Chapter Text
May 31st, 1923
New York City summer to Dazai Osamu, a boarding school dropout and filthy rich fifteen year old, was a humid nightmare carved out of brick and glass painted over with a coat of champagne. To him the city was another ornately decorated room he was being shoved into by his overbearing and emotionally unavailable parents who hoped the city, and his cousin, would straighten him out so he’d return to the family estate in Philadelphia to take his place as heir to their legacy. Just thinking about conforming to meet their socialite standards made Dazai scowl, and he picked at the bandages peeking out from under his suit jacket as he watched Manhattan come into view and the train slowed. The gentle rocking of the car that had comforted him for the past two hours stopped as the train pulled fully into the station. The engine sighed and steam clouded the air as Dazai stepped out onto the platform, holding onto his thick, nut-brown suitcase in one hand and a folded paper containing a name, address, and phone number in the other. His eyes ran over the bustling crowd in search of his cousin, sighing through his nose in annoyance when no face matched the picture his mother had shown him before he’d been shipped off.
If only he’d managed to kill himself at school before the Warden had walked in on him tying the noose to the exposed wooden beams in his dorm room, he wouldn’t have to suffer through hunting down a telephone in the busy station and then likely have to wait hours for his cousin to pick him up like some sort of elementary school child. Not for the first time he considered just running away. Knowing his parents, doing that would kickstart a nation-wide manhunt for his head, which was more far trouble than it was worth.
“Osamu?” A voice that crackled with age called out to his right. Dazai turned, tilting his head up just a bit to meet deep-set violet eyes that belonged to an older Japanese man with salt and pepper hair and smile lines. He was dressed plainly in comparison to Dazai’s own polished suit, and a brown woolen scarf hung around his neck despite the summer heat. “I’m Ryuro Hirotsu, Oda’s assistant. I’ve come to get you.” His English was just barely accented; the only way Dazai could tell it wasn’t his first language was from the drawn out vowels that were rounded instead of clipped.
Dazai blinked. Oda was the first name of his cousin, Oda Sakunosuke, and the man didn’t appear to be a child-snatcher, so Dazai nodded his assent and followed Hirotsu out of the station to where a car from his own family’s company waited at the curb. He gripped his suitcase handle so tight his knuckles turned white the entire ride, watching Manhattan churn past in a rolling wave of people and cars and the occasional horse-drawn carriage. The city was a racket of all types of people, so loud compared to the quiet London countryside he’d been confined to the past four years his ears hurt. He took in the city with mild interest, not speaking to Hirotsu except the occasional question or answer.
When they got on Broadway, Dazai sucked in a breath, attention jumping from one thing to another every second. Everywhere he looked there were embellished evening dresses that swished around barely obscured calves, polished pearls that flashed gold in the blaring Broadway lights, men in suits more expensive than his and painted faces with lips stained red as blood and eyelids black as coal. The buildings surrounding them seemed to reflect the types of people running in and out, the window displays bursting with colour and whorls of saturated characters freshly drawn were plastered on the walls. The entire street reeked of what could only be described as indulgence.
Dazai felt tipsy just watching the stumbling men and swinging women giggling madly along the sidewalks. He thought he heard Hirotsu sniff in contempt as they passed the scene, but he was so absorbed in the wild world on the other side of the glass he couldn’t be sure. If he’d thought the rest of Manhattan was loud, Broadway could only be described as the thundering of a thousand horses galloping through the street dragging bells that rang with laughter behind them. Desire rose in Dazai, a foreign emotion that startled him but didn’t feel necessarily bad. He felt a sort of rebellion and wanted to hurl himself out of the car and join the pedestrians, his hand itching toward the door handle.
“You’d do best to stay away from here.” Hirotsu advised in a gruff tone dripping with distaste, cutting through Dazai’s thoughts like a cleaver slices butter.
The desire disappeared as fast as it had come at those words. Of course, he wasn’t granted an ounce of freedom across the ocean from his parents, why would it not be the same here? Dazai slumped down into his seat, eyes turned away from the outside. He scratched at the skin around his nails, watching as the skin turned white and then pink as the blood flowed back. He could never be a participant in the partying masses, only an observer gazing through a clouded filter at a world beyond his grasp.
It was suffocating.
Finally the car stopped at the tail end of Broadway, where he noticed a decrease in people and an increase in trees. With Hirotsu holding the car door open, Dazai slid from his seat wearily, looking up at the weathered building that squatted in between an antique furniture store and an equally run-down looking bakery. The lit up sign that hung over the grand entrance spelled out Flawless in big bold letters. He’d been told his cousin owned a theater that he’d spent the majority of his inheritance and then some on to renovate. Glancing over the creaky dark-oak doorway that was more than overdue for a paint job and flickering street lamps, Dazai wondered just how much Oda’s inheritance had been.
