s been to New York, but it’s still a bit of a culture shock when he arrives. They’re used to big cities, but they’re not the biggest fan of the grime and chaos that is New York. Its hustle-and-bustle mentality is annoying at best and everyone is rude for no apparent reason. Though Dazai does enjoy being ignored so he almost sees the appeal of the city.

February is cold and pitiful in its post-holiday capitalist hangover. It’s borderline miserable and unlike his classmates, Dazai has little interest in going out and drinking away the chill. They’re focused on surviving one meal at a time, performing, and returning back to Japan and their care team.

It’s during a particularly difficult mealtime when it happens.

Dazai sits in the college cafeteria, surrounded by the other orchestra members, who all munch away, complaining about their food and chatting about how much better everything tastes at their own university overseas. Everyone seems to be focused on the food, talking about the food, obsessed with the food—or maybe it’s Dazai who’s obsessed. Still.

He takes a bite of his sandwich, but chewing and swallowing in front of this many people feels unbearably painful. He’s been a part of the international orchestra in the past but mostly sticks with the orchestra members from his own school. Some of them know his deal. Others don’t. Some give him a hard time for it. Pushkin, a transfer student who was once Fyodor’s classmate, has an issue with Dazai. Perhaps their personalities clash or he’s jealous of the amount of attention Dazai receives as the Mori Ōgai’s child. Pushkin has never once used Dazai’s “they” pronouns and always seems to have something to say when Dazai spends their meals pushing his food in circles.

“Pretty boy doesn’t want to ruin his figure again?” Pushkin taunts, redirecting everyone’s attention to Dazai.

Dazai is stuck. Either he removes himself from the situation as his therapists have told him to do, which, in turn, may exacerbate a longer term problem, or he sits and takes it and forces a few more bites down his throat.

“Right, making fun of a medical condition makes you unbelievably cool.” Sigma is Dazai’s closest (only) friend in his university. They have interesting hair, half lilac and half silver, and wear large octagonal glasses that make them look far more advanced than any other nitwit in their classes. Sigma is also the only other nonbinary person Dazai knows at their school.

“Vanity isn’t a medical condition,” Pushkin snorts, his buddies laughing alongside cruelly.

“You sure are dumb as a brick,” Sigma sighs before standing up, tapping Dazai on the shoulder, “let’s eat elsewhere. Shall we?”

Dazai doesn’t think there’s enough verbiage in any of the languages he knows to properly thank Sigma for their endless displays of kindness. This isn’t an uncommon occurrence and Sigma is almost always there by his side to help when they need it the most. Dazai nods, standing up and taking his tray as he follows Sigma away from the table. He eyes the trash can.

“I don’t think I can do it,” he looks upsettingly at the meal, then the trash bin.

“Do they have to-go boxes here?” Sigma wonders aloud. Dazai shrugs. “Why don’t we find someplace quieter and then you can decide if you’re still hungry?”

It’s a smart tactic. Dazai’s activated right now and likely won’t even consider touching food until he’s in a safer environment.

“Can we bring the food outside the cafeteria?” Dazai asks softly, “I don’t want to stay here.”

“I’ll ask,” Sigma squeezes Dazai’s wrist, which is covered by a long-sleeve compression shirt and a thick layer of bandages, “stay right here, I’ll just be a moment.”

Sigma, as promised, goes to speak with one of the cafeteria workers. Dazai shifts awkwardly from side-to-side, feeling all the more uncomfortable with the passing moments.

At one point, he even thinks he sees Chūya, which just shows how stressed he is that—

The Chūya-mirage freezes, jaw dropping as they make eye contact. It’s funny how detailed this Chūya-mirage is. Azure eyes, flaming hair, an expression an amalgamation of utter confusion and shock. He’s surrounded by friends too, this Chūya-mirage. Friends that look just as confused by the fake-Chūya’s reaction to—

“Mackerel?”

--

Dazai looks sick. He looks like someone who hasn’t been eating. Again. Or maybe they never stopped stopping to begin with. Never started up again. They’ve changed in little ways though. Their hair is a little longer and is worn in a cute little ponytail. His nails are painted blue and his bulky clothing is replaced by a compression top and slim-fit pants. Chūya can’t tell if the tighter fitting clothing is a good thing, considering their wan appearance.

“Slug?” Dazai tilts his head to the side, just as puzzled as Chūya is by the reunion. Not-a-mirage-Chūya’s friends whisper amongst themselves, interests piqued by the interaction.

Chūya wonders if he, like Dazai, has changed in little ways since BMP. If maybe his hair has gotten a bit longer or sense of style a bit more feminine. He doesn’t get an answer to these thoughts, as someone else approaches them, ignorant to the silent conversation that’s been occurring between azure and amber.

The person who walks over to Dazai speaks in Japanese, which, despite being out of practice, Chūya is able to decipher.

“I spoke to the cafeteria staff and they gave me some to-go containers,” the person waves two metal tins triumphantly.

“Oh uh, thanks,” Dazai answers distractedly. It’s then that his friend realizes what they’ve interrupted.

“What are you um—” Chūya finally asks aloud, in Japanese, “what are you doing here?”

Dazai blinks, fluttering out of their daze, “Eating lunch?”

“No,” Chūya laughs the slightest bit in disbelief. Dazai pinkens, “I mean, shouldn’t you be back in Japan?”

Chūya’s friends stare curiously, unable to translate the conversation before them.

“Right—” Dazai smiles shyly, “there’s this international orchestra thing. I’m the pianist—”

“I’m stage managing it,” Chūya replies, not missing a beat. “I’m the stage manager.”

Dazai’s friend chimes in, looking from Dazai to Chūya and back again, “Do you two know each other?”

Dazai nods, “Chūya, this is Sigma, they/them pronouns. Sigma, this is Chūya. He/him—unless that’s changed?”

“No, still he/him,” Chūya affirms, “nice to um, meet you?”

Everything is strange.

“Chūya and I met at Bennington, that program I was telling you about,” Dazai supplies. Sigma nods, understanding piercing their light eyes.

“I see. Would you like some time to yourselves?”

Anxiously, Dazai eyes his tray of mostly untouched food and Chūya’s empty hands. He and his friends have either just arrived or just finished up.

“I don’t want to keep you if you’re hungry,” Dazai makes eye contact with the wall behind Chūya’s head. Chūya nods.

“Same. Eating is important.”

They flinch, whispering a brief, “Right. It is.”

Sigma eyes the both of them skeptically.

“I’ll uh, I’ll see you at rehearsal?” Dazai asks, though his light-hearted tone is betrayed by the slight frown creasing his features.

“Sure,” Chūya nods, “I’ll see you then.”

Dazai and Sigma leave.

“Okay, dude, we’re gonna need you to like, translate all of what just went down,” Shirase is the first to break the prolonged silence, “I felt like I was watching a Japanese soap opera with the subtitles turned off. Spill.”

“Sorry I didn’t introduce you,” Chūya apologized, “that was um. That was Dazai.”

“As in your ex, Dazai?” Yuan gaped at the drama unfolding.

“The one and only,” Chūya grimaced.

“They looked kind of ski—” Shirase started. Yuan spoke over him.

“Unwell,” she corrected. “You said they were having trouble eating when you broke up. Right?”

Chūya nodded, “I don’t want to make assumptions, but I guess things didn’t get much better for them since.”

“You never know,” Yuan hummed, “maybe they did get better, but they’re relapsing again. I hear that’s a common thing with EDs.”

Nodding, Chūya agreed, “Yeah. I guess that’s possible.”

--

It’s dark more often than not these days. The straining sun of winter fighting to stay alit. Chūya’s school is nice, plenty of practice rooms for Dazai to commandeer. He sits but oddly does not feel compelled to practice, not for the international orchestra, at least. But he does feel inclined to play. To improvise. To listen to the words Oda’s whispering in his ears, to play for himself and himself alone.

There’s a poetic ambiance to the tune spilling out of him. The song sings, loud and true and so undeniably from the heart he hadn’t realized they still possessed. Time is indistinguishable. It melts with each press of ivory, each chime of note. He plays and plays and plays.

When he checks his phone, it’s well past midnight. Three hours have passed, easily. Dazai blushes to himself the slightest bit sheepish at the endeavor. With haste, he packs his bag and prepares to venture through the chill, to his temporary lodging.

Exiting the practice room, he closes the door behind him and is startled by—

“Chūya?”

The redhead ducks embarrassedly, vain attempts at pretending he wasn’t listening in. The rooms should be soundproofed, but as always, Dazai’s playing has a habit of defying physics.

“What was that?” Chūya asks.

“What?”

“The piece you were playing. I didn’t recognize it.”

“Oh. It was just some improv.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t in the mood to practice tomorrow’s pieces.”

“Oh.”

A long pause settled. Chūya broke it.

“Are you eating?”

“Please don’t ask me that,” Dazai retaliated, “I’m trying. Okay? I’m trying.”

“You don’t look—”

“Please don’t, Chūya.”

“Dazai—”  

“Please don’t say anything.”

“But—”

“I get triggered really easily. My mental health is really…really fragile right now. And I’m in a different country and my care team is thousands of miles away and I didn’t expect to run into my ex-boyfriend—no offence—so please, just drop it. Okay? Drop it for now.”

Chūya studied them. Sincerity swelled in Dazai’s eyes. It was unusual to see something other than a mask or emptiness. The last time he saw this vulnerability in them was during that conversation where he learned what happened to them that summer—

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to stress you out.” The apology was casual, but careful. Genuine.

“It’s fine,” Dazai nodded with a brief sigh, as if accepting his circumstances for what they were. “Do you um,” he changed the subject swiftly, “do you know how to get to the dorms from here?”

“Oh yeah. Are you staying in the international house?”

A nod.

“I can take you there.”

They walked in silence. The warm kind of discomfort lingering, reminding them of all they no longer were to each other. The silence of strangers who know each other too well.

“Can I um. Ask you something?”

Dazai nods.

“Why didn’t you call me back?”

“What?”

“After the um. Tachi told me about what happened,” indiscreetly, he eyes their bandaged neck, “and I tried to get in touch with you, to like check in and stuff. But you never answered.”

“Oh,” Dazai sighed, fiddling with a loose thread in one of his pockets. “It’s a little embarrassing but I broke my phone.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. I um—” threw it at my dad and missed. “I dropped it. Then it broke. And I’m off of social media so I haven’t really been in touch with many people. I have a new number and all that, if you want to update my contact.”

Chūya couldn’t tell how this new information made him feel. On one hand, he wanted to be angry. He wanted to be pissed off that Dazai ignored him, refused to call him back and keep him in the loop. Now though, there was a reason for the radio silence. Which did feel good, in that it meant he hadn’t been forgotten. The situation left him with a myriad of mixed feelings.

“I thought you were ignoring me.”

Dazai shakes his head, looking straight ahead at the uncharacteristically empty sidewalk in front of them, “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“What have you uh. Been up to? Since. You know.”

“Uh,” Dazai scratches the back of his head, “it’s been not-great.”

“Yeah?”

A nod, “Inpatient. Outpatient. Psych ward. I’ve been bouncing around.”

“Shit, really?”

“Yeah, it’s been kind of a pain.”

“Do you feel any better?”

A shrug, “Yeah um. It’s been fine,” they lied. “I’m feeling better.” Liar, liar, liar. “How are you? How was your sister’s surgery?”

“It went really well,” Chūya answered, “she has her good and bad days, but I think there have been more good ones than anything else.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

They pivoted, walking down an icy side street. Light flurries trickled down from the sky, dusting the air.

“And how have you been through it all? I mean, you’re back at school now so I guess that’s good?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve been fine,” Chūya lied.

They continued to walk in silence.

“Have you stage managed any shows recently?” Dazai attempted conversation.

“Yeah!” Chūya perked up, “Have you heard of Tales of the Lost Formicans?” Dazai shook his head, “It’s really good, kind of niche. It shows affects of Alzheimer’s through aliens? It’s weird but there’s like hundreds of cues so I’ve been super busy working through it.”

“That’s cool. I’m glad you’ve had a project to work on.”

“What about you? Are you in school full-time?”

Dazai shook their head, “Part-time. My dad wouldn’t let me take on a full course load. Which is fine. I have things to take care of anyways. But um, I still play with my school’s orchestra, and the international orchestra apparently.”

“Oh yeah, what are your pieces for the benefit concert?”

“Some Stravinsky and Liszt. I’ve played the Liszt before but the Stravinsky is new.”

“I’m excited to watch you play—” It slipped out before Chūya could stop himself.

The last time he actually watched Dazai play was—

“Really?”

“Y-yeah,” Chūya stuttered, “I like watching you play. A lot.”

“That’s really sweet. Thanks. I hope I don’t fuck it up too bad.”

It was said jokingly, but the underscore of history was a little too thick for comfort.

“I’m sure you’ll be great. You always are.”

They approached the dorm, shivering as snowflakes melted upon peacoats and wool hats.

“Thanks for uh, helping me get back here. Are you okay to go back alone this late at night?”

“Totally,” Chūya replied, “I’m like, a block away.”

“Okay, cool. Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

Something heavy lingered in the air between them. Little puffs of cloud exited their mouths as they breathed deeply into it. Dazai took out his guest keycard and unlocked the door.

“I’ll see you at rehearsal?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you.”

Chapter Text

Chapter XIV: Choices

Chūya’s phone feels heavier in his pocket with the weight of Dazai’s new number in it.

A month goes by, then two, and soon the international orchestra is just another college memory, alongside homecoming, each play he’s stage managed, and the like. The days pass in a blur, though Chūya feels surprisingly lucid throughout. His sister is cancer-free and parents are in good health. For the first time in nearly a year, he finds himself able to breathe. To breathe, and live, and be a college kid the way he’s been craving.

Summer break is approaching too fast for comfort, bringing up unwanted questions of “what’s next?” Chūya is trapped, stuck in his rut of overthinking, when an unexpected email makes its way to his inbox.

“Really?” Shirase raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to do it?” Yuan asked.

Chūya shrugged, “I don’t know. Maybe? It sounds kind of too good to be true.”

“You said your boss was an asshole, right? This is definitely a good thing.”

“Yeah, he was. I’m not upset that he’s getting replaced—I’m just confused that they’re asking me to be a supervisor. That they even want me back after I left.”

“It’s not your fault you had to leave,” Yuan pointed out, “they know that.”

“I guess they don’t have room for any more stage managers?” Shirase wondered.

“Yeah, guess not. I mean, it’s either Bennington or Summer Stock theatre. Or go back to France.”

“What do you want to do?” Yuan asked again. Chūya wrung his hands together.

“I don’t know. The pay is pretty decent and I’d get room and board. And like, I don’t know, outside of all the Dazai stuff and shit going on with my sister, I did have a good time last summer.”

“Is he going back too?” Shirase probed.

“I don’t know. We haven’t really talked since the benefit concert. He texted to wish me a happy birthday—which was nice. I didn’t expect that.”

“That is nice,” Yuan smiled softly, “maybe you should reach out to him. See if he is going back or not. Not saying you should base your entire decision off of that, but it would be helpful to know if you’ll be spending every day with your ex.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right.”

Chūya was not going to reach out to Dazai.

“It’ll be your first big-boy job fresh out of college,” Shirase remarked enthusiastically, “might be nice to go someplace where you already know all the ropes. You know?”

“No, I still have one more semester to go. Remember? Y’all get to walk the stage together without me. I missed this past fall.”

“Oh, true,” Yuan nodded, “maybe I should skip class more so I can fail and get another term with you,” she seemed to genuinely contemplate the thought.

“I’m not allowed to fail anymore classes,” Shirase grimaced, “so that’s a no-go.”

It was quiet for a moment, as the gravity of the situation weighed in. As Chūya, Shirase, and Yuan realized soon their trinity would come to an end. Soon they’d be separated by the “real world” and “commitments” and “life.” Soon, seeing each other often would mean every six months, not a nightly cadence. Soon, everything was going to change.

It was unspeakably sad.

“You’ll um,” Chūya hesitated, barely breathing as he asked, “you’ll keep in touch. Right? And you’ll come visit to see my shows?”

“Of course, King,” Yuan acknowledged affectionately.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Shirase said.

“And we still have a whole month before graduation,” Yuan said, cheer returning to her previously distant tone, “let’s not be sad when we still have time left together.”

“It’s just hard,” Chūya frowned, “everything’s changing so fast. Can’t life slow down so I can catch up for once?”

“It sounds like you should go to Bennington after all,” Shirase said. Chūya looked at him, puzzled.

“Why?”

“You said it yourself. Everything is changing. Going somewhere familiar would be a nice constant, don’t you think? So you’re not thrown into a brand-new environment before everything at school gets weird without us.”

“Huh. You have a good point.”

“Of course I do,” Shirase laughed with a cocky grin, “I’m always right!”

Yuan flicked his forehead playfully, “Always annoying is what you are.

They laughed at Shirase’s overdramatic pout. 

“Anyways,” Yuan continued, “Bennington is just for the summer, and like you said, the only other option for summer time is Summer Stock and as someone who performed upstate last year, believe me it’s exhausting. Plus the pay is shit.”

“And you still have time to think about it,” Shirase added, “they made you the offer now, but you don’t have to give them an answer right away. They want you. It’s your call. Ball’s in your court.”

“But really,” Yuan warned, “call Dazai. Touch base with them first, before you make your decision.”

Chūya was not going to call Dazai.

“Relax, I will.”

--

“Holy shit.”

Dazai, enraptured by the book he’s reading on the biography of Shostakovich, ignores his friend.

“Dazai.”

“Hm?” They continued to read.

“Dazai, I got in.”

“Hmmhmm.”

“To the program.”

“Uh-huh.”

“To BMP. I got into BMP.”

“That’s nice—”

“Jesus Christ—” Sigma swiped the book out of their hand unforgivingly.

“Hey!” Dazai reached out like a small child, “Give that back! I’ll lose my page!”

“We both know you memorize your pages without bookmarks you absolute heathen,” Sigma lectured, snapping the book shut. “Now, will you please listen to what I’m saying?”

“I did listen,” Dazai protested, “you got in.”

“To?”

“To…something. A program.”

“Dazai.”

“Okay, fine, I got distracted at that last part. What was it? A new ensemble?”

“Bennington. I got into Bennington.”

Dazai paled. Sigma getting into Bennington meant two things:

One, Sigma would be spending their summer at Dazai’s home away from home.

Two, Bennington officially sent out their acceptance emails. Meaning—

“Did you get in?” Sigma asked nosily.

“I uh—I haven’t checked my email.”

“You should probably do that,” Sigma urged, genuinely wanting to know the results of the auditions. They had both auditioned for several summer programs and orchestras. While Sigma got into a handful of theirs, Dazai was accepted to each and every program and group he’d heard from. Bennington, of course, had the highest scholarship packages of the educational programs and was one of the last programs he’d been waiting to hear from. Sigma was a junior and planned to choose a program for college credit, while Dazai, who should have been graduating come May, was set back a semester due to their part-time status. “What are you waiting for??” Sigma prodded excitedly.

Dazai fumbled around, finding his phone (which now lives in a very snug case, equipped with a screen protector and all). The weight of the world increased ten-fold as 4G trudged along at an achingly slow pace, to the best of its abilities.

There, at the very top of his inbox, sat a letter.

“Fuck,” Dazai whispered with bated breath. Sigma forced themself not to look over Dazai’s shoulder, despite the temptations running high.

“What does it say? Did you not get in?” Sigma asked, “That would be absurd. You’re you.”

 “It um—shit.”

“What does that mean? Do I have permission to be nosy and shoulder-surf?”

“Uh—no. Not yet. Let me read this.”

They scanned through the message, doing his best to absorb its contents.

Moments felt like minutes felt like hours before Dazai spoke again.

“It’s um. I got in.”

“Okay!?? Why do you sound so—not thrilled?”

“I’m just uh—I’m a little startled.”

“Why?”

“My letter is from Natsume.”

“Wait, what?” Sigma’s lilac eyes widened monumentally.

“He wrote a personal note to me addressing what happened last year.”

“The competition?”

“Yeah. He was the Associate Artistic Director last year, meaning he wasn’t the head. Now that Taneda has stepped down, Natsume is in charge.”

“Right,” Sigma followed the train of thought, “Taneda didn’t kick you out of the program, but he did disqualify you from the competition. Correct?”

“Yeah. Natsume—apparently the two of them didn’t see eye-to-eye on this decision. He said he’d like to speak with me personally before I choose to accept the offer.”

“Wow,” Sigma blinked.

“Yeah.”

“Is your father going back? I know he has that administrative job with the Yokohama Symphony Orchestra now.”

“Yeah he um, he’s pretty busy with that. I don’t even know if BMP would hire him again, honestly. Apparently there were a lot of rumors about why I um. Collapsed. And there was speculation about abusive treatment—”

“Which isn’t unfounded.”

“I’d barely consider it abuse—”

“Dazai.”

“Ugh, fine, whatever. What he did was not great. I get that. And apparently Natsume does too, otherwise I doubt he’d want to take the time to chat with me about all of this over tea.”

“What do you think he’s going to say?”

“I dunno. I thought they all hated me for being such a hassle—I wasn’t even going to audition until you forced me to—”

“Oh yes, I remember,” Sigma practically snorted at the memory, “both your therapist and I were on your case about that one. And look! You got in again! And the Artistic Director wants to speak with you personally. These are good things.”

“I wish they felt good.”

“Why don’t they?”

Dazai considered.

