Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hello and welcome to It's Not That Complicated; I'll Never Meet Another You. If you're coming from another story, then welcome back! If you're new here, welcome!

Hate comments are not appreciated, but do whatever you please, I guess.

Characters:

Chuuya Nakahara

Character status: Main Character
Current Relationship: None
Love Interest: Osamu Dazai

Age: Seventeen
Gender: Male
Pronouns: He/Him
Sexuality: Gay

Parents: Unknown
Parents' Relationship: Married
Mother Relationship: Distant
Father Relationship: Distant

Hair Colour: Red
Eye Colour: Grey
Height: 160 cm (5'3)

Osamu Dazai

Character status: Main Character
Current Relationship: None
Love Interest: Chuuya Nakahara

Age: Seventeen
Gender: Male
Pronouns: He/him
Sexuality: Gay

Parents: Deceased
Parents' Relationship: N/A
Mother Relationship: N/A
Father Relationship: N/A

Hair Colour: Brown
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 181cm (5'11)

Doppo Kunikida

Character status: Side Character
Current Relationship: Single
Love Interest: None

Age: Seventeen
Gender: Male
Pronouns: He/him
Sexuality: Heterosexual

Parents: Unknown
Parents' Relationship: Divorced
Mother Relationship: N/A
Father Relationship: N/A

Hair Colour: Blond
Eye Colour: Green-Grey
Height: 189cm (6'2)

Atsushi Nakajima

Character status: Side Character
Current Relationship: Single
Love Interest: Ryunosuke Akutagawa

Age: Sixteen
Gender: Male
Pronouns: He/Him
Sexuality: Gay

Parents: Unkown
Parents' Relationship: Married
Mother Relationship: Terrible
Father Relationship: Terrible

Hair Colour: Grey
Eye Colour: Purple/Yellow
Height: 170cm (5'7)

Ryunosuke Akutagawa

Character status: Side Character
Current Relationship: None
Love Interest: Atsushi Nakajima

Age: Sixteen
Gender: Male
Pronouns: He/Him
Sexuality: Gay

Parents: Unknown
Parents' Relationship: Married
Mother Relationship: Distant
Father Relationship: Distant

Hair Colour: Black
Eye Colour: Grey
Height: 172cm (5'8)

What to expect:

Swearing
Angst
Love
Kissing
Fluff
Sexual Tension
Death

Might contain, but is not definite:

Abuse
Depression
Self-Harm
Self-Hatred
Sexual Harassment

Will not contain:

An update schedule
NSFW
Lime
Lemon
Smut
Any discussion or mention of rape

For those of you who don't know, NSFW is not safe for work, smut is pornographic material, including pictures and writing, lemon is a story/book with non-explicit sexual content, and lime is when characters engage in limited sexual activity, without it being portrayed explicitly.

This story can get intense at times but there will always be a warning for chapters I find intense. Read at your own risk, love y'all <3

Chapter Text

Osamu Dazai could feel his stare. He didn’t even need to turn around to see who was staring at him. He already knew. It was the same person who was staring at him yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. He couldn’t deny the fact that he loved the attention. Even if his admirer’s intentions were not to be noticed.

Chuuya Nakahara was staring again. He couldn’t help it, Osamu Dazai was gorgeous. He couldn’t not stare. Why would he not want to bless his eyes with the sight of Dazai? Of course, Dazai didn’t know about Chuuya’s little infatuation. Well that’s what Chuuya thought anyway.

“Alright class, if you could bring out the homework I had assigned over break, we can get started.”

The teacher’s voice had brought Chuuya out of his trance and directed his attention to the board. He had always disliked class. It distracted him from Dazai, and what was more important than Dazai anyway? That’s a stupid question. Nothing’s more important to Chuuya than Dazai.

Nonetheless, he pulled out the lab report the teacher had assigned over break and handed it in. He hurried back to his desk, right behind Dazai, and set his notebook on the table. If there was one thing Chuuya loved about this class, it was that he sat right behind Dazai. He could just lean forward and smell Dazai’s shampoo. Not that he would of course. Not in public.

As soon as the teacher started talking, he tuned her out. This class was such a bore anyway. He already knew about the law of motion and all that crap. He didn’t care about physics when he could just learn all this online at home.

Instead, he wrote in his notebook about Dazai. Chuuya loved writing poems about his obsession. This one just so happened to be about Dazai. He titled it Obsession.

A boy in my class, a presence so strong,
His smile, his laugh, his voice like a song;
I can’t help but watch, I can’t look away
He’s the sweetest drug, I’d do anything he’d say.

I follow him around, I stalk him online;
I know every detail, he won’t leave my mind.
I can’t let him go, he’s just everything,
I’m addicted, obsessed, my love never ending.

I see him in my dreams, I hear him in my sleep
I think of him all the time, it’s just so deep.
My heart pounds, my nerves a wreck
Yet I don’t care, I’ll write any check

To hold him in my arms, to feel his touch;
To be with him always, to love him so much.
I don’t care if it’s wrong, I don’t care what they say
He’s my obsession, I’m addicted in every way.

“Ooo little Chuuya has a crush!” A girl who sat next to him snatched the notebook from his hands and started waving it in the air. Chuuya felt his face go red as he shot up to take it back.

She started laughing and started to read it aloud. “A boy in my class. Ah so short stack is gay too? What a- hey! Give it back Dazai-san!”

The book was yanked from her grasp and handed back to Chuuya. Dazai crossed his arms and stared down at the girl, clearly unamused. “Leave it be.” Dazai sent a glare to the girl and turned to Chuuya, offering a small smirk. He winked in the redhead’s direction and sat back down, like nothing happened.

Chuuya on the other hand, somehow became even redder, and sat down. He shoved his notebook in his bag and covered his face with his hood. The rest of class he spent thinking about that wink. That smirk. God Dazai was just perfect.

God that smirk was everything. If Chuuya could have a picture of Dazai giving him that little smirk… oh the things he could do. All class he was imagining different scenarios where Dazai would flash him that smirk. It’s safe to say he probably wouldn’t do well on the test.

Dazai on the other hand was grinning to himself. He knew full well of Chuuya’s little crush. He was just waiting for Chuuya to confront him. He knew the redhead wouldn’t for a while, but he also knew that in time, Chuuya would be his. All his.

Gods, the brunet couldn’t wait to get home. His room looked more like a security desk than a bedroom, but he didn’t care. It was worth it if it meant he could see his Chuuya in his room. Sure, it was a little… weird to have cameras in a classmate’s room, especially a classmate he’s never talked to, but it was for Chuuya’s own good.

The bell finally rung, and class was over. Dazai stood up and grabbed his bags. He noticed that Chuuya was still “asleep” and hadn’t gotten up. He gently nudged the other’s shoulder and leaned down so that when Chuuya lifted his head, they’d be eye to eye.

“Chuuya-kun the bell rung.” Dazai’s voice started Chuuya out of his… daydreaming, and he shot up. Making eye contact, much less actually talking to Dazai was not on Chuuya’s to do list. He could feel his face growing hot from even talking to Dazai.

He just nodded and scrambled to get his things together. “Yeah, uh thanks Dazai-san. Sorry for uh, making you- agh I don’t know I’m just sorry.” Chuuya just started rambling, clearly flustered by the thought of talking to the subject of his obsession.

Dazai just chuckled and shook his head, straightening to his full height. He stared down at Chuuya with his signature smirk and ruffled Chuuya’s hair. “I would love to read your poem one day Chuuya-kun.” He turned away and left the classroom, leaving Chuuya standing there red in the face.

Chuuya pinched his arm, ensuring what just happened was real. He grabbed his bag and ran out of the classroom. He was so glad school was over for the day. This was probably the best day of his life, Dazai talked to him. Dazai talked to him! How much better could his day get?

“Hey! Gay boy!”

Oh fuck.

Chuuya kept on walking, hoping the person calling him was talking to someone else. He quickened his pace, pulling his hood over his head. Unfortunately for him, they were in fact talking to him.

“Short stuff! Redhead! F-g!”

He stopped in his tracks and slowly turned around when he was called that name. He saw that it was the same girl who took his notebook in class. He never bothered to learn her name, why would he need to know it? All he needed to know was Dazai. “What did you call me..?”

The girl laughed and walked up to him. She shoved him and stared in disgust. “Where’s your little protector now hm? You know Dazai-san would never love you right? I know that was about him you f-ggot.”

Chuuya shoved her back, fighting every urge not to beat the shit out of her. He just wanted to leave her a bloody mess. If he did, he’d be expelled and never see his Dazai again. “Don’t fucking call me that you waste of oxygen.”

He started to walk away, but the girl just shoved him from behind. He fell flat on his face and heard a sickening crunch when his face hit the tile. It took every fibre in his body not to stand up and beat her to a pulp. In the end he’d be the only one getting the punishment with the whole boys shouldn’t hit girls.

“Chuuya-kun? What’s going on?” Chuuya stood up quickly when he heard Dazai’s voice, not wanting to seem weak in front of him. Unfortunately, he forgot all about his nose when Dazai spoke.

When Dazai saw Chuuya’s face, he went silent. Everyone had gone to the busses already, and it was so quiet in the hall that Chuuya could hear his blood dripping onto the ground. He brought a hand up to his nose and when he looked at it, well it’s a good thing blood didn’t make him queasy. He wiped his hand on his sweater, leaving a stain that resembled a handprint.

Yeah he was fucked.

“It’s nothing Dazai-san. Chuuya-san had just fallen, and I was going to help him up. Right Chuuya?” The nameless girl walked closer to Chuuya and interlocked their arms.

Dazai didn’t miss how Chuuya’s eyes widened slightly when she said that. He also didn’t miss how he tried to step away from the girl when she walked over. He never missed a lot of things. You could say it was his specialty.

“Yeah- yeah she was helping me..” Chuuya’s voice was quiet, like he didn’t want to upset the girl. Now that, that puzzled Dazai. In all his time admiring Chuuya from afar, watching him through cameras, stalking his social media accounts… Chuuya had never been one to back down or let himself be walked all over. This girl… she really pissed Dazai off.

He shook his head and crossed his arms, glaring at the girl. “Now I don’t believe that one bit… what was your name again? You’re just so insignificant that I never bothered to remember!” He laughed dryly, not a single hint of humour behind that laugh. He walked over to Chuuya and gently pulled him away from the girl and closer to him.

“It was Remy..”

“Like the fucking rat from that Disney movie?” Dazai chuckled and gently wiped some of the blood off of Chuuya’s chin. “Makes sense you know. Since you look like a rat? Anway if you bother him again I’ll ruin you. K thanks!” He nudged Chuuya towards the door and nodded.

“Go home Chuuya-kun.” Chuuya simply nodded and hastily walked away. Being so close to Dazai was enough to fry his brain. He knew what he was doing once he got home.

After Chuuya left, Dazai turned to Remy. “Listen to me and listen to me well Remy. If you even touch a single hair on his head I will end your life. I heard what you called him, and quite frankly, I didn’t like it.”

His demeanour entirely changed the second Chuuya left. It was like he was an entirely different person. “Or… would you like me to tell everyone just how you got into this prestigious school. Or I could mention your father. Dear ol’ dad. What a great guy right?”

Dazai bent down to the girl’s eye level and stared at her. His expression was neutral, but that look in his eyes. If looks could kill Remy would be more than six feet under…

She simply nodded in fear of what Dazai would do to her. “Now run along Remy, I’m sure your mother has been waiting for you. Or hiding from Dad. You know, since you’re not there to make him stop?”

Remy ran towards the door, making haste in getting away from Dazai. She was terrified, of course, but also confused. Why would Dazai, most popular guy in school, defend a freak like Chuuya? It just doesn’t make sense.

Chapter Text

Dazai casually walked outside, spotting Chuuya by his motorbike. “You’re surely not riding that home with a broken nose, right short stuff?” He called out to Chuuya, worried that he was actually going to ride home like that.

“Uh yeah, I’ll be fine Dazai-san.”  He wiped at his nose, the blood drying on his face. This was the most Dazai had ever talked to him, it was kind of weird. Chuuya had to admit that.

“Oh, okay get home safe.” Dazai quickly turned on his heel and walked towards his car. He got in and once he closed the door, he sunk down in his seat. God, he really hoped Chuuya would get home safely. He wanted to beat that girl Remy to a pulp.

The fact that she even thought about touching what’s his. Then she had the audacity to hurt his Chuuya? Doesn’t matter what he told her earlier. He’s going to run her to the ground. It’s quite easy to get information about people if you know where to look anyway, and Dazai excelled in this area.

He took out his phone quickly and snapped a picture of Chuuya on his bike before the redhead sped off. Another one to add to the collection. He pulled out of the school lot and drove home, driving by Chuuya on his way. He winked at Chuuya as he passed, knowing Chuuya could barely see through that helmet. Still, it amused Dazai to imagine Chuuya’s blushing face.

Chuuya on the other hand, took the scenic route home. He watched Dazai’s car pass him on his bike and honestly, all he wanted was to follow him home. Now that would be a pleasant surprise for Dazai, but Chuuya thought it’d be a little… out of the ordinary to follow his crush home.

He just rode home and when he finally pulled up to his house, he just wanted to get the dried blood off of his face. It was all crunchy and dry and it just made him feel icky. He set his helmet on the table once he got inside and made a beeline for the bathroom.

It was a lot worse than he expected, yet he cleaned it up. He walked in his room and was greeted by the walls he filled with pictures of Dazai. You know, normal teens cover their walls with posters from anime or bands. Chuuya? No, he prefers his Dazai.

At least he starts his day off well by looking at Dazai the second he woke up.

Now, speaking of Dazai, he arrived home before Chuuya did, and that allowed him to open up  the camera footage. He didn’t care that having cameras in his obsession’s house was creepy. He knew he had a problem. He just didn’t give a shit.

He sat at his desk and tuned into the footage. He watched Chuuya pull into the driveway. He watched Chuuya wash the blood off of his face. Gods, even seeing Chuuya’s blood just made him want to kill that girl. He focused back on the computer, Chuuya’s face calming him down immediately.

He thought it was so cute that Chuuya had pictures of him all over his room. It was adorable. He appreciated the fascination, but if Chuuya really wanted to be on par with Dazai’s level of obsession… He’d need a lot more than just pictures and internet stalking.

Chuuya set his notebook on his desk, open to a page full of writing. He walked over to his bed and took out a book, leaving his notebook on his desk. Now, Dazai wasn’t one to pry, but he wondered if it was that poem Remy tried to read aloud today. He zoomed in on the page and read the poem. It was about him.

How sweet.

 Dazai found it amusing that Chuuya still hasn’t found any of his cameras yet. He just watched Chuuya pull up his social media pages. Well at least he was good enough to find Dazai’s other accounts. Not his main one that the universities will look at. He decided to tease Chuuya and pulled out his phone.

Now Chuuya didn’t have Dazai’s number, but Dazai had Chuuya’s. Might as well have a little fun.

Chuuya-kun

You look beautiful.

I think you have the wrong number

Chuuya.

Sorry, who are you?

You don’t need to know that love

You can see me?

You look beautiful laying on your bed
like that.
What are you reading?

Fuck off. Leave me alone creep.

Not until you’re mine darling.
[READ 16:28]

Chuuya set his phone down and sat up. He walked towards his window, looking out through it, like he’d be able to see the person texting him. How the hell could they see him? Does that mean they saw all the pictures of Dazai?

He closed the window shades and checked his phone again. There’s no way. Someone was playing a trick on him. Ryunosuke must be playing a trick on him. He got a new number and wanted to prank Chuuya. That’s all. He decided to set his phone down and go on his laptop.

Chuuya noticed that Dazai had posted every Friday around five. He made sure to log into his fake account and went to Dazai’s. He constantly refreshed the account, waiting for the post.

Dazai noticed that Chuuya checked his account every Friday around five. He found out quickly that Chuuya made a fake account to not seem like he was stalking him. How sweet.

He got up and took a quick mirror pic, the flash obscuring his face. He was still in his school clothes, but it was just a quick post. Chuuya wouldn’t mind. He hit post and watched the first like come in.

[Gracie.Flynn liked your post]

[Gracie.Flynn saved your post]

Dazai shut his phone off once he saw Chuuya’s fake account like his post. He found it adorable that Chuuya thought Dazai didn’t know about it. Of course, Dazai knew everything about Chuuya. He watched Chuuya 24/7. He’d be crazy not to.

Chuuya used a tissue today in class. Dazai waited until everyone, including the teacher, had left and picked it up. He brought a small Ziplock bag to school every day in case this happened. He shoved the tissue into the bag and the bag into his pocket.

Another for the collection.

He took the tissue out of his pocket and out of the bag, setting it with the others. God, he was obsessed. Seeing Chuuya covered in blood today unlocked something in him. As much as he was livid due to someone hurting what was his, the blood on Chuuya’s face complimented his looks.

He admired the collection of items he had from Chuuya. A few used tissues, a wad of gum Chuuya stuck under the desk, a few strands of hair, a pencil Chuuya was chewing on. He couldn’t get enough of him.

He sat back down at his desk, staring at the camera feed on his laptop. Chuuya had printed out the picture Dazai just posted and was taping it to his wall. How adorable.

Chuuya added the picture to his wall of Dazai. Somehow it made his room even better. Every picture he added enhanced his room. He admired the wall, staring at Dazai’s figure. The mirror was dirty, and the flash covered Dazai’s face, but his figure was shown nicely.

One wall was almost full, he’d have to start putting pictures on his other walls. That’s fine. He couldn’t ever have enough pictures of Dazai. His mind kept replaying the moment when Dazai protected him. Sure, he didn’t need Dazai’s protection, but it felt nice.

He protected him not once, but twice. Twice! What made Dazai want to talk to him? He had never really interacted with Dazai much other than the constant stalking. For some reason, he wanted to thank Remy. Without her bullying, Dazai wouldn’t have interacted with him.

The poem. Dazai wanted to read his poem. He’d have to write another one. One not as…. Stalker-ey for Dazai. Whatever, he’d work on that later.

Unknown Number

I love your wall Chuuya-kun.

Where the fuck are you?
You’re a fucking creep, you
know that?

Only for you darling.

Don’t call me that.

Awuh why not? Is short stuff better?

No. Stop contacting me.

Not until you’re mine ml

I’m not your love creep.
What’s your name?

I can’t tell you that darling.

Why?
Who are you?

Who knows.
I’ll see you around.

No you won’t. I promise that.

I will.

Chuuya decided to block the number, sick of this creep. He didn’t know how the creep could see his room, or him, but he needed to find out who this was.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Dazai smiled when he realised that Chuuya had blocked his number. At least he knew he didn’t have to worry about that. Not that he’d have to in the first place. Chuuya was already obsessed with him.

He didn’t use his real phone of course; he knew that Chuuya would block him. It’s okay though, he’d just use his actual phone next time. This was just a test.

He had read somewhere that boys never received flowers. That was something that wouldn’t happen to his Chuuya. Chuuya loved flowers. Especially roses. Maybe he’d send some today. Not yet though. He had teased Chuuya enough last night. He didn’t need to start again so early in the morning.

Dazai planned to visit Chuuya at work today. He worked at a coffee shop down the street from his house. Dazai knew that Chuuya just worked there to be so close to his house and found that endearing.

He woke up late that day, Chuuya’s shift already starting. He had memorised Chuuya’s work schedule by the third week of Chuuya being employed. He needed to know what Chuuya was doing at all times. What if he was in danger? How would he know unless he knew Chuuya’s schedule like the back of his hand?

He got out of bed and got dressed, putting together an outfit he knew would make Chuuya stare. He wanted Chuuya’s attention all the time. He thrived on the other’s attention.

Chuuya on the other hand had gotten ready hours ago. His job wasn’t particularly interesting, but he needed to pay his rent one way or another. He usually worked after school and weekends, but he took a day off yesterday due to what happened with Remy.

The café was relatively nice, an average coffee shop.  Chuuya faced the back counter, making a drink for a customer. The little bell above the door jingled when someone walked in, but he just continued to make the drink.

“Give me one second, and I’ll be right with you!” He put on his customer service voice, capping the drink and walking to the pickup area. “Apple Cinnamon Frappe for Finn?”

A boy standing in the corner of the café walked over to Chuuya and picked up the drink, flashing him a smile. “Thanks, have a great day.” He left the café, leaving Chuuya one more customer to serve before his first break.

Walking over to the register, Chuuya finally got a look at who was waiting for him. “Sorry for the wait-” it was Dazai. “Oh! Dazai-san! Nice to uh- nice to see you! How can I help you?”

He stumbled over his words, pulling his cap lower on his head. He stared at the tablet on the counter, pretending to busy himself with something.

Dazai just laughed and stared at Chuuya with a teasing grin. “Nice to see you too short stuff. I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Ah, yeah I guess I do. What can- what can I get you?” He cleared his throat and fixed his hat, looking up at Dazai.

"A medium almond milk latte, please," Dazai replied, smiling down at Chuuya. He handed Chuuya the money for his drink and sat down at one of the nearby tables, giving Chuuya a chance to prepare his drink.

Chuuya stared at the money in his hand and called Dazai back over. “Dazai-san! Please, it’s on me.” He shoved the money back into Dazai’s hands, rushing back to the counter and working on the latte.

Dazai stared at the back of Chuuya’s head and then back down at the money. How sweet. Not gonna happen. He sighed and dropped the money on the counter, walking back over to his table. It was cute how Chuuya thought he would pay. As long as Dazai had his eyes on Chuuya, which would be until he died, Dazai would never let Chuuya use his own money for anything.

As Chuuya worked on the latte, he felt his nerves start to get the best of him. His hands began to tremble slightly, and he worried it would affect his ability to pour the latte. He took a deep breath and tries to focus on the task at hand.

After what felt like an eternity, Chuuya finished the latte and called Dazai over. "Dazai-san, your latte is ready!”

 "Thank you so much." Dazai smiled, reaching out to take his drink. "Gotta say, this is pretty good short stuff.”

 Chuuya’s face flushed, and he felt a warmth spread through his entire body. He managed to stammer out a quick "No problem," before turning away and scurrying back to the counter.

As he continued to work, Chuuya can't help but replay the moment in his mind. Dazai complimented his work. He tried to focus on the drink he was currently making and finished up quickly. “Hot chocolate for Lindsay?”

A young girl in the front of the café jumped up and down, tugging on what seemed to be her older sister’s shirt. Chuuya smiled absentmindedly at the little girl, setting the drink on the counter.

He watched her run over to the counter, standing on her tiptoes to see over it. “It’s me! I’m Lindsay! Can I has my hot chocolate?” The little girl made grabby hands at the cup, and Chuuya chuckled, handing it to her.

“Be careful, it’s hot. Have a great day kiddo.” He flashed his best smile at the kid, nodding to her sister before heading back to the register. He loved kids.

He took the next person’s order and got to work, the interaction with Dazai heading to the back of his mind. “Iced Americano for Caleb?” A man came and took it, nodding politely before heading over to a table.

He seemed to be the last person for now, and Chuuya used this time to just tidy up. He noticed that Dazai was still sitting at the table from before, with an empty cup. Chuuya walked over and picked up the cup, glancing at Dazai. “You’re still here?”

Dazai nodded and set his phone down, looking up at Chuuya. “Why not? It’s Saturday and I have nothing better to do. Besides, I like watching you work shortie.”

Chuuya glanced away, laughing slightly. “I doubt it. All I do is make coffee.”

“That’s not all you do. I saw how you were with that girl. You seem like a very sweet person. If you were to speak more at school that is.” He smiled softly, quite the contrast compared to his usual cocky demeanour. He really loved watching Chuuya interact with the little girl. Chuuya would be a great father.

Dazai smiled at that thought. Chuuya. A father. Dazai wasn’t a big fan of kids, but if Chuuya loved kids, he would love to have a kid with Chuuya. “You’re great with kids, you know?”

“Oh uh… thanks. They can be sweet. Anyway, I gotta get back to work. If you want another drink, just let me know.”

“Sure, I’ll take another latte. Thanks shortie.”

Chuuya walked back to the counter, making another latte for Dazai. He noticed that Dazai had left his money on the counter and decided to bring it over to him when the coffee was done.

When he finished, he walked over with the drink in one hand, and the money in the other. “You left your money on the counter by the way. Didn’t want you to leave without it.” He set the mug in front of Dazai, dropping the money next to it.

“Chuuya-kun, while I appreciate the gesture, please let me pay.” Dazai shoved the money back in Chuuya’s hands, smiling warmly. He found it sweet that Chuuya thought he could pay for his drink.

He was relentless though, insisting that it was on the house. “Please, let me pay. Consider it me thanking you for helping me with that cunt yesterday. Pardon my French.” He laughed and set the money on the table, walking back to the counter.

There was no one left in the café besides Dazai. It was a pretty rainy day, no one wanted to be walking around outside anyway.  He heard Dazai chuckle at the mention of Remy, and he quickly busied himself with cleaning so he wouldn’t stare at Dazai.

Chuuya heard the little ding of someone walking in and put on his best customer service smile. “Good afternoon, what can I get you started with?”

The person who had just walked into the store laughed cruelly and crossed their arms. “You’re fucking kidding me. Of course a f-g like you would work at a coffee shop. What, are you too broke that you need to get a job?”

Chuuya knew that voice and sighed. He was at work. He could not lose his cool. He couldn’t afford to be fired. “Good afternoon Remy. What can I get you started with?”

He simply repeated his question with a forced smile, wiping the counter.

“Your nose looks fucked up. Doesn’t help with the fact that you’re ugly as shit. If anything, I did you a favour. Maybe it’ll straighten out your crooked ass nose.” She laughed, a high whiny laugh that made Chuuya’s ears hurt, and stared at the menu.

She sighed and took out a card, throwing it at Chuuya’s face. “Just make me a vanilla latte. You can’t fuck that up, can you f-ag?”

Chuuya just put in the drink and swiped her card. Once it went through, he handed it back to her, glaring at her. “You can stand over there. It’ll be done shortly.”

He took a deep breath and watched her cover her hand with her jacket sleeve. She cautiously took the card back, wiping it with her shirt. “Sorry, I don’t wanna catch your f-gginess. Thanks!” She walked away to a table, scrolling on her phone.

Dazai was watching this whole interaction. It took every fibre in his body not to storm over and rock her shit. He’d just wait for her to leave. Then she’d be fucking dead. He shifted his attention back to Chuuya, watching him make her drink.

Once he made Chuuya his, Chuuya would never have to work in this café again, let alone see that stupid rat of a girl. He just sat in his booth, admiring his Chuuya.

“Vanilla latte for Remy?” Chuuya’s voice broke through the silence in the café, and the annoying girl made her way over to the counter. She took the drink and took a sip, making a disgusted face. She spit out whatever drink was left in her mouth all over Chuuya and groaned.

“Ugh! You stupid f-gs can’t do anything right! I wanted this iced! Not hot idiot! Make it again!” She whined like some entitled brat, and Chuuya just stood there and took it. It wasn’t like he really had a choice. He’d be fired if he did anything.

Remy shoved her cup back at him, spilling the hot drink all over his uniform. It burned, but Chuuya would rather be in excruciating pain than give her the reaction she was looking for. “I’m so sorry about that Remy. I’ll have your iced vanilla latte done soon.”

Dazai stood up immediately when he saw her spill her drink on him. He literally saw it steaming and watched the hot coffee sear his dear Chuuya’s beautiful skin. “Remy I think it’s time for you to leave. You’ve overstayed your welcome.” He stood behind her, towering over the angry girl.

When she heard Dazai’s voice, she felt a shiver down her spine. How did she not notice that he was here? She turned around slowly and saw him standing over her. “Dazai-san… I didn’t um.. I didn’t realise you were here…”

“Dazai-san, it’s fine. I’ll make her another drink and that’s that.” Chuuya sighed and began wiping up all the hot liquid. His skin burned, and he was sure it would scar later on.

The taller shook his head, gripping Remy’s arm tight. “I don’t think so. Remy and I are going to have a little… talk outside.” He tightened his grip enough for it to be uncomfortable and gave her a clearly fake smile with no real emotion behind it. “Right Remy?”

All the girl could do was nod in fear and follow Dazai as he dragged her out of the café.  

Chapter Text

Chuuya stood in silence for a long moment after the door slammed shut behind Dazai and Remy. The quiet that settled over the café felt eerie, like the calm before a storm, though he knew the storm had already come and gone. His shirt still clung to his chest, sticky and soaked with cooling coffee. The burn across his collarbone throbbed in angry pulses beneath the damp fabric, but he pressed his lips into a tight line and grabbed a nearby rag anyway.

He needed to clean up. He needed something to do with his hands.

Behind him, the espresso machine hissed like it was trying to fill the silence with its own protest. He could barely hear it over the ringing in his ears.

Chuuya hadn’t even noticed when the last customer slipped out. The place was empty now, but his heart was still hammering like he was in the middle of a crowd, all eyes on him, waiting to laugh. The humiliation still clung to him worse than the coffee.

He didn't cry. He wouldn’t.

The door opened again, and Chuuya flinched, turning too fast. But it was just Dazai.

Just Dazai.

He wasn’t smiling like usual. He didn’t look amused or smug. He looked like a storm cloud in a trench coat—dark, quiet, and dangerously focused.

Chuuya stared at him, eyes darting over his face, searching for some hint of what had just happened outside. Dazai’s sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms. There were faint red smudges across his knuckles.

“Don’t worry,” Dazai said, voice steady but low, “she won’t bother you again.”

Chuuya blinked. “You didn’t… hurt her, did you?”

“I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you mean.” He smiled, but it was thin and cold. “She got the message.”

Chuuya didn’t respond. He turned away, back to the counter, picking up the rag again.

“Hey.” Dazai stepped forward, reaching out to stop him, fingers brushing gently over the burn on Chuuya’s chest. The red mark was beginning to blister, angry and raw.

“You need to take care of that.”

Chuuya flinched, not from the touch, but from the sudden sharp wave of shame that hit him. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

“I said it’s fine, Dazai.”

Silence fell between them again. Dazai didn’t pull away this time. His hand remained steady, warm even through the soaked fabric. His eyes softened.

“She doesn’t deserve to be near you,” he said. “No one like her does.”

Chuuya finally looked up, tired. “Why do you care so much?”

Dazai’s expression flickered—something unguarded, something almost tender, passing behind his eyes. Then the grin returned, slower this time, more careful.

“Because you’re mine.”

Chuuya froze. Dazai’s hand moved to his wrist, thumb brushing over the skin there, casual but possessive.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Dazai murmured. “I watch over what’s mine.”

Chuuya yanked his hand back, heart hammering. “You don’t own me.”

Dazai just tilted his head, still smiling. “That’s not what I said.”

Chuuya turned back to the counter, scrubbing hard at a spot that wasn’t there. “You need to leave.”

“I’m not leaving until I know you’re okay.”

“I said, I’m fine.”

Dazai sighed and backed off. “Alright, alright. But I’m driving you home after your shift. No arguments.”

“I can walk.”

“Not with second-degree burns on your chest, you can’t.” He was already pulling out his phone. “I’ll wait.”

Chuuya clenched his jaw and didn’t answer.

The rest of his shift passed in a blur. Dazai sat in the corner, quietly watching, never far, and it grated on Chuuya’s nerves. It should’ve been creepy. It was creepy. But it also made him feel… safe, in a way that unsettled him more than the harassment had.

He kept remembering the way Dazai’s voice dropped when he told Remy to leave. The way his whole body tensed when she spilled that drink. Like he’d been holding back something dangerous, just for Chuuya.

He shouldn't have liked that.

When the clock finally hit closing time, Chuuya gathered his bag and changed in the back, silently praying his uniform shirt wouldn’t be permanently ruined. He emerged to find Dazai standing by the door, waiting like he owned the place.

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let’s go.”

They walked in silence for a while, the rain long since stopped but the streets still slick with its memory. Chuuya didn’t say anything, and Dazai didn’t push. The city lights cast soft reflections in the puddles they stepped over. Dazai glanced over more than once, but Chuuya kept his eyes on the ground.

“You know,” Dazai finally said, “I meant it. What I said earlier. You’re good with kids. You’re… warm.”

Chuuya scoffed. “Warm. That’s rich.”

“I mean it. You’ve got a heart, Chuuya. A good one. Not many people do.”

“Don’t pretend you know me.”

“But I do. I’ve been watching you for months.” His tone was casual, almost teasing, but the words themselves landed too heavy.

Chuuya stopped walking. “You think that’s normal?”

Dazai didn’t stop. He kept walking, hands in his pockets. “No. But nothing about us is, is it?”

Chuuya didn’t respond. He just stood there, watching Dazai’s back as he kept walking down the street like he knew Chuuya would follow.

And the worst part?

He did

Chapter Text

Dazai returned to the café the next morning.

He didn’t bother with excuses. Chuuya had already let him stay the entire day yesterday, and he hadn’t been asked to leave. That counted as permission in his mind. He liked this café. Liked the cracked white tile by the register, the faintly citrusy smell of cleaner, and the soft hum of the espresso machine. But most of all, he liked the way Chuuya lit up every time the bell above the door rang—before that flicker of hope disappeared the second he saw Dazai’s face.

It was adorable. Like a little puppy that didn’t know whether to bark or wag its tail.

“Back again?” Chuuya said, half a smile twitching at his lips as he reset the cups near the bar. He didn’t meet Dazai’s eyes. Dazai didn’t need him to.

“Miss me already, short stuff?”

Chuuya huffed, busying himself with the milk frother. “You’re the one who keeps showing up. I work here. I can’t exactly leave.”

“That sounds a lot like a confession,” Dazai mused, leaning over the counter slightly. His voice dropped, warm and teasing. “Should I start coming every day? Would that make your shifts more bearable?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Chuuya turned away quickly, but Dazai caught the telltale flush creeping up his neck. God, he was cute when he was embarrassed. “What do you want today?”

“A smile,” Dazai said without hesitation.

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Do you want coffee or not?”

“Fine, fine.” Dazai leaned back, lazily stretching. “Your lattes are growing on me. Just like you.”

Chuuya looked like he was about to say something smart in return, but bit his tongue. He wrote the order down, then glanced at Dazai over his shoulder. “You know you could just go to that café by the school. It’s closer.”

“Ah, but they don’t have you,” Dazai replied with a smirk, tapping his fingers against the counter. “And I’m very particular about my baristas.”

Chuuya didn’t reply. He turned back toward the espresso machine, but Dazai noticed how his ears were glowing red. That little victory was enough for now.

He watched Chuuya work in silence, as he often did—memorising the way he moved, how he tied his apron, the way his hair curled around the back of his ears when it got too long. Chuuya’s world was beautiful in its mundanity. It was so different from Dazai’s chaos that it almost didn’t seem real.

But Dazai had made it his.

He sipped at his drink when Chuuya placed it down in front of him. No words exchanged. Just a small nod. An understanding. Their little dance, the steps rehearsed.

It was almost funny, how Chuuya thought he was the one watching Dazai from afar. Dazai had seen the glances. The way Chuuya lingered by the hallway windows during lunch, watching him laugh with Odasaku. How he always seemed to appear near Dazai’s locker, pretending to look for something in his bag. The way he flushed and looked away every time their eyes met.

He knew the signs. He had done all of them too.

But unlike Chuuya, Dazai didn’t try to hide it. He just played along.

Sometimes, he’d walk down a different route home on purpose—just to catch Chuuya following him from half a block away, pretending to be on a phone call. Other times, he’d post a story with his location tagged, wait exactly six minutes, and then walk outside just in time to see Chuuya loitering nearby, pretending he had been headed that way the whole time.

It was adorable. Pathetic. Addictive.

But what Chuuya didn’t know—what he’d never suspect—was that Dazai had already done all of that months ago.

He’d memorised Chuuya’s class schedule before the end of the second week of school. Had traced his commute home, checked his phone number through school records, slipped into a few private social media accounts just to see the kind of things he liked, followed, posted. Nothing malicious. Just… necessary.

If Chuuya could stalk him, it was only fair he returned the favour. Though unlike Chuuya, Dazai had no illusions about it being innocent.

He sipped his latte and smiled to himself.

Chuuya had a crush on him. And that was cute. Sweet. Manageable.

But Dazai?

Dazai loved him.

He’d just have to wait until Chuuya caught up.

Chuuya wiped the counter for the third time that hour.

Dazai was still here.

He always stayed too long. Said too little. Smiled too knowingly.

It was driving Chuuya insane.

He hated how much he liked it. Hated how his heart sped up when Dazai leaned close, how every offhanded nickname made him feel like a kid in middle school again. And he hated—really hated—that he kept checking Dazai’s Instagram late at night, waiting for those little bread crumbs that told him where he’d be the next day.

It wasn’t stalking. Not really. Just… curiosity.

Harmless curiosity.

He told himself that every time he pulled up Dazai’s recent tagged photos, every time he noticed the cafés he liked, the books he read, the people he hung out with. He wasn’t obsessed. He just liked to know things. Information was power.

And knowing things about Dazai Osamu made Chuuya feel powerful. Special.

Even when he felt the opposite standing beside him.

Dazai glanced up from his drink. “You’re staring, you know.”

Chuuya flinched. “I wasn’t.”

Dazai grinned. “Sure you weren’t.”

Chuuya turned around quickly, pretending to organise the cups again. His face was burning. Idiot.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” Dazai added, voice too low, too close.

“Go home.”

“Make me.”

Chuuya grabbed a cloth and threw it at him. “I’ll tell the manager.”

Dazai caught the cloth easily and laughed, tossing it back. “Do it. I’d love to meet your boss.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I try.” He winked, then stood up and grabbed his cup. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Chuuya blinked. “What? You never said—”

Dazai was already at the door, back turned, voice light as air. “You’ll miss me if I don’t come. Admit it.”

The bell chimed.

And Chuuya hated how right he was.

Chapter Text

At school, it was easier to pretend nothing was happening.

Chuuya sat two rows behind Dazai in homeroom, perfectly positioned to watch the slope of his shoulders, the lazy tilt of his head as he slouched over his desk, headphones always hanging around his neck like a half-worn halo. He was always laughing with Odasaku or teasing Yosano, effortlessly magnetic in that infuriating way that made it impossible not to look.

Which was why Chuuya kept his gaze fixed on the window.

Most days, at least.

But sometimes—when Dazai wasn’t looking—he’d steal a glance.

And sometimes—when Dazai was looking—he’d still glance, just to see that damn smirk already waiting for him.

It made Chuuya feel exposed. Seen in a way that wasn’t fair, because Dazai never looked at anyone else like that. He talked to everyone, joked with everyone, but he looked at Chuuya like he already knew every thought in his head before he thought it.

Like he was waiting for something.

Chuuya didn’t know what.

And that terrified him.

“Hey, Chuuya.”

He jumped, nearly dropping his pencil. Dazai had appeared at his side like a ghost, leaning just a little too close, one hand on the edge of his desk, eyes bright with mischief.

“You always this twitchy, or do I just bring it out in you?”

“Don’t sneak up on people,” Chuuya muttered, heart still racing. “It’s creepy.”

“Creepy?” Dazai pouted theatrically. “Here I am trying to be social and all I get is verbal abuse. How tragic.”

“Go be tragic somewhere else,” Chuuya snapped, pretending to focus on the worksheet in front of him. “Aren’t you supposed to be copying someone’s homework right now?”

“I already copied yours.”

Chuuya looked up. “What?”

“Kidding,” Dazai said, lips twitching. “Unless you’re offering.”

“I’m not.”

“Shame.”

He didn’t leave. He just stood there, hovering, like he was waiting for an invitation he didn’t need.

“Seriously, what do you want?”

Dazai tilted his head. “I’m just bored.”

“Not my problem.”

“You are my problem.”

Chuuya froze.

Dazai smiled. Not wide. Not showy. Just… subtle. Enough to make Chuuya feel like his chest was being slowly crushed in a velvet vice.

“I mean,” Dazai continued, tapping a knuckle against Chuuya’s desk, “I find myself thinking about you a lot lately. Don’t you think that’s a problem?”

Chuuya swallowed. His mouth had gone dry.

“I—what are you even talking about—”

The bell rang, sharp and sudden. Students began to move, scraping chairs, chatting loudly. Dazai leaned in just a little closer, voice like silk against the chaos.

“See you in English.”

Then he was gone.

Chuuya stared after him, notebook forgotten. Dazai’s words were stuck in his head like a song with no melody, just rhythm—you are my problem. I think about you a lot. Don’t you think that’s a problem?

It was a problem. Because Chuuya had already crossed that line weeks ago.

He hadn’t meant to. He’d just noticed things, at first. The books Dazai read. The way he wrote in the margins, messily, carelessly, like he didn’t expect anyone to ever read them. The way he’d stare at nothing during lunch, even with friends all around him. That quiet, heavy sadness that clung to him like second skin.

Chuuya had gotten curious.

Curiosity turned into lingering walks after school. “Coincidentally” showing up at the bookstore near the station. Sitting near the window during lunch just to see if Dazai was alone again.

It wasn’t… bad, he told himself.

It wasn’t like Dazai knew.

But when Dazai looked at him like that—like he did in homeroom—it made Chuuya feel like maybe he did. Like maybe he knew everything.

English class was worse.

They were paired together. Of course they were. It was either fate or sadism—probably both.

They were working on a poetry analysis. Chuuya was actually trying to focus. Dazai, of course, was not.

He kept doodling in the margins. Not words. Not notes. Just small, strange drawings—birds with broken wings, blooming flowers with roots that bled off the page. A noose made of roses. A sleeping face with sharp teeth. It should’ve unsettled Chuuya.

Instead, he found himself memorising them.

“Why are you staring?” Dazai asked without looking up.

“I wasn’t.”

“You do that a lot.”

“Do what a lot?”

“Look at me like you’re trying to figure out whether I’m a dream or a mistake.”

Chuuya’s mouth opened. Then shut. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m very good at that,” Dazai said softly. Then he met Chuuya’s eyes. “But not about you.”

There was something about the way he said it—quiet, careful, like a blade sliding between ribs.

Chuuya felt breathless.

He hated that Dazai could make him feel like this with just a look. A word. A tilt of his head. He hated that he wanted more.

“You really don’t shut up, huh?” he muttered, trying to sound annoyed.

Dazai smiled, slow and fox-like. “You’d miss me if I did.”

And the worst part was, Chuuya knew he was right.

Chapter Text

The hallway was empty.

The last class of the day had let out over ten minutes ago, and the usual chaos of slamming lockers and shouting voices had already bled away. What was left behind was the soft hum of flickering fluorescent lights and the distant echo of a janitor’s cart squeaking down the east wing.

Dazai moved like a shadow.

He kept to the corners, the soft pads of his shoes silent on the tile. He didn’t look out of place—he never did. If anyone were to stumble into this moment, they’d think he’d just forgotten something in his locker. Maybe they’d even stop to chat.

They wouldn’t notice the soft beeping of the lockpick tool in his coat pocket.

They wouldn’t notice the way he moved with precision, cutting diagonally through the junior hallways instead of heading straight for the exit.

And they definitely wouldn’t notice how he paused at classroom 2C, just long enough to try the handle.

Locked. Good.

He already knew it would be. He’d watched the janitor lock it thirty-eight minutes ago. Dazai glanced down at his phone, screen dimmed to keep from casting light. Chuuya’s shift at the café had started five minutes ago.

That gave him exactly forty-three.

Just enough time.

He slid into the supply closet across the hall, pulling the door shut behind him. The light was off. Good. He didn’t need it. His fingers moved through muscle memory, tracing the edge of the shelf, then the side panel. He crouched, pulled up the wooden baseboard, and reached behind it.

Camera still intact.

Battery full.

He smirked.

Most people would’ve chosen the bedroom for surveillance. The bathroom, if they were truly disgusting. Dazai, though? He wanted the classroom.

Specifically, this classroom. Where Chuuya sat just behind him. Where he chewed his pens. Where he wrote those awful poems in his battered black notebook with the frayed corners.

Dazai had three more cameras, all smaller than a thumbtack, hidden throughout the school—one near the lockers, one behind the music room piano, and one just above the second-floor stairwell where Chuuya always stood during lunch.

But this one… this one was his favorite.

It was where he saw Chuuya the most relaxed. The most unaware.

The most his.

Dazai adjusted the angle slightly. Just in case. He didn't like missing anything.

He pulled his phone out again, pulling up the feed just to double check—

Footsteps.

His breath caught.

They were soft but deliberate, slow and close. Someone was in the hall. No, not someone. Multiple. The echo pattern was wrong—this was more than one person. Two, maybe three. The voices started just faintly, then grew clearer.

“…I think she said she left her phone in 2C?”

“Seriously? Again?”

“I dunno. She said she was charging it in the back and forgot. She asked if we could grab it since she’s already out in the lot.”

Dazai’s eyes narrowed.

No. No no no.

He ducked further into the closet, pressing himself against the shadows. They weren’t supposed to be here. No one was. He’d timed it perfectly.

The footsteps stopped outside the room.

The door handle jiggled.

“Locked,” a girl’s voice said. “Figures. Do we know where one of the janitors is?”

“I think Mr. Terada’s still upstairs.”

“Wait, check the closet. Sometimes there’s a spare in there.”

Dazai’s stomach flipped.

Closet. His closet.

He pulled out his phone again, glancing at the camera feed. The girls were standing in front of the door—one of them in uniform, the other holding a massive floral-print tote bag that practically screamed varsity drama club. They were less than a few feet away.

The knob turned.

Shit.

He scanned the closet. No vents. No back exit. Just brooms, cleaning solution, paper towels, his bag, and a half-empty vending box of lemon-scented wet wipes.

Nowhere to hide.

The door creaked open, light spilling in.

Dazai pressed himself against the wall, holding his breath.

“Nothing in here,” the girl said after a beat. “Just cleaning supplies.”

She didn’t step inside.

Thank god.

“Try the other closet near 3A,” her friend replied. “Maybe it’s in there.”

The door closed again.

Dazai didn’t breathe until he heard the retreating click of heels against tile.

He stayed another two full minutes before emerging, slipping out like a phantom, the door clicking shut behind him without a sound.

He didn’t even stop to check the camera feed again.

Too close.

Too fucking close.

He didn’t go home after that.

Instead, he walked. Just long enough to burn off the adrenaline. His hands were still trembling slightly when he ducked into an alley behind the convenience store two blocks from the café. The one with the perfect line of sight to the side window.

From here, he could see the inside of the café like a diorama. Chuuya was there, behind the counter, laughing at something a customer said. His hair was tied back messily, apron a little crooked.

Dazai leaned against the brick wall, watching him.

His fingers still stung from how tightly he’d gripped the edge of the shelf earlier. He should’ve known better. Calculated better.

But then Chuuya laughed again, and it softened something in Dazai’s chest.

Everything was still okay.

He didn’t get caught.

He was still in control.

Inside the café, Chuuya’s hands moved on autopilot—grinding beans, pouring milk, scribbling names on paper cups. He liked work. It gave his brain something to do. Something other than think about Dazai.

He hated how often the brunet showed up now. It wasn’t just school anymore. It wasn’t even casual. Dazai came into the café so often it was like he lived there. Like he was staking a claim.

And worse, Chuuya was starting to like it.

He was terrified of how easy it was to spot Dazai in a crowd now. How his body knew when Dazai entered a room. How he caught himself checking the door every time that bell rang.

It had to stop. This wasn’t healthy.

He had to stop looking for him.

Chuuya’s hands paused, fingers hovering above the till.

There was a boy outside.

He was half-hidden behind the vending machine across the street. Leaning against the alley wall.

Watching.

His heart skipped.

No. It couldn’t be.

He leaned forward slightly, squinting through the glare of the glass.

Tall. Dark coat. Hands in pockets. Head tilted like he was admiring something in a museum.

Dazai?

No—it couldn’t be him. Dazai always came inside. Always made some snide comment about the uniform or asked for another free drink. He never just… watched.

But the silhouette was too familiar. The slouch. The posture.

Chuuya stepped around the counter, pretending to adjust the chairs by the window. His eyes flicked up again.

Gone.

The alley was empty.

He swallowed hard.

His chest felt tight.

Maybe it hadn’t been him. Maybe it was just a customer, or a random stranger waiting for someone. Maybe—

The bell above the café door jingled.

Chuuya turned.

It was Dazai.

“Evening, short stuff.”

He was smiling.

As usual.

Only now, Chuuya wasn’t smiling back.

Chapter Text

It started with the trash.

He didn’t mean to.

At least, that’s what Chuuya told himself when he reached into the bin just outside the literature classroom after school. The wrapper had Dazai’s name on it—one of those energy bars Dazai always brought but never finished. Chuuya had seen him eat it that morning, crumpling the package with one hand and tossing it with a casual flick of the wrist.

The moment class ended, Chuuya had walked past the bin.

Then walked back.

Then stopped.

The hall was empty. Dazai had left early, mumbling something to the teacher about stomach cramps. Chuuya hadn’t missed the way he winked at him as he passed.

No one was around.

So Chuuya reached in.

The wrapper was still warm from the sun filtering through the windows. He slipped it into his sleeve, heart thudding, and kept walking like nothing had happened.

That was the first time.

It got worse.

He started trailing behind Dazai after school—closer than before. Not just when Dazai posted his location, or when Chuuya could make excuses about “heading that way anyway.”

No.

Now he followed.

Down the street. Through alleys. At one point, he ducked behind a vending machine when Dazai turned too suddenly. He’d watched him meet up with a tall boy Chuuya didn’t recognize. They laughed about something. Dazai touched his arm. The boy touched his back.

Chuuya didn’t sleep that night.

He didn’t sleep the night after, either.

His walls were full now. Every photo of Dazai he could find—printed, taped, pinned. Some were blurry, some stolen from tagged posts, others screenshots from videos. He had an entire folder labeled “sunset lighting” because that’s when Dazai looked the most unreal.

He told himself it wasn’t that bad.

It wasn’t like he had access to Dazai’s house.

Not like Dazai had to know.

But still—he needed more.

The wrapper wasn’t enough.

The photos weren’t enough.

The ache in his chest had become permanent.

By the end of the week, Chuuya had memorized the walk Dazai took home.

He never went straight there. Always took detours—into the bookstore, into alleyways, once even cutting across the school courtyard just to walk under the sakura trees. Chuuya told himself he was just… curious. Just wanted to see where Dazai went. What he liked. What his world looked like when Chuuya wasn’t in it.

It was a Thursday afternoon when Chuuya got closest.

He followed Dazai all the way to his apartment building.

It wasn’t hard. Dazai lived in a sleek high-rise across from the canal—too expensive for most students, which made sense. Dazai had always been quietly rich in ways he never mentioned, only hinted at with his tailored coats and the imported chocolates he shared with no one.

Chuuya stood across the street, hidden behind a bus stop. Dazai entered through the side entrance, keycard in hand.

That should’ve been it. Chuuya should’ve turned around.

But he didn’t.

He crossed the street, heart hammering, and walked past the entrance—casually, like he belonged there. He saw the intercom. Memorized the floor numbers. Counted windows.

Seventh floor. Second window from the left.

There.

That was his.

That night, Chuuya sat on his bed, laptop open, fingers twitching.

He shouldn’t.

He knew that.

But his search history was already full of building schematics and cheap hacking tools. A friend of his older brother’s worked in IT. It wouldn’t be hard to get a blank keycard. Not if he really wanted one.

He opened a blank note on his desktop.

Started a list.

Dazai’s building.
Floor 7. Room 702 (probably).
Has keypad and RFID scan.
Camera above front door.

He stared at the screen.

Then clicked save.

At school the next morning, Dazai was already in his seat by the time Chuuya arrived.

He was writing something on the edge of his notebook, pen moving lazily across the page. He didn’t look up when Chuuya sat behind him. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t wink.

Chuuya hated how that made him feel.

He wanted Dazai to look.

To notice.

Class dragged. Chuuya didn’t pay attention. His fingers itched with the memory of the note from last night, of the second window on the seventh floor. His brain was too loud. His body too restless.

Dazai turned just slightly in his seat near the end of class. A tilt of the head. A glance over the shoulder. His eyes found Chuuya’s.

They held there.

Unblinking.

Chuuya swallowed hard.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did Dazai.

Then the bell rang.

And the moment broke.

Later that day, Chuuya stayed after school. He didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t have to. His shift at the café didn’t start until six, and he’d already planned on skipping it.

He had somewhere else to be.

Dazai’s building looked different at night—lit up from within, warm squares of light flickering behind tall glass. Chuuya stood on the pedestrian bridge nearby, watching.

His phone buzzed in his hand.

Unknown Number

You look cold.

Chuuya’s breath caught.

He looked around immediately, scanning the area. No one nearby. Just a couple walking their dog. A man on a bicycle.

He typed back with trembling fingers.

Unknown Number

Who is this.

The reply came instantly.

Unknown Number

Someone who sees you.
Someone who’s very flattered.

His heart thudded.

No. It couldn’t be. There was no way.

Unknown Number

Dazai?

Wouldn’t you like to know.

Chuuya’s skin went cold.

He blocked the number.

Again.

Then turned and walked home.

He didn’t sleep that night, either.

Two days later, he saw it.

At the bottom of his locker, beneath his textbooks, tucked under a clean notebook he hadn’t touched in weeks.

A folded piece of paper.

No name. No markings.

He opened it slowly, scanning the text once. Twice.

“You don’t know how beautiful you look
when you think you’re alone.”

Chuuya froze.

His fingers trembled around the paper.

Then, a laugh behind him. Not cruel. Not loud. Soft. Familiar.

He turned.

Dazai was walking by, books tucked under one arm. He didn’t look back. Didn’t smile. Didn’t need to. Because Chuuya finally understood.

This wasn’t a crush anymore. This was something else. And whatever it was… Dazai was already two steps ahead.

Chapter Text

Dazai didn’t just watch Chuuya.

He studied him.

There was a difference—at least to Dazai.

Watching was something ordinary people did. Watching could be accidental. Incidental. Watching was passive.

Studying was deliberate.

Studying was worship.

He started each morning with Chuuya’s schedule—mental or otherwise. He didn’t need the spreadsheets anymore, but he still updated them anyway. It was a habit now. A ritual. Like brushing his teeth or checking the weather. Only instead of a forecast, he checked Chuuya’s moods.

If Chuuya woke up late, he didn’t post his usual cryptic Instagram story. If he skipped breakfast, he walked faster to school. If he was upset, he tugged his sleeves down lower. If he was flustered, he rubbed the back of his neck twice.

Dazai logged it all.

Not in writing anymore—he didn’t need to. It was in his bones. In his bloodstream.

He had memorized the weight of Chuuya’s footsteps. The rhythm of his gait. The way he tilted his head when he was curious, the way he chewed on his straw when he was thinking, the way he smiled—rare, fleeting, but radiant.

Dazai had hundreds of photos.

Thousands, if he was being honest.

They weren’t just the usual stolen snapshots from across the room or blurry pictures from his phone during class. No. Dazai had a collection.

From the cameras he’d installed in Chuuya’s house.

He’d upgraded them recently.

The first generation had been simple—cheap little things, barely worth the plastic casing they came in. But now? Now he had real hardware. High-definition. Night vision. Audio. Installed perfectly behind the air vent in Chuuya’s bedroom. Another hidden inside the corner of a framed poster—something obscure and grainy and “cool,” chosen because Chuuya would never take it down.

He had the angles covered.

Dazai watched everything.

Chuuya brushing his teeth. Making his coffee. Sitting at his desk, scribbling poetry into the same black notebook like it was scripture. Walking around half-dressed after a shower. Talking to himself. Singing under his breath. Laughing at something on his phone.

He never touched himself to it.

That wasn’t what this was about.

He wasn’t some pathetic voyeur.

This was devotion.

This was about control. About preservation.

No one knew Chuuya like Dazai did.

Not even Chuuya himself.

He knew the redhead’s blood type, dental history, old allergies from childhood that had faded but left ghost-traces on his medical records. He knew what deodorant he used. What size shirt. What kind of socks he bought, even though Chuuya always hid the tags because he thought brand names were annoying.

Dazai didn’t just know these things. He catalogued them.

There was a drawer in his room labeled Nakahara.

It had grown from a single shoebox into a full cabinet over the last year.

The top drawer held wrappers. Napkins. Bent paper clips. Things Chuuya had touched and discarded. Little relics of routine. Dazai kept them sealed in individual bags, labeled and timestamped.

The second drawer held writing—mostly notes Dazai had stolen when Chuuya wasn’t looking. Once, a grocery list. Another time, a letter he never sent. A receipt with his name on it, circled in red ink for some reason. Dazai didn’t ask why. He just kept it.

The third drawer held fabric.

Nothing too obvious.

A piece of a shirt Chuuya had thrown out once, ripped at the sleeve. A glove he’d dropped and never came back for. A ribbon that had fallen out of his notebook.

They all smelled like him.

Dazai didn’t need to wear them. He just liked knowing they were there.

The fourth drawer was… different.

It was locked.

Even from himself.

That drawer held things he wouldn’t admit to keeping. The photo of Chuuya sleeping—taken through his window on a rainy night, when the curtains had been drawn just enough for the moonlight to touch his cheek. A half-burnt cigarette Chuuya had only taken a single puff from before stubbing it out.

And hair.

Dazai didn’t cut it himself. He wasn’t that insane.

He’d simply picked a few strands off Chuuya’s sweater after a class once. Sealed them in a jar.

For safekeeping.

Just in case.

He didn’t know what the “just in case” was for.

He just knew he needed it.

He had routes.

Paths.

He never followed the same one twice in a row, never used the same surveillance method more than once a week. He alternated between street-level tailing, online monitoring, and physical checks of Chuuya’s house perimeter.

He had timers.

Distances mapped.

He knew the exact second Chuuya left the café each night. Knew which bus route he claimed to take and which alley he cut through to avoid the evening crowd. He’d once followed him through a narrow row of apartment buildings just to see if Chuuya was taking a shortcut.

He wasn’t.

He’d been following someone else.

Dazai had watched from the shadows, unseen, as Chuuya shadowed a tall boy for three blocks.

The boy had looked nothing like Dazai.

Dazai had burned the wrapper from that day’s lunch in a trash can.

Some nights, Dazai sat in the dark.

Just watching.

No sound.

Just Chuuya’s room on his monitor. Lit by the glow of a desk lamp or a laptop. The rustle of notebook pages. The shifting of sheets.

He didn’t need music.

Chuuya’s life was a symphony.

Every blink. Every sigh.

And sometimes… sometimes, when Chuuya was asleep, Dazai would lean forward, press his fingertips to the screen, and whisper things he’d never dare say out loud.

“Mine.”

“Soon.”

“You don’t have to be scared.”

Because Chuuya was scared.

Not of him.

Not yet.

But scared of his own feelings.

Of the way Dazai made his hands tremble. The way he caught himself staring too long. The way he had probably stood outside Dazai’s apartment that night—hidden in the shadows, thinking he was the one doing the watching.

That was what made it so delicious.

Dazai didn’t just love Chuuya.

He possessed him.

Not in a way that could be explained. Not in a way that could be measured.

But in a way that mattered.

Because every day, every hour, Chuuya’s life revolved a little more tightly around Dazai. Every photo on the wall. Every note. Every detour.

Dazai had seen the note Chuuya started on his laptop.

He’d broken in. Just once.

Just to check.

He hadn’t moved anything.

Hadn’t stolen anything.

Just… looked.

The note said:

“Dazai’s building.
Floor 7. Room 702 (probably).
Camera above front door.”

He’d smiled when he read it.

Finally.

Chuuya was catching up.

The next morning, Dazai placed a single white rose on Chuuya’s desk.

No note. No explanation.

Just the flower.

Chuuya stared at it when he sat down.

Didn’t touch it.

Didn’t move it.

Just… stared.

And Dazai, one row ahead, one seat over, grinned.

Because soon, Chuuya would realize.

They weren’t chasing each other.

They were already dancing.

Two steps forward. Two steps back.

And Dazai?

Dazai always led.

Chapter Text

It started with the dream.

Chuuya couldn’t remember all of it—just fragments. Dazai’s voice, low and close in his ear. Fingers grazing his cheek. A soft chuckle. Then warmth. Pressure. A sense of being watched.

Not in the harmless way people say it. Not the feeling of someone glancing at you from across a room.

No, this was something else. Something heavier. Like a presence sitting just outside the edge of sleep. Something waiting.

He woke with a sharp inhale, heart pounding against his ribs. His shirt was sticking to his chest, damp with sweat. The room was dark. Still.

Too still.

Chuuya sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to the faint blue-gray light slipping through his window. The trees outside rustled gently, branches casting shadows across his walls.

His wall of Dazai.

Every photo stared back at him.

He swallowed hard.

It had to be the dream.

Just a dream.

Except—when he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, something crinkled beneath his heel.

He looked down.

A single photograph.

One he didn’t print.

It was him—Chuuya—laying on his bed, exactly as he had been moments before waking. Eyes shut. Mouth slightly parted. One hand curled loosely by his head, tangled in his blanket.

Taken from the foot of the bed.

His blood turned to ice.

He stood so quickly he nearly knocked over the nightstand. The photo fluttered to the ground. He stared at it, bile rising in his throat.

This wasn’t a screenshot. Wasn’t a cropped still from a camera feed. This was a high-resolution photograph—raw, unfiltered. Personal.

Taken here.

Taken tonight.

His hands shook as he picked it up.

In the corner, there was a small, faint mark.

A dot of ink.

Two letters, written in careful cursive:

D.O.

Dazai Osamu.

Chuuya’s breath hitched.

His brain scrambled for logic. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe it was photoshopped. Maybe—

A soft ding interrupted his spiraling thoughts.

His phone lit up.

Unknown Number:
You looked peaceful.

He dropped the phone.

Not accidentally.

He threw it.

It hit the wall, bounced off the mattress, and landed screen-down on the floor. The message repeated in his mind, over and over, like it was echoing off the inside of his skull.

He backed away from it, like the phone might lunge at him.

What the fuck.

What the actual fuck.

He had blocked this number. Twice.

How was Dazai texting him again?

Was it even Dazai?

No. No, it had to be. That signature. That photo. The timing. The dream. The smell—something floral—still faint in the air like someone had been here and brushed past him.

A rose.

He looked toward his nightstand.

A single white petal sat on the surface. Delicate. Innocent. Out of place.

He hadn’t brought flowers home in weeks.

The next morning, he didn’t go to school.

He couldn’t.

He showered twice, scrubbing his skin until it burned. He tore the sheet off his bed and threw it into the hamper. Stared at his wall of photos, fists clenched.

It wasn’t admiration anymore.

It felt like mockery.

Every smile in those pictures felt like it was laughing at him.

He wanted to rip them down.

But he didn’t.

Because part of him—some twisted, obsessive, traitorous part—still wanted to believe there was an explanation. That Dazai didn’t mean to go this far. That maybe this was some fucked-up romantic gesture and not what it actually was.

A violation.

An escalation.

He hadn’t told anyone about his own obsession. His own stalking. His own inability to stop thinking about Dazai.

So how could he call this wrong?

How could he judge?

He stared at the photo again.

It had been left on his bed.

Which meant… Dazai had been in his room.

While he slept.

No window was open. The door had been locked. The latch on the balcony hadn’t moved.

And yet—he was sure of it.

The air still felt disturbed. Like the molecules hadn’t settled.

He kept the photo.

Folded it in half and slid it into the back of his notebook.

Not because he wanted it.

But because he couldn’t let it go.

When he showed up at school the next day, Dazai was already waiting for him.

Leaning against his locker, arms crossed casually. His uniform blazer was slung over one shoulder, tie undone, collar open. He looked like he hadn’t slept, but he still wore that same infuriating smirk.

“Morning, short stuff.”

Chuuya stopped.

Just stood there, a few feet away, staring.

Dazai tilted his head. “Skipping yesterday? Bold of you. I almost thought you were avoiding me.”

Chuuya didn’t answer.

“Not going to say hi?” Dazai asked. “Come on, you’re breaking my heart.”

Chuuya’s voice came out low. Flat. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

He stepped closer. “Don’t pretend.”

Dazai’s smile didn’t falter. But his eyes flicked—just briefly—to Chuuya’s hands. To his expression. To the tension in his stance.

Then, carefully, slowly, Dazai reached into his coat pocket.

Pulled something out.

Chuuya’s breath stopped.

It was another photo.

Another picture of him—taken in the hallway after school. He was mid-step, adjusting his backpack strap, lips parted like he’d been talking to someone.

He snatched it out of Dazai’s hand.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Depends,” Dazai replied calmly. “What specifically are we talking about?”

“You were in my room.”

“Allegedly.”

Chuuya’s voice dropped to a hiss. “You left a photo on my bed.”

“Did I?” Dazai stepped forward. Too close. “Maybe someone else did. You’re pretty popular these days.”

“I blocked your number.”

“Yet here you are.”

“I should tell someone.”

“You won’t.”

Dazai said it with such calm certainty that Chuuya flinched.

And the worst part was, he was right.

He wouldn’t.

Because then he’d have to explain why he had hundreds of photos of Dazai in his room. Why he knew Dazai’s schedule better than his own. Why he’d once stood outside apartment 702 at midnight and whispered Dazai’s name under his breath like a prayer.

They were the same.

But Dazai had crossed a line.

A line Chuuya had drawn with trembling hands and refused to admit was ever there.

Until now.

“You can’t just—come into my room. Watch me. Take pictures. That’s—”

“Romantic?”

“It’s deranged.”

“And yet, here you are,” Dazai murmured, stepping even closer. “Still talking to me. Still shaking.”

“I’m not—”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Chuuya stared at him.

Dazai smiled. “Say the word.”

Chuuya opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Because he didn’t know what to say.

Because part of him—God help him—didn’t want it to stop.

And Dazai saw it.

Dazai knew.

That was the real violation.

Not the photo. Not the break-in.

The fact that Dazai could reach inside him like that and pull the truth out by the root.

He hated it.

He hated how much he wanted Dazai to do it again.

Chapter Text

The hallway was empty.

The last bell had rung twenty minutes ago. The building had started to hollow out—student laughter fading into echoes, lockers slamming shut like punctuation marks on an otherwise quiet sentence.

Chuuya stood by the vending machines near the science wing, arms crossed, jaw tight. He hadn’t meant to wait for Dazai. But his feet had moved before his mind caught up, carrying him here like a magnet was buried beneath the tile floor.

The note in his pocket burned like acid.

He hadn’t read it again, but he didn’t need to. The words were carved into his brain now. Not the ones on the paper—the ones Dazai had said. The way he’d said them.

"Do you want me to stop?"

He didn’t. That was the worst part.

He should have.

But something in him had curled around the question like it was a lit match. He kept replaying it in his head like a sick melody.

The sound of footsteps broke the silence.

Deliberate. Unhurried.

Chuuya didn’t turn.

He didn’t have to.

“You waited for me.” Dazai’s voice was casual. Too casual.

Chuuya exhaled sharply through his nose. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Can’t help it,” Dazai said, moving closer. “I’m very flattering.”

Chuuya turned, finally. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” Dazai said, and for once, he sounded serious. “I think it’s inevitable.”

They stared at each other across the narrow hallway, the soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzing above them like static. The tension between them crackled like electricity in a storm.

“You broke into my house,” Chuuya said, voice low. Dangerous.

“You’ve followed me home.”

Chuuya’s breath caught.

“You watch me when you think I’m not looking,” Dazai continued. “You know what shampoo I use, what brand of cigarettes I never light. You stare at me in class like I’m a puzzle you’re dying to solve, and you pretend it’s just a crush.”

“I never—”

Dazai took a step closer.

“You’ve built me into a god in your head. I know because I did the same to you. The difference is, I don’t lie about it.”

Chuuya’s heart was pounding so loud it drowned out the rest of the world. He felt hot. Cornered. Like he was standing on the edge of something steep and dizzying.

“I should hate you,” he whispered.

“You should,” Dazai said.

“But I don’t.”

“I know.”

Dazai reached out, fingers grazing the inside of Chuuya’s wrist. Barely touching. But the contact was nuclear.

Chuuya didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Dazai’s fingers trailed up, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of Chuuya’s forearm like it was something sacred.

“You shake every time I’m close,” Dazai murmured. “Did you know that?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Chuuya grabbed Dazai’s wrist—tight, sudden, enough to bruise.

But he didn’t pull away.

Neither of them did.

“You don’t get to do this,” Chuuya hissed. “You don’t get to crawl into my life and act like this is some twisted romance.”

“Then stop me.”

Dazai leaned forward, face close enough that Chuuya could feel the warmth of his breath against his lips. His eyes flicked down—once, slowly—to Chuuya’s mouth.

And then back up.

“Go on,” Dazai said. “Tell me to leave.”

Chuuya didn’t.

Because he couldn’t.

Because his body betrayed him—leaning forward, just slightly, just enough that Dazai noticed.

That was all it took.

Dazai’s hand slid around Chuuya’s neck—not tight, not aggressive. Just enough to anchor him in place.

“You want me to stop,” Dazai said, voice like a blade wrapped in velvet. “Say it.”

Chuuya’s lips parted.

But no words came out.

He hated this.

He hated how much he needed it.

Dazai’s mouth was at his ear now, breath warm and slow.

“You’ve already given yourself to me,” he whispered. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

Chuuya shoved him.

Hard.

Dazai stumbled back a step—but he was smiling, damn him, always smiling like this was a game he was winning.

“You think you’ve figured me out,” Chuuya snapped. “You think just because you’ve seen a few photos and followed me around that you own me.”

“I don’t think it,” Dazai said. “I know it.”

“You don’t know shit.”

Dazai stepped forward again, cornering him this time—pressing Chuuya’s back against the vending machine, both hands braced on either side of his head. Caging him in.

“I know your heart rate spikes when I say your name,” he said. “I know you hum when you’re nervous. I know you deleted the photo I left—but not before saving a copy to your hidden album.”

Chuuya froze.

Dazai’s smile turned razor-sharp. “You forgot I watch you too, huh?”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

“You’re sick.”

“So are you.”

Their faces were inches apart now.

“Tell me to stop,” Dazai said again, quieter this time. “Say it. I dare you.”

Chuuya stared at him, chest heaving, throat tight.

He wanted to scream. To punch him. To run.

But instead—he leaned forward.

Just enough that their foreheads touched.

Dazai inhaled sharply.

The contact was light, but it was fire. Static. A spark that leapt between them like a live wire.

Neither moved.

Chuuya’s hands clenched at his sides.

Dazai’s fingers flexed where they gripped the machine.

“I hate you,” Chuuya whispered.

“Then prove it.”

Chuuya grabbed his collar.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was rough, desperate—teeth clashing, lips bruising. Dazai’s hand curled into Chuuya’s hair, pulling, tilting his head. Chuuya bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. Dazai didn’t flinch—he groaned.

It was poison. It was perfect.

Chuuya shoved him back against the lockers, panting, face flushed, lip red.

They stared at each other, chests rising and falling in sync.

Dazai licked the blood off his lip.

“You kissed me,” he said.

“You kissed me back.”

“You’re not denying it anymore.”

Chuuya pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I do,” Dazai said. “You’re giving in.”

Chuuya turned and walked away.

But Dazai didn’t follow.

He didn’t need to.

Because they both knew—

Chuuya would come back.

And next time?

There’d be no stopping either of them.

Chapter Text

Chuuya didn’t go home after it happened.

He didn’t go to the café either.

He walked.

Through streets that blurred together, past neon signs and the hollow clatter of train stations. He didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t want to know. Every step felt like it belonged to someone else, someone outside of his body. He couldn’t feel his hands. His fingers still tingled.

They’d been in Dazai’s hair.

He could still feel the softness between his knuckles. The way Dazai had pulled him closer like he couldn’t stand to leave even a sliver of space between them. The way their teeth had clicked together, like they weren’t made to kiss gently.

Chuuya felt sick.

He leaned over a railing by the canal, staring at his reflection in the water. His lips were bruised. Red. Stained with the taste of Dazai.

He scrubbed his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

The contact didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse—because it wasn’t the kiss itself that haunted him.

It was that he didn’t regret it.

That he wanted more.

That his body had moved on its own.

He wanted to say Dazai manipulated him. That Dazai backed him into a corner, whispered things with that silver tongue and left Chuuya spinning.

But that would be a lie.

Chuuya had grabbed him first.

He’d kissed Dazai.

He’d lost control.

He slammed his fist against the railing.

The metal clanged loudly, drawing a look from a passing couple. He didn’t care.

He hated this.

He hated the way Dazai looked at him like he’d already won. Like Chuuya’s resistance had been a game and the final move had already been played.

He should’ve stopped it. Should’ve walked away.

But the second Dazai’s mouth brushed his ear, Chuuya’s spine had lit up like a fuse.

He hated him.

He wanted him.

He wanted to rip his throat out.

He wanted to kiss him again.

He didn’t know how to live with both truths inside the same ribcage.

Dazai didn’t go home either.

He wandered the empty rooftop above the library, long legs pacing near the edge, arms loose at his sides.

He hadn’t stopped smiling since the kiss.

Not the smirk he wore for show. Not the smug grin he gave teachers when they asked if he’d done the reading.

No, this was real.

It was terrifying.

And beautiful.

And sharp enough to bleed.

He could still taste Chuuya’s breath on his tongue. Could still feel the push against his chest, the iron grip in his shirt, the split-second moment when he knew—knew—that Chuuya was going to snap.

He’d baited him perfectly.

But he hadn’t expected Chuuya to break like that.

To give in like that.

That kiss wasn’t a victory.

It was a confession.

And now everything was changed.

Dazai tilted his head up toward the sky.

He felt it in his chest—the shift. The line they’d crossed. The skin-level obsession had burrowed deeper. Now it was under the surface. In the blood. In the breath.

It was inescapable now.

They were orbiting each other too tightly.

A collision was inevitable.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the picture—one he hadn’t shown Chuuya. One he hadn’t needed to show him.

It was of Chuuya sleeping again.

Only this time… he was smiling.

Dazai’s fingers tightened on the edge of the photo.

This was getting dangerous.

But he couldn’t stop.

He wouldn’t.

He didn’t know how.

They avoided each other for three days.

In class, Chuuya kept his eyes on the board. He didn't once glance at the desk ahead of him. Dazai didn't speak. Not to him. Not to anyone. He simply watched.

Watched as Chuuya tried to pretend like nothing had happened.

Watched as his walls cracked.

The silence between them wasn’t peace.

It was a bomb.

By day four, it broke.

Lunch period. An empty hallway behind the gym.

Chuuya was alone—sitting against the lockers, knees drawn up. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t reading. He was just staring at the floor.

He didn’t hear Dazai approach.

But he felt it.

Like the air around him had changed. Denser. Tighter.

When he finally looked up, Dazai was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.

Chuuya didn’t say anything.

Neither did Dazai.

The silence stretched.

Then, finally—

“I hate you,” Chuuya said.

“I know.”

“You crossed a line.”

“I know that too.”

“So why are you here?”

Dazai’s gaze darkened. “Because I want you to understand something.”

Chuuya stood. “There’s nothing to understand.”

Dazai stepped closer. “You kissed me.”

Chuuya shoved him. “Don’t put that on me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You always twist things, make them seem like you’re in control.”

“But I am.”

Chuuya’s hand clenched.

Dazai stepped closer again—so close their shoes brushed. His voice dropped low.

“You think I didn’t feel it?” he whispered. “The way your body leaned in? The way your hands shook when they grabbed me? That wasn’t hesitation. That was desperation.”

Chuuya’s face burned.

“You don’t want me,” he said, voice rough. “You want to own me.”

Dazai smiled.

“I already do.”

Chuuya struck him.

The slap rang loud and clean, echoing down the hallway.

Dazai didn’t flinch.

He just turned his head back, eyes still locked on Chuuya’s.

He raised a hand—and gently touched his own cheek, where the red mark bloomed like a flower.

“Do it again,” he whispered.

Chuuya stared at him, breathing hard.

And then—he kissed him.

Harder than before.

Dazai caught him this time, hands at his waist, dragging him forward until their bodies collided. Chuuya bit him. Dazai groaned into his mouth. Their teeth clashed again, and this time, neither of them cared.

It was messy.

Unhinged.

A collision of obsession and denial and need.

Chuuya pulled back first, chest heaving.

“This isn’t love,” he spat.

“I never said it was.”

“Then what is it?”

Dazai’s eyes gleamed.

“It’s ours.”

That night, Chuuya tore down every photo on his wall.

But he didn’t throw them away.

He packed them in a box.

Taped it shut.

Labeled it:

DO NOT OPEN.

And slid it under his bed.

Because he couldn’t look at Dazai right now.

But he couldn’t let him go either.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a normal night.

Chuuya had just gotten home from work—tired, covered in the smell of espresso, and pretending like everything in his life wasn’t quietly crumbling beneath his feet. He didn’t bother turning on the main light. Just flicked on the small lamp by his desk, kicked off his boots, and collapsed into his chair with a sigh.

He wanted to write.

He needed to write—get the thoughts out of his head, the static out of his bones. But when he opened his notebook and flipped to a clean page, the pen in his hand hesitated.

He felt something.

Not a sound.

Not a presence.

Just a… wrongness.

He frowned, eyes scanning his desk.

Nothing looked out of place. Everything was where he left it. The shelves, the books, the box under his bed. All untouched.

Still.

His skin crawled.

He stood, slowly, letting instinct guide him. His gaze traveled across his room—upward, to the corner near the vent. The cheap poster there had always hung slightly crooked. He’d told himself he didn’t care.

Now, for the first time, he really looked at it.

Chuuya stepped onto his bed and reached up.

The poster peeled back easily.

And what lay behind it made his blood run cold.

A camera.

Small.

Round.

Buried into the wall like it belonged there.

For a moment, he couldn’t move.

He just stared.

Then, very calmly, he reached for the bat under his bed.

The knock on Dazai’s door came at 9:47 PM.

He didn’t need to check the peephole.

He already knew who it was.

He opened it slowly.

Chuuya stood in the hallway, eyes burning. His entire body shook—less with fear, more with rage. In his left hand was a shoebox. In his right—

A metal baseball bat.

Dazai leaned against the doorframe, unbothered. “Evening, short stuff.”

Chuuya didn’t say a word.

He walked in without being asked.

Dazai closed the door behind him.

Chuuya moved like a ghost—silent, precise. He set the shoebox on Dazai’s desk and opened the lid.

Inside: the camera. The cord. The bent screws he’d pried out with a knife. And a printed screenshot of himself sleeping—extracted from the camera’s microSD card.

“I took it apart,” Chuuya said, voice flat. “Downloaded the files. There are weeks of footage, Dazai. Weeks.”

Dazai didn’t respond.

Chuuya turned around, eyes wide with disbelief. “You were watching me. You broke into my room. You planted a fucking camera.”

“Yes,” Dazai said softly.

“You admit it?”

“You already know the answer.”

Chuuya gripped the bat tighter. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Dazai stepped closer, slowly, hands raised—not in surrender, but invitation.

“You were already watching me too, weren’t you?”

Chuuya’s breath caught.

Dazai’s voice dipped into something gentle. “Did you think you were the only one who could be obsessed?”

“I didn’t—I never did this.”

“No,” Dazai said. “You just followed me home. Took pictures. Memorized my schedule. Built a shrine in your room.”

“That is not the same.”

“No,” Dazai agreed, and his smile was sharp. “What I did was worse.”

Chuuya stared at him.

“What I did,” Dazai said, stepping forward, “was necessary.”

“Necessary?”

“To protect you.”

“You think this is love?”

“No,” Dazai said, voice suddenly quiet. “I think this is you. I think this is us.”

Chuuya raised the bat—held it mid-air, trembling.

Dazai didn’t flinch.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Dazai said.

“You should be.”

“Then hit me.”

Chuuya’s eyes were wide, wild. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Why not? You want to, don’t you? Just like you wanted to kiss me. Just like you wanted to follow me. Just like you wanted to know everything about me.”

“You crossed a line.”

“So did you.”

“You broke into my life.”

“And you let me stay.”

That stopped Chuuya cold.

Dazai’s eyes met his—steady. Too steady.

“You could’ve told someone. You didn’t. You could’ve blocked me. You didn’t. You could’ve walked away. But you didn’t.”

Chuuya’s grip on the bat loosened. He let it drop.

It hit the floor with a dull clang.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” Chuuya whispered. “I told myself I was paranoid.”

“You’re not.”

“I told myself the photo was a prank. The texts were a prank.”

“They weren’t.”

“I should report you.”

“You should.”

Chuuya looked up at him.

Dazai took one step closer. “But you won’t.”

And that—more than anything—made Chuuya want to scream.

Because he wouldn’t.

Because he couldn’t.

Because some part of him—some dark, broken, aching part—felt wanted.

Felt seen.

Dazai moved to him, slow as gravity.

When he reached for Chuuya’s face, the redhead didn’t move.

Fingertips brushed his cheek. His jaw. His throat.

“I know you hate me,” Dazai said.

Chuuya closed his eyes.

“But you hate me the way people hate themselves.”

He tilted Chuuya’s chin up, just slightly. “You know what I am to you.”

Chuuya’s breath hitched.

“You’re mine,” Dazai said.

Chuuya didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know if it was a lie.

Or the truth.

Or both.

Chapter Text

There was silence after Dazai said it.

“You’re mine.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a confession. It was a declaration, one that left no room for denial. Chuuya didn’t respond, because any word that left his mouth would either be a lie or a surrender.

Instead, he turned away.

Not in retreat—but to pace. To breathe. His body was buzzing with adrenaline and confusion and rage. His hands shook at his sides. He had thought the camera was the worst of it. That discovering the surveillance would be the peak of horror.

But this?

This was worse.

Because Dazai had looked at him like he expected to be forgiven. Like he already knew he would be.

Like it was inevitable.

Chuuya spun back, eyes blazing. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

Dazai’s expression didn’t falter. “I know exactly what I’ve done.”

“You’re sick.”

“You said that before.”

“And I meant it.”

“So why haven’t you left?”

Chuuya opened his mouth—and found no answer waiting.

Because he didn’t want to leave. Not really.

Because part of him wanted to scream at Dazai until his throat bled—and the other part wanted to collapse into him and never leave.

“You’ve been in my head for months,” Chuuya said. “You made me think I was the broken one. That I was the freak for watching you. For wanting you.”

Dazai took a step forward. “You are.”

Chuuya didn’t move. “And you love that.”

“I crave that.”

Chuuya’s fingers curled into fists.

He wasn’t going to cry.

He wouldn’t.

But Dazai stepped closer anyway—like he could feel the emotional fracture forming, like he was drawn to it.

Like a vulture.

“You want me,” he whispered. “And it’s killing you.”

Chuuya shoved him—hard.

Dazai stumbled back a step, but didn’t fall. He caught himself on the desk, smirking. “There you are.”

“I should kill you.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

Dazai stepped forward again, slow and predatory. “Neither do you.”

Chuuya’s breathing quickened. “You think this is a game—”

“This isn’t a game, Chuuya.” Dazai’s voice rose for the first time—not in anger, but desperation. “You think I did all this to win? I did it because I couldn’t help it. Because watching you from across a classroom wasn’t enough. Because every time you smiled at someone else, I wanted to rip their throat out.”

His hands were clenched now. Shaking.

“I watched you sleep because I needed to know you were safe. I broke in because I couldn’t stand not knowing. I memorized everything about you—your walk, your breath, the way you write your damn poems in the margins of your physics notes—because I had to. Because you were becoming the only thing that mattered.”

He stepped closer with every word.

And Chuuya let him.

“You want to talk about sick?” Dazai whispered. “I wanted to pull that girl’s teeth out one by one when she hurt you. I’ve thought about locking you in a room just so I wouldn’t have to worry about you walking away.”

Chuuya’s voice came out strangled. “That’s not love.”

“I know.”

They stared at each other.

Something cracked.

And then Dazai reached for him—hands fisting into Chuuya’s jacket—and kissed him like violence. Like punishment. Their teeth clashed. Lips split. Chuuya shoved him again but didn’t pull away.

Because pain felt easier than confusion.

Because anger made this make sense.

Chuuya bit him—hard. Dazai didn’t flinch. Blood welled between their mouths, and neither stopped. Their hands were in each other’s hair, clawing at fabric, dragging each other close like the air was poison and the only antidote was contact.

Dazai’s hands slid under Chuuya’s shirt, not gentle. Fingers pressing bruises into his ribs like a brand.

Chuuya shoved him back, gasping. “You don’t get to touch me like that.”

“You already let me.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to.”

“You do.”

Chuuya slapped him.

Hard.

Dazai laughed—sharp and breathless. “Hurt me. Go on.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Because you made me like this.”

Chuuya felt dizzy. His fists trembled. His lip stung. His skin was too tight.

He hated this.

He needed this.

He wanted—

He didn’t know what he wanted.

So he hit Dazai again.

Dazai caught his wrist mid-swing.

Their eyes locked.

And just like that—they stopped.

Not because it was over.

Because they were at the edge.

Because one more push and someone wouldn’t come back from it.

Chuuya’s voice cracked. “This is going to destroy us.”

Dazai’s grip on his wrist softened.

“Then let it,” he said.

Chuuya yanked free and stumbled back, breathing ragged.

He didn’t run.

But he left.

And Dazai let him.

That night, Dazai sat in the dark.

Alone.

He didn’t check the cameras.

Didn’t look at the wall of photos.

Didn’t call.

He just waited.

Because now?

It wasn’t about chasing anymore.

It was about whether Chuuya would come back on his own.

And he would.

He always did.

Chapter Text

The box was still under his bed.

Chuuya hadn’t opened it since that night.

He hadn’t needed to. He could still see every photo inside like they were burned into the back of his eyelids. Dazai in the hallway. Dazai looking out a classroom window. Dazai with his tie loosened, head tilted, eyes soft in a way Chuuya would never admit to craving.

He sat on the floor now, back to his bed, knees pulled up to his chest. His phone was off. His curtains were drawn. It was nearly 1 a.m., but he hadn’t slept. Not since… that night.

The night he hit Dazai.

The night he kissed him again.

The night he let it all happen—again.

He’d told himself he was in control. That he’d never lose to him. That whatever they were, whatever game they were playing, he would never be the weaker one.

And now?

He couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror.

He’d scrubbed his mouth raw in the bathroom. Stared at his reflection until the edges blurred, until his own face felt like a stranger’s. Nothing helped. The taste lingered.

Dazai was still under his skin.

Still inside him, in a way that had nothing to do with touch and everything to do with invasion.

He felt like a door had been opened inside him, one that would never close again. A part of him he didn’t know existed had clawed its way to the surface and liked what Dazai gave him. Liked the bruises. Liked the way Dazai had looked at him when he said “then let it.”

Let it destroy us.

What kind of person says that?

What kind of person stays after hearing it?

Chuuya rested his forehead on his knees.

He was losing it.

He had lost it.

This wasn’t infatuation anymore. This wasn’t a crush, wasn’t a fantasy, wasn’t some harmless schoolboy fixation. This was a collapse. This was chemical. Biological. Like poison soaking into his bloodstream.

He’d gone from watching Dazai in class to following him home.

From saving pictures to printing them.

From fantasies to surveillance.

And now?

Now Dazai’s voice lived in his head like it paid rent.

Now every shadow outside his window made him flinch.

Now every second he wasn’t with Dazai made him feel like he was going to vomit.

He couldn’t eat.

Couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t breathe.

He kept checking his phone, even though it was off. Even though he told himself he wouldn’t check. Even though he’d thrown it across the room hours ago. Still, his fingers twitched with the muscle memory of unlocking it. Opening his messages. Looking for that familiar name.

Dazai.

He hated him.

He needed him.

He wanted—

He didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

Maybe for Dazai to show up again.

Maybe for him to break in again just so Chuuya could scream at him. Hit him. Touch him. Anything to make the noise in his head stop.

He crawled toward the bed.

His fingers brushed the edge of the box.

Just one photo.

Just one.

He pulled it out.

It was one he’d taken weeks ago. Dazai asleep in class, cheek against his palm, eyelashes casting faint shadows on his skin. Peaceful. Vulnerable.

Chuuya pressed it to his chest.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t scream.

He just sat there, surrounded by silence, with only the pulse in his neck and the dull ache in his chest to keep him company.

By the second day, Chuuya stopped going to school.

By the third, his boss at the café started leaving voicemails.

By the fourth, he turned his phone on.

No messages from Dazai.

None.

Not even one of those sick, taunting texts.

He should’ve felt relieved.

He didn’t.

He felt forgotten.

He felt like something was missing. Like a thread had been yanked from the fabric of his world and everything was unraveling.

He found himself staring at the windows at night, wondering if Dazai was watching again. Wondering if the camera had really been the only one. Wondering if maybe—just maybe—Dazai had left something else behind.

A note.

A photo.

Something personal.

Something to prove he still cared.

He hated how much he wanted that.

He hated that Dazai had the restraint not to reach out.

He hated that he didn’t.

On the fifth night, he cracked.

He put on his hoodie. Stuffed his phone into his pocket. Walked out the door without a destination.

But he knew where he was going.

He knew before his feet hit the sidewalk.

Before the wind cut through his sleeves.

Before the lights of Dazai’s apartment came into view.

Seventh floor.

Second window from the left.

He stood across the street for nearly twenty minutes, staring up.

No movement.

No flicker of light.

No silhouette.

Was he even home?

Chuuya didn’t care.

He crossed the street anyway.

He stood in the lobby, heart hammering, then stepped into the elevator.

Pressed seven.

Every floor ticked upward like a countdown.

When the doors opened, he didn’t hesitate.

He walked straight to 702.

Stopped.

Raised a fist.

And knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Then again, louder.

No answer.

He knocked harder.

Still nothing.

He stood there, fists clenched, body shaking—not from cold, not from fear, but from the unbearable weight of needing to see him.

To hurt him.

To touch him.

To be touched.

He turned around and slid down the wall, collapsing to the floor.

He waited.

He waited for over an hour.

Dazai never came.

Chuuya left without a word.

But when he got home, there was a photo on his bed.