“Try and be as quiet as possible, tonight’s show seems to be running late.” Hirotsu said as he ushered Dazai inside, lifting a finger to his lips as if instructing a child. Dazai considered stomping his feet or dropping his suitcase out of spite, but Hirotsu was already moving away and toward a side door that opened onto a long hallway running along the side of the inner theater. He could hear the faint sound of music through the wall, violins singing airy tunes that reminded him of the heinous ballet classes back at boarding school. At the end there was another door that was dubbed “stage” by a piece of paper hastily taped onto the front.
The music swelled as Hirotsu opened the door, and Dazai took in the stage before him. He was upstage to the right and from where he stood he could see the audience and performers but they couldn’t see him. He didn’t recognize the play that was being performed. Girls of all heights and races dressed in flowing white skirts swirled artfully in the center around a boy who appeared to be dressed as a dragon, the fabric of his vest as red as his hair. He was short and slight, with wiry muscles that flexed as he stretched his arms high as if to touch the cardboard stars hanging from the rafters. Dazai stood motionless as the boy spun on his heel and locked eyes with him, sapphire pupils shining with adrenaline and excitement that made something in Dazai’s stomach twist. The boy was around his age, with curls the colour of the sunset and olive skin that shone with sweat. He had full lips that twisted into a crooked smile at Dazai as he rotated back to face the audience, shoulders thrown back with confidence that Dazai knew didn’t stem from arrogance born out of wealth but rather an complete assurance in his own body.
It sparked a feeling of envy that burned hot in Dazai’s core. He watched raptly, dark eyes wide with something akin to awe.
“Osamu,” Hirotsu’s voice broke the spell placed on him by the show, and he turned to find he was waiting for him to go up a staircase that led onto a second floor above the stage. Taking one last look at the dragon dancer, Dazai hauled his suitcase up the stairs.
The apartment entrance opened right onto the drawing room that was a circus of mismatched chairs and couches adorned with equally mismatched blankets and pillows packed tight around a fireplace that’s mantel was near sagging with the weight of dozens of trinkets and candleholders and miscellaneous baubles. The maroon rug spread across the floor was stained and faded to a watered down wine colour, the edges frayed. Piles of books were shoved in unstable towers against the walls around the fireplace, and the coffee table in the very center of the room was overflowing with so many objects Dazai could scarcely name them all. A stocky side table supported the weight of a gramophone record player that hummed a slow, jazzy tune that meandered through the air to greet Dazai and fill him with the urge to dance. Four lamps lit up the space with dusky gold lighting. The walls were covered in cream floral wallpaper and framed paintings and pictures hung heavy off rusty nails. Hirotsu didn’t appear to find the mess of a living space to be anything out of the ordinary, and simply stepped carefully over a wine bottle that lay on the floor, picking up a jewel earring and newspaper and setting them on the kitchen island as they moved deeper into the loft. The kitchen was just as chaotic as the drawing room, with copper pots and pans littering the stove and walls and garlic hanging from hooks on the ceiling. The sink was full of water and half washed dishes that Hirotsu sighed at and drained, drying his hands on a ragged grey towel that served as a bookmark in the thickest, most dogeared cookbook Dazai had ever seen in his life. He noticed with bemusement that there was no dining table. The ceiling was slanted and had big glass windows that were locked tight for the night and through them Dazai could make out the Manhattan skyline, the moon an ivory circle smacked onto the very middle of the black backdrop of the sky.
The whole place stank of cheap perfume and cigarettes and dusty paper and cinnamon raisin.
“Your room is through here,” Hirotsu pointed at a green door slightly ajar on the left side of the hallway leading away from the kitchen. Dazai dubiously swung the door open wider to peer at the inside of the bedroom. He was pleasantly surprised to find it was much less cluttered than the rest of the house, with only a few pieces of furniture and empty picture frames sitting on the vanity being the only decoration. The carpet ended at the threshold to the bedroom and his shoes clicked softly on the dark wood floors as he went in. It was a more spacious room than he’d been expecting, with a large, dark emerald green canopy bed fit snug in the middle of the room, just a few feet away from big square windows that wrapped around two walls that would let in the morning and afternoon sun. The wallpaper matched the satin bedsheets, with simple gold detailing running along where paper gave way to wood. The vanity was dark oak and scratched on the legs and top, but it held firm when Dazai placed his suitcase on it. There was a forest green, velvet settee positioned in the far corner of the room and a twin armchair in front of the vanity, both plush and seemingly unscathed. Next to the bed sat a mahogany nightstand with four drawers and a reading lamp that had a jade stained glass lampshade over the bulb so the light that shone through was tinted to the colour of sea foam. Another lamp, this one a floor lamp, stood tall next to the settee and cast white light across the floor.
“The bathroom is the last door down the hall, you’ll be sharing with several others so if you wish to bathe I’d advise you do so quickly before tonight’s show ends. I’ll let Oda know you’ve arrived, and are retiring for the evening.” This too, was spoken in a way that made Dazai feel like a young child being put to bed.
“I’d like to speak with my cousin when he’s done with his…show.” It was the first thing Dazai had said willingly since he’d first boarded the train. Hirotsu’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but he nodded and checked his pocket watch, a hefty thing that was attached by a thin silver chain to his suit jacket.