Why wasn’t he happy about all of this? BMP was giving him another chance—not only that, but Natsume’s email mentioned accommodations. His recovery was close to being back on track and opportunities were abundant, there was no reason to be forlorn. And yet—

“I wonder if Chūya will be there.”

“I should have known that was what you’d be thinking about,” Sigma smiled wryly.

They had been friends for a few years (though Dazai adamantly insisted they were acquaintances up until recently) and Sigma had seen the disappointments that came of Dazai’s dating life. They didn’t go on many dates, and when they did, it was almost always with the most toxic individuals he could manage to find. Dostoevsky was a prime example of this. None of their relationships lasted longer than a few months. Sigma and Dazai had considered dating each other at the start of the year, even hooking up a few times along the way. It wasn’t the worst idea in the world, but when Dazai screamed the wrong name during sex, they both came to the understanding that he was not over his most recent ex.

“I’m just curious,” Dazai attempted (failed) to shrug off his concern with nonchalance.

“Well you have his number now. Why don’t you ask him?”

Dazai stared at Sigma as if they had two heads, “Are you nuts? I can’t just ask him!”

“Why not?” Sigma pursed their lips, tilting their head confusedly.

“Because!” Dazai sputtered, “That’s just like! I don’t know! Weird! Yeah! That would be weird!”

“Or, it would be communicative,” Sigma corrected them, “which I’m sure your therapist would agree is a good thing.”  

“I’m not reaching out to chibi Chūya.”

“Why not?”

“Because!”

“Because?”

“It’s not like he’s reached out to me.”

Sigma frowned, “Maybe he’s just nervous.”

“I wished him a happy birthday. I already reached out once, I’m going to sound so desperate if I reach out again.”

Sigma scoffed, “Do you really think Chūya is the type to give a crap about social norms like that? From all you’ve told me about him, and from our brief encounters in New York, it seemed like he was just as hung up on you as you are on him.”

Dazai’s brow wrinkled, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Sigma huffed, rolling their eyes, “that I bet he still has feelings for you.”

Dazai’s brain short-circuited. His eyes flying wide, mind seizing in tandem.

“No—he—no. He ended things with me. He wouldn’t have done that if he still had feelings for me. He fell out of love with me because he was disgusted by me and my stupid disorder and—”

“Where is any of this bullshit coming from?” Sigma called him out, “That’s simply not true. You told me what happened and it sounds like there was a lot of pressure on Chūya to be there for everyone. He’s just a human being and human beings can only take so much before something has to give. You said it yourself, he told you he still loved you when you two broke up. Does that not count for anything?”

Dazai pouted, crossing his arms petulantly. It was much easier to believe Chūya fell out of love with him, to blame himself and his disorder than to face the reality that things were simply difficult, that things had been out of their control.

“I don’t know what to do,” Dazai groaned, flopping onto Sigma’s bed. Being a part-time student, Dazai lived back with his father and siblings still, at least as of recent since he was no longer in inpatient. It was a long commute from Yokohama to Tokyo and back, so they often stayed overnight with Sigma. Sigma, like most of the other students, lived on campus. Dazai hated driving, especially at night, so staying over was usually the optimal solution.

“You do know what to do, loser,” Sigma pokedDazai in the ribs, eliciting a squeak. “You’re going to talk to Natsume and see what’s up. Then you’ll give Chūya a ring and ask if he’s coming back this summer. You’ll decide how you want the next few months to go, and that’s that.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Dazai glared at the unappealing popcorn ceiling.

“You’re the one making it sound hard. It’s all a matter of perspective, Osamu.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dazai groaned. “What about you?” He flipped the conversation back to where they started, “Are you going to go, now that you have an offer?”

“To Bennington?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know yet,” Sigma shrugged, “they offered a pretty nice scholarship package. With work-study, but that’s not a problem. I’ll talk to my therapist and see what she thinks.”

“Do you think you’d feel like. Safe. Going there?” Dazai asked with an air of uncertainty. Sigma shifted positions, looking at him curiously.

“What do you mean?”

Dazai sat up, scratching at the skin under their bandages. Sigma smacked their hands to get them to stop. He moved on to pulling at the fabric of his compression shirt instead. They crossed their legs, changed their mind, and brought their knees up to their chest. “Your pronouns. And look. And sexuality. It’s not exactly an accepting area.”

“Neither is Japan,” Sigma shrugged.

“I told you about what happened to me. About how I was like. You know.”

“Raped.”

“Yeah.”

“I recall.”

“So?”

A long hum of contemplation, “I don’t think you would have returned last year if the program wasn’t worth believing in.”

Dazai averted his gaze, whispering, “I just. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

A subdued smile crept onto Sigma’s face as they looked at their friend with tired eyes, “I appreciate your concern. But I can handle myself.”

Dazai made eye contact with their friend, then looked away.

“Here,” Sigma started, “let’s make a deal.”

Perking up, Dazai’s head flipped around.

Sigma continued, “Together and by ourselves, let’s try our best to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself. Can we do that?”

Dazai chewed on his cheek, nodding softly, “Yeah. I can do that.”

--

Dazai should call Chūya, in order to make a well-informed decision on his upcoming summer plans. He tells himself he will do this as soon as he finishes speaking with Artistic Director Natsume. It’s mid-April by the time they manage to have their video call.

“Dazai, it’s been a while. I’m glad to see you. You look well.”

Natsume is a middle-aged, old-fashioned man. The kind of guy who looks like he should be carrying whisky wherever he goes. He wears a monocle and bowler hat along with a well-tailored tweed suit. His comments are fairly innocent, though Dazai can’t help the screaming of his disorder voice at the idea of him looking “well.” The disorder knows better than that, but Dazai swallows his pride and simply smiles.

“Thank you,” they answered brightly, “it’s nice to speak with you. Thanks for inviting me to talk.”

“Of course,” Natsume replied, “let’s jump into it, shall we?” Dazai nodded again, shifting around in his seat in his bedroom at his family home in Yokohama. It’s a mid-sized room, sparsely decorated, with the only items of note being an electric keyboard, large desk, and swivel chair filling the space.  

“Sure,” Dazai responded. The video quality on his laptop is grainy, thanks to the computer being an older model.

“I’d like to formally apologize for the way BMP handled all that occurred with the competition. And that it’s taken so long for me to reach out on this. I should have reached out to apologize sooner.”

“Oh—it’s really okay—”

“No, it wasn’t,” Natsume spoke sternly, but not unkind, “I don’t think it was fair for you to have been disqualified due to a medical condition.”

“It wasn’t—I—it was just some mental health stuff. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“I understand that people in your life may have downplayed what happened,” Natsume continued, “but I am aware of how serious mental health crises are. My daughter struggles with mental illness, and I would not have wanted her to have experienced the treatment you received during your time at BMP. I am truly sorry.”

Dazai stared, more confused than not. He never thought his ED or suicide attempt were handled poorly by the staff. If anything, everything was ignored. That wasn’t a bad thing.

“If you choose to come back this year,” Natsume shifted gears, “as I mentioned in my email, I’d like to make some accommodations.”

“Right.”

“To make amends for what occurred the past two years at BMP, we’re offering you a partial scholarship package, with work-study, to cover the cost of the program.”

Dazai blinked, still confused.

“I’d also like to talk about your living arrangements, should you choose to attend.”

“Okay.”

“As much as we prefer our students to live on campus, we can make certain exceptions for commuters. If you think it would benefit your mental health, we’d like to offer you the opportunity to live off-campus and commute.”

One of Dazai’s concerns about attending another program like BMP was the lack of control over his diet and access to food. They couldn’t decide what was going in their food, when they would eat, what they would eat—they had no control. The only way they could control it all was by abstaining entirely, which of course ended disastrously.

“The funds that would ordinarily cover your room and board would be transferred to a stipend to assist in covering rent and groceries.”

 “Is this fair to the other participants?” Dazai asked warily. “I don’t want to get ‘special treatment’ because—”

“This isn’t special treatment,” Natsume replied calmly, “These are reasonable accommodations. You’re allowed to have needs.”

“Can I um,” they chewed the inside of their cheek, “can I think about it?”

“Of course,” Natsume responded, “the acceptance deadline is next Friday, but we are willing to make an exception if you need a little extra time to decide.”

“Okay. Thank you for um. For all of this. For the offer. It’s really generous of you.”

“It’s the least we can do,” Natsume crossed his legs, offering a warm smile, genuine in a way Dazai’s could never be. “If you have any questions in the meantime, please feel free to reach out to me personally.”

“Okay, I will. Thanks again.”

The call wrapped and Dazai was left feeling puzzled, vaguely optimistic, but primarily confused. That’s the way it goes, when you learn something you thought was handled fairly could have been addressed in a better way. Truthfully, he was glad the ordeal of his suicide attempt was mostly ignored on campus. They had taken him to the hospital and before anyone could say anything, he excused himself from the program in favor of inpatient. There was no support from BMP, but he had always assumed that was to be expected. His mental health wasn’t their responsibility, after all.

Except the way Natsume spoke, it painted the picture that BMP was in the wrong. That Dazai should have received support from the community when they were struggling, maybe even before they got to that point.

The whole scenario made his head spin and not before long, he figured it would be best to stop thinking about it and just consider the offer for what it was.

--

Dew drops and sunny skies, the ever-lush campus. It smelled the same. Deep emerald verdure, vibrant violets of the butterfly bushes, and peridot forests decorating the trail throughout. Without warning, emotions held tight to his chest burst forward, tearing their enclosures at the seams. Thoughts and feelings and everythings a year-long in the making. Heartache clenched at his chest, palpable pressure mounting.

Chūya could have chosen a different path. He could have pursued other gigs more aligned with his major, could have gone somewhere new, its streets not paved in memorandum. In his memories, shards of glass. Anxiety and hopelessness and emptiness and

But also, there were friends. Tachi, Gin, Higuchi, Atsushi, and Ryūnosuke. There was a community, small but mighty, they’d built together. They made a little home away from home, a world of people trying their best to support him, even as he pushed everyone away. He was ready to give Bennington a second chance. It wasn’t the campus’s fault his sister had been dying. Nor was it anyone’s fault that his boyfriend was starving himself. Chūya was back and determined to make the most out of this second chance at an idyllic summer.

Despite all its similarities, there were changes to the campus. New hedges here, a fountain placed there. His cabin was different this year, though he still had a single room as part of his medical accommodations. They also had a new box office manager, as Hirotsu’s husband Fukuzawa had recently been hired to fill Mori’s vacancy. Whether or not Mori’s decision to leave was voluntary remained up in the air. Chūya has not spoken to Dazai since the birthday text.

Chūya eagerly anticipated the change of leadership, excited to learn he’d be working directly with Fukuzawa, as a supervisor, nevertheless. The two hadn’t had much time to connect the previous summer, but he’d instantly had a good feeling about the man upon meeting him.

