Chapter Text
Every step he takes are precise and calculated, yet still put into account to look natural. As if he’s moved by the melody itself, the notes control him like a puppet, with strings attached to each of his limbs.
He makes his way by gliding from one side to the other with such elegance and grace. Everything has to be perfect — his flow, his finger, and his pointed toes.
Like poisonous frogs, he’s irresistible. Securing his prey, luring them in with his ability to attract attention so effortlessly. He captures his audience in a trance — a jaw-dropped state, unable to tear their eyes away from the sight.
Nakahara Chuuya. Yokohama Art Institute student, danseur, fancy hats and wine enthusiast.
The music’s beat slows down and rises again, a final crescendo before the dance fully stops. Riding on the adrenaline of the high note, he leaps for his final, graceful jump — !
His right leg loses its balance, trying to hold the impact of the jump to no avail. The momentum slams Chuuya’s body to the ground with a somewhat nasty sound. The music dies down.
Even with the rest of the theatre in a dimmed state, the stage lights blind him. Placing a palm on top of his closed eyelids, Chuuya groans.
Nakahara Chuuya. Yokohama Art Institute student, danseur, fancy hats and wine enthusiast with a bad right leg.
The dancer lets out a string of curses as he fixes his ponytail.
Shoving his cheap bluetooth speaker and other necessities into his backpack, he lets out a huff and leaves the theatre in his jacket.
The cold air of December is unforgiving — good thing it hasn’t snowed in the past few days. Chuuya feels a chill coursing through his bones, cursing himself for not bringing an extra pair of shirt. His sweaty one has to suffice for now.
He looks down, eyes focused on his legs as he walks. The path is etched into his brain, and his body is too tired to even process a thought. He lets the muscle memory take him back to the dorms.
How long has it been since he yearns for an ailment that may, dear lord, heal his legs?
Lost in thought, the supposedly short walk back is interrupted as he feels a figure slam into his. Startled and vulnerable, gravity pulls Chuuya to the concrete ground. The sudden pain makes him scowl. He looks up, ready to cause a fit.
The man that he collided with holds out a hand as he bows, blocking Chuuya’s view of the man’s features. His other hand is behind his back, clutching a black box with a recognizable shape.
A violin.
“M’Lady, I offer you my most heartfelt apology! I bear no ill will as it was a mere accident. I am aware that I am in no position to deserve your forgiveness, yet the guilt inside me gnaws me alive!”
“... what the fuck?”
The violinist jerks up, straightening his pose with a disgusted look. Chuuya pays more attention to the man across him, the way his untrimmed ebony hair fails to cover his bandaged right eye.
“Ew,” the man cringes. Chuuya gets irritated.
“You started that nonsensical bullshit first!”
“Right,” the man, almost a third times taller than Chuuya, winces. “Forgive me for assuming your gender.”
Chuuya rolls his eyes. He’s used to it, but it still annoys him each time. He doesn’t blame them though — the point shoes hanging from his duffel bag, the curled ponytail, and the tiny posture of his has brought quite some misunderstanding.
The dark-haired male looks at his wristwatch. It shines under the sunset, and Chuuya assumes that it’s pricey based on the gold outline over the black strap.
“Ah, Mori-san’s going to kill me,” he says before rushing away towards the direction where Chuuya came from. The redhead stares at his retreating figure.
“Are you going to the theatre?” Chuuya calls out. The man stops and turns, the disgust on his face still present.
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because I asked.”
“So did I?”
“You know what? Go to hell,” Chuuya tells him, flipping his middle finger. Chuuya’s never too fond of banters, frankly because he sucks at it. He leans more towards the acting-in-the-moment rather than planning quick, effective responses.
Chuuya turns on his heels to continue his walk back to the dorm. The sound of the other man’s footsteps disappear as they walk towards opposite directions. Chuuya spares a curious glance around his shoulder, but the man is nowhere to be seen.
What a jerk, Chuuya thinks.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
The other man’s name is Osamu Dazai, and everyone knows him as the violin prodigy. Ougai Mori had seen the potential inside him years ago when he took Dazai in as his disciple.
His fingers are constantly bandaged, courtesy of the hours he spends with the instrument of choice — that’s what he tells people. When they ask about the bandages on his eyes and the rest of his body, Dazai will pretend he didn’t hear them.
That’s why he prefers wearing long coats.
Dazai admires the violin, the way such beautiful melodies can be produced from the strings.
Strings. The object is multipurpose. For example, puppets — they can be controlled, given a purpose and life from the puppeteer. The way the puppet moves is up to the one in control. The puppet itself doesn’t have a mind of its own, loyal to its master.
Dazai feels those puppets. After all, the strings around his body pains him. They are invisible, yes; only Dazai can feel them.
Dazai is the puppet. Mori is the master.
Since when did Dazai get so emotional?
“The second verse needs to be louder,” Mori points at the music sheet; monochrome notes, yet colourful with the many highlights added with different coloured pens.
“Forté,” Mori emphasizes. Dazai nods. “Start over from the first verse.”
Dazai admires the violin, the way such beautiful melodies can be produced from the strings. That’s what he tells himself. That’s what he wants to believe.
His fingers, stained with scars, are delicate. Each string he presses has to be precise to please his audience, but most importantly, Mori himself.
“The second verse is still imperfect. Practice overnight — I expect you to master it by tomorrow.”
Dazai nods, “Understood.”
Mori spares a glance at his wristwatch, one that matches with the one on his disciple’s wrist. “That will be all for today. Tomorrow at the same time.”
“Understood.”
The man leaves. Dazai curls his fists, staring at the music sheets with hatred. He brings his hand up, slapping the sheets away from the stand. They lay all around the floor of the stage.
After knowing the truth and not being able to let it sink in, he starts finding other things to blame; the violin, the music sheets, the composer. He needs something to take the guilt, the burden that he carries.
Slamming the violin cover shut, he starts to pick up the scattered papers. His hands tremble, seething with mixed emotions.
Letting out a shaky sigh, Dazai closes the doors and starts his walk back to the dorms.
He hates the truth that he’ll never be good enough. No matter how much he practices, at the end of the day, he’s never going to get the validation he thinks he deserves.
And, to be honest? He's tired of it all.