Work Text:
Chuuya plops down on his bed with a sigh, leaning back and letting himself fall into the soft sheets, his baggy t-shirt wrinkling under him. He had just taken off his binder and his back was still sore, the offending piece of shapewear having been thrown into the laundry basket.
The sun was setting, the last bits of daylight peeking through his curