Chapter Text
“Bad landing?”
Chuuya looks up at the voice and finds Fyodor walking toward him. He isn’t particularly surprised to see him. The convenience store sits almost exactly between their respective clubs, making it one of the easiest places for instructors from either side to stop by, and Chuuya already run into the Russian skater here a few times since their field trip.
“Nah.” He shifts the ice pack over his ankle, trying to find a position that feels less awkward. “Just sore from practice.”
“Are you preparing for something?”
Fyodor doesn’t even hesitate before crouching beside him, taking one look at the poorly balanced ice pack and helping him settle it properly against his ankle. Chuuya almost laughs at the unnecessary fuss, but the moment the cold presses against the sore spot evenly, the relief is immediate enough that he has to bite back a groan.
“Yeah. I just got a role for a December show in Tokyo.”
“Really? You must be excited.” Fyodor smiles at him, and there is genuine warmth in it that makes Chuuya smile back despite himself.
“Excited and nervous.” He leans back against the wall, letting his shoulders relax. “It’s been a while.”
“I imagine it would feel different after stepping away from performing.”
Chuuya glances down at his ankle, rolling the ice pack slightly beneath Fyodor’s hand before settling it again. “Different, yeah. I’m still getting used to the idea that I’m actually doing this again.”
Fyodor nods as though he understands the distinction, then carefully lets go once the ice pack stays in place. “Still, getting the role is something worth celebrating.”
Chuuya looks at him for a moment before chuckling. “You know, you’re surprisingly encouraging.”
“I’ve been told I can be pleasant company.”
“That sounds suspiciously like something you tell yourself.”
Fyodor’s smile widens, and Chuuya finds himself laughing as he reaches down to adjust the ice pack again.
“Besides,” Fyodor adds, standing once more, “I’d like to see you perform.”
Chuuya looks up at him, caught slightly off guard by how casually he says it.
“You want to go?”
“If I’m not competing that day, certainly.”
“Well, then.” Chuuya adjusts the ice pack again, this time with considerably more confidence. “I guess I’ll have to make sure it’s worth watching.”
Fyodor gives a quiet laugh. “I would expect nothing less.”
Chuuya grins, already feeling a little less nervous than he did a few minutes ago. He isn’t sure whether it’s the ice pack or the conversation, but either way, his ankle feels considerably better.
Having a friend watch his performance is nothing new to Chuuya. He has spent most of his life performing in front of people he knows, from classmates and teachers to friends from the companies he worked with in France. There was even one high school performance where he invited nearly his entire class, turning the backstage area afterward into a noisy mess of congratulations, flowers, teasing, and people trying to squeeze into the same tiny space at once. The thought of Fyodor coming to the December show feels much the same, almost like going back to two years ago when his friends in France would show up to watch him perform.
Dazai will be there too, assuming he isn't buried under work, and Chuuya suddenly starts thinking about everyone else he could invite. Maybe he should get tickets for Yumiko-san and her husband. Mori too, if he's free that day. His parents might be away again depending on their schedules, but knowing them, they'd find a way to send him a ridiculous amount of encouragement even if they couldn't make it in person.
The thought brings back the familiar feeling of standing backstage after a performance, still warm from dancing, surrounded by people he knows and hearing their voices over the lingering noise of the audience. He remembers the excitement of seeing familiar faces waiting for him, the easy congratulations, the flowers shoved into his arms, and the way performing always seemed to extend beyond the stage once the curtain came down. It isn't the performance alone that he misses. He misses everything around it too.
Chuuya looks up at Fyodor with a smile that comes easily.
“You know what, I’d like to see you there.”
There is nothing complicated behind the invitation. Chuuya simply means it. If Fyodor wants to come, then Chuuya would be happy to spot him somewhere in the audience when the lights go down, just like he would be happy to see any of the people who have become part of his life since he started a life in Yokohama.
After that, Fyodor insisted on walking him back to the studio, despite Chuuya laughing it off and assuring him that he can manage on his own. His ankle is sore, but it isn't serious enough to stop him from walking, and the studio isn't far enough away to warrant an escort in the first place. Still, Fyodor seems determined, and Chuuya eventually gives up arguing.
They walk together at an easy pace, talking about the upcoming performance and whatever else happens to come up along the way. By the time they reach the studio entrance, Chuuya is already feeling more comfortable on his ankle, and he gives Fyodor an appreciative smile before turning toward the building.
“Thanks. Seriously, you didn't have to walk me all the way here.”
“It was no trouble.” Fyodor gives him a small nod before heading back toward the skating club, and Chuuya watches him for a moment before turning around.