No envelope. No note.

Just the image:

Chuuya.

On the floor of Dazai’s hallway.

Curled against the door like something lost.

And on the back, scrawled in messy handwriting:

“You came back.”

Chuuya pressed the photo to his lips.

And let himself fall asleep with it in his hands.

Chapter Text

He wasn’t stalking him.

Not really.

He was just… checking in.

People did that. Watched out for people they cared about. Looked after them. That’s what this was. That’s what he told himself as he stood across the street from Dazai’s building for the second night in a row.

The lights were off again.

The window—the one Chuuya used to watch from a safe distance—was dark. Blank. A void. He didn’t know what Dazai did after school anymore. Didn’t know where he went, or who he saw. And that wasn’t okay.

It wasn’t fair.

After everything Dazai had done—everything he’d taken—Chuuya deserved to know something. Anything. He deserved… answers.

He told himself that a lot lately.

That he was owed this.

Because Dazai started it. Because Dazai planted the cameras. Because Dazai broke into his home and watched him sleep like it was his right.

So why shouldn’t Chuuya do the same?

Why shouldn’t he take something back?

It wasn’t stalking.

It was balance.

It was justice.

It was survival.

The first time he entered the building, it was easy.

He waited for a couple to leave—two salarymen with tired eyes and heavy coats—and slipped through the doors before they shut. The elevator was empty. He pressed the button for the seventh floor and didn’t breathe the entire way up.

Outside apartment 702, his hands started to sweat.

He didn’t have a keycard.

But the lock was old—mechanical, barely upgraded. Dazai’s building looked fancy from the outside, but it wasn’t secure. Chuuya had done his research. Had stayed up the last two nights watching lockpicking videos until his eyes bled.

The tension wrench in his pocket dug into his thigh.

He could do this.

It was fair.

It was deserved.

The door clicked open after three minutes.

He stepped inside.

It smelled like Dazai.

Like citrus and something darker underneath—old books and metal and a scent Chuuya couldn’t name but would recognize anywhere.

The lights were off.

He didn’t turn them on.

He walked quietly, slowly. Like the apartment might wake up and recognize him as an intruder. But he wasn’t. Not really. He knew this space. Had memorized it. Had studied the background of Dazai’s photos enough times to know which shelf held his books, which drawers were usually left cracked open, which window let in the best light at 5:42 p.m.

He wasn’t trespassing.

He was reclaiming something.

Dazai had watched him first.

Dazai had made him feel powerless.

This was fair.

This was even.

He moved to the desk first.

Neat. Too neat. Dazai had always been meticulous—an annoying trait that made it hard to find anything he hadn’t meant to be found.

Still, Chuuya pulled open the drawers.

He found a notebook.

Plain black cover. No label.

He hesitated.

Then opened it.

And saw his own name on the first page.

His throat closed.

Page after page.

“Chuuya wore the red jacket today.”
“He didn’t eat at lunch again.”
“His breathing changed when I said his name.”
“He didn’t look at me. I think he’s punishing me. I think I like it.”

His vision blurred.

He flipped further—heart pounding, stomach sick.

“Dreamt about him again. Same one. He was at my window, smiling. It felt too real. I woke up hard. I think he knows. I want him to know.”
“I watched him sleep for an hour tonight. He drooled on the pillow. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Want to cut her throat for touching him.”
“Want to lock him up and keep him mine.”

Chuuya slammed the notebook shut.

His breath hitched—sharp and painful in his chest.

He should’ve felt angry.

Should’ve felt sick.

But all he felt was seen.

Finally.

Truly.

Completely.

He sat on Dazai’s bed.

Still not stalking him.

Just… learning.

He pulled out his phone. Took a picture of the notebook cover. A few of the pages.

Just in case.

Then his eyes drifted to the closet.

He wasn’t going to open it.

Really, he wasn’t.

But something pulled him there.

The door creaked open.

Inside: a wall.

No, a shrine.

Photos.

Of him.

Chuuya.

Sleeping.

Laughing.

Fighting.

Smiling with a fake smile at school. Crying behind the café once. A picture of his back from a day he skipped class—he didn’t even know Dazai had been there.

It took his breath away.

Not because it was shocking.

But because he recognized the feeling.

The need to preserve. To hold. To own.

It was the same instinct that made him build his wall. The same impulse that kept the box of photos under his bed. The same obsession that turned his bedroom into a tomb of Dazai’s image.

This wasn’t new.

This was familiar.

He reached out.

Touched one of the photos.

His hand didn’t shake.

He didn’t remember leaving.

Didn’t remember closing the door, or walking back down, or making it home.

But when he woke up on his bedroom floor the next morning, the notebook was in his backpack.

The photos were printed on his desk.

And a single sentence echoed in his head like a siren:

I’m not the broken one.

Not anymore.

Not alone.

The next day, he went to school early.

He sat in his seat before anyone else. Watched the door.

When Dazai finally walked in, they locked eyes.

Chuuya didn’t smile.

Didn’t blink.

Dazai paused—just for a second.

Then sat.

Neither said a word.

But Chuuya felt it.

A shift.

A new edge.

And for the first time since this started, he felt something close to power.

Because now he knew:

He could ruin Dazai, too.

Chapter Text

Dazai noticed it before Chuuya even sat down.

Something in the way he walked into the room. His posture was straighter, but looser—like someone who had nothing left to lose. His eyes scanned the room, not urgently, but knowingly. Like he already knew who would be here, what they would do, and how it would end.

When their eyes met, Chuuya didn’t look away.

He didn’t blush.

He didn’t smirk.

He just stared.

And Dazai’s heart thudded once, deep in his chest, like a warning.

He watched as Chuuya took his seat, placed his bag down carefully, and folded his hands atop his desk like a statue. Composed. Collected.

Unbothered.

That wasn’t right.

That wasn’t Chuuya.

Chuuya flinched when you stared at him too long. Got flustered when your knees brushed under the desk. Snapped at teasing and overreacted to silence. He was fire. Wild and predictable in all the ways Dazai adored.

But this?

This was quiet.

And Dazai didn’t know what to do with quiet.

They didn’t speak during class.

But Dazai kept watching.

He watched how Chuuya didn’t glance at him when he answered a question.

How he didn’t fiddle with his pen.

How his mouth twitched into a smile at something the teacher said—but not the kind of smile you share with the person you’re obsessed with.

It wasn’t nervous.

It wasn’t performative.

It wasn’t for Dazai at all.

It was like Chuuya had finally stopped needing to impress him.

That should’ve been a good thing.

But Dazai felt his stomach twist.

Because this wasn’t detachment.

It was control.

Not the kind Dazai held so delicately around everyone else.

This was internal.

This was surgical.

Like Chuuya had flipped a switch inside himself and shut off every part that used to reach for Dazai without meaning to.

The obsession was still there—he could feel it, smell it—but now it had teeth. Now it had patience.

Now it looked like him.

The next time they were alone, Dazai tested it.

After class, he caught Chuuya just outside the science wing.

“Cutting class already?” Dazai said, slipping in beside him.

Chuuya didn’t stop walking. “I could ask you the same.”

“But you won’t,” Dazai said. “Because you like when I follow you.”

Chuuya glanced at him sideways.

And smiled.

It was small. Almost polite.

It sent a chill through Dazai’s spine.

“You’re quiet today,” he said, trying to match the tone. “Plotting something?”

Chuuya shrugged. “Not really. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Maybe.”

They walked in silence for a moment. The air between them felt wrong. Or rather—too right. Like something had clicked into place, but backwards.

Dazai tried again.

“Didn’t see you at your window last night.”

Chuuya raised a brow. “Didn’t know you were watching.”

“You always know.”

Chuuya stopped walking.

Dazai halted too, expecting a confrontation.

But Chuuya just tilted his head.

“You really don’t like it when I stop chasing, do you?”

Dazai blinked.

“I—”

“You liked me desperate. Helpless. You liked being the one with all the power.” Chuuya’s voice didn’t rise, didn’t tremble. It was smooth. Steady. “But now that I’m calm, you’re nervous.”

“That’s not—”

“You’re used to being the shadow,” Chuuya said. “But you never thought I’d step into it, too.”

Dazai stared at him.

He didn’t know this version of Chuuya.

He wanted to. He didn’t want to.

Both at once.

Chuuya leaned forward slightly, close enough that Dazai could feel the warmth of his breath near his cheek.

“You started this,” he whispered. “But don’t forget—I’m the one who knows how it ends.”

Then he walked away.

And for the first time, Dazai didn’t follow.

Because he didn’t know if he’d catch up.

He knew it that night.

When he got home and opened his drawer—the one where he kept the copies of Chuuya’s poems—and found one was missing.

No sign of entry.

No scratch on the lock.

But the page he’d bookmarked—the one that said “even your silence sings to me”—was gone.

And in its place?

A single white rose.

Dried.

Pressed flat.

He picked it up with trembling fingers.

There was a note underneath.

Folded once. No name.

Just a line, written in handwriting that wasn’t his:

"You're not the only one who collects things anymore."

Dazai sat down slowly.

The room felt colder than it had before.

This was it.

This was what he’d wanted—what he’d been building from the beginning.

Mutual obsession.

Balance.

But now?

Now the mirror was too clean.

Now he was staring at his own reflection—and it had red hair and a sharper smile.

And for the first time in a long time…

Dazai wasn’t sure if he should be excited.

Or afraid.

Chapter Text

Chuuya didn’t sleep.

He didn’t need to.

Sleep was a luxury for people with unresolved desire—for those still clinging to fear, to shame. He wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of Dazai. Not of his own thoughts. Not of the things he had to do next.

There was something freeing about giving in.

About no longer pretending to be the one holding the leash.

Because obsession wasn’t something you escaped.

It was something you accepted.

And tonight, he was going to act.

Not lash out. Not spiral. No, this wasn’t another emotionally charged mess of fists and kisses and screaming matches. That had been Dazai’s style. Impulsive. Beautiful. But ultimately chaotic.

Chuuya had learned.

Dazai had shown him the rules.

Now, it was his turn to rewrite them.

It was a Tuesday.

The school was closed for a faculty meeting. No students, no teachers—just empty halls and security cameras that didn’t work half the time. Dazai wouldn’t be home. Chuuya knew his schedule—his real schedule—the one he kept hidden behind excuses and after-school activities.

And more importantly, Chuuya knew the spare key.

He didn’t even feel nervous.

It was like unlocking his own front door.

The apartment smelled the same. Citrus, books, skin. But now there was no thrill, no forbidden spark. It didn’t feel like a secret anymore.

It felt like territory.

He walked straight to the desk.

The drawer that once held pages about him was now empty. Dazai was hiding them again. Good. Let him try.

Let him think he could still protect anything.

He moved to the bedroom.

This was what mattered now.

Control of the environment.

Of the narrative.

Dazai had crept into his room first—left messages, planted cameras, taken photos. Dazai had watched him sleep.

Chuuya smiled faintly.

Now it was time to even the score.

He started with the phone.

Dazai didn’t lock his backup one. The one he left in his closet drawer—the one with no SIM card, but too many secrets. Chuuya mirrored it with a quick cable hook-up and software he downloaded the night before.

Twenty minutes.

Then he moved to the bookshelf.

That part was important.

He pulled one title from the third shelf—something obscure, poetic, and thin.

He slipped a recording device inside the hollowed spine.

One that would activate on voice. Store up to six days of audio.

He’d listen later.

And then came the final step.

The one that truly shifted everything.

Chuuya walked to Dazai’s bed.

Pulled back the sheets.

And slid something beneath the pillow.

A photo.

Of himself.

Taken last night.

Framed in Dazai’s favorite light—sunset through the apartment window, the glow brushing over Chuuya’s face like reverence.

It was intimate.

Close.

Undeniable.

A mirror of what Dazai once left him.

Only this time?

There would be no confusion about the message.

He was done being the hunted.

That night, Chuuya went home.

He ate dinner. Cleaned his desk. Wrote a poem in the back of his notebook.

Control is not silence.
Control is knowing
you no longer need to scream
to be heard.

He printed another copy of the photo.

Just for himself.

Folded it. Slipped it into the back of Dazai’s stolen notebook.

Closed the box.

Slept.

Dreamless.

Dazai didn’t notice at first.

Not until the end of the week.

He came home Friday night—late, irritable, exhausted from pretending to laugh at things he didn’t find funny—and collapsed into bed without turning on the light.

His fingers brushed something under the pillow.

He pulled it out.

Stared.

Everything in him went still.

It was Chuuya.

But not one of his photos.

It was different.

The angle. The focus. The texture of the image. The quiet intimacy in Chuuya’s expression—like he knew he was being captured.

Because he did.

Because he took it himself.

Dazai sat up slowly.

His throat felt dry.

He checked the lock on his door.

Still engaged.

He checked the windows.

Unbroken.

But someone had been here.

Not someone.

Chuuya.

And the realization didn’t make Dazai angry.

It made him cold.

Because this wasn’t obsession anymore.

This was strategy.

And Chuuya had learned it all from him.

He turned the photo over.

There were no words.

No taunts.

Just the silence.

And somehow, that was worse.

The next morning at school, Chuuya arrived before him again.

Same seat.

Same stillness.

Same faint smile.

Dazai sat down beside him.

They didn’t speak.

But Chuuya leaned forward—just slightly—until his lips almost brushed Dazai’s ear.

And he whispered:

“Check the bookshelves.”

Then he pulled away.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t wink.

Just opened his notebook and started writing like the conversation hadn’t happened.

Dazai felt his chest tighten.

He didn’t check the shelf until three that morning.

The recording was crystal clear.

And at the very end of it?

A single, whispered line—

Chuuya’s voice.

Soft. Unshaken.

“You're mine now, too.”

Dazai sat on the floor of his apartment for a long time after that.

He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t move.

Because he’d finally gotten what he wanted.

And he had no idea what the hell to do with it.

Chapter Text

Dazai didn’t react right away.

That was the first lesson: never respond when they expect you to. Control wasn’t just about action. It was about timing. About waiting, even when every part of you wanted to move.

Especially then.

So he waited.

He didn’t text Chuuya. Didn’t send photos. Didn’t show up early to class. He didn’t even make eye contact. And the silence? It did more damage than any confrontation ever could.

Because Dazai knew how obsession worked.

And Chuuya, no matter how sharp he’d become, was still new to this game. Still tied to the craving for attention, for validation, for reaction.

So Dazai starved him.

The first day, Chuuya was unreadable.

Focused. Confident.

The second, he looked confused.

The third, his pen trembled.

By the fourth, his hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting.

And on the fifth, when Dazai finally turned in his seat to meet his gaze, Chuuya was already staring.

Wide-eyed.

Needy.

A little angry.

Dazai smiled.

Game on.

He started with the locker.

Chuuya always kept it pristine—no clutter, no mess. Predictable. Easy. Dazai slipped a small item inside: a flash drive. Unlabeled. Black. Innocuous.

He watched from the hallway window as Chuuya found it.

He watched the moment he recognized it wasn’t his.

He watched the flicker of panic. Curiosity. Obsession.

That was all it took.

The next day, Chuuya didn’t even bother pretending.

He cornered Dazai after school, behind the library, out of sight.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said.

Dazai tilted his head. “Am I?”

“You left something.”

“Did I?”

Chuuya pulled the flash drive from his jacket.

“What’s on it?” he asked.

Dazai smiled, soft and slow. “You haven’t looked?”

“I want you to tell me.”

“But you already know I won’t.”

Chuuya’s jaw tightened.

“You think you’re in control now,” Dazai said. “You think just because you mirrored me—because you got inside my apartment, touched my things, left your little mark—that you understand this.”

“I do understand,” Chuuya said.

“No,” Dazai murmured, stepping closer. “You imitated. That’s not the same thing.”

He leaned in, until his mouth hovered just near Chuuya’s ear.

“You followed the blueprints I left for you. I built the house. You’re still crawling around in the walls.”

Chuuya didn’t move.

But Dazai felt the spike in his breathing.

The flash drive shook slightly in his hand.

“Open it,” Dazai said, pulling back. “If you’re so sure you’ve caught up.”

Then he walked away.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

Because he knew Chuuya would open it that night.

It took Chuuya three hours to stop shaking.

There were no images on the drive.

No files.

Just audio.

Hundreds of clips.

All voice-activated.

Some were familiar—conversations he’d had at school, at home.

But others?

Others were private.

Internal.

Him talking to himself in the dark. Whispering Dazai’s name while staring at the wall of photos. Crying once—quiet, broken, ugly. Saying “I think I love him, I think I hate him, I think I don’t care if I die as long as he looks at me.”

That one played on loop for ten minutes.

And at the end of the folder, one final file:

“Check your bedframe.”

He did.

There was a note taped underneath.

In Dazai’s handwriting.

“Don’t forget who taught you how to watch.”

Chuuya didn’t sleep.

Didn’t eat.

Didn’t show up to school the next morning.

So Dazai went to him.

Not out of concern.

Out of principle.

He knocked once. Twice.

No answer.

The third time, the door opened slow.

Chuuya stood there—messy-haired, hollow-eyed, wrapped in a hoodie two sizes too big.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did Dazai.

They stared at each other.

Then, slowly, Dazai reached into his coat and pulled out something small.

The photo.

The one Chuuya had left under his pillow.

He handed it back.

Chuuya looked at it.

Looked at him.

And for the first time in a week—broke.

Not with tears.

Not with screaming.

But with a sound.

A soft, wrecked sound.

Dazai caught him as he fell.

Hands on his shoulders. Arms around his back.

Chuuya didn’t hug him.

Didn’t collapse.

Just stood there, pressed against him like the floor had disappeared.

“You win,” Chuuya whispered.

Dazai smiled against his hair.

“No,” he said. “We both lose.”

And then—quietly, gently—he kissed the side of Chuuya’s neck.

Not to possess.

Not to punish.

But to remind him:

I was always here first.

Chapter Text

They didn’t speak of the photo.

Not the one Chuuya left, not the one Dazai returned. It was there—on Chuuya’s desk, flattened under a glass paperweight. Neither hidden nor displayed. It simply was.

Like everything else between them now.