“I expect they’ll be done in a half hour. Best be quick with your bathing and then come into the drawing room and I’ll put on some tea.” With that, Hirotsu was gone, leaving Dazai alone to freshen up.
The bathroom Hirotsu had pointed him toward was as big as his bedroom and opened onto a tiny balcony that overlooked the city. A cracked, white claw bathtub was planted just left of the balcony windows, so one could observe the outdoors while remaining hidden behind a wall as they bathed. There was a line of sinks nailed to the right wall that had mirrors attached to the tops and two plastic stools were pushed underneath the sinks. The toilet was in the right corner and the floor was tile lined with grit. Unrolling his bandages, Dazai cleaned quickly, scrubbing the bar of jasmine scented soap over his entire body and throwing on simple brown trousers and a white cotton shirt just as he heard the apartment door slam open and the muffled sound of conversation carried through the walls. Footsteps pattered down the hallway and he hastily shrugged into his brown jacket just as the door to the bathroom burst open and three teenagers came tripping in.
Dazai’s eyes widened at the boy in the middle, who was the same dancer that had grinned at him. His costume was gone, replaced by a white short-sleeve shirt and suspenders that held baggy brown pants up. A cheap hat covered the top of his head, and his feet were bare and paler than the rest of him, with thick scars that ran over his toes. He was balanced on the balls of his feet as if he were about to break into a run. On either side of him was a boy and girl the same age if not a little older than Dazai. The girl’s hair was a bright, unnatural cotton-candy pink that was knotted in a bun at the side of her head, and her eyes were lined with black wings. The boy had oddly coloured hair as well, bleached almost silvery-white and sticking up in every direction. The trio stopped short when they saw Dazai, the dancer looking him up and down without an ounce of shame.
Dazai noted how the girl’s hands were wrapped around the dancer’s arm almost possessively.
“Hey, did Mr.Sakunosuke pick up another stray?” The boy with silver hair asked, nudging his friend and staring at Dazai’s expensive suit. His expression had dropped into hostility, grey eyes darkening as if Dazai were a bug that had crawled into his shoe. Dazai felt an instant dislike for him, and he leveled a cool look at him without answering.
“Can it, Shirase.” The dancer said. He came forward and tilted his head at Dazai, scrutinizing him. “You’re the rich kid that Oda’s supposed to straighten out, right? ‘Name’s Nakahara Chuuya, welcome to Flawless. Try not to get in our way, OK, big shot?” He clapped a hand on Dazai’s shoulder and brushed past him without a second glance. The nickname was almost mocking, his mouth turned up in a half smirk.
The way the boy acted with such bold vulgarity was a complete opposite to how he’d danced barely an hour before, as if a switch had been flicked off the instant the curtains dropped and he became this insufferable teenager with an ego taller than his hideous hat.
Dazai let out an incredulous breath. “Get in your way? You’re rather rude, were you never taught any manners?” He’d turned to glare at Chuuya, who stared back at his reflection in the sink mirrors as he washed his hands.
“‘Fraid not. Not all of us got the luxury of growing up with private tutors at our beck and call.” Chuuya’s voice was husky not in a throaty way, but as though all his words were pushed through a layer of smoke by the tip of his tongue. It made him sound older than Dazai suspected he actually was. He finished washing his hands and dried them with a towel thrown in one of the dry sinks, eyes still fixed on Dazai’s.
“Did Hirotsu tell you I was coming?” Dazai disliked arguing over wealth; he hadn’t chosen to be born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
“Something like that.” Chuuya rejoined his friends who waited at the doorway silently, eyes jumping back and forth between the two boys as they talked. They were walking out, presumably to the drawing room, when Chuuya glanced back and said, “Are you coming?”
Dazai realized the kid was testing him, pushing to see if Dazai would retreat to his room like a spoiled brat and avoid meeting the people he might deem below him. He almost smiled at the bluntness of the boy’s probing, but he kept his face neutral as he replied, “I have to speak with my cousin.”
“Oda’ll be in the kitchen. Hurry, Zora’s making domino cakes tonight.” Then he was off, running down the hall and disappearing into the front rooms. Dazai stood frozen for a moment before following. The kitchen and drawing room was filled with people, mostly girls who were shaking out their hair and redoing their makeup in compact mirrors, but there were several young children weaving through the legs of the adults to snatch a piece of bread from the countertops or pull at the beading of a dress. There were men too, aside from Hirotsu, who sat in chairs around the roaring fireplace and one held up a glass of wine in greeting when he spotted Dazai, an easy smile turning the corners of his mouth up.
Oda Sakunosuke waved Dazai over and shook his hand firmly. “I’m glad you made it alright. Sorry I couldn’t come to the station, I hope Hirotsu didn’t give you a bad first impression.”
The quiet buoyancy with which he spoke didn't offer an excuse for why he couldn’t get Dazai himself but rather a short apology and joke caught Dazai off guard. He’d expected his cousin, who had grown up rich, to speak like his parents, but Oda went on to introduce him to the other people in the room with an effortless familiarity that made Dazai’s shoulders relax without realizing it. The man did not have a domineering presence; he wasn’t someone you might notice right off the bat after walking into a room, but when you did you might find a kind, intelligent smile that made you feel almost cozy. Oda asked if he’d eaten and when he admitted he’d forgone breakfast and lunch, the man ushered him into the kitchen where a petite black woman stood next to Chuuya, who was helping her by cracking eggs into the mixing bowl she held and discarding the shells into the wastebasket.
“Zora, how long until those cakes are done? My cousin’s a starved boy.” Oda’s voice made Chuuya look up and his brows lifted.
“Give me a break, Odasaku! Get your cousin something from the fridge while he waits.” The woman ordered, her voice like thick honey that dripped with affectionate authority.
“Chuuya, you and Osamu are about the same age.” Oda gently pushed Dazai forward a little bit as he went to rifle through the fridge, and Dazai fought a grimace as he lifted a hand out to shake. There was something about Chuuya that irritated him to no end yet he felt like he was being pulled in with a lasso when he met Chuuya’s eyes. He had a way with how he moved, how he looked, even how he articulated words that reminded Dazai of the first lights he’d seen on Broadway. That, and he couldn’t get over how the kid treated him with brazen contempt.
Chuuya ignored his outstretched hand, instead tucking his own into his pockets. “Charmed, I’m sure.” Dazai couldn’t tell if he was referring to himself or Dazai, but he let his hand drop as annoyance curled in his gut. “You’re sixteen?”
“In nineteen days.” Dazai replied shortly. He kept his tone light, almost teasing. People were always surprised when he mentioned his age since he never acted like a typical teenager and didn’t have any friends at school. Adults at his parent’s parties would comment on his maturity, showering him with praise that only served to disguise envy or disgust at his oddness.
“Why’re you here? Haven’t you got some fancy boarding school yer parent’s pay thousands to groom you into perfection?” A hint of an accent broke through as his words came fast.
“I’m Afraid not.” Dazai flung back, parroting his words from earlier. “I got kicked out.”
Chuuya snorted. “What’d you do, kill someone?”
Dazai’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Almost.”
Cerulean eyes darkened and Chuuya opened his mouth, leaning forward as if to get in Dazai’s face when Oda handed Dazai a bread and butter fold still cold from the fridge, effectively cutting off whatever Chuuya had been about to say.
“Come sit down with me, McKay’s come down from the Bronx and bought a bottle of expensive wine.” Oda steered Dazai away from Chuuya and back into the drawing room, where a pillow appeared and Dazai found himself sitting at the foot of one of the couches holding a glass being filled by a little blonde girl who introduced herself as Elise all within seconds.
Chuuya jumped over one of the girls splayed out on the floor and leaned back against the stacks of books, sipping his own glass of wine and conversing animatedly with a young woman. She had thick red hair pulled away from her face with golden pins so Dazai could see she was quite pretty, with cheekbones that appeared almost swollen from how prominent they were and an angular jawline with a sharp smile full of teeth. She looked older than him, but not by much.
All around him people chattered away as the evening waned into night, moon shining through the windows. Zora bought out several trays of her domino cakes after a few minutes and Dazai had to snatch one from the third tray before someone else could gobble it up. Everyone was drinking and smoking and even the young kids were included in the fun. Elise, who Dazai learned was seven years old, had come from an enormously wealthy family similar to him but had been taken in by Oda after her stepfather was exposed as a pedophile and murderer and sentenced to life in prison. She said it was actually Chuuya who’d found her, and his eyes traveled back to where Chuuya was now dancing with one of the showgirls still dressed in her gold-white costume complete with a headband adorned with delicate feathers.
When the clock on the mantel struck twelve and Elise’s eyelids started drooping, Oda announced it was bedtime for the kids and in a whirlwind of cigarettes being snuffed out and glasses clinking as they were thrown into the sink, the apartment emptied. Oda bid Dazai goodnight as he and Hirotsu took the little kids to the room at the hall entrance that Dazai saw had rows of bunk beds in it. The showgirls that he’d been introduced to waved at him cheerily and a few kissed his cheek flirtatiously, which he just returned in the form of a practiced smile. The men shook his hand firmly and soon the only ones left in the drawing room were himself, the red headed young woman, and the three teenagers.
“I’m meeting Yosano at Golden Demon, so if you want to hit town tonight you’ll have to get back on your own means.” The woman was speaking with Chuuya as she stood up, long limbs uncoiling from under her in a smooth, elegant movement. She was taller than Dazai had realized, spine straight and shoulders back with the poise of a ballerina. Her heels provided her an extra few inches, but even without them she would still tower over him.
“You go on, I was thinking of heading to the Inferno Lounge today anyway. Kajii said he’d set me up with some guy from Hollywood that’s got a ticket out west.” Chuuya grinned at the woman.
She nodded, and placed a hand on his shoulder before sweeping out of the room and leaving behind the faint scent of sakura blossoms.
“You’re really going to Hollywood? What’ll we do without you?” The pink-haired girl’s voice was high and reedy as she grabbed Chuuya’s hand.
