Chapter Text
Morning came too quickly.
It always did after nights like that—heavy with words that weren’t quite arguments and silences that meant far more than shouting ever could.
Oda woke before the alarm, the habit ingrained into him long before Dazai had entered his life. For a moment, he stayed still, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation from the porch in fragments.
You should’ve told me.
I don’t like being left behind.
Those words didn’t fade with sleep. They settled deeper.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Oda sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before getting out of bed. The floor creaked faintly beneath his steps as he moved toward the kitchen. He paused at the doorway—not out of hesitation, but instinct.
Dazai was already there.
Of course he was.
He sat at the table, legs pulled loosely beneath him, a cup of coffee in front of him that he hadn’t touched. His bandaged fingers traced the rim absentmindedly, eyes unfocused, like he was somewhere else entirely.
Not here.
Not with him.
Oda stepped inside anyway. “You’re up early.”
Dazai hummed softly, not looking up. “Couldn’t sleep.”
A lie.
Not a complete one—but enough.
Oda moved to the counter, pouring himself coffee, giving Dazai space without leaving him alone. It was a delicate balance he’d learned over time—how to stay close without crowding, how to care without suffocating.
“I made breakfast,” Oda said after a moment.
Dazai glanced briefly at the stove, then back to his cup. “You always do.”
There was no bite in it. No sarcasm.
Just… distance.
Oda set a plate down in front of him anyway. “You should eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You said that yesterday too.”
Dazai’s lips curved faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I’m consistent.”
Oda exhaled quietly. “That’s not something to be proud of.”
That earned him a glance.
Brief. Sharp.
Alive.
But it vanished just as quickly.
Dazai stood, pushing the chair back with a soft scrape. “I’ll be late if I stay.”
“You haven’t even—”
“I’ll get something at school,” Dazai cut in smoothly.
Another lie.
They both knew it.
Oda didn’t stop him this time.
He just watched as Dazai grabbed his bag and slipped out the door without another word, the quiet click of it closing echoing louder than it should’ve.
School didn’t feel like school anymore.
It felt like a stage.
And Dazai—Dazai was playing a role so well that no one questioned it.
He laughed at the right moments. Made jokes that had the class half-amused, half-unsettled. He leaned back in his chair like nothing in the world could touch him.
Untouchable.
Unbothered.
Unaffected.
Except—
Ango saw it.
Of course he did.
“Dazai,” Ango said during class, voice measured as always, “if you’re quite finished entertaining yourself, perhaps you’d like to contribute something of substance.”
Dazai tilted his head, smile lazy. “But sensei, entertainment is substance. It’s what keeps people from thinking too hard about unpleasant truths.”
A few students chuckled.
Ango didn’t.
“And what truths are those?” he asked.
Dazai’s gaze flicked up—sharp, deliberate.
“The kind people hide,” he said lightly. “The kind they pretend doesn’t exist because acknowledging them would make things… inconvenient.”
The air shifted.
Subtle—but real.
Ango adjusted his glasses, buying himself a second. “You seem particularly focused on that topic lately.”
“Do I?” Dazai hummed. “Maybe I’ve just developed a taste for honesty.”
“Honesty,” Ango repeated carefully, “is rarely as simple as you make it sound.”
Dazai’s smile widened—thin, knowing. “That’s because most people don’t actually want honesty. They want comfort.”
Silence settled across the room.
Uncomfortable.
Heavy.
Ango let it sit for a moment before turning back to the board. “Open your books.”
The lesson continued.
But the tension didn’t leave.
Lunch was worse.
Because lunch meant choices.
And Dazai—Dazai chose distance.
He didn’t sit with anyone. Not really. He drifted, as he always did, but there was a difference now. Before, it had been playful—intentional mischief, a game of appearances.
Now?
Now it felt like avoidance.
He ended up on the rooftop.
Alone.
The wind tugged at his coat as he leaned against the railing, staring out at the city below. From up here, everything looked smaller. Simpler.
Less complicated.
He wondered, briefly, if that’s why people liked heights.
Because distance made things easier to understand.
A soft creak of the door behind him.
Dazai didn’t turn.
“You’re not very subtle,” he said.