It was early in the morning as he parked in front of cabin 3B, his new temporary home. Nostalgia seeped in his veins, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes from overwhelm. It was all so much.

Keyless, just as he was last year, Chūya entered the cabin. Nearly identical to his old one, it housed a small porch, a kitchenette, a single bathroom, and two bedrooms. Being early in the morning, Chūya was unsurprised that his housemate had yet to arrive. Without much thought, he proceeded in bringing in his things, unpacking, and texting his family that he made it there safely.

It hardly took time to settle in and Chūya found himself restless, despite the long and tiresome drive. He sat up from his position on the bed, stretching like a cat. He considered texting Tachi and the others to let them know he was going to venture off on a walk, but truth be told the aching in his chest was too raw to handle company. Instead, he opted to navigate on his own.

The campus was quiet. Eerily quiet.

It was missing—

He walked.

Walked through the woods, past practice room after practice room.

Past—

It was silent.

He continued walking.

The box office was lit, signaling he wasn’t the only one on campus. Inside, Fukuzawa hunched over his papers, lost in concentration.

“Fukuzawa, sir?” Chūya spoke quietly, hoping his presence wouldn’t be disruptive. Around Mori, he’d always felt the need to shrink back, make himself smaller.

Looking up with a comfortable nod, Fukuzawa greeted Chūya with a humble smile, “Chūya, come in. I’d like to apologize for the…disarray,” Fukuzawa pushed around some papers, a semblance of organized. That was the first difference Chūya noted. Unlike Mori’s clean, nearly clinical working environment, Fukuzawa wasn’t exactly tidy. It wasn’t necessarily messy, so much as organized chaos. Piles of papers were stacked about, boxes littering the floor, ticket printers scattering the work stations. It was a welcome change of pace.

“No worries,” Chūya replied.

“It’s good to see you,” Fukuzawa abandoned his task in favor of standing to his full height towering over Chūya’s petite frame, reaching out to shake his hand. The gesture is a bit formal for his taste, but for once Chūya doesn’t mind.

“It’s good seeing you too,” he responded politely. Not much has changed about Fukuzawa in the past nearly-365 days since Chūya’s been away. His hair is still white and bushy and his clothing is casual, jeans and a plaid button down. There’s something worn about him, comforting in a way, like a pair of shoes bought secondhand, no longer needing to be broken in. For the second time in the span of seconds, Chūya found himself marveling at just how unlike the man before him was from his last boss.

“I take it you’ve been well this past year?”

“Oh, yeah,” Chūya replied, “things have been going really well. Thanks. I’m looking forward to working with you this summer.”

“I am too,” Fukuzawa nodded, then gesturing to the chaos amidst them, “your first official shift isn’t for a few days, so I’ll have plenty of time to get this disaster cleaned up before then.”

Chūya laughed kindly, “Really, it’s no problem. I don’t mind helping, if you need an extra set of hands.”

“Be careful what you offer,” Fukuzawa replied in a joking tone, “I might take you up on that.” Every interaction with Fukuzawa reminded Chūya of interacting with your friend’s dad. Awkward and kind of humorous, but slightly uncomfortable with no one truly knowing the proper etiquette on how to behave amidst another’s paternal figure.

“Seriously,” Chūya added, “if you need a hand, I’m happy to help. Got nothing better to do until all my friends get here!”

“Very well then,” Fukuzawa chuckled, “would you mind bringing these to the mail room?” He gestured to a stack of envelopes nearest the exit, “you can hand them to the attendant, she’ll know what to do.”

“Sure, no problem.”

Chūya grabbed the mail, offering a quick, “Anything else while I’m out? Need coffee or anything?”

Fukuzawa contemplated for a moment before settling on, “If the cafeteria is open, can you bring back some chamomile tea? And of course something for yourself.”

With his free hand, Chūya flashed a thumbs up, “You got it.”

He left the box office curious, This will be an interesting summer.

--

Sigma is impressed by Bennington. It’s the first feeling they experience upon entering its exquisite campus: awe. From the abundance of nature to the carefully curated practice cabins and the wistful scent of fresh air, Sigma is enamored.

They post photos on their Insta, captioning with cute little quips about mountains and music. They hope their friends back in Tokyo are jealous (they surely must be).

The cabin is small, but exactly as Dazai had described to them. They head to the tiny kitchenette to unload their snacks, various packets of cup noodles and other Japanese foods they knew they wouldn’t easily be able to track down in Bennington, North Carolina. Once they’ve finished settling their snacks, they move to their bedroom. Their request to room on their own had been honored, though they used the excuse of IBS rather than trying to explain their gender dysphoria at the mere concept of sharing a room with “another guy.” It wasn’t a complete lie, they did have IBS, even if it was far more under control than the admissions staff needed to know.

As they unpacked their clothing, they heard the sound of their front door open. Intrigued, they peeked their head out. Not having a proper lock on the cabins was uncomfortable. They didn’t like the idea of anybody being able to come in at any time. Perhaps it was intended to be comforting, a signal that said “Look how safe we are!” It didn’t land.

“Hello?” They called out in their perfect English, entering the main room. They had a slight Japanese accent, but it only came out when they spoke overzealously.

“Hey—”

There was a pause, a moment of recognition, and then—

“You’re Dazai’s friend.”

“Sigma, yes,” Sigma replied with a frown. “You’re their ex.”

“Uh. Yeah,” Chūya replied uncomfortably, “hi.”

A beat a moment too long passed between them. Chūya gave them a once-over. Sigma wore a white pleated skirt with black tights and a white vest. Their androgyny stood out and Chūya only hoped the other staff and students would be as accepting of it as he was.

“Are you um—this is your dorm?”

“That seems to be the case, yes,” Sigma nodded slowly, staring at Chūya as though he were growing horns out of his head.

“Right. Right,” Chūya laughed awkwardly, “I’m your roommate. Er uh—housemate. I have a single.”

“Oh. I see.”

Amidst awkwardness, they stood in another moment of silence.

“Well uh,” Sigma started, clearing their throat, “am I the only one feeling how weird this is?”

There were a lot of things Sigma couldn’t handle. They didn’t like large crowds and loathed going to the doctor. They were shit at doing laundry and grocery shopping took an hour too long considering how distracted they would end up.

Playing the room? That was an entirely different story. Conversations were their specialty, no matter how uncomfortable. Sigma leaned into the discomfort, knowing exactly how to get the conversation back on track.

“Yeah, heh,” Chūya coughed with a smirk, “I guess it is weird. Sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Sigma placated, ignoring their other inward thoughts on the matter, “break-ups happen. Let’s not let this ruin our summer.”

“Right, definitely,” Chūya nodded, voice growing in confidence, “if you need a tour around or anything, just let me know.”

“Sure,” Sigma spoke politely, “Dazai will be showing me some of the sights so—”

“He’s here?”

Another beat. A nod.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“They haven’t called you?”

“Nope.”

“Figures,” Sigma sighed, rubbing their head irritably. “Them being here, is that going to be a problem?”

“No, no it’s um—it’s just strange. I haven’t seen them on campus yet—or well, heard them. They practiced a lot last summer. So uh—”

“Some things never change,” Sigma shook their head exasperatedly. “They’re living off campus, which is probably why you haven’t seen them yet. He’s in an apartment complex nearby.”

“Wait, really?” Chūya blinked in confusion, “I didn’t think you could live off-campus.”

“You can’t,” Sigma affirmed, “they’re an exception.”

Of course they are, Chūya thought to himself pettily. There was no reason to be so remorseful, but he couldn’t help himself. Last summer may have been out of their hands, but it was hard to keep that in mind alongside all the painful memories of the past.

“Got it,” Chūya replied simply.

“Do you want to set some boundaries?” Sigma asked, shifting their weight. They spoke plainly, a clear communicator.

“What do you mean?”

“Dazai is my best friend,” Sigma cleared their throat, “meaning he’ll probably be over often. Would you like a warning beforehand? Notice if he were to stay overnight? Are you comfortable at all with them even staying the night?”

Chūya’s head spun with the weight of the questions. These were all things he had not considered up until two minutes ago.

“Oh um, it’s fine,” he answered on impulse, “I don’t mind if they stay over.”

“Are you sure?” Sigma asked again.

“Yeah, totally,” Chūya replied, “just send me a text if you do invite them over. That’s fine.”

“Noted,” Sigma responded, “is there anything else you’d like me to keep in mind?”

“I have chronic migraines,” Chūya pivoted, “so no loud music or anything like that if that’s okay? At least not while I’m here. When you’re alone obviously you can do whatever.”

“No problem. Not really a boundary, but just a nice-to-know, I take quite a bit of time when showering so I’ll let you know beforehand when I go to take one.”

“Cool, thanks. Anything else?”

They worked through a few other arrangements regarding shared snacks in the kitchen and guests in general.

“I do have a question for you, if it’s okay to ask—” Chūya started vaguely. Sigma nodded, encouraging him to continue, “it’s about your pronouns?”

“Go ahead.”

“I have no issue with using you pronouns or calling out others if they misgender you—but do you like, want that? Like if someone calls you by the wrong term or uses the wrong pronouns, do you want me to correct them?”

“Yes, please,” Sigma replied coolly, “I’m out and not in the mood to hide in anymore closets. So long as you don’t mind it, I prefer you and others keep everyone in check on how they refer to me.”

“Got it,” Chūya nodded eagerly, “thanks.”

“Of course. I appreciate you asking.”

Before the conversation could continue further, Sigma’s phone buzzed.

“Pardon me, I have to take this. Fancy chatting, Chūya. I look forward to living together this summer.”

“Likewise.”

--

The apartment was cold and empty when they arrived, not unlike the way they had imagined it to be. Though he’d brought his fully-weighted electric keyboard to practice, it was clearly not the same as having 24/7 access to the high quality pianos he’d typically find in Bennington, or his school back in Tokyo.

“It’s nice,” Akiko surveyed their apartment appraisingly. It was on the smaller side, two bedrooms, one bath, and a tiny but usable kitchen. She was happy to be spending the summer with her sibling, even if that meant Kyōka and Q were left to their own devices. That part wasn’t something she was particularly thrilled about. Though their father had been so preoccupied as of late that it almost felt okay to be leaving them together. They’d be heading to their mother’s soon anyways, and they knew the drill from there.

Her biggest concern this summer, aside from the medical program she’d be starting, was keeping an eye on her sibling’s unsteady recovery. It’s always said that recovery isn’t a straight line, and Akiko knew it was an accurate colloquialism. Dazai was doing better these days, almost well. They weren’t as stable as she’d like, but he was making an effort to eat and that had to count for something.

Wordlessly, they moved to unpack. Dazai put on some piano music in the background, crafting a calming ambiance. Though he was usually the chatty one of the two, Dazai found himself lost in thought, nearly forlorn as he mourned the way he was no longer staying on campus. Of course Sigma would still be there and possibly even—

Their phone buzzed.

“Is everything okay?” Akiko asked as Dazai dropped the stack of binders he’d been carrying. Papers flew out, scattering aimlessly.

“Uh,” they swallowed, “Chūya’s here.”

“Did he text you?” Akiko frowned, bending over to pick up the loose pages.

“No,” Dazai shook their head, inexplicable dread clinging to their chest, “that was Sigma. Apparently they’re roommates.”

Akiko gaped, “What are the odds?”

Akiko didn’t have a problem with Chūya, she liked him, even. Still, it was hard watching her sibling torn up over their relationship. Dazai desperately needed support, but Chūya had his own things going on. Akiko couldn’t fault him for a product of circumstances, but that didn’t make the situation any easier.

“Are you going to text him? Chūya?”

“I don’t know.”

“Talking to him might be better than a chance encounter. You know?”

It seemed like everyone and their mom was telling Dazai to talk to Chūya as of late. It was nearly infuriating, the way they insisted it would be better for his mental health if the two of them just talked things out. Maybe they were right—though he’d never admit it.

“Yeah, I guess,” Dazai chewed on his lip.

“You don’t have to talk to him if you’re not ready, of course,” Akiko assured.

“Yeah, I know,” Dazai agreed, already sick of the topic. “I am though. Ready. I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m not mad at him or anything. It makes sense, the way it all went down. And like, I saw him in New York. I think I’ll be fine.”

Akiko pulled her sibling into a warm embrace. She ran her fingers through their hair in a loving motherly gesture.

“Be careful, Osamu,” she whispered, “I don’t want you getting hurt again.”

He nuzzled into his sister’s hold, “I’ll try.”

They stayed there for a few comfortable moments before releasing. Dazai texted Sigma back and collected the rest of his fallen papers.

“Thanks for. You know,” Dazai offered a shy smile, averting his gaze, “being here for me this summer. It means a lot to me.”

“Of course,” Akiko cooed, “I’m happy to be here. I want you alive and healthy and I’ll do everything in my power to make eating as painless as possible.”

In addition to their sister’s support, they planned out twice-a-week check-ins with his therapist and nutritionist, on top of monthly meetings with his psychiatrist. His mental health was a priority this summer and he didn’t want to lose sight of that. It was one of the reasons he chose to return to Bennington. With Natsume’s support and the program accommodations, it was the most reasonable option of all the programs and orchestras he’d been accepted to. None of the other options allowed the same flexibility in their living arrangements and even fewer of them knew his mental health history. There was also the fact that being in the BMP campus made Dazai feel closer to Oda, in an odd and sentimental way.

“Do you know what your work-study is this year?” Akiko probed. Dazai shook his head.

“They don’t place us for another week. I really hope I’m not a TA again though. I specifically requested not to be considered for those positions.”

“Yeah, you never were a fan of teaching,” Akiko smirked, then asked, “what about your one friend though? Was it Atsushi you were helping?”

“Oh yeah,” Dazai nodded, “he’s an exception.”

Akiko giggled. Dazai frowned.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Akiko shot a sly smile, “it’s just nice to hear about your friends, is all.” Dazai blushed at the remark, at the reminder that he did indeed have friends. “And don’t even try denying it,” Akiko cut him off before they could protest, “you definitely do have friends, no matter how much of a loner you claim to be.”

Dazai made eye contact with the floor, scuffing his socked feet mindlessly.

“So, what do you want to do for lunch?” Akiko effortlessly pivoted, “We need to go grocery shopping, but if you’re not feeling up to it, I can go tomorrow and we can order takeout?”

“Uh,” Dazai gnawed his lip, “I’m um. I’m not hungry.”

Akiko’s brow furrowed, but her patience remained intact, “We don’t have to eat right now. It can be for later.”

“Okay.”

He stayed quiet.

“Hey. ‘Samu,” Akiko called out, “you have to eat. Okay? It doesn’t have to be a lot, but you need something.”

“Right,” they shook off their daze, “you can choose. Anything other than Italian food.”

“Alright, shitty Americanized Chinese food it is.” Dazai flashed a quick thumbs up. “It feels appropriate,” she continued, “I always liked the idea of getting shitty Chinese food when moving into a new place. Granted, in my imagination we’d be leaning on cardboard boxes with no furniture,” she gestured to their pre-furnished surroundings, “I suppose this will have to do.”

Dazai chuckled, amused by his sister’s ramblings. Aside from his time as a terrible teen, Dazai had always gotten along with his older sister. He was glad to spend the summer with her, even if it meant having to take accountability for recovery.

“Let’s order in like, half an hour? We can do some decorating until then!”

“Sounds good.”

Somehow, Akiko managed to fit two bedspreads, sheets, throw blankets, and a welcome mat into her spare suitcase. She also brought a variety of trinkets from her room back in their Yokohama family home. Her goal was to make the place “homier.” Growing up, their house was plain, clean and clinical. Akiko much preferred her own room, where she could decorate and let her personality show.

They found the apartment with the help of Akiko’s new colleagues and the BMP staff. Though sparse, it was equipped with the basics. It was little, quaint, and exactly what they both needed.

Dazai grabbed a small whiteboard and some dry erase markers from his suitcase. They set to work, writing out Did I eat today? in neat Kanji. Though he was fluent in English, he preferred to have the sign in another language to avoid any questions should they have guests over. Underneath, he drew checkboxes for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks. A box for the date was drawn in the corner.

“Looking good,” Akiko complimented his handiwork. “You better check off breakfast for today to start.”

“Okay,” Dazai did so, dating the board and checking off breakfast. His stomach did a backflip at the sight.

“And if you want me to make one too, I can always add an extra column. Just let me know,” Akiko offered.

“Yeah. I’ll let you know.”

They finished unpacking in peace, light classical continuing to underscore the experience.

“Is it okay if Sigma comes over tomorrow?” Dazai asked once Akiko placed their lunch order.

“Totally. No problem,” his sister agreed, “they’re welcome to join us for lunch.”

Akiko’s program didn’t start for a few days and Dazai had two weeks before classes began. They figured it would be nice to spend some quality time together before their schedules got more hectic.

“I’ll let them know.”

The two of them flopped down on the couch as they awaited their food, exhausted by all they had completed. Their labors paid off, as the apartment was officially unpacked and decorated. They didn’t have much stuff, but Dazai liked to consider it an accomplishment.

“When’d you want to check out campus together?” Akiko asked.

Dazai fiddled with the bandages under his short-sleeve t-shirt, “Tomorrow is good. Maybe we can head over before we pick up Sigma. You can walk around while I practice—”

“No—no practicing yet. I want to hang out!”

“But class starts—”

“In two weeks. That’s plenty of time. Plus you have your electric keyboard here.”

“It’s not the same,” Dazai grumbled.

“I know you’re eager to practice,” Akiko smiled fondly, “but you have to take things slow. Remember what your therapist said? You can’t always distract yourself from your feelings just because they’re uncomfortable.”

Dazai pulled his knees into their chest, “Yeah. I know.”

“So quit using practice to distract yourself from what you’re feeling. Okay?”

“Fine. I—”

They paused.

Their phone rang.

“Um—” Dazai glanced down at the device, brow furrowing as confusion laced his expression, “sorry. Hang on.” They stood up and answered the phone. “Fukuzawa?”

Chapter Text

Chapter XV: reunion

Chūya missed thunderstorms. Daily at 3 PM, they came like clockwork. The pitter-pattering of rain on cabin windows, flashes of lightning that lit up the sky, the howling wind and otherworldly darkness, Chūya craved his afternoon showers. Dazai was never a fan of them. He didn’t mind the rain, but despite best efforts, he hadn’t been able to hide the way the sounds freaked them out.

It was Chūya’s second day back on campus and he was pleased to be reunited with Tachi and his other friends from the summer prior. Higuchi was dressed in a bright pink floral sundress, flashing a toothy grin despite the dark drear of the outside storm clouds. She giggled as Ryū recounted his time clearing out the props closet. The story was mostly unamusing, until Atsushi took it upon himself to butt in at every other sentence with “clarifying details,” despite claiming he had nothing to do with the affair. Gin and Tachi laughed, but were too busy making eyes at each other to really be paying attention.

The flirtation in the air was overwhelming, nauseating. From Gin and Tachi practically undressing each other with their eyes to the Ryū-Atsushi-Higuchi love triangle, it seemed everyone had their heart set on someone this year.

Everyone but Chūya.

He tried to ignore the ache at the thought, tried his best not to acknowledge the yearning of something as trivial as a summer fling. Tried not to imagine a summer without a dying sister or starving boyfriend. He couldn’t help but feel—

“Excuse me. Do you mind if I sit here?”

His train of thought was interrupted by Sigma’s prim tone.

“Oh, sure, go for it,” Chūya welcomed them. “Hey—” he signaled for everyone’s attention, “this is my housemate Sigma, they/them pronouns. Sigma, this is uh…everybody.”

“I know you,” Ryū’s brow knit curiously, “I recognize you from somewhere. From—”

“The international orchestra!” Gin chimed in. Gin and her brother hadn’t been able to attend in person but watched as the event was televised.

“You know Dazai then?” Ryū pried eagerly, “I haven’t seen or heard them—but there was a rumor that he did return—”

“They’re here,” Sigma answered.

“They’re staying off-campus,” Chūya added, “I think they’re some kind of accommodations.”

Sigma shot Chūya a look that felt unwarranted.

“I’m so relieved he’s back this year,” Atsushi said, “after everything last year, I was so worried.” The tone of the air around them shifted as memories of the past year came flooding forth. They were all thinking about it, all ruminating, all—

“Okay, if we’re bringing it up,” Gin addressed the elephant in the room, “is he eating?”

The group turned, looping up at Chūya and Sigma expectantly.

“I don’t know,” Chūya answered honestly, “when I saw them over the winter, they were—”

“I don’t feel it’s appropriate for us to be discussing someone else’s mental health like this,” Sigma interrupted.

Gin startled, defending her question, “We’re just worried—”

She was cut off by Sigma’s stern tone and expression, “It isn’t your business.”

“Of course it is,” Tachi scoffed, “Dazai’s our friend. We were concerned about him—”

“You know,” Sigma continued, “Dazai told me a lot about last year. You say you’re concerned, but did any of you even try and help him?”

A long moment of quiet passed before Atsushi spoke sheepishly, “It was hard. They didn’t want our help—”

Sigma fumed, face reddening in irritation, “They nearly killed themself. Did you ever care—”

“Bro, shut up,” Tachi scowled, interjecting.

“Not a ‘bro,’” Sigma snipped.

“Sorry,” Tachi muttered a quick apology, expression just as bitter as before, “look—they might have told you about it, but you weren’t here last year. And last I checked, you weren’t the one to find them dangling from a fucking rope.” Disturbing silence washed over their table. Tachi huffed, “You don’t think I’ve spent the entire fucking year feeling guilty about this? Screw off.” Grabbing his plate and standing up, Tachi walked off.

“Tachihara, wait—” Gin followed after him. It was unnerving. Tachi was a chill guy and Chūya had never seen him lose his cool like that before.

The rest of lunch was quiet. Small talk and completely Dazai-free.

--

His practice room feels like home. They bask in its familiar musty scent, the ivory nostalgia and twinkling notes all belonging to him. Dazai missed this. He missed his practice room.

# *

They played. Played and played and breathed for the first time in a year too long. The exquisiteness of Bennington practice rooms satiated the aching which lingered in his chest. An irreplaceable. The piece flowed out naturally as a river, rippling through each press of key and resting breath.

Dazai felt at home.

His fingers danced as the melody sang. As the story of tragedy and love and emotions far too big for such small beings echoed in his midst. Their mind blanked. They played, enveloped by a safe numbness. It washed over, taking precedence to any trivial passing thought which may have come before. In their practice room, they were safe. With their piano, alone in the swirling sounds of song, they were safe.

Dazai was safe. He was safe, they were safe, everything was okay and he was allowed to be safe.

The singing swelled as did his heart beat, the rhythmic racing nearly in tune with the pulsing notes beneath. His heart leapt and sang as the notes amplified further. He felt no different than Icarus, flying into the depths of a flame ignited by passion itself.

For a matter of moments, Dazai’s world was complete.

It was complete and safe.

Complete and safe.

Dazai was safe.

“You can’t hide from your friends for forever,” Akiko spoke as the ending notes of the piece rang out.

“I’m not hiding,” he mumbled, fingers unmoving from their place on the keys.

“Right. And I’m not studying to be a doctor,” she snorted, “come on Osamu. You need a break.”

“But—”

“You have all summer to lock yourself in a practice room. Please?”

They pouted.

“I don’t want to see them.”

Akiko’s expression flipped downwards in anxious concern, “Why not? They’re your friends.”

They hesitated, pressing down on an F# repeatedly as they spoke, “Things are different. I haven’t talked to them in months. They don’t want to see me.”

“Dazai,” Akiko exhaled deeply, sitting down next to her sibling on the piano bench. He scooted to the side, reluctantly making room for her. “Your friends want to see you.”

“I pushed them all away. I’m too much of a hassle.”

“That’s not true,” Akiko started, then backtracked, “well, you did push them away I guess, but that doesn’t mean you’re a hassle. You were going through something and as great as friends are, they aren’t always equipped to handle crisis.”

“It wasn’t a crisis,” Dazai averted their gaze.

“You attempted suicide. That is a crisis.” A minute passed as Dazai continued to play miscellaneous notes on the piano, the air between the siblings growing stale. Akiko gently pried the playing fingers away. They were cold and shaky. She held them between her palms to steady them, warming them up. “They might not have known how to show it, but I know your friends care about you. They want to see you alive and well.”

“What do you think’s gonna happen, now that I live off-campus?” Dazai pivoted abruptly, “Do you think someone’s going to take my practice room?”

Akiko shook her head with a chuckle, “I’m trying to have a heart-to-heart with you and of course that’s where your mind goes.” Dazai’s cheeks pinkened at the comment. “Maybe you should put your name on the door,” Akiko joked Though Dazai seemed to ponder the remark in genuine thoughtfulness.

“That’s not a bad idea—”

“I was kidding!”

“Do you think they’re all talking about me behind my back?” Dazai switched topics again. Akiko wondered if he remembered to take his meds. “Do you think they’re going to laugh at me?” Vulnerability crept into his tone.

Akiko’s forehead creased, “You have a serious, deadly disorder. There’s nothing to laugh at.”

Dazai scowled at the ground, “Pushkin and his cronies sure thought it was funny.”

“Those guys are a bunch of talentless asshole idiots. They’re complete jerks and your friends are nothing like them.”

A childlike fear encroached, “I’m just. I’m scared they won’t like me anymore.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“I ruin everything. I make everyone’s lives more complicated and—”

“I hate to break it to you, but humans are complicated creatures. I get that you’re insecure, but I promise your friends care about you. Didn’t you say Tachi checked in on you after inpatient?”

“Probably because he felt guilty.”

“Or because he cares about you. Have some faith in other people for once and quit being such a nihilist.”

Before he could reply, there was a knock on the practice cabin door. Akiko turned around to open it.

“Akutagawa?” Dazai’s brow rose.

“Dazai!” He cried out, then as an afterthought, “Akiko. Hello. I heard um,” he redirected his attention back to Dazai, “I heard you were back and then there were voices coming from your practice room so I got curious—” he trailed off, “you um. You look good.”

“Uh. Thanks.”

They stood in uncomfortable silence.

“How have you been?”

“Fine.”

“Good. That’s good.”

There wasn’t much Dazai had to say to his once-protégé. If anything, he’d prefer Ryū to ignore him altogether.

“It’s great to see you,” Akiko added kindly, hoping to ease some of the tension in the too-small room.

“Likewise,” Ryū replied, gaze unwavering from Dazai’s frame. It was as though, the moment he released his gaze from the other, they’d disintegrate into nothingness. Perhaps was exactly how Ryū felt—that Dazai would disappear and become nothing the minute they were left to their own devices. Given their history, the concern wasn’t unfounded.

There was another uncomfortable pause. Dazai knew he should say something, but what? What was left to say after all that happened?

“I’d like to finish talking with my sister,” Dazai eventually remarked, eying Ryū, then the door.

“Right,” he nodded, getting the message, “sorry. I’ll um. I’ll leave you be. It was really good to see you. I’m looking forward to the summer.”

“Bye, Akutagawa.”

As Ryū left, Akiko shot her sibling a glare, “You don’t have to be so cold to him, you know. He’s just being nice.”

“You know how I feel about him,” Dazai shrugged, tone lacking bite, “sorry if I’m not exactly interested in talking to the kid who ratted me out—”

“Who told a trusted adult that you were struggling,” Akiko reframed, “there’s nothing wrong with that. And that was years ago. Quit holding a grudge.”

“Whatever,” Dazai rolled his eyes, “I’m not in the mood to argue.”

“Ok.” A breath. “Have you thought about what Fukuzawa said over the phone?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? You’re allowed to say no.”

“You’re the one who’s been saying I should stop running away from everyone.”

“Yeah, but we’re still allowed to have boundaries and limits. If you think it’ll be too stressful for you—”

“I’ll be fine.”

Akiko warily eyed her sibling, “You better call him before you start, then. Just talk to him.”

“I will,” Dazai hummed noncommittally.

“‘Samu—”

“I said I will, ok? Can we please drop it?”

“I’m only pestering because I love you!” Akiko smiled brightly, she dropped his hands and ruffled their hair.

“Whatever. Love you too.”

--

Chūya spoke animatedly over the phone as Atsushi settled into his area. It had been less than five minutes since the start of his shift, and already Atsushi could feel the palpable changes of having a new manager. Where Mori was cold and strict, Fukuzawa was calm and kind. He had no qualms if you were a minute or two late and would never even think about raising his voice if a mistake were made. Atsushi was still skittish, but felt much safer to be himself than he did around Mori. He also felt better with the prospect of Chūya being a supervisor. Aside from in general being friends, Chūya had always been easy to work with. He was the kind of colleague who made the time pass quickly and always had your back if something went wrong.

Chūya finished up his patron phone call and waved to Atsushi.

“Hey!” He greeted enthusiastically, “First shift with both of us back!”

“Yeah!! And you’re a supervisor now, how cool!!”

“Are you excited for the summer?”

“Yeah, definitely! The program is insane this year. I can’t wait for the Motion Pictures night and the Stravinsky. They all sound so so cool.”

They chatted a little longer before Fukuzawa sent Atsushi on an errand to the mailroom.

“Chūya?” Fukuzawa called out to the other employee once Atsushi closed the door behind him, “May I speak with you?”

“Of course,” Chūya answered, the slightest bit of anxiety edging his tone. Fukuzawa sat down on the chair next to him, clasping his hands together.

“How are you feeling so far?”

“Oh! Pretty good. I remember a lot from last year so jumping back in has been a breeze.”

“That’s good to hear. We’ll schedule twice-a-week one-on-ones to help with your professional development. We’ll cover conflict de-escalation, delegation, different supervisory skills you’ll use this summer."

"Awesome, that would be great.”

“There is,” Fukuzawa hesitated, “there’s one other thing I’d like to address though.”

Chūya’s brow knit in concern, “Okay?”

“I apologize for not bringing this up sooner, it was a last-minute adjustment to our staffing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our programming has increased this year and we expect a higher volume of ticket sales. To assist, the program has allocated us a work-study student.”

“That’s helpful,” Chūya remarked cautiously.

“There was um. A bit of a mix-up,” Fukuzawa continued, “and the student we’ll be working with—”

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Hey, sorry I’m early. I wanted to stop by to—” Dazai paused, amber eyes locking with ocean pools.

“Oh,” Chūya said numbly, putting the pieces together, “Dazai’s our…” he trailed off.

“Is uh—is now a bad time? I can go—”

“I’ll give you two a moment alone,” Fukuzawa stood up apologetically, leaving the two alone in the suddenly too-small box office.

Dazai looked okay. They wore well-fitting slim-fit pants and a blue button down. Their bandages peeked out. Though he still looked a bit sallow, he was looking better than he’d been over winter. Chūya exhaled a relieved sigh at the fact that they were most likely eating somewhat normally again.

“You look good,” Chūya said harmlessly. Dazai puffed out his cheeks, irritated.

“I wish people would stop saying that.”

“It’s true. Before you looked—”

“It’s triggering.”

“What?”

“Stuff like that,” they clarified, “it’s triggering for me.”

An awkward silence ensued.

“Sorry,” Chūya averted his gaze. “So you’re our work-study student?”

“Yeah,” Dazai said, tone a little less tense with the subject changed, “did Fukuzawa warn you ahead of time? They mixed some things up—”

“He was just about to tell me, actually,” Chūya laughed, “but you got here early so.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s no big deal.”

Another pause.

“So uh. We’ll be working together a lot this summer,” Dazai said, cheeks pinkening at the thought.

“Yeah, we will,” Chūya replied, “is that like, okay? Will you be—”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?”

“Totally.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

“Chūya. I—” Dazai was cut off by the sound of the door opening.

“Dazai!” Atsushi squealed eagerly, “What are you doing here?!”

“Hey!!” Dazai flashed a massive grin, accepting Atsushi’s bear-hug. “I’m doing some work-study stuff with the box office,” they explained, “so I’m sure you’ll be seeing more of me this summer.”