“It’s not for sure yet, so don’t worry, Yuan. I’ll bring y’all out with me even if I have to tuck you in my suitcase.” He ruffled the Yuan’s hair, blue eyes clouding with grey just a bit. They continued like this as they walked to the door, shouting a goodbye to Oda and thank you to Zora.
At the last second, when Dazai was halfway to his room, Chuuya called out to him.
“You wanna dance, rich boy?” He stood half turned toward Dazai, hands in his pockets and expression almost taunting, as if he knew Dazai was going to say no.
Dazai’s eyes narrowed and he grinned his most innocent grin. “Nice hat, shortass.”
“The hell? Who’re you calling short, you punk?” Chuuya yelled. His azure eyes sparked with blue flame.
“Ah, did I hit a nerve? You have my sincerest apologies.” He almost laughed as he goaded Chuuya. He was like a dog to a bone, stomping up to Dazai and baring his teeth. Dazai could smell the alcohol on his breath, and he realized Chuuya had a smattering of freckles dotted across his nose and cheeks.
“I’m sixteen. I’m still growing. ” Chuuya hissed. “I can’t see why Odasaku is helping you, when you’re just some stuck up kid. You need to wake up and pull that stick out of your ass.” With that he was gone, sprinting away with a backwards middle finger to catch up with Shirase and Yuan to go dancing, or so Dazai assumed. Good riddance. He let out a huff and went to his room, discarding his jacket on the vanity and kicking off his shoes as he got into the bed. For a long while he lay there, listening to the unfamiliar city noises that filtered in through the thin windows.
Despite himself, he found his thoughts drifting back to Chuuya. He wasn’t like anyone Dazai had ever met before, with eyes like winter fire that seemed to look right through him. And the obvious prejudice he held against Dazai was seared into every word he spoke. Dazai should hate him for the disrespectful and tactless way he acted, but instead there was a tug of interest that pulled at his mind and think about what it’d be like if he hadn’t insulted Chuuya and instead gone out dancing or whatever it was they were doing in the dead of night in New York City.
He shook his head and turned over. His parents would never let him set foot outside again if they found out he ever went partying on Broadway. Yet, even as he reminded himself of how stupid it would be to get mixed up in revelry that stank of trouble, he couldn’t help but think about what if…
Dazai sighed as he accepted he wasn’t going to be falling asleep any time soon.
June 1st, 1923
It was not yet five a.m. and the sun had yet to peek it's morning rays of sunshine through the charcoal clouds when Chuuya came stumbling into Dazai’s bedroom reeking of alcohol and smoke.
Dazai had managed to fall into fitful sleep at around two a.m. but his eyes snapped open as Chuuya’s boots clunked heavily against the floor.
“What are you doing?” Dazai hissed, sitting up.
“Oh shit. I f’got yer staying here.” Chuuya hiccuped, eyes glazed over and unfocused.
Jesus Christ. Dazai thought. The dancer was hammered beyond comprehension, and from the way he spoke it seemed as if he crashed in the room Dazai now occupied often.
“Shirase n’ Yuan took the spare room, so shove over.” Chuuya murmured, practically falling onto the bed. Dazai didn’t move as Chuuya stretched out on top of the covers, smushing his face into the spare pillow and closing his eyes.
For a beat, there was silence. Then:
“Hey, Chuuya.” Dazai laid back down, lowering his voice to just above a whisper.
“Mmf.”
“Where did you go?” He asked.
“Shut up, D’zai.” Chuuya’s breath was sour with liquor and his lips were a little chapped.
“I’ll kick you out if you don’t tell me.” Dazai threatened.
Chuuya’s eyes cracked open and he glared at him. “I went to a couple places. What business is it yers?” His accent was stronger now, vaguely southern.
“Tell me what you did.” Dazai insisted.
Chuuya sighed and shifted so he was more comfortable, closing his eyes again. “Danced. Drank. Smoked. The works. Met this guy at Inferno, he sure was a piece of shit, I didn’t say that to ‘im, course, ‘cus he’s my ride west ‘f I can convince him to take me.” His words were so quiet Dazai had to strain to listen.
“What kind of dancing?”
“Charleston, swing, fox trot, a waltz or two.”
“Who’d you dance with?”
“Some girls. Some boys. A horse. Shut up now, okay? Yer givin’ me a headache.” Chuuya yawned wide. Dazai scrunched his nose up at the smell.
“What do you mean, boys?” He pushed. He wasn’t sure why he needed to know so badly about what boys Chuuya was dancing with, but at that moment all he could focus on was the next words to come out of Chuuya’s mouth.
“I mean what I said. Didn’t yer tutors teach ya anythin’ useful?” He was already half asleep and slipping deeper into unconsciousness by the second.
“Was there anyone special you danced with?”
“Nobody any more special than yerself.” Chuuya let out a little breathy sigh. “Go to sleep, Dazai.” He was dead to the world before Dazai could ask another question, breathing deep and body fully relaxing.
It was the first time Chuuya ever said Dazai’s name full and unmarred by an accent, though slurred with sleep and liquor. The sound of those two rasping syllables would stick with Dazai like glue to paper, cemented into his brain for the rest of his life.