They didn’t speak of the flash drive, or the bedframe, or the surveillance that still hung like invisible threads between them. Dazai never asked how long Chuuya had been listening. Chuuya never asked how long Dazai had known.

Because what were questions now, but excuses to pretend?

What were answers, when everything had already been said in silence?

So they didn’t speak of it.

Instead, they found… routine.

Not normalcy. Never that.

But a rhythm.

They met at the same corner each morning, said nothing, and walked to school together like they had always done it. Chuuya stopped sitting behind Dazai in class and started sitting next to him. Close enough that their arms would brush if they moved at the same time. Neither did.

They shared glances instead of words.

Small ones.

Soft ones.

Dangerous ones.

And though no one else noticed, something had changed.

Chuuya no longer flinched.

He no longer blushed when Dazai leaned close.

No longer snapped when teased.

Instead, he held eye contact longer than necessary.

He’d linger at Dazai’s locker.

He’d wait after class, quietly, with no need for reason.

And when Dazai’s fingers brushed his in the hallway, Chuuya didn’t pull away.

He let him.

Sometimes, he’d brush back.

Like a question.

Like an answer.

Like neither of them remembered where the line had ever been.

They shared lunch now.

Not every day.

Not publicly.

Just sometimes.

Alone.

Dazai would bring something minimal. Chuuya never brought anything at all. Still, Dazai would hand him half of whatever he had—quietly, without eye contact—and Chuuya would take it without thanks.

They didn’t need words.

They didn’t want them.

It was easier, this way.

Cleaner.

Safer.

If they didn’t speak it, it couldn’t hurt.

If they didn’t name it, it couldn’t bleed.

And yet—

Every gesture said it louder than anything they could say.

We are both monsters now.

And we belong to each other.

One night, Chuuya didn’t go home.

He didn’t warn Dazai. Didn’t send a message. He just appeared.

At 10:16 p.m.

At the door.

Dazai opened it without question.

They stared at each other.

Then Chuuya stepped inside.

He didn’t ask permission.

He didn’t need it.

Dazai moved to speak—then stopped.

He recognized the look in Chuuya’s eyes.

It wasn’t desperate.

It wasn’t broken.

It was claiming.

Quiet and sure.

Chuuya walked past him into the apartment. Sat on the edge of the bed. Looked down at his hands. Then up.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Dazai nodded. “Okay.”

Chuuya glanced around. “Still hiding things in the bookshelf?”

“No,” Dazai said. “You already took the best parts.”

Chuuya’s mouth twitched.

Almost a smile.

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

Nothing had, lately.

He stood again, slowly, and walked over to Dazai.

Stopped just in front of him.

They were barely touching.

Chuuya looked up.

“You’re still watching me.”

“Yes.”

“Even now?”

“Especially now.”

Chuuya closed the gap.

Laid his head gently against Dazai’s chest.

Not to be held.

But to rest.

To anchor.

Dazai didn’t move at first.

Then, slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around him.

And for a moment, everything else dropped away.

No cameras.

No notebooks.

No power plays.

Just breath.

Just heat.

Just skin and silence.

Chuuya’s voice broke it, minutes later.

Soft.

“I don’t know what we are.”

Dazai rested his chin against Chuuya’s hair.

“Something that can’t survive in daylight.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

Then Chuuya whispered—

“I’m okay with that.”

And they both knew:

That wasn’t surrender anymore.

That was a choice.

Later, when they lay side by side—fully clothed, backs to the ceiling, not quite touching—Dazai spoke first.

“You still have the recordings.”

Chuuya didn’t look over. “Of course.”

“And the pictures.”

“All of them.”

A pause.

“And you want to use them?”

Chuuya was quiet for a long time.

Then:

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I already got what I wanted.”

Dazai’s heart stuttered.

Chuuya rolled onto his side, finally facing him.

“I have you now.”

Dazai met his gaze.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t smirk.

Just nodded.

Because it was true.

They didn’t fall asleep.

They never did when they were together.

There was too much noise in the quiet.

But they didn’t speak again that night.

And when the sun began to rise through the blinds, painting soft gold across their faces, Dazai finally reached over.

His fingers found Chuuya’s.

Interlaced them.

No pressure.

Just presence.

Chuuya didn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

It didn’t happen all at once.

It never did.

Obsession didn’t knock. It slid under the door, seeped through the cracks in the walls, disguised itself as comfort until you couldn’t remember what the house looked like before it moved in.

That’s what it was now—comfortable.

Familiar.

Like Dazai's apartment had always had two toothbrushes. Like Chuuya had always left his boots by the door. Like their nights had always ended in silence, sharing the same bed, breathing from opposite sides of a line they no longer acknowledged.

They didn’t talk about what they were.

They didn’t need to.

They’d built something beyond words.

It was closer than love.

More brutal than possession.

And when the world outside tried to intrude, they just… shut it out.

Together.

It started with the door.

Dazai locked it every night now.

Twice.

Then the windows.

Then the balcony.

Chuuya noticed, of course.

He always noticed.

“You’re afraid someone’s watching,” he said one evening, perched on the windowsill, a cigarette unlit between his fingers.

Dazai didn’t look up from where he sat on the bed.

“Everyone’s always watching.”

“But they don’t see us.”

“They don’t understand us.”

Chuuya hummed. “They would if we let them.”

“Would they?” Dazai asked. “Or would they try to take you from me?”

Chuuya finally lit the cigarette.

Exhaled slow.

“No one’s strong enough to do that,” he said.

And Dazai believed him.

The escalation wasn’t in what they said.

It was in what they touched.

Chuuya no longer flinched when Dazai wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. He didn’t pull away when fingers slid beneath the hem of his shirt to rest, harmless but possessive, on his hip.

Dazai didn’t ask anymore.

He knew.

Knew when Chuuya was pliant.

Knew when he wanted to be dragged into Dazai’s lap, pulled too close, held just a little too tightly to be casual.

Knew when Chuuya wanted his mouth on his throat, not to kiss, but to bruise.

To mark.

To remind.

And Chuuya?

He started leaving marks too.

Scratch lines down Dazai’s back.

Bite-shaped impressions on his shoulder.

Fingertips that gripped like they were afraid Dazai might vanish if he let go.

They never said no.

Not anymore.

They just… let it happen.

Every time.

And each time, it went a little further.

Last week, Dazai had slipped a hand under Chuuya’s shirt.

This week, Chuuya yanked Dazai’s shirt off entirely.

Not in desperation.

In control.

He’d held Dazai’s wrists down after.

Just to see if he could.

Just to feel it.

And Dazai hadn’t stopped him.

He’d smiled.

Closed his eyes.

Whispered, “Finally.”

But the world was watching now.

They could feel it.

People stared longer in class.

Teachers paused when calling roll, looking between the two of them with that faint wrinkle of concern.

Dazai’s friends asked where he’d been.

Chuuya’s boss left him another warning about missed shifts.

None of it mattered.

Not really.

Not when Chuuya had his legs slung across Dazai’s lap in the back corner of the library, pretending to read while Dazai traced idle lines over his thigh.

Not when Dazai reached into Chuuya’s backpack during lunch and slipped a photograph into the front pocket—a picture Chuuya didn’t even remember being taken.

Not when they fell asleep together now, not out of exhaustion, but out of need.

Not when they needed to be close just to keep the silence from screaming.

One night, Chuuya showed up with a knife.

Nothing threatening.

Small.

Foldable.

Dazai raised a brow.

Chuuya shrugged, tossed it onto the desk.

“I wanted to see what it felt like.”

Dazai said nothing.

Later that night, he left the knife on his pillow.

And Chuuya smiled.

Like it was a gift.

Like it was trust.

And in a way, it was.

But the pressure was building.

Someone had followed Chuuya home that week.

They didn’t say anything—just passed him twice on the sidewalk.

He didn’t tell Dazai.

Not because he didn’t want him to know.

But because he knew what Dazai would do.

He knew that whatever part of Dazai still resembled a boy would vanish.

And all that would be left would be what Chuuya created.

What they’d built together.

So he stayed quiet.

Instead, he slipped a new camera into Dazai’s apartment.

Not to spy.

Just to be sure.

Just to feel safe.

Just to be closer.

The world was still out there.

It was starting to whisper.

But behind the locked door?

They were louder.

And in the dark?

They didn’t need to speak at all.

Chapter Text

It started with a knock.

Not at a door.

At a desk.

Monday morning. First period.

Dazai and Chuuya sat where they always did now—side by side, quiet, still, a little too close for comfort. Most people had stopped questioning it. Whispers died off. Curiosity gave way to wariness. No one approached them anymore.

Except today.

“Chuuya?”

He blinked.

Lifted his gaze.

A girl stood in front of their shared desk, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Not one of the loud ones. Not someone who normally talked to either of them. She held a piece of paper in her hands like it might shield her.

Chuuya stared at her.

Then at the paper.

He didn’t speak.

She hesitated, then pushed the paper onto the desk. “It’s for you. I—saw something. I don’t know if it’s serious or not, but… I thought you should know.”

Chuuya didn’t move to take it.

Dazai, however, leaned forward.

And smiled.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “What is it you think you saw?”

The girl flinched.

It was slight. Subtle.

But Chuuya saw it.

Everyone always flinched when Dazai smiled like that.

The girl recovered quickly. “Just… open it. Please.”

She walked away before they could say anything else.

Dazai picked up the paper.

Unfolded it.

Chuuya leaned in.

It was a screenshot.

Grainy, but clear enough.

A still from a hallway camera.

Chuuya, leaning into Dazai’s chest behind the library. Dazai’s arms around him. Their faces too close for interpretation. The timestamp was from two weeks ago.

There was a second page.

A short note.

“You don’t have to stay quiet. This isn’t normal.”

Chuuya’s blood went cold.

He grabbed the paper, stuffed it into his bag, and stared straight ahead.

Dazai didn’t speak.

Not until lunch.

They were alone—back of the library, the usual spot. Chuuya hadn’t touched his food.

Dazai sat with his legs crossed, spinning a pen between his fingers.

“That girl,” he said finally, “what’s her name?”

Chuuya didn’t answer.

“I’ll find out,” Dazai said casually. “She’s in our chem class.”

“You’re not going to do anything,” Chuuya said.

Dazai raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t I?”

Chuuya’s jaw clenched. “She’s just a kid.”

“So are we.”

Chuuya looked away.

The silence stretched.

Then Dazai leaned forward.

“You’re scared.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he said. “Because someone saw.”

“Yeah, well—maybe they should’ve.”

Dazai stilled.

That wasn’t the answer he expected.

Chuuya met his eyes. “Maybe someone should say something. Maybe this is too much.”

Dazai tilted his head. “Now you’re doubting?”

Chuuya stood suddenly, pacing a short distance from the table. “I’m not doubting you,” he said. “I’m doubting… us. This. How far we’ve taken it.”

“We haven’t taken it far enough.”

Chuuya turned on him. “What does that even mean?”

Dazai stood, slowly.

Approached.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, voice low. “Do you want to go back to pretending? Do you want to forget everything we’ve done?”

Chuuya didn’t answer.

Dazai stepped closer.

“Because I can,” he said. “I can disappear from your life. I can vanish. I’ll burn every photo, delete every file. I’ll never look at you again.”

Chuuya’s throat tightened.

“But if I do that,” Dazai whispered, “what will you be left with?”

Chuuya’s fingers twitched.

“I’ll tell you,” Dazai said. “Silence. Emptiness. Nights without me at your window. Mornings without me beside you. No more pictures. No more hands in your hair. No more knowing someone is watching because they can’t bear not to.”

Chuuya stepped back.

“Don’t.”

“You think she understands you?” Dazai asked. “You think anyone else ever will?”

Chuuya’s breath hitched.

Dazai leaned close, mouth at his ear.

“I’m the only one who sees you,” he said. “The only one who knows what you are. The only one who likes it.”

Chuuya shuddered.

“I’m not letting that girl ruin us,” Dazai said. “I don’t care if she sends that photo to the school. I don’t care if they call your parents. I don’t care if the world burns.”

He reached into his coat.

Pulled out the photo.

Not the screenshot.

The original.

From the hallway.

Uncropped.

Clear.

Chuuya stared.

“You—?”

“I found it before she did,” Dazai said. “She only got a copy.”

Chuuya took it, hands shaking.

“I handle things,” Dazai said.

Chuuya met his eyes.

And saw it.

That same smile.

That same fire.

That same devotion.

And he realized, with sudden clarity—

This was never about stopping.

It was about making sure no one could.

He crushed the photo in his hand.

And nodded.

Dazai smiled wider.

The girl never brought it up again.

No one else ever did, either.

But the whispers came back.

The looks.

The way people moved just a little farther down the hallway when Dazai passed.

The way teachers watched Chuuya for a little too long after class.

But it didn’t matter.

Because when Chuuya walked into school that Thursday with a fresh bruise blooming beneath his jaw—sharp-edged, the shape of a mouth—no one asked.

And when Dazai tucked a note into Chuuya’s palm before lunch—just a folded square of paper with the words:

“I’ll protect you. Even from the truth.”

—Chuuya didn’t speak.

He just kept it in his pocket.

And didn’t let go all day.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t planned.

That was the worst part.

Dazai had spent months building this—curating it. A perfect imbalance. A dangerous, obsessive dance with just enough control to keep it from slipping.

But it was always going to slip.

Because you can’t choreograph madness.

Not forever.

It happened on a Wednesday.

Rain-soaked and dull.

Chuuya hadn’t come to school.

He hadn’t messaged. Hadn’t shown up at Dazai’s door the night before. No call, no warning, no trail to follow. Just absence.

Dazai waited.

First period.

Second.

Lunch.

He didn’t panic—because panic was sloppy, and he didn’t do sloppy.

But by seventh, when the hallways were thinning and the silence in his head had gone from white noise to a scream, he stopped waiting.

He left.

No one stopped him.

Of course they didn’t.

No one ever stopped Dazai from doing anything.

He walked out in the rain with no umbrella. Got on the train. Stared at the fogged-up window like he could will it to show him what he wanted to see.

He let himself into Chuuya’s building with the copy of the key he’d made months ago.

The lights were off.

The apartment cold.

Still.

And then, on the desk—his notebook.

Open.

Pages fluttering slightly from the breeze through a cracked window.

Dazai stepped closer.

Something in him twitched.

The pages weren’t just open.

They were placed.

A message.

A warning.

Poems—yes—but raw, unfinished. Scribbled like thoughts Chuuya didn’t mean to leave behind. Lines crossed out. Pages torn at the edge. And underlined, in red ink:

“He’ll ruin me before I ruin him. I don’t know which I want more.”

Dazai stood still.

Hands clenched.

The notebook was full of them.

Confessions.

Regrets.

Fantasies.

The words were frantic. Repetitive. Obsessive.

But worse than all of that—there was distance in them.

Chuuya had written these without telling him.

He’d hidden them.

He’d been pulling away.

And Dazai—Dazai didn’t remember how to lose things.

Not anymore.

So when he found the second phone—tucked in the drawer under Chuuya’s bed, screen cracked, used only once to send a single message—he didn’t hesitate.

The message was sent to an unknown contact.

Attached to it?

A photo.

Dazai’s photo.

The hallway one.

Not the one Chuuya took—the one from the camera.

Timestamp.

Location.

Caption:

“If anything happens to me, start here.”

The world tilted.

Dazai stood over the bed, breathing shallow.

That was the moment.

That was the mistake.

Because he didn’t think.

He didn’t wait.

He grabbed the phone.

Smashed it.

Not just cracked—obliterated.

Screen into shards. Battery ripped. Wires exposed.

Then he set the pieces in the sink and turned on the water.

Flooded them.

Let them drown.

Let the silence return.

Let the panic bury itself beneath action.

He didn’t go home.

He stayed in Chuuya’s room that night.

Sat on the edge of the bed with the ruined phone beside him.

Watched the door like Chuuya might walk in any minute.

He didn’t.

The next day, Chuuya came to school.

Late.

Eyes heavy. Voice gone. Hoodie zipped to his chin.

He didn’t look at Dazai during class.

Didn’t sit beside him.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

But after the bell, he turned.

And said, very quietly:

“Someone broke into my apartment.”

Dazai blinked slowly.

“Oh?”

“They didn’t take anything. Just smashed a phone. Left a note.”

He pulled a folded piece of paper from his sleeve.

Held it out.

Dazai opened it.

It was his handwriting.

Sloppy. Shaken.

“Don’t do that again.”

Chuuya’s eyes were dull.

“You made a mistake,” he said.

Dazai didn’t speak.

“I gave you everything,” Chuuya whispered. “I let you take everything. But the moment you started dismantling me—I saw it.”

His voice cracked.

“I’m not yours if you need to erase me to keep me.”

Dazai reached for him.

Chuuya stepped back.

And for the first time, Dazai saw it.

The fear.

Not the thrill.

Not the obsession.

Real fear.

A line crossed.

And no plan in place.

That night, Dazai went home alone.

And the camera feed on his laptop?

Static.

Someone had cut the wire.

And not by accident.

Chapter Text

It started with nothing.

No text.

No call.

No photo slipped into his locker. No hand on his back in the hallway. No breath on his neck when the world got too loud.

Chuuya noticed the absence first in the small things.

No eyes on him during first period.

No coffee waiting in the corner seat of the library.

No flicker of Dazai’s presence in the quiet places he used to haunt.

By the end of the day, he wasn’t worried.

Not really.

Dazai was dramatic.

He liked games.

Chuuya told himself that—told himself this was just another test.

So he waited.

The second day, it was worse.

Dazai was there—in class, in the halls, in the world—but it was like he wasn’t.

He didn’t sit next to Chuuya.

Didn’t glance his way.

Didn’t see him.

He walked past Chuuya like they’d never touched, never spoken, never destroyed each other in the dark.

Like they were strangers.

Chuuya approached him at lunch.

Sat down beside him.

Waited.

“Hey,” he said.

Dazai didn’t answer.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t blink.

Like he’d gone deaf.

Like Chuuya didn’t exist.

Chuuya tried again.

“Dazai.”

Nothing.

He reached out—touched his wrist.

Dazai stood and left without a word.

By day four, Chuuya couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t eat.

Didn’t sleep.

He walked the halls like a ghost, haunted by a presence that used to follow him like a shadow.