He immediately finds several pairs of eyes fixed on him. His coworkers are standing near the studio entrance, all of them staring with such obvious interest that Chuuya instinctively checks behind himself to make sure there isn't someone else standing there.
“What?”
They all shrug at once.
Chuuya narrows his eyes, suspicious of the complete lack of explanation, but nobody offers one. One coworker simply looks away while another suddenly becomes very interested in rearranging a stack of papers that were perfectly fine where they were.
“Seriously, what?”
Another shrug.
Chuuya sighs, deciding that whatever strange idea they've collectively come up with isn't worth the headache. He reaches for the studio door and walks inside, leaving his coworkers to exchange another look behind him.
—
One Sunday morning, Chuuya finds himself lounging in the backyard with a book balanced loosely in his hands when Dazai appears through the back door as though showing up unannounced is simply another part of his weekend routine.
The first few times it happened, Chuuya is genuinely startled by the sight of the brunette appearing first thing in the morning, especially when Dazai somehow looks perfectly comfortable wandering into his house before most reasonable people have even decided what to eat for breakfast.
By now, though, Chuuya is starting to get used to the unexpected visits, and with nowhere particular to be on a Sunday, he can't exactly complain. Even Mori seems pleased by the arrangement. The man has been seeing considerably more of his son lately, and Chuuya has noticed how much lighter Mori seems whenever Dazai actually makes the effort to come home.
“Here.”
Dazai holds out a medium-sized box, and Chuuya abandons his book across his lap to accept it with a puzzled look. He opens the box without much expectation, only for his eyebrows to lift when he finds a Polaroid camera nestled inside.
“A Polaroid camera?” He picks it up carefully, turning it over in his hands before looking at Dazai. “Isn't this expensive?”
Dazai nods, settling into the chair beside him. “I got it from a client yesterday. They own a camera shop and were having some trouble with their business licence. The old couple gave it to me as a gift after I won their case.”
Chuuya looks at him for a long moment.
It is the first time Dazai has casually told him anything about his work beyond the occasional complaint about paperwork or some ridiculous story involving his schedule, and for once, Chuuya doesn't have an immediate sarcastic response ready. He knows Dazai is good at what he does. The man's reputation certainly makes that obvious, even if Dazai himself spends most of his free time acting like being a successful lawyer is an inconvenience forced upon him by society. Still, hearing about an actual case from him makes the profession feel more real.
There is something strangely satisfying about knowing that the person lounging beside him, looking as though he could happily spend the entire morning doing absolutely nothing, is apparently capable of helping people through complicated problems well enough that they send him home with expensive gifts afterward.
“I know.” Dazai suddenly straightens in his seat and strikes a ridiculous pose, one hand resting against his chest as though he is accepting an award. “I'm awesome, right?”
Chuuya bursts out laughing and throws the empty box at him.
“More like arrogant.”
Dazai catches it against his chest with a pleased grin, apparently taking the insult as confirmation rather than criticism. Chuuya shakes his head, still smiling as he examines the camera again before carefully holding it out.
He assumed Dazai only wanted to show it to him.
Dazai, however, looks at the camera in Chuuya's hands and then at Chuuya himself with an expression that suggests something has gone completely wrong.
“I'm giving it to you.”
Chuuya's eyes widen. “Are you fucking serious? It's a gift for you.”
“Yes, but I have nowhere to use it.”
Dazai shrugs as though this settles the matter, and Chuuya stares at him with the camera still resting between both hands. There is something about the simplicity of the answer that makes him pause. Dazai doesn't seem attached to the gift, nor does he seem particularly interested in keeping it just because someone gave it to him. He says he has nowhere to use it as casually as someone might say they already own too many mugs.
Chuuya thinks about it for a moment.
He's been spending more time with Dazai lately, enough that certain patterns are becoming difficult not to notice. Work takes up most of his weekdays, and when he's free, he usually ends up here, at his father's house, or wandering around Yokohama without any particular destination.
Chuuya never thought much about it before because Dazai is an easy company and never seems bothered by having nowhere else to be. Still, now that the camera is sitting between them, he finds himself wondering whether Dazai actually has many people outside of work. The brunette rarely talks about his colleagues unless Chuuya asks, and he never seems to mention friends from outside the office. Whenever his schedule clears, he somehow ends up spending that free time here.
Chuuya doesn't know if Dazai is simply private or if that's just the way his life works. Either way, the thought makes him glance at the camera again.
“We can use this for your show,” Dazai says.
Chuuya looks over at him. “My show?”
“Your December performance.” Dazai gestures toward the camera. “You said you'd probably have people coming to watch. We can take pictures before and after. Maybe even get some backstage shots if they'll let us.”