“Wait, really?” Atsushi glanced nervously between Dazai and Chūya as their hug released, “And that’s like. Okay? For both of you?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Dazai’s grin shined plastically on his face. Chūya did not appreciate the fakeness of the gesture. Then again, they weren’t dating any longer, so Chūya had no reason to feel as affected as he did.

“Just because you um. You—” Atsushi was cut off as Fukuzawa returned.

“I believe no formal introductions are necessary,” Fukuzawa announced, “I apologize again for the mix-up, but I hope you’ll all do your best to get along this summer.”

“Of course~” Dazai cheered, “it’ll be great!”

“Yeah, no worries,” Chūya added half-heartedly.

“Good,” Fukuzawa nodded appraisingly, “tonight, if you’re all free, I’d like to take you out to dinner to get to know you all a bit better. Does 6 PM work?”

Atsushi nodded as Chūya replied, “Sure thing.”

Dazai looked away.

“Does that time work for you, Dazai?” Fukuzawa asked. They began picking at their bandages, gaze still averted.

“Yeah that’s um. That’s fine.”

“Alright,” Fukuzawa kept an eye on Dazai a moment longer. “We’ll meet outside the box office and we can carpool.”

“Is it okay if I meet you guys there?” Dazai asked quietly, “I have plans with my sister right before.”

“Yes, that’s no problem,” Fukuzawa agreed.

“I need to get going,” Dazai said, still a little too quiet for Chūya’s liking, “see you tonight.”

“See you,” Atsushi waved happily, oblivious to the slight shift in the other’s demeanor.

Chūya shook off his concern. He and Dazai were broken up. Dazai had an entire care team to support with whatever they were going through. Things were going to be fine, and if they weren’t, that wasn’t Chūya’s problem.

--

The restaurant was small and crowded. Dazai would consider it cute, had there not been so many people. The four of them were ushered to a cramped booth in the back. Piling in, Dazai and Atsushi sat next to each other, across from Chūya and Fukuzawa.

“Busy tonight,” Chūya remarked casually. Atsushi hummed in agreement.

“Order whatever you like,” Fukuzawa addressed them, “Bennington is paying for this meal.”

“Ha, thanks,” Chūya laughed good-naturedly. He already liked Fukuzawa from the start, their subsequent interactions only solidified that.

The waitress came by to take their drink orders as they continued perusing their menus. Chūya had no idea what to choose, he was hungry and everything sounded good.

“What are you all getting?” Chūya pitched to the crowd.

“I’m getting the fried chicken!” Atsushi said excitedly. Fukuzawa pointed out some soup Chūya didn’t recognize.

Dazai looked. Lost.

“I don’t know,” he muttered.

Chūya glanced back down at the menu. The calories were listed next to each dish.

Discreetly, Chūya nudged Dazai’s foot under the table. Dazai looked up.

“You okay?” Chūya mouthed. Dazai did not reply. They returned to staring at the menu.

Chūya turned to Fukuzawa, deciding to give Dazai some space.

“So, how did you and Hirotsu meet?”

A fond smile spread onto Fukuzawa’s face, “We grew up in Ashville together, next door neighbors for most of our adolescence. Though neither of us were out until much later into adulthood, we had a strong friendship that transcended the typical bounds of ‘best friends,’ so to speak. My husband came out first. It’s what gave me the courage to come out as well.”

“That’s so sweet,” Atsushi remarked with a warm smile, “that makes me so happy.”

“Same,” Chūya nodded eagerly. “I can’t believe you were neighbors for so long.”

“It’s funny,” Fukuzawa added, “but I believe there are no accidents in this world. People come into our lives at the right time, no matter how wrong it may feel. They teach us about ourselves, about each other. And if you feel it in your heart, you will do anything in your power to keep them around.”

The waiter came by to take their orders. Chūya, Atsushi, and Fukuzawa all placed their orders, eyes shifting towards Dazai who was—

“Sorry,” he whispered, head down, “I don’t um. I don’t. I don’t know. I—"

The calories on the page were so large and loud and the restaurant was loud and the music was loud and it was hard to breathe and they closed their eyes to count to ten but that didn’t help. They picked at their bandages, scratched at their wrist and nothing was helping and

The waiter spoke kindly, “Would you like me to come back in a few minutes?”

“I um—” they were starting to sweat and shake and they couldn’t breathe and everyone was staring at them and—

“Yeah,” Chūya answered on his behalf, “that would be good. Thanks.”

Chūya shot Dazai a worried glance as the waiter left to put in the other orders.

“Is everything alright?” Fukuzawa asked. Dazai hugged himself tightly, slamming their eyes closed.

He was supposed to eat. In front of people, in front of Chūya. He was supposed to eat knowing full-well how many calories were in everything. They were supposed to eat and though they are really hungry, they know they won’t be able to stomach more than half of their order before the anxiety in their chest becomes too much.

But they should eat. They should eat because they are hungry. They should eat because Fukuzawa is going out of his way to organize this and everyone is watching and everyone is staring and really they should eat and

“I um,” he pointed to the salad with the lowest calories, “this one. Can you order that—I have to use the restroom.”

Without waiting for a reply, he bolted to the restroom.

--

Dazai has bad habits. He knows this, but knowing doesn’t stop them from coming out. Especially when they’re stressed about things like eating. His therapists know about it. It’s something they’re working on. Still, he can’t help but feel the slightest bit guilty as he rewraps his wrist, extra tight to hide the new marks. He carries spare bandages with him and finds them particularly useful in covering up the trickles of blood. There’s not a lot, but enough that anyone who could notice would be concerned. He knows it’s bad. Knows that self-harming is just another poor coping mechanism in place of the disorder. But he can’t stop. Not when he knows he has to eat in front of everyone, knows he’ll be watched and studied like a hawk by Chūya who has the best of intentions. Knows there is no reason for him to do this.

They don’t know how long they’ve been in the bathroom, but they think they’re done crying. His face is splotchy and red though and he’d rather wait for it to cool down then deal with the questions of the others.

Except, there is a knock on the single-stall door.

“Dazai? Are you okay?” Fukuzawa’s deep timbre pierces the thick bathroom door. Dazai blinks, realizing more time must have passed than he had initially assumed. They roll down their sleeves and return their supplies to their pocket.

“Yeah, I’m fine!” He answers, though his voice shakes.

“Can I talk to you?” Fukuzawa tries again.

Dazai wipes his eyes, prepared to act like everything is alright as he opens the door and—

Fukuzawa’s eyes ache with concern. His face is etched in care and all at once, the façade Dazai’s planned fractures. It cracks as his eyes grow wet and the rumination returns to a fragile mind. As he considers how much he’ll eat, who he’s eating in front of, what he’s eating, how many calories are in it, how—

“How about we talk outside?” Fukuzawa offers, gesturing to the side door. Dazai stays quiet, nodding and following Fukuzawa to the small bench outside of the side entrance.

They sit down, taking a moment to breathe. Already, being away from the crowd, his chest feels looser.

“Are you okay?” Fukuzawa asked gravely.

“Yeah. Totally,” Dazai shrugged off the concern, but refused eye contact. Fukuzawa placed a hand on Dazai’s shoulder, though quickly retracting at the flinch it triggers.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Fukuzawa said in reply, “it’s alright if something’s the matter. We can talk through it.”

Dazai scratched at their fresh bandages, having to actively remind himself not to blow their cover. They don’t need their new boss knowing about their bad habit.

“It’s fine,” he shook his head, “just um. Eating in front of people. It’s uh. Hard. For me.”

Fukuzawa doesn’t know Dazai has an eating disorder. Most of the campus doesn’t, actually. They know he collapsed, but rumors were aplenty. It’s logical that Fukuzawa would be confused by Dazai’s concerns. Still, Fukuzawa does his best to remain calm and composed.

“Why is that?” Fukuzawa asked innocently.

“It just uh. It just is,” Dazai repeated, mouth going dry, chest going tight once more. He should tell him. He should tell Fukuzawa. Fukuzawa is a good man, he’s not going to be judgmental or rude about it. Fukuzawa’s not his father. He’ll understand. He should just say it but it’s so fucking hard and everything hurts and they feel so unbelievably stupid for everything and–

“You don’t have to talk about anything that makes you uncomfortable,” Fukuzawa interjected amidst the chaos of their shattering esteem, “but I want you to feel safe at work and around me. Sometimes safety means sharing the things that are upsetting us. Does that make sense?”

Before he could think better of it, Dazai blurted out, “I have problems with food.”

Fukuzawa nodded, staying quiet.

“I um. They’re just bad. The food issues. They get worse sometimes and there were just a lot of people in there.”

“It’s the crowd that bothered you?” Fukuzawa posed, doing his best to understand the situation. Dazai nodded.

“Yeah. That was part of it. I um. I have an—” they paused, took a deep breath, and continued, “It’s more than that. I have um. I have a diagnosis and stuff.”

“For your issues with food?” Fukuzawa asked without judgement. Dazai nodded.

“It’s better though! Now. It’s better now. But not um. I have sort of have a lot of triggers and uh. The restaurant lists the calories on the menu and that’s a trigger and—and I don’t like eating in front of people or going to restaurants or—” they sped up, barely able to breathe as their concerns tumbled out of their mouth. Fukuzawa gently interrupted.

“You’re okay, Dazai. Breathe.”

He tried to. It was hard. Painful.

“Thank you for telling me.”

For a moment, Fukuzawa was Oda. Dazai wasn’t at Bennington, he was sixteen again in the school music room and Oda was holding him while he cried and

They were brought back to the present by the rumblings of Fukuzawa’s deep voice, “I am sorry this is such a stressful experience for you. I didn’t realize it would be so hard.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Dazai excused. They wrapped their arms around their torso, slouching inwards.

“Dazai,” Fukuzawa looked at his pupil, who kept their gaze averted. “You’re allowed to say something, if I ever ask you to do something you’re uncomfortable with. I never want you to feel forced into doing something that upsets you.”

“But I should be able to eat out with you all. And you went out of your way to set this up and—”

“I don’t know much about what you’re experiencing, but I do know there’s a lot that’s out of your control,” Fukuzawa added, “I want you to feel safe around me and your colleagues. This means I’m going to trust you to set boundaries when things feel overwhelming.”

Dazai blinked, curling in on himself further.

“Can you do that?” Fukuzawa asked kindly, “Can you help me help you?”

Dazai nodded, embarrassment and shame and anxiety flooding through their chest.

“Can I go home?”

Dazai knows he should try to stay longer, try to get over his anxieties and just eat the damn salad in front of everyone, but he can’t. It’s too much and their arms ache and he’s already regretting what he's going to tell his therapist in the morning.

“If that will help,” Fukuzawa agreed, “I’ll ask to get your food in a box to-go.”

“Okay.”

Fukuzawa returned to the restaurant where a concerned Atsushi and Chūya whispered to each other in hushed tones.

“I thought they were better,” Atsushi grimaced anxiously.