For a long while, Dazai simply laid there watching Chuuya’s side rise and fall with each inhale and exhale, studying the shadowed outline of his face. He wasn’t dressed in the same clothes he’d left in except his hat, which had fallen off his head when he’d tumbled into bed and lay on the floor next to it. A black leather choker wrapped like a vise around his neck, and he wore a black suit with a red button down shirt and a blue bracelet tied at his wrist. Dazai realized the bracelet was matching with ones he’d seen dangling from Shirase and Yuan's wrists.
He didn’t acknowledge the tightening in his chest or the urge to rip the bracelet off and throw it away. It was a piece of braided string, nothing more. He didn’t know Chuuya.
He also didn’t acknowledge the traitorous thought that slinked in the back of his mind.
But you would like to know him. Maybe more than just know him.
Dazai rolled over so he wouldn’t have to look at Chuuya anymore. Eventually he drifted off into sleep and he only stirred hours later when the sun became an uncomfortable heat on his face.
He sat up, still groggy, rubbing at his eyes and registering that Chuuya was still passed out next to him. He poked Chuuya’s cheek- no response. Holding his hand over Chuuya’s parted lips, he checked to make sure he was breathing before climbing out of bed and heading to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
Oda was leaning against the counter sipping a mug of steaming coffee reading the newspaper that must’ve just been delivered. He had a light stubble that was the same dark auburn of his hair, and he was still in his nightclothes.
“Good morning, Osamu. Sleep well?” He looked up when Dazai padded in, voice still gravelly with sleep.
“Yes, fine. Does Chuuya normally come in drunk at two in the morning?” The words came out with a bit more bite than Dazai had intended. Oda winced and set down his newspaper.
“Ah, did he go to your room? That’s partially my fault, I forgot to set up another cot in the spare since you’d taken the extra bed. I’ll have a talk with him later.” Oda looked genuinely sorry, and he took a deep gulp of his coffee.
Dazai could barely believe the words coming out of his own mouth as he said, “It’s alright, he’s so short it’s not like he took up any room, anyway.”
“He has a bit of a drinking problem, but I could’ve sworn it was getting better.” Oda said almost to himself, a frown turning his expression down. “I wonder what happened.”
Dazai shrugged. “Maybe he’s just a lightweight, considering he’s so small.”
Oda laughed. “Sure, kid. By the way, Hirotsu needs some help organizing our spendings and your mother said you were excellent at math, do you think you could give him a hand?”
“Do I have a choice?” Dazai smiled wryly. He’d learned at a young age that when someone asked if he thought he could do something, the correct answer was always, always yes. At least, that’s what his mother had taught him.
Oda, evidently, hadn’t been taught the same. He became very serious all of a sudden, dark brown eyes leveling a meaningful look at Dazai. “I’m not forcing you to do anything. If you want to shut yourself in your room all day and sulk, go right ahead. But personally, I’d rather be helping other people even in mundane tasks than spending that time absorbed in my own misery.”
The words struck Dazai hard as a slap, stinging his cheeks to a flushed red and black eyes flashing. But he didn’t retort with an insult, even as he struggled to find the words to respond at all. It occurred to him that within a total of two conversations and a few letters exchanged between himself and Dazai’s mother, Oda Sakunosuke had accurately read Dazai like an open book and unabashedly called him out on it.
This time grudging respect turned Dazai’s lips up in a genuine smile. “Okay, cousin. Tell Hirotsu to come get me whenever he needs, I’m going to try and go wake up Chuuya.”
Oda nodded, hiding his own smile behind his mug.
Unsurprisingly, Chuuya was still knocked out when Dazai walked back into the bedroom. He regarded the sleeping dancer for a long moment, looked down at his cup of water, and with a Cheshire Cat grin dumped it over Chuuya’s head.
Chuuya shot up and coughed violently, blinking hard as he gained awareness of his surroundings. “What the fuck? Oh shit! ” He immediately fell back against the pillows, clutching his forehead.
“Bad morning?” Dazai quipped.
“Shut the hell up! Why am I- did you pour fucking water on me? ” Chuuya groaned, straining to keep his eyes open and his jaw was clenched tight.
“You weren’t waking up.” He cocked his head. “You have a hangover.”
“Thanks for stating the obvious, officer fuckface. ‘Really connected the dots on that one.” Chuuya’s hair was tangled, and he scraped his fingernails through his hair to try and de-knot the curls as he sat up again, this time much more slowly.
“Do you make a habit of sleeping in other people’s beds?” Dazai asked. He set the empty glass down on the nightstand and let his arms hang loose at his sides.
For the first time that morning Chuuya seemed to gain awareness of his surroundings. His eyes flashed from pain as he turned to scowl at Dazai.
“You sure settle in quick. This room used to be for anyone that needed a bed for the night, did ya know?”
“Do you always drink so much you stink the morning after?” He said, completely ignoring Chuuya’s jabs.