Chuuya turns the camera over in his hands again, considering it. The idea is unexpectedly appealing. He can already imagine the little photographs scattered across his table afterward, pictures of the studio, his friends, the people who come to watch, and whatever ridiculous things happen before the curtain goes up. He hasn't thought about documenting a performance that way in years.
“That's actually not a bad idea.” A small smile settles over his face.
Dazai grins. “See? I'm useful.”
“Don't push your luck.”
The quiet laughter that follows blends easily into the warm Sunday morning, with the leaves shifting gently overhead and the distant sounds of the neighborhood carrying through the open backyard. Chuuya sets his book aside completely this time, keeping the Polaroid camera in his lap as he look down at it, already imagining what the first photograph might be.
“By the way,” Chuuya looks up at Dazai, the Polaroid camera still resting in his hands. “Practice starts tomorrow, so I'll be going to Tokyo more often now.”
He catches the growing smirk on the brunette's face almost immediately and rolls his eyes before Dazai can even say anything. There is no need to ask what he is thinking when that expression already gives him away.
“Does that mean I'll be seeing you often?” Dazai teases.
“Don't get ahead of yourself. I'm going to focus on practice, not babysitting you.” His remark does absolutely nothing to diminish the smile on Dazai's face. If anything, the brunette looks even more pleased, as though Chuuya has somehow given him exactly the answer he wanted.
“What about your lessons here in Yokohama?”
“I've got my coworkers filling in for me.” Chuuya settles back into his chair, stretching his legs comfortably in front of him. “Besides, I'll be looking after the students who got roles in the show too. The head teacher looks pretty delighted with the arrangement.”
It works out better than Chuuya initially expected. He doesn't have to abandon his regular students while preparing for his own performance, and the students who are also participating get someone familiar to guide them through rehearsals. The schedule will probably be exhausting once everything gets underway, especially with Tokyo added to his usual routine, but Chuuya is more excited than intimidated by the prospect.
For the first time in years, his calendar is filling up with something he genuinely wants to make time for.
Dazai seems to notice the change in his expression, because his teasing smile softens into something quieter before he leans back in his chair.
“Sounds like you're going to be busy.”
“I am.”
“And here I thought I'd finally have more time to annoy you.”
Chuuya laughs under his breath, shaking his head as he picks up his book again. “You'll survive.”
“I suppose I'll have to.”
The conversation settles naturally after that, leaving them with the comfortable quiet of the backyard and the warm Sunday morning stretching lazily around them. Chuuya opens his book again, though he finds himself thinking more about tomorrow than whatever is written on the page. Practice starts again, Tokyo becomes part of his weekly routine, and for the first time in a long while, he has something waiting for him that feels worth being nervous about.
Come Monday morning, Dazai insisted on driving him to the practice venue in Tokyo. Chuuya doesn't put up much of an argument. A free ride saves him the trouble of dealing with the train, especially with the equipment and bags he needed to bring for the first rehearsal, so he settles into the passenger seat and lets Dazai complain about the early hour while he watch the city gradually give way to the busier roads leading toward Tokyo.
By the time they arrive, Chuuya is already mentally going over the schedule for the day. He gathers his things from the car and shuts the door, only for Dazai to lower the window and give him an obnoxiously cheerful wave.
“Have fun with your practice, ballerina.”
Chuuya scoffs, but the smile tugging at his mouth gives away how little the nickname actually bothers him. “Thanks for the ride. Now go before you're late for work.”
Dazai laughs and drives off, leaving Chuuya standing at the entrance with his bag over one shoulder. He turns toward the building, already preparing himself for the long day ahead, only to find a familiar pair of judging eyes waiting for him.
“Kyouka…”
The girl stands a few steps away, staring at him with the same quiet intensity she uses whenever she thinks she discovered something important.
Chuuya reluctantly lifts a hand. “Good morning to you.”
“Are you sure you're not ga-”
“Come on.” Chuuya catches her gently by the shoulders and steers her toward the entrance before she can finish the sentence. “Practice will start any minute.”
Kyouka lets herself be guided inside, though Chuuya can practically feel the question still hanging in the air behind them. He sighs under his breath, already questioning why every time he's with Dazai, Kyouka is suddenly there to see them together and start arriving in her own conclusion.
Monday morning hasn't even properly started yet, and somehow he's already exhausted.
Before rehearsals begin, Chuuya spends nearly twice as long warming up and stretching compared to the others. His body isn't what it was when he performed regularly, and he refuses to let excitement convince him otherwise. Every muscle gets properly loosened, every joint carefully worked through, and by the time the rest of the cast gathers on the floor, he is already feeling the familiar heat settling into his limbs.