He checked the cameras in his room—nothing.

No new recordings.

No glitches.

No signs of tampering.

No sign Dazai had been watching.

He opened his closet—no new photos.

His pillow—no new notes.

His inbox—empty.

Silence.

Complete.

Unrelenting.

Dazai hadn’t just pulled away.

He’d erased himself.

And Chuuya felt it like withdrawal.

He shook.

He itched.

He ached.

He stared at the walls of photos—the ones he used to take comfort in—and felt nothing but nausea.

Because they were lies now.

Snapshots of a time when Dazai saw him.

Needed him.

Treated him like something worth breaking for.

But now?

Nothing.

And Chuuya couldn’t survive on nothing.

The end came on a Friday.

Late.

Rain again.

Of course.

He showed up at Dazai’s door—soaked, shivering, exhausted.

He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again.

Still nothing.

Finally, he sank to the floor, forehead pressed to the wood, voice breaking.

“Please.”

Silence.

“I can’t—I can’t do this.”

Silence.

“Say something. Hurt me. Touch me. Watch me.”

Nothing.

Chuuya’s voice cracked.

“I’ll do anything.”

Still nothing.

“I need you.”

That, finally, made the door open.

Dazai stood in the frame, backlit by dim apartment light.

Expression unreadable.

Chuuya didn’t stand.

Didn’t move.

He just looked up, wet hair in his eyes, mouth trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll be good. I’ll stop hiding things. I’ll let you see everything. Just—please come back.”

Dazai stared down at him.

Then stepped aside.

Said nothing.

But that was enough.

Chuuya crawled in.

And when the door closed behind him, he felt like he could breathe again for the first time in days.

He collapsed at Dazai’s feet.

And Dazai knelt beside him.

Ran a hand through his hair.

Whispered:

“You needed to remember what you are without me.”

Chuuya nodded, dazed.

“And?”

“I’m nothing,” he choked.

Dazai smiled.

“Good.”

Chapter Text

Dazai didn’t speak at first.

He just led Chuuya inside—slow, quiet. The lights were low, the apartment clean, untouched. Like nothing had happened. Like Chuuya hadn’t shattered three days ago on the other side of that door.

Chuuya stood in the middle of the living room, dripping rain onto the hardwood floor, too dazed to feel cold.

Dazai closed the door with a soft click.

Then approached.

He took Chuuya’s jacket first.

Carefully.

Like it was delicate.

Like Chuuya was.

Chuuya didn’t protest.

Didn’t flinch when Dazai reached for his hoodie, peeled it away, tugged his soaked shirt over his head.

He just let it happen.

Like penance.

Like prayer.

“You’re shaking,” Dazai murmured.

Chuuya nodded.

Dazai touched his face—lightly. Barely there. Fingers cold against clammy skin.

“You’ve been punishing yourself.”

“I missed you,” Chuuya whispered.

Dazai smiled faintly.

“I know.”

He brushed wet hair back from Chuuya’s forehead. Traced the curve of his cheekbone with his knuckle. Not possessive. Not yet. Just present.

Chuuya leaned into it like a starving thing.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have hidden anything. I was scared.”

“You’re not anymore?”

Chuuya shook his head.

Dazai’s hand dropped to Chuuya’s throat—not to grip, not to hurt. Just to rest. A thumb brushing his pulse.

“Good boy,” Dazai said.

Chuuya shivered.

He didn’t move when Dazai leaned in and pressed his mouth just under Chuuya’s ear.

“You remembered your place.”

It wasn’t cruel.

It was loving.

And that made it worse.

He led Chuuya to the bed next—didn’t drag, didn’t demand. Just guided.

He dried his hair with a towel. Gave him clean clothes. Made him sit. Covered him in blankets.

Chuuya didn’t speak.

Didn’t ask for more.

Because this was more.

More than the silence.

More than the cold.

This was everything.

Dazai sat behind him, legs on either side, arms circling his waist. Chuuya melted into the touch like a match to flame.

“You needed to feel the absence,” Dazai whispered against his neck. “To understand how deep this runs.”

Chuuya nodded.

“I do.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I want you to,” Chuuya breathed.

Dazai smiled.

“You don’t need to say that. Not tonight.”

He pressed a kiss to the nape of Chuuya’s neck.

“You’re mine again.”

Chuuya turned his head just enough to catch Dazai’s eyes.

“I was never not yours.”

That pleased him.

Dazai wrapped both arms around him tighter.

Held him.

Not roughly. Not forcefully.

But with total certainty.

Like Chuuya belonged there.

Like this was inevitable.

And maybe it was.

Maybe it always had been.

They stayed like that for hours.

Sitting.

Breathing.

Touching.

Every so often, Dazai would speak.

A whisper. A reassurance.

“You’re safe here.”

“No one sees you like I do.”

“You don’t need anyone else.”

Chuuya absorbed every word.

Drank it in like oxygen.

Dazai’s voice became the only thing that tethered him to the room.

And when Dazai finally leaned forward and pressed their mouths together—slow, deliberate, no desperation left—Chuuya let out a soft sound.

Relief.

It felt like being taken back.

It felt like being allowed.

Dazai kissed him again.

Again.

Until Chuuya trembled under his hands and reached up to hold onto him.

“Thank you,” Chuuya whispered.

Dazai kissed the corner of his mouth.

“For what?”

“For letting me have you again.”

Dazai smiled against his skin.

“You never stopped.”

Later, when Chuuya was half-asleep, head on Dazai’s chest, breath finally even—Dazai reached under the mattress.

Pulled out a small object.

A camera.

Not live.

Just recording.

He turned it off.

No need to save this.

Not when the real reward was in the moment.

In the submission.

In the silence that now belonged to him again.

He kissed the top of Chuuya’s head.

“You did so well,” he whispered.

And Chuuya, already gone, didn’t hear the rest:

“I won’t have to erase you again.”

Chapter Text

Chuuya woke to warmth.

Not sunlight—Dazai kept the curtains drawn, always—but the weight of an arm across his waist, the heat of breath at the back of his neck, the quiet pulse of someone who never truly slept.

He didn’t open his eyes.

He didn’t need to.

He could feel the shape of Dazai’s body like a second skin. Could trace the rhythm of their breathing like music only they knew how to hum. Could count the seconds between each slow inhale and the way Dazai’s fingers flexed ever so slightly against his hip.

It was perfect.

And it was terrifying.

Because this was the quiet he used to dream about.

And now that he had it?

He couldn’t imagine surviving without it.

So when Dazai’s hand slid beneath his shirt—just resting, just warm—Chuuya didn’t flinch. He leaned back instead. Offered more.

Dazai kissed his shoulder.

“You’re awake.”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

They didn’t speak for a while after that.

There was no need.

Later, Dazai made tea.

Chuuya sat on the couch, blanket around his shoulders, watching the steam curl from the mug like smoke. He hadn’t asked for anything. Dazai hadn’t needed him to.

It was instinct, now.

He took the mug when offered.

He drank what he was given.

He sat where Dazai placed him.

None of it felt like control.

It felt like care.

But that was always the trick.

Dazai sat beside him, one leg folded beneath the other, eyes soft.

“You’re quiet today.”

Chuuya nodded.

Dazai tilted his head. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m… happy.”

“Mm.”

Dazai leaned in, pressing a kiss just behind Chuuya’s ear.

“That’s what I want to hear.”

Chuuya smiled faintly.

Then Dazai whispered:

“Give me your passwords.”

Chuuya blinked.

Turned.

“What?”

Dazai was still smiling. Still soft. Still perfect.

“To your phone. Laptop. Email. All of it.”

He said it like it was nothing.

Like it was a casual thing lovers asked.

“Why?” Chuuya asked, though his voice had no bite.

Dazai brushed hair from his eyes.

“Because I want to protect you.”

Chuuya hesitated.

Then nodded.

He told him.

Every password.

One by one.

Dazai kissed him after each one.

Soft. Affirming.

“Good boy.”

“You’re doing so well.”

“I just want to keep you safe.”

By the end of it, Chuuya had tears in his eyes and didn’t know why.

Dazai wiped them away with his thumbs.

“You’re mine,” he whispered.

Chuuya nodded.

“Yes.”

“You trust me.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll let me take care of you.”

Chuuya nodded again.

And Dazai kissed him so sweetly, it didn’t even feel like a theft.

But it was.

Because later that night, when Chuuya fell asleep on the couch, Dazai opened his laptop.

Logged into his accounts.

Every one.

Not just to look.

To change.

To mirror.

To set up quiet access from his own systems.

And when he was done, he sat beside Chuuya again and watched him sleep.

Hand on his chest.

Feeling his heartbeat.

The same one he now held in both hands.

And Chuuya never woke.

Never stirred.

Never knew what he'd given up.

Chapter Text

The email came just after midnight.

Not anonymous.

Not a warning.

A declaration.

Subject: “This Has to Stop.”

The sender: Ms. Hoshino.

The teacher who’d always lingered a little too long after class. Who spoke to Chuuya in hushed tones. Who once pulled him aside and said, “You don’t have to stay where you feel afraid.”

Inside the email:

Three photographs.

Two names.

A time. A threat.

“If neither of you come forward, I will.”

Dazai read it in silence.

The apartment was dark, save for the low flicker of the laptop screen and the slow tick of the clock.

Chuuya was asleep in the bed behind him—face soft, mouth slightly open, hand curled into the blanket like a child.

Dazai stared at the screen for a long time.

Then closed the laptop.

He stood.

Walked to the bed.

Kneelt down beside Chuuya and brushed hair from his face.

“Chuuya,” he whispered.

The redhead stirred, blinking awake.

“Mmh… ‘s wrong?”

“I need you to do something.”

Chuuya sat up.

Didn’t question it.

Just nodded.

“What is it?”

Dazai cupped his jaw gently.

Soft. Reverent.

“She wants to take you from me.”

Chuuya blinked once.

Then shook his head.

“No one can.”

“No,” Dazai said. “But she’ll try.”

Chuuya’s voice was already steady.

“What do you want me to do?”

Dazai smiled.

And told him.

Step by step.

She stayed late most Thursdays.

Said she liked the quiet.

Said it helped her grade.

The hallway lights were motion-activated—just dim enough for shadows.

Chuuya waited outside the staff lounge until the door opened.

She froze when she saw him.

“Chuuya?”

He said nothing.

Just stepped forward.

Her brow furrowed. “Did you get my email?”

“Yes.”

“I meant what I said. You’re not safe with him.”

“I’m not safe from you.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. “I’m trying to help.”

Chuuya nodded.

“I know.”

He pulled the knife from his coat pocket.

Small. Clean. Meant for intimidation.

He didn’t use it that way.

He slashed first.

Quick, shallow—across the arm. A warning.

She screamed.

He lunged.

The second cut was deeper.

Not fatal.

Deliberate.

Blood bloomed down her sleeve as she fell back against the lockers.

She was crying now—sputtering his name, trying to crawl away.

“Please—I won’t say anything—I swear—”

“You already said enough.”

Another cut—across the thigh.

She shrieked.

“You should’ve stayed out of it.”

He pressed the knife to her throat.

Didn’t press hard.

Didn’t need to.

She froze.

He leaned in.

Voice even.

“If you tell anyone what you saw… I won’t miss next time.”

She nodded, shaking.

“Say it.”

“I—I won’t tell. I won’t.”

He stared at her for another beat.

Then stood.

Wiped the blade on her cardigan.

And walked away.

When he returned, Dazai was waiting in the doorway.

No smile.

Just arms open.

Chuuya stepped into them without hesitation.

Dazai held him tight.

Kissed his temple.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered.

Chuuya nodded into his chest.

“She won’t say anything.”

“I know.”

Dazai cupped his face in both hands.

“You did exactly what I needed.”

“I’d do it again.”

Dazai kissed him.

Soft.

Slow.

Proud.

“You’re mine.”

“Yes.”

“Only mine.”

“Yes.”

Later, Dazai cleaned the knife himself.

Chuuya fell asleep against him on the couch, dried blood on his sleeves, heartbeat steady.

It wasn’t guilt.

It wasn’t regret.

It was peace.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Chuuya didn’t speak.

He sat on the edge of Dazai’s bed, hoodie sleeves rolled down over his knuckles, knees pulled to his chest like the silence might cave in on him if he didn’t hold himself together.

His hands were clean, but they still trembled. Not from fear. Nor from guilt. Just from stillness. He hadn’t moved all night.

Dazai woke slowly. Watched him from the pillows. Didn’t speak either—not at first.

He knew the aftermath wasn’t something you cut through with words. It was something you sat in. Sank into.

Owned.

Eventually, he rose.

Crossed the room barefoot.

Knelt in front of Chuuya, between his legs.

Touched his wrist.

Chuuya looked up.

Eyes hollow.

Voice soft.

“I didn’t even hesitate.”

“I know.”

“I thought I would. But when you told me what to do… I just—did it.”

“That’s because you’re strong.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Dazai said. “You’re just mine now. And that changes the rules.”

He guided Chuuya’s hands into his own.

Laced their fingers together.

“You did what had to be done.”

Chuuya’s breath hitched.

“She begged.”

“I would’ve too, if I were her.”

Chuuya swallowed.

“But I still would’ve told you to finish it.”

Chuuya looked at him—really looked.

And Dazai smiled.

Soft. Steady.

“Don’t pull away now.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. In your head.”

Chuuya gripped his hands tighter.

“I’m still here.”

“I know.”

Dazai leaned in.

Pressed their foreheads together.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered.

“I don’t feel safe.”

“You will.”

“I only feel safe with you.”

Dazai kissed him.

Slow.

Lingering.

“I know.”

They didn’t go to school that day.

Or the day after.

No one called.

No one asked.

Not yet.

Dazai kept the news off.

Kept the curtains drawn.

Chuuya slept most of the day.

Dazai cooked.

Fed him quietly.

Sat with him through the quiet.

Held him when the tremors came back.

Not from fear.

Not from regret.

From something deeper.

Recognition.

Of what he’d become.

Of what Dazai had made him.

And still—he wanted it.

He didn’t ask Dazai to take it back.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t confess.

Just clung to him.

Gripped his shirt like a lifeline.

Because whatever came next—whatever knock on the door, whatever whisper in the halls—they would face it the same way they faced everything else:

Together.

And alone.

That night, Dazai ran a bath.

Sat behind Chuuya in the water.

Soaped his arms slowly.

Gently.

Washed away what had already dried.

“I’d do it again,” Chuuya murmured.

“I know.”

“If you asked.”

“I know.”

He leaned back into Dazai’s chest.

Closed his eyes.

“You’re all I have now.”

“No,” Dazai whispered. “I’m all you need.”

And when they left the water, when Dazai dried him with care and tucked him beneath the covers—Chuuya didn’t feel clean.

He felt claimed.

And he didn’t want anything else.

Chapter Text

They didn’t leave the apartment for four days.

At first, it was because the storm hadn’t let up—constant rain against the windows, the kind that blurred the world outside into something abstract, forgettable.

But even when the sky cleared, they stayed.

Dazai made excuses.

“There’s nothing out there we need.”

“Rest is good for you.”

“No one’s asking where we are.”

And Chuuya believed him.

Because it was easier that way.

Because it was safer.

Because Dazai said so.

He stopped checking his phone.

Stopped opening his laptop.

Stopped reading the news.

His name felt strange when he said it aloud. Too sharp. Too loud in his mouth.

He sat in the quiet most days.

Reading the same page over and over again.

Staring at the same mug on the counter.

Watching the light crawl across the floor like a slow-breathing animal.

And Dazai?

Dazai never left his side.

He was in every room Chuuya entered.

Every corner.

Every breath.

Soft, quiet hands always within reach. A voice at the back of his mind even when it wasn’t speaking.

“You’re okay.”

“You’re safe.”

“I’ve got you.”

It was comforting.

At first.

Then it became everything.

On the fifth night, Chuuya tried to stand while Dazai was in the shower.

He wanted to find a sweater. Something warmer than what he had on.

But when he got to his feet, the floor tilted.

The hallway stretched too long.

He made it three steps before his knees gave out.

When Dazai found him, he was curled against the wall, breathing hard, eyes wide and unfocused.

“Chuuya,” he said.

Chuuya didn’t answer.

Dazai knelt beside him.

Lifted his chin.

Chuuya blinked.

“Where did you go?” he whispered.

“Nowhere,” Dazai said. “I was just—”

“No,” Chuuya murmured. “Where did I go?”

Dazai paused.

Then pulled him close.

Held him there.

“You didn’t go anywhere,” he said. “You’re right here. With me.”

Chuuya clung to him.

And said nothing else.

That night, Dazai sat him in front of the mirror.

Chuuya didn’t meet his own gaze.

“Look,” Dazai said softly.

“I don’t want to.”

“Look.”

Chuuya raised his eyes.

What stared back wasn’t him.

Pale. Hollow-eyed. Lips bitten raw.

Not pathetic.

Just… gone.

“I don’t like it,” he whispered.

“I know.”

Dazai touched his face from behind.

“You’re tired. That’s all.”

“Is it?”

Dazai nodded.

Kissed his temple.

“You’re not broken. Just mine.”

Chuuya closed his eyes.

Let his weight fall back against Dazai’s chest.

“Okay.”

He stopped dreaming.

Or maybe he just didn’t notice anymore.

Everything blurred.

Wake. Sleep. Touch. Voice.

Dazai’s fingers brushing through his hair.

The soft, quiet rhythm of “You don’t need to think right now.”

The way food tasted like nothing but Dazai’s hands feeding him.

The way his body moved only when guided.

He hadn’t left the building in a week.

He hadn’t missed it.

On the eighth day, Dazai pulled him into his lap on the couch.

Held him like a child.

Wrapped a blanket around both of them.

“Do you remember the first time I spoke to you?” he asked.

“No.”

“You were sitting behind me in class. Writing that poem.”

Chuuya smiled faintly.

“That was so long ago.”

“It wasn’t.”

Chuuya looked at him.

“Has it always been like this?”

“No,” Dazai said. “It’s better now.”

Chuuya rested his head on Dazai’s shoulder.

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Dazai kissed his hair.

“You’re mine. That’s enough.”

Chuuya closed his eyes.

And believed him.