There was a pause.
Then footsteps.
“Neither are you,” Ango replied.
Dazai smiled faintly. “Flattery?”
“Observation.”
Ango stepped beside him, resting his arms on the railing, leaving just enough space between them.
Not too close.
Not too far.
“You’ve been… different,” Ango said after a moment.
“Have I?” Dazai’s voice was light, but his eyes stayed fixed ahead. “I thought I was improving.”
“This isn’t improvement.”
Dazai laughed softly. “That sounds like disappointment.”
Ango didn’t deny it.
“I’m concerned,” he said instead.
“About me?” Dazai finally turned, expression almost amused. “Or about what I know?”
There it was.
Direct.
Unavoidable.
Ango’s jaw tightened slightly. “Dazai—”
“It’s alright,” Dazai cut in gently. “You don’t have to explain. I understand.”
“Do you?”
Dazai’s smile softened—something almost genuine flickering through. “Better than you think.”
A beat.
Then, quieter—
“I’m not angry, you know.”
Ango blinked. “You’re not?”
Dazai looked back out at the city. “No. Anger is… inefficient. It clouds judgement.”
“Then what are you feeling?”
Dazai considered that.
Really considered it.
“…Curious,” he said finally.
Ango frowned. “About what?”
“About how long you would’ve kept it a secret.”
The words landed softly.
But they hit hard.
Ango exhaled slowly. “It wasn’t meant to hurt you.”
“I know,” Dazai said easily. “That’s what makes it interesting.”
“…Interesting.”
“Yes.” Dazai tilted his head slightly. “People rarely intend to hurt others. And yet—they do. Repeatedly. Predictably. Almost like it’s unavoidable.”
“That’s a very cynical way of looking at it.”
“It’s a realistic one.”
Ango studied him for a long moment.
“You care more than you’re letting on,” he said quietly.
Dazai didn’t respond.
Didn’t deny it either.
The wind filled the silence between them.
Then—
“I won’t tell anyone,” Dazai said suddenly.
Ango stiffened. “Dazai—”
“I mean it.” His voice was calm. Certain. “Your secret is safe.”
“That’s not—”
“But,” Dazai continued, turning slightly, eyes darker now, “you should tell him.”
Ango’s breath caught.
“Odasaku deserves honesty too,” Dazai said. “Don’t you think?”
The irony wasn’t lost on either of them.
Ango let out a quiet, tired breath. “You’re asking me to do the very thing you’re upset about.”
“Yes.”
“…That’s unfair.”
Dazai’s smile returned—sharp, fleeting. “So is lying.”
Silence.
Then Ango nodded, just once.
“…I will.”
Dazai watched him for a moment, as if weighing the sincerity of that promise.
Then he looked away.
“Good.”
That evening, the house felt different again.
Not as heavy.
But not lighter either.
Just… changed.
Oda was in the kitchen when Dazai came home this time.
Waiting.
Not reading. Not pretending.
Waiting.
Dazai paused in the doorway, noticing immediately.
“…What?” he asked.
Oda dried his hands slowly, then turned to face him.
“I spoke to Ango today.”
Dazai stilled.
Just for a second.
“…Did you?” he said lightly.
“I did.”
“And?”
Oda hesitated—not out of uncertainty, but care.
“He’s going to tell you,” Oda said. “Properly. No more secrets.”
Dazai’s expression didn’t change.
But something in his posture did.
Subtle.
Barely there.
“…I see.”
Oda took a step closer. “And I meant what I said last night.”
Dazai looked at him then.
Really looked.
“You’re not being left behind,” Oda repeated.
For a moment—just a moment—Dazai’s composure cracked.
Not visibly.
Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But Oda did.
He always did.
“…We’ll see,” Dazai said quietly.
Not rejection.
Not acceptance.
Just… uncertainty.
And somehow, that was worse than either.
Dazai moved past him, heading toward his room—but this time, he didn’t avoid him completely.
Didn’t shut him out entirely.
A small shift.
A fragile one.
But it was there.
Oda watched him go, something tight in his chest loosening just slightly.
Not fixed.
Not healed.
But… not broken beyond repair either.
And for now—
That was enough.