The director seems to take an immediate liking to him as well. They discover early on that they both spent years working in France, which gives them an easy point of conversation between rehearsals. The director is familiar with the companies Chuuya performed with and recognizes a few of the names he mentioned, and Chuuya finds himself enjoying the chance to talk about a world he hasn't needed to explain in years. There is something comforting about being around someone who understands the same routines, the same terminology, and the strange rhythm of preparing for a performance without needing much explanation.
Once the rehearsal finally begins, Chuuya falls into place almost instinctively.
The music starts, the room shifts into focus, and suddenly he is doing something his body remembers better than his mind ever could. Corrections, counts, spacing, entrances, repeating the same sequence until every movement settles into muscle memory. There is nothing particularly glamorous about the process. His feet ache, his muscles burn, and there are moments when the director makes them repeat a section so many times that Chuuya wonders if the choreography is personally trying to kill him.
Still, he finds himself smiling.
He missed this.
He missed the concentration that settles over a rehearsal room when everyone is working toward the same performance. He missed the sound of music starting again after a mistake, the quiet exchanges between dancers while they wait for their turn, the familiar exhaustion that follows hours of repeating the same movements until they finally feel right. Even the soreness feels strangely welcome.
Chuuya takes in more than he usually would, letting his eyes wander around the rehearsal space whenever they have a break. The mirrors, the worn floor, the bags gathered along the walls, the discarded water bottles, the music playing softly while everyone catches their breath. He knows these things are ordinary, but he finds himself memorizing them anyway.
There won't be another rehearsal after this one.
There won't be another show waiting for him after December, another role to learn, another stage to prepare for. He already made peace with that decision years ago, and nothing about returning to performing changes it. If anything, knowing this is his last time makes the familiar moments feel more precious.
So Chuuya lets himself enjoy them.
He stretches his legs again while listening to the director discuss the next section, smiling quietly as the music begins once more. For now, he is exactly where he wants to be, doing something he thought he had already left behind, and he intends to remember every part of it.
—
“You've been staring at that picture for a while now.”
Kunikida watches his colleague for another moment before dropping a stack of papers onto Dazai's desk. The sound barely earns a reaction. Dazai simply shrugs, still holding the same photograph he has been looking at for several minutes, as though the pile of paperwork in front of him is someone else's problem.
“Look at this, Kunikida-kun.” He finally turns the photograph around with a bright smile. “Don't I look cute?”
Kunikida adjusts his glasses and leans closer.
The picture is old and slightly faded, but the colors are still clear enough to make out the details. A much younger Dazai stands in the middle of the frame, noticeably smaller than he is now, with an almost painfully innocent expression on his face. Beside him is a little boy with bright red hair, and Dazai is clinging to him with both hands as though letting go isn't an option.
Kunikida had only seen one childhood photograph of Dazai before, and that was years ago when Mori was still his boss. That photograph looked almost painfully formal, the kind of picture an influential family might have framed and displayed somewhere rather than something taken simply because a child happened to look cute that day.
This one is different.
“Indeed, you look…” Kunikida studies the photograph again, then looks at the twenty-five-year-old man sitting across from him. His gaze moves between the two several times before he finally settles on the only word that seems appropriate. “Innocent.”
Dazai's smile widens.
“My friend said I don't look like this anymore.” He sighs with such exaggerated disappointment that Kunikida immediately knows where this is going. “I don't understand. I look exactly the same. Still cute and innocent.”
Kunikida starts coughing and Dazai gives him a suspicious look.
There are several things Kunikida could say in response, beginning with the fact that Dazai looks absolutely nothing like the child in the photograph. The difference becomes even more obvious after knowing him for nearly two years, especially after witnessing the countless schemes, ridiculous excuses, inappropriate jokes, and general nonsense that seem to follow him wherever he goes.
Instead, Kunikida simply shakes his head and reaches for one of the files on his own desk.
“Is this friend the same person your father asked me to inform you about last time?”
Dazai's attention immediately returns to him.
“Slug, if I remember correctly.” Kunikida adds.
“Yup.” Dazai points at the little redhead in the photograph, the same boy he is practically attached to. “He's this little person here. He's actually in Tokyo now, so he'd probably come visit if he has time.”
Kunikida looks at the photograph again, and something about Dazai's expression makes him smile.
“I'm glad the two of you met again.” Although the smile disappears from his face almost immediately as he remembers the stack of papers sitting untouched on Dazai's desk. “That doesn't mean you can keep ignoring today's paperwork.”
Dazai's expression falls. “You're heartless, Kunikida-kun.”
Kunikida slaps a hand against the stack of papers, making his point perfectly clear. Without another word, he turns toward the door. He delivered the files Dazai needs, and there are still plenty of documents waiting for him on his own desk.
Before leaving completely, however, he glances back.
Thankfully, he sees Dazai finally pick up the first file.
It would be easy to mistake the man sitting there for an ordinary young lawyer if someone didn't know his name.
Dazai Osamu is barely twenty-six, yet he has already established himself within the legal world. He isn't famous in the way celebrities or public figures are, and most people outside the profession wouldn't recognize his face if they passed him on the street. Inside a courtroom, however, his name carries considerably more weight.
The Demon Prodigy.
The unofficial title follows him through courtrooms, government offices, legal conferences, and professional circles. Dazai earned it shortly after obtaining his license, when difficult cases began finding their way to him one after another. Complicated clients, seemingly impossible circumstances, cases that other lawyers approached cautiously because there appeared to be no straightforward way through them. Dazai took them anyway, dismantled arguments that looked solid from every angle, and repeatedly managed to produce results that left even experienced lawyers wondering how he had seen the path to them.
His reputation only grew from there.
Big names in the criminal world learned to be wary of him. Powerful people who were accustomed to getting their way became considerably less comfortable when Dazai's name appears on the other side of a case. Lawyers who knew his work preferred not to find themselves opposing him if they could help it.
Yet Kunikida knows that reputation only tells half the story.
To him, Dazai isn't the Demon Prodigy.
He's the young man his former boss entrusted to him before retiring. He's the twenty-four-year-old who walked into the office fresh from passing his licensing examination and somehow managed to look both terrifyingly competent and completely incapable of behaving like a normal adult. He's the lawyer who can spend hours dismantling a complicated legal argument and then spend the next hour trying to avoid doing paperwork.
Kunikida watched him grow into the reputation that now follows him. He's also watched him spend almost two years doing little beyond working.
Courtroom. Office. Home.
Occasionally a meeting. Occasionally dinner with Mori. Then back to work.
A few months ago, Mori called him and asked about his son. Kunikida told him what he knew. Dazai was working, performing well, taking cases seriously whenever it mattered. There was nothing obviously wrong.
Then Mori admitted that he was worried.
His son had seemed lonely lately.
Kunikida didn't dismiss the observation, but he didn't know what to do with it either. So he began paying closer attention.
At first, he saw nothing.
Dazai still joked with everyone. He still irritated half the office. He still walked into court with that same infuriating confidence and came back after successful cases looking pleased with himself. On the surface, there was no difference.
Eventually, though, Kunikida started noticing something subtle.
After a successful case, Dazai would return to his office with a smile on his face, but his attention seemed to drift somewhere else. He would sit at his desk for a while before opening the next file, sometimes looking at his phone without actually doing anything with it, as though he were thinking about something that had nothing to do with work.
Kunikida might never have noticed if Mori hadn't mentioned it first.
Now, looking at the old photograph still sitting on Dazai's desk, he understands a little more.
Dazai now have someone.
Perhaps not someone who knows everything about him, and perhaps not someone who has been around long enough to understand the person he became, but someone he calls a friend. Someone who can apparently make the Demon Prodigy sit at his desk during working hours and stare at a faded childhood photograph with an expression Kunikida has rarely seen on him.
It is a small thing.
Still, Kunikida thinks it matters.
In nearly two years of looking after Dazai, he had seen him in courtrooms, conference rooms, and this office more times than he can count. He watched Dazai build a career that most people his age would struggle to imagine, but very little of his life seems to exist outside of it.
Perhaps that is changing now.
Kunikida glances through the glass one last time. Dazai is already pretending to be deeply offended by the paperwork, though he is actually working through it at a surprisingly reasonable pace.
For once, Kunikida doesn't mind the distraction.
If this friend can give Dazai something to look forward to outside of work, then perhaps the photographs on his desk are worth more than they appear.
—
Chuuya isn't even surprised when he spots Dazai's car parked near the venue exit. After a full day of rehearsal, his body is pleasantly exhausted, his bag feels heavier than it did that morning, and the prospect of dealing with Tokyo's evening traffic on his own is enough to make the familiar sight of Dazai's car feel more like a convenience than an intrusion. Sure enough, once he gets close enough, the driver's window comes down and Dazai lifts a hand in an unnecessarily cheerful wave.
“Seriously, you don't have to keep giving me free rides.” Chuuya slides into the passenger seat and drops his bag by his feet, only to find Dazai staring straight ahead with an expression of exaggerated innocence.
“I can't hear anything.”