“They were,” Chūya said aloud, confused, “or I thought they were. He said they were. I guess they could have been lying, but it seemed genuine. They look better—”

“Dazai’s not feeling well,” Fukuzawa announced as he got to the table after flagging down a waiter to box up the food. “Their going to go home and rest.”

“Can I—” Chūya glanced at their boxed up food, “can I bring their stuff out to them?”

Fukuzawa contemplated, before agreeing, “Alright.”

“I’ll be right back,” Chūya grabbed Dazai’s hoodie and newly boxed food, bringing them out the side entrance through which Fukuzawa had entered.

Outside the restaurant, Dazai sat on a bench, knees up to their chest, arms wrapped around his gangly form, making himself seem as small as possible.

“Hey,” Chūya waved awkwardly, “I heard you’re heading out?”

Dazai’s eyes widened, their features contorting with anxiety.

“Yeah,” was all he said.

“I um. I have your things,” Chūya offered. Dazai glanced carefully, unmoving from his spot.

“Thanks,” they spoke quietly. They kept their head down, curling in on himself further as Chūya approached.

“What’s wrong?” Chūya asked gently, “Fukuzawa said you weren’t feeling well, but it’s more than that.”

Dazai shook their head, “I’m fine. It’s not your problem, you don’t have to worry about me. We’re not dating anymore.”

“Yeah,” Chūya shrugged, “but I still do. Worry about you. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

Dazai hesitated as Chūya joined him on the bench.

“I’m fine—”

“Dazai.”

They flinched at the tone, too kind, too caring, too soft.

“I just—” Dazai started, sucking in a harsh breath between his teeth, “eating out. It’s hard.”

“Okay,” Chūya encouraged, gesturing for him to continue.

“It’s too loud and the calories are all written on the menu and I didn’t even want this stupid salad but it felt the safest because it was low-calorie—” he cut off Chūya before he could butt in, “which I know is not how I should be choosing the food I want to eat, but sometimes fighting the voice is too fucking hard and you just have to do what it tells you. I know it’s fucked up. I just want to go home.”

“I’m sorry,” Chūya replied, at a loss, “I didn’t realize it would be this hard for you.” Still was left unsaid.

“It is,” Dazai said with a small huff, “it’s really fucking hard and I feel bad because there’s no way Fukuzawa could have known that and he was just trying to do something nice.” They hesitated, taking a deep breath, “Sorry, you didn’t ask to hear me rant and be upset. I’m going to leave.”

“Wait!” Chūya called out, surprising both of them with his conviction, “What if we all left?”

“What?” Dazai stared blankly, confused.

“Like, if we all left the restaurant and ate back at the box office, or a park? That way it wouldn’t be as noisy and there’d be less people.”

“I don’t—” Dazai chewed his lip, “I don’t want to stop you all from enjoying yourselves here—”

“We’d enjoy ourselves more if we were with you,” Chūya interjected.

“Really?” The shock in their tone tangible.

“Yes, really,” he continued, “will you please let us come with you? The whole point of tonight is to connect and that’s really hard to do when one of us is missing.”

Dazai blushed a pale pink, “And you’re sure this isn’t a hassle?”

“Not at all.”

Dazai exhaled, closing his eyes for a moment before agreeing, “Okay. We can do Chūya’s silly idea.”

Chūya couldn’t help but crack a smile, “I’ll tell the others!”

--

Per Chūya’s suggestion, dinner continued at a nearby park. The four of them sat at a picnic table, the warm rays of golden hour kissing their skin throughout the evening. It wasn’t easy for Dazai to finish his food, but it was significantly less challenging compared to the chaotic environment of the restaurant.

The restaurant fiasco felt more of a blip in their evening than the main attraction, for which Dazai was eternally grateful. They ate and laughed and talked about their school years. Fukuzawa explained the way he was hoping to run the box office and admitted to being far less stringent about things like adjusting the thermostat or wearing hoodies to work. He was laxed in a healthy way, not so much that it was a free-for-all, but never too strict as to infringe on his employees’ ability to enjoy their work day.

Atsushi gushed about how excited he was to be working alongside Dazai, clearly having missed them during the schoolyear. Chūya guessed he wasn’t the only one who had gotten the cold shoulder following the suicide attempt.

The evening was fun, a bit awkward, but an overall enjoyable time.

“So you’re living off-campus, I hear?” Chūya posed Dazai’s way. It was weird—despite being ex’s, things weren’t so uncomfortable between them. At least, following their conversation outside the restaurant. They had met a common ground and now, if anything, it felt all too reminiscent of when they first met.

“Yep. My sister and I are living nearby. Just a ten minute drive from campus.”

“That’s cool. But I thought you hated driving?”

“Oh, I do,” Dazai rolled his eyes, taking another bite of his food, “but I got used to it back at home. I was commuting from Yokohama to Tokyo when I was um. When I was sick,” he opted for, not quite ready to use the terms “inpatient” and “outpatient” in front of his boss. It wasn’t inaccurate by any means, they were sick.

“Damn, that’s one hell of a commute. I’m shocked.”

“Yeah, so was I, heh,” Dazai scratched the back of his head, “but I guarantee it hasn’t made me like driving anymore. I still hate it.”

“Well ten minutes is a lot easier than Yokohama to Tokyo!” Atsushi chimed in.

“Definitely,” Dazai agreed.

“What’s it like?” Chūya asked, “The apartment? Is it really tiny? That’s how everything is in New York.”

“It’s small but like, not cramped. Akiko’s been making it homier for us. Or trying to at least,” they laughed fondly. “If you want, you’re welcome to come by once we finish here.”

“Ah—Fukuzawa and I were going to sort through some packages,” Atsushi replied, “but I’ll stop by soon!! I promise!!”

“No worries,” Dazai said.

“I guess I could come by for a bit,” Chūya answered without giving it much thought. An indecipherable look crossed Dazai’s face for the briefest moment, quickly replaced with a flashy smile.

“That would be great!”

The group finished up dinner and split as Atsushi and Fukuzawa returned to campus and Dazai and Chūya left for Dazai’s apartment.

The drive was short, but Chūya could immediately feel the tension mounting. A culmination of being alone together and Dazai’s hatred of driving amalgamating.

“You could have let me drive,” Chūya nudged in the passenger’s seat.

“What kind of a host would I be if I let my guest drive to my house?”

“That makes no sense.”

“You make no sense.”

Chūya glared playfully, secretly lapping up the joy of their bantering. It had been too long since things felt this normal between them.

The door creaked open, closing quietly behind as they arrived at the apartment.

“‘Samu?” Akiko called out from the kitchen, where she was making dinner.

“Hey,” Dazai answered, “I um, I brought a friend.”

“I’ll be right there!” Akiko washed her hands and made her way to the entrance where her sibling stood with—

“Chūya. It’s good to see you,” the startle in her tone was evident.

Chūya’s smile twitched, “Likewise.”

“We were at the box office dinner I told you about and Chūya was curious about where I was staying so I figured I’d bring him over,” Dazai explained. “Sorry, I should have texted you.”

“No, it’s alright,” Akiko quickly brushed off the concern, “no worries at all. Your friends are welcome at any time!”

An unpredictable lull passed between them.

“I know you two just had dinner,” Akiko broke the silence, “but if you’re hungry, the rice balls are almost done.”

“Cool,” Chūya replied, “thanks.”

“I’ll uh, give you the tour,” Dazai reached towards Chūya’s hand, stopping as their fingers nearly touched. He looked away from the sight. “This way,” he gestured instead. Chūya followed. Akiko eyed them. “This is the kitchen,” they said as they followed Akiko into the small room. Pots and pans decorated the surfaces, a rice maker, blender, and other appliances all managing to fit upon the limited counterspace.

The whiteboard on the fridge stuck out to Chūya and though his Japanese was rusty, he could decipher the Kanji. Dazai noticed him staring, but neither remarked on it.

Chūya also noted the snacks that were left out. It was strange to see the nutritional labels crossed out with black sharpie. Dazai noticed him staring at that as well, but again did not remark.

“This way,” Dazai took them back to the main room, “this is the living room. It’s kind of boring, but like I said, Akiko’s been trying to make it homier for us.”

“The pillows are cute,” Chūya gestured to the suede pillows covered in stars that sat on their dark gray couch. “And the blanket looks cozy. But I can’t imagine you’ll need it this summer.”

“You’d be surprised,” Akiko followed them into the living room, “Dazai and I run pretty cold. Them especially.”

Chūya recalled how often Dazai had worn long-sleeves or sweats over his bandages the previous summer.

“I’ll show you my room next.”

Akiko returned to the kitchen to finish her cooking as the other two walked into the first door on the right of the hallway.

“It’s nothing special, but here it is,” Dazai gestured at the space.

The space was small and plain, sparsely decorated with a few stacks of books, his electric piano, and a couple of photos of him and their siblings.

“The place is nice,” Chūya said. Dazai nodded.

“The fact that we can afford it and that it fits my piano is what matters to me.”

“I am absolutely unsurprised.”

They stood uncomfortably in the doorway of the room before Dazai spoke.

“Thanks for earlier.”

“Hm?”

“For suggesting we eat at the park. That was really helpful.”

“Oh. No problem.”

“Seriously,” Dazai entered the space as he continued speaking, “I was overwhelmed and felt like an ass for making everything about me. It was a big help.”

“You’re not an ass for having needs.”

“I guess. It just felt like it.”

“I’m glad you made an effort though,” Chūya said honestly. “Did you talk to Fukuzawa about it?”

“Yeah, I told him. Sort of.”

“Good. I’m happy for you.”

Dazai flopped onto the bed, “Why does recovery have to be so hard?”

Chūya chuckled, finding his way to Dazai’s spin-ny desk chair. It felt all too familiar to talks at home with his sister. “Beats me,” he replied, “but you’re doing it, which is awesome.”

“Yeah. ‘Awesome’ is one word to describe it.”

“Hey. You’ve got this. I know you’ll be okay.”

Chūya couldn’t explain it. He felt drawn to Dazai, possessed by the need to help him, to support them. Maybe it was his people-pleasing nature or just their past relationship. Whatever it was, Chūya felt ‘right’ when they were together. He felt whole in a way he hadn’t realized he’d been missing all year. He wondered if it was toxic.

“Chūya, you are too good of a human,” Dazai started as he sat up in bed, “but you don’t need to take care of me.” Sometimes, Dazai’s mind-reading abilities were uncanny.

“I’m not—”

“I know. And I never want you to feel obligated to. That was one of the reasons we broke up and it wasn’t fair to you.”

Chūya nodded, “I know you never meant for that kind of thing to happen.”

“Yeah. But it did. And I’m really sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.”

They stayed quiet.

“I’m also sorry we got stuck working together. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I can’t imagine it’ll be easy for you to see your ex every day.”

“You’re my ex too!”

“Yeah, but I still have—” they cut themself off, “it’s different.”