Chuuya struggled to rise and stumble out of bed, one hand still holding his head and the other providing him support by holding onto the bed frame. “God, do you ever shut up?” He swayed past Dazai in an unstable gait. Dazai followed him to the kitchen, where Oda was flipping eggs and Zora toasted wonder bread.
“Take me dancing with you tonight.” Dazai said abruptly to the back of Chuuya’s head.
Chuuya snorted and threw him a dirty look. “No way.” Dazai opened his mouth to argue but was cut off by Oda.
“Chuuya, I’ll set up a pad for you in the spare this afternoon, alright? Eat breakfast, it’ll soak up whatever you drank.” Oda handed Chuuya a plate as he cracked two more eggs into the frying pan, shaking salt and pepper on top while the yolks were still runny. Chuuya pushed a bowl to the side and hopped up onto the counter, leaning back against the wall and eating with his fingers. “Here, Osamu,” said Oda, passing Dazai a plate with two sausages on the side and fluffy scrambled eggs. He kept quiet, resolving to pester Chuuya later about taking him out dancing.
“Did Poe finish the script for The Raven yet?” Zora plopped two pieces of toast on Dazai’s plate.
“Yeah, he’s coming around at eleven with the manuscript so we’ll start rehearsals at noon. Chuuya, are you up for playing the main character? We’ll have to dye your hair black, though.” Oda ruffled Chuuya’s hair and gave him a glass of cold water.
Dazai tried to imagine Chuuya with black hair and failed. “He’ll look like a crow if you dye his hair black.”
“It’ll only be temporary; won’t last more than a few days, if that.” Zora chimed in. Her deep brown eyes were smiling as she reached across the small kitchen to tug on Chuuya’s hair. “It’d be a mighty shame to lose this colour, anyway.” Chuuya grinned at her.
“How many weeks until opening night?” Chuuya asked.
“I was thinking we should make opening night Dazai’s birthday as a way to celebrate.” Cut in Oda. Dazai was surprised by this, he hadn’t expected his cousin to care about something as trivial as his birthday.
“That sounds great! We’ll have two weeks to rehearse, then. Nakahara, run over to Golden Demon after you’re done eating and get Kouyou so we can start on the costumes as soon as possible.” Zora finished giving instructions right when a door in the hallway slammed open and Elise came barreling into the room, almost tripping over Dazai’s foot as she launched herself onto the counter next to Chuuya. Three more kids came running after her, a young Japanese girl with long indigo-midnight hair pinned into messy pigtails with flower clips and two African American boys that appeared to be twins.
“Kyouka, catch!” Elise yelled, her voice high and ringing with laughter as she tossed a cookie at the other girl, who caught it easily and immediately darted away out of Zora’s reach.
“Elise! Kyouka! Put that back right now!” Zora scolded.
Elise’s laugh was the sound of Christmas bells as she stole another cookie and tumbled off the counter to bolt after Kyouka down the stairs.
The two boys used the girls as a distraction and grinned wildly at each other as they slipped unnoticed past Zora and snatched the whole loaf of wonder bread from behind her back, scurrying away to join the long-gone Kyouka and Elise to share their spoils in some hidden nook down in the theater. Chuuya’s shoulders shook with laughter as he watched them, sapphire eyes shining with affection for the kids.
Dazai wondered what it’d be like if Chuuya’s eyes looked at him that way.
Oda set down the frying pan with a loud clatter, snapping Dazai out of his thoughts.
“I better go make sure those rascals don’t get crumbs in the light fixtures again. Zora, if Poe comes by, tell him I’m down backstage.” He wiped off his hands on his apron as he took it off and grabbed a thick notebook full of tabs from the counter. He was just out the apartment door when he turned back, saying, “Oh! And when the Tanizaki siblings get here, give them the check I put in the soup cabinet! It’s to help with their rent this month.” Then he was off in quick steps down the stairs.
Hirotsu walked in a minute later and Dazai informed him he’d be helping with the expense books, to which Hirotsu gave the closest thing to a smile Dazai had seen on the man’s face yet and all but shoved a fat binder into Dazai’s hands for him to look at. Chuuya didn’t stick around once he’d finished eating and that was the last Dazai saw of him until late that night when the showgirls and dancers and kids piled into the apartment in a copy of the scene from the night before.
Over the next two weeks Dazai’s world expanded significantly as he learned how a playhouse worked. He was formally introduced to Ozaki Kouyou, the red haired woman that Chuuya had been talking to on the first night and Flawless’ costume designer. She was an imposing lady who regarded Dazai with the sort of mild distaste and indifference one would give a rat on the streets. But she was cool headed and intelligent, and Dazai couldn’t deny that she was incredible at her job. In under a week she managed to whip up an entire line of dazzling costumes for the performers out of scrap fabric and ripping apart old costumes without mercy. She showed Dazai how she took measurements and created her designs, and oftentimes Chuuya would appear in her studio to bring her tea or model a half finished piece for her.
After that first night Chuuya attempted to give Dazai a wide berth, getting annoyed whenever Dazai so much as breathed in his direction. Oda had kept his promise and an extra cot was placed on the floor of the spare bedroom, so Dazai shouldn’t have been surprised when Chuuya didn’t step foot in Dazai’s room again. Yet, for some reason, he was. Without meaning to, every night he’d lay awake listening for the sound of stumbling footsteps and hushed laughter that signaled Chuuya and his friends’ return to the apartment, only able to fall asleep after silence returned to the loft. He had, of course, not given Chuuya room to breathe and would purposefully seek him out with one of his goals being to annoy the redhead until Chuuya yelled at or punched him.
Dazai collected more scrapes and bruises in those two weeks than ever before in his life.
His other goal was to get Chuuya to take him out to town, which the other was strongly against. Every time Dazai so much as began to ask, Chuuya would shut him down. Once, when he was nagging Chuuya while the latter tried on the finished version of his costume, Kouyou asked why he didn’t just go out by himself or with some of the showgirls.
Chuuya threw his arms in the air in exasperation. “That’s what I’ve been asking! Every time I say that he just goes-”
“Everybody else is too boring! Besides, Chuuya is short enough he makes a perfect dance partner for me!” Dazai grinned and dodged Chuuya’s foot that kicked at his shins.
They launched into a heated argument that ended when Kouyou gave them both a withering glare and pinched the bridge of her nose, a sure sign that if they didn’t shut up she was going to make them wish they had never been born.
That was three days before opening night and Dazai’s birthday.
He’d also been introduced to most of the people at the theater, and he realized a pattern in all of them. First, most were of varying races and he found that white people were the minority at Flawless, with many being immigrants and although much more uncommonly, some couldn’t speak a lick of English. Second, sexuality and gender was looked at as an incredibly fluid spectrum that many of the performers regarded as something to be traversed with the same enthusiasm as traversing the stage. These were at the top of a long list of oddities that made up the Flawless Playhouse, and Dazai laughed out loud at the irony of the theater’s name and the way many people would see the cast of such a theater.
Eventually, he’d asked Oda about it, and Oda had smiled softly at his questioning.
“I renovated this theater to make it into a sort of refuge safe-haven for people who were less fortunate than I was. I studied in Paris for college and while I was there one of my friends took me to an underground club that was so rundown you could see the paint peeling from the walls. I thought there was no way such a place could be enjoyable, and I judged my friend harshly in my mind as I waited for the opportunity to excuse myself. Then, more and more people started pouring into that tiny nightclub, and I sat there looking all around me at these characters that didn’t even speak the same language as each other packed tight as sardines on the dance floor and I…the experience really opened my eyes to a lot of things about the world we live in, Osamu.” Oda was smoking a cigarette as he talked, mixing together ingredients to make sugar cookies for the kids. Dazai stood there in silence for a long moment, observing Oda roll out the batter into medium sized balls and place them on a baking pan, checking the timer and offering Dazai the spatula to lick clean while he washed the rest of the dishes.
“This isn’t what I expected.” Dazai murmured finally. Oda turned to him and ruffled his hair just like he did to the other kids. It was the first time he’d done so, and Dazai blinked in surprise, lifting a hand to touch where Oda’s calloused hand had been a moment before.
“This is Broadway, Osamu. Never think anything will be like you expect here.”
Opening night came like a storm, with the apartment chock-full of anybody and everybody involved in the play as they painted their faces in the bathroom mirrors and chewed through the snacks Zora had set out for them. Dazai had awoken to a small pile of presents sitting on the pillow beside him, with cards from Oda and Kouyou and several of the showgirls who hoped he’d give them the time of day. Even Elise had gotten him a present- a single dime and half-crushed daisy tucked into a matchbox.
He noted there was nothing from a certain dancer. Not that he’d gotten his hopes up.
He didn’t see Chuuya until he sat down in the front row of the auditorium and the curtains pulled away to reveal the redhead, whose fiery curls had been extinguished into a soot-black, standing in the middle of the stage with his arms wrapped around himself in a self-tortured hug.
The play was a dramatic, ongoing monologue following an unnamed narrator grieving for his lost love and showing his psychological state through lines of poetic dialogue and movements hung heavy with sadness. Dazai was entranced by Chuuya alone, watching him perform with the same breathless fascination he’d had the first time he saw Chuuya dance. He avoided looking at Dazai through the entire play, and only at the very last moment in the final lines proclaiming his soul shall be lifted nevemore did he look directly at Dazai with such fierce intensity that his skin prickled. When it was over and the cast had given their final bow to the house, Dazai slipped backstage to find Chuuya. He spotted him at the downstairs sinks rinsing the dye from his hair, scrubbing at the waves of black with a bar of sandalwood-scented soap.
Dazai leaned against the wall, not speaking while Chuuya finished. The tips of his fingers were all stained the same black from rubbing the colour into his hair hours before, which didn’t help as he tried to get as much dye out as possible in one wash. He straightened up and shook out his hair, which was still run through with dusty onyx streaks.
Before Dazai could open his mouth, Chuuya locked eyes with him, brilliant azure blazing with emotion that sent a thrill running down Dazai’s spine.
“Wanna go dancing, Dazai?”