Chuuya rolls his eyes and reaches for the seat belt. “Of course you don't.”
Dazai pulls away from the curb, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “How's practice?”
“Tiring.” Chuuya settles into the seat, letting his head rest against it for a moment. “But good. Really good, actually.”
There is a difference between saying something went well and actually feeling it in his bones, and Chuuya still hasn't gotten used to the latter. His legs ache from spending most of the day dancing, his shoulders are sore, and his feet are already complaining about the amount of work waiting for them tomorrow, but underneath all of it is that familiar satisfaction he hasn't felt in a long time.
“The director seems nice. We spent half the day going over choreography, and apparently I'm going to be doing more rehearsals with the students from my studio too. It'll be a lot, but I think it'll work.”
Dazai glances at him briefly before returning his attention to the road. “You sound happy.”
Chuuya turns toward the window so Dazai won't see the smile that immediately threatens to give him away.
“I am.”
It comes out more quietly than he expects.
For a while, neither of them says anything. The city moves past the windows in streaks of evening light, and Chuuya watches pedestrians gather around crossings while the roads gradually become busier. The quiet isn't awkward. After spending hours surrounded by music, instructions, dancers, and constant movement, Chuuya actually appreciates having someone beside him who doesn't feel the need to fill every second.
Dazai eventually breaks the silence.
“So, did you miss me?”
Chuuya gives him a flat look. “I just saw you this morning.”
“That was hours ago. You must've been devastated.”
“I survived.”
“Barely, I'm sure.”
Chuuya laughs despite himself, shaking his head as he settles back into the seat. “You're unbelievable.”
The brunette laughs softly, and Chuuya finds himself smiling again as he look out the window. He doesn't know when these drives became so easy. At first, Dazai's unexpected appearances had been mildly irritating, then convenient, and eventually familiar enough that Chuuya started expecting to see him.
He doesn't mind it.
If anything, there is something reassuring about knowing someone is waiting at the end of a long day.
Chuuya studies him for a second, but Dazai keeps his eyes on the road. There is something almost suspiciously pleased about his expression, yet Chuuya can't bring himself to interrogate it. Instead, he reaches down and adjusts the strap of his bag.
“You're getting way too comfortable driving me around.”
“I could say the same about you getting comfortable accepting free rides.” Dazai laughs, and Chuuya joins him before he can stop himself.
By the time they reach Yokohama, the exhaustion from rehearsal has settled into something softer. Chuuya watches the familiar streets pass by, listening to Dazai's occasional commentary about traffic and his own complaints about how badly everyone else drives. When Dazai finally pulls over near Chuuya's house, neither of them immediately reaches for the door.
Chuuya glances at him.
“Thanks.”
Dazai gives him a lazy smile. “Anytime, ballerina.”
Chuuya finds himself looking at Dazai a second longer than necessary before finally turning toward the door.
“See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Chuuya steps out and shuts the door, then walks toward his gate with the faintest smile still on his face. He doesn't bother turning around to watch Dazai leave.
—
“What are you guys talking about?”
Chuuya joins the group of dancers during lunch, slipping into the open space among them with his food balanced carefully in one hand. They welcome him easily enough, shifting around to make room, but he notices almost immediately that something feels different. There is a little too much silence, followed by several glances in his direction that make him wonder whether he has somehow walked into the middle of a conversation he wasn't supposed to hear.
“You.”
One of them answers so bluntly that Chuuya nearly forgets how to reply. Good thing he hasn't taken a bite yet, or he probably would've choked on his food.
“Me? Why me?”
The entire group sighs as though he just confessed to some terrible offense, leaving Chuuya even more confused. He mentally goes through everything he had done since arriving in Tokyo this morning, but nothing comes to mind. He attended rehearsal, followed the director's instructions, corrected his own mistakes, and refrained from complaining about the schedule despite his feet already protesting.
“Don't mind us, Chuuya. We're all just jealous of you getting princess treatment.”
That only makes him more confused. His first thought is the director. Maybe they think he's receiving special treatment because the director is also from France and the two of them occasionally chat in French between rehearsals. But that hardly counts as princess treatment. The director is kind to everyone, and Chuuya certainly isn't getting away with anything the other dancers aren't.
Judging by the way everyone starts laughing at his expression, he must look completely lost.
“What?”
“Don't worry, we're not stealing your boyfriend.”
Oh.
The words immediately remind Chuuya of the brunette who had been making himself increasingly comfortable in his daily routine. Dazai had been driving him to Tokyo every morning and picking him up afterward for the entire week, and somehow the routine had become so consistent that Chuuya barely thinks twice about seeing that familiar car waiting near the venue exit anymore. Even when Dazai has a case to deal with or paperwork waiting for him at the office, he still manages to show up, sometimes arriving later than usual and complaining about traffic the entire way, but always coming.
Chuuya suddenly realizes that his coworkers have been seeing all of it.
“He's not my boyfriend.”
The denial comes out quieter than he intends, mostly because the thought of everyone at the table discussing him and Dazai like that makes his face feel unnecessarily warm.
“Oh, come on. You don't have to hide it.”
A few encouraging pats land on his shoulder, which only makes Chuuya more embarrassed.
“It's really not like that.” He insists.
“Sure.”
“Seriously.”
“Of course.”
Their complete lack of belief makes Chuuya groan, but before he can defend himself again, one of them grins.
“Well, if Mister Boyfie comes to pick you up later, we can ask him ourselves.”
Chuuya is about to agree, mostly because he is tired of repeating himself, until he remembers exactly who they are planning to ask. Dazai would absolutely say yes. Not because they are dating, obviously, but because Dazai would see an opportunity to make Chuuya suffer and take it without hesitation. He can already picture that smug expression and hear the ridiculous confidence in his voice as he introduce himself as Chuuya's devoted boyfriend just to watch everyone react and Chuuya die from embarrassment.
“No.” The dancers immediately burst into laughter, and Chuuya knows from the way they look at him that his refusal has done absolutely nothing to convince them. “I'm serious. There's nothing going on.”
“Of course there isn't.”
“Exactly.”
“You don't have to explain.”
“I'm not explaining anything!”
His protests only encourage them further, and by the time lunch ends, Chuuya has denied the accusation so many times that he is beginning to wonder whether repeating himself is making the situation worse. He escaped the table as soon as he can, carrying his empty container away while the others continue laughing behind him.
By then, Chuuya already decided that Dazai is not picking him up today.
It isn't because he's embarrassed, he tells himself while pulling out his phone. He simply needs to stop by the studio in Yokohama to submit his report on the students' attendance during the Tokyo rehearsals for this week, so taking the train makes more sense than having Dazai drive all the way to Tokyo only for Chuuya to turn around and head back toward the studio anyway. The report is real, the schedule makes sense, and he isn't lying when he tells Dazai that he'll take the train home.
Dazai's response arrives almost immediately.
"I'll pick you up after you're done."
Chuuya stares at the message for a moment before typing back.
"No. I'll take the train. You don't have to keep driving back and forth."
Dazai responds just as quickly.
"But we have dinner with dad tonight."
Chuuya pauses when he sees the reminder. Right. He had completely forgotten that he and Dazai were supposed to have dinner with Mori that evening.
"I'll still come to dinner. I'll just take the train. Go home ahead of me and don't wait."
This time, there is a longer pause before Dazai answers.
"Are you sure?"
Chuuya looks at the question for a moment before replying.
"Yes. I'll see you at Mori-san's."
He puts his phone away and exhales quietly, hoping that will be the end of it. The plan is simple enough. He'll take the train, submit his report, have dinner with Mori and Dazai, and go home afterward. No unnecessary driving back and forth, no suspicious coworkers waiting around to interrogate him, and, most importantly, no chance for Dazai to walk into the rehearsal venue with that infuriating smile and make the whole situation ten times worse.
It is a perfectly reasonable plan.
At least, that's what Chuuya decided as he heads back toward rehearsal, pointedly ignoring the strange little sense of disappointment that comes with knowing he won't be seeing Dazai waiting outside when the day ends.
Chuuya, in fact, made a mistake.
He probably shouldn't have let his teammates' teasing get to him. If he had simply accepted Dazai's offer that morning, he would already be on his way home by now, probably listening to Dazai complain about traffic while pretending not to enjoy the free ride. Instead, Chuuya is standing outside the studio far later than he intended, staring at the darkened street and wondering exactly where the evening went.
It started innocently enough. On his way out of the studio, the head teacher caught sight of him near the office and asked if he can take a look at her laptop. She had been trying to connect it to the printer for the better part of the evening, and apparently neither restarting the devices nor unplugging and reconnecting everything had convinced them to cooperate. Chuuya knows enough about computers to think he can probably figure it out, so he agreed without much hesitation.
He quickly learned that knowing the basics and actually fixing a printer problem are two very different things.
They went through every solution Chuuya can think of, checking the connection, restarting the laptop, reconnecting the printer, looking through the settings, and trying the same things again when none of them work. At some point, Chuuya was staring at the screen with the same blank expression as the head teacher, wondering whether the printer simply decided that it doesn't want to participate in modern technology anymore.
By the time she finally closes the laptop with a defeated sigh and said they'll deal with it tomorrow, the office is almost empty.
“It's late,” she mutters, glancing toward the window. “You should go home, Nakahara-kun.”
Chuuya agrees, reaching for his phone as he gather his things, and it is only when the screen lights up that he realized just how late it actually is. He checks the time, then the train schedule, and his stomach sinks when he realizes he already missed the train he normally takes home.
“Damn it.”
The word slips out under his breath as he step outside, where the cooler night air immediately replaces the warmth of the office. He checks the next train anyway, even though he already know what he is going to find. The station is still open, but the line he needs is finished for the night.
Then he noticed the notifications.
Dazai's messages sit at the top of the screen, one after another.
"Where are you?"
A few minutes later, another.
"Are you still at the studio?"
Then another.
"Chuuya?"
And finally, one that makes the guilt settle a little more heavily in his chest.
"You didn't take the train, did you?"
Chuuya winces. He hadn't meant to make Dazai worry. He immediately opens the conversation and starts typing, explaining about the head teacher, the printer, and how he somehow lost track of time while trying to fix a problem that neither of them managed to solve.
Dazai replies almost immediately.
"I'll come get you."
Chuuya stared at the message for a moment before his thumb hovers over the keyboard. He almost accepted. It would be the easiest solution, and Dazai already knows where the studio is. He can practically imagine the inevitable lecture about why Chuuya didn't just let him drive him home when they were both in Tokyo in the first place.
Before he can type anything, headlights sweep across the pavement.
A car slows in front of him and comes to a stop near the curb. Chuuya looks up from his phone, expecting a taxi, only to recognize the driver when the door opens.
“Chuuya?”
Fyodor steps out of the car, his expression shifting into mild surprise when he sees who is standing outside the studio at this hour. He closes the door behind him and walks closer, glancing briefly toward the darkened building before looking back at Chuuya.
“Why are you still here? It's late.”
“Something came up and I didn't notice the time.” Chuuya rubs the back of his neck, giving him a sheepish smile. “What about you?”
Fyodor doesn't answer immediately. His gaze drifts toward his car for a moment before returning to Chuuya.
“I'm just going around for a night ride to clear my mind.”
“Oh.” Chuuya gives a small, understanding nod. He looks back down at his phone, intending to finish his reply to Dazai, but Fyodor speaks again before he can type.
“I can drive you home.”
Chuuya looks up.
Fyodor's expression is calm, but there's a hint of concern in his eyes as he glance toward the empty street. “It's already late, and the trains are closed.”
“You don't have to. I'll just ask my friend to come and pick me up.” Chuuya shakes his head quickly. “I don't want to bother you.”
“It's fine, Chuuya. I don't have any destination anyway.” Fyodor gestures vaguely toward the car. “If I'm wasting fuel, I might as well use it for a purpose.”
The explanation is so matter-of-fact that Chuuya doesn't know what to argue with. He looks down at his phone again, where Dazai's offer is still waiting on the screen.
Honestly, he feels a little ridiculous.
This entire mess is his own fault. Dazai offered to pick him up that morning like he usually does, and Chuuya was the one who insisted on taking the train instead. He could call him now, of course, and Dazai would probably tell him it was no trouble at all. Chuuya knows that. He also knows Dazai would probably drive all the way to the studio without complaining, even after Chuuya spent the entire morning telling him not to bother.
That doesn't make Chuuya feel any less guilty about making him come all the way out here.
A taxi would work, but finding one this late could take time, and by the time he gets home, he'll be even later for dinner. Mori and Dazai are already waiting for him, and Chuuya doesn't want to keep either of them waiting any longer because he got distracted by a printer that apparently possesses a personal grudge against him.
He looks at Fyodor again.
“I hope you don't mind.” Chuuya finally gives in with an apologetic sigh. “But let me at least pay for the gas.”
Fyodor lets out an amused chuckle, the sound quiet in the otherwise empty street. “I think we can discuss that later.”
Something about his expression tells Chuuya that there is absolutely no chance he is going to let Chuuya pay for a single yen.
He sighs, already accepting his defeat, and slips his phone into his pocket. “Fine. But I'm buying you coffee next time.”
“Then I suppose I'll have to make sure there is a next time.” Fyodor only smiles as he turns toward the car.
Chuuya follows him, still feeling slightly guilty about the whole situation, although the relief of having a way home is beginning to win out. At least he won't be keeping Mori and Dazai waiting for much longer.
He just needs to tell Dazai that he doesn't have to come anymore.
Which, Chuuya thinks as he pulls his phone back out, is going to be an interesting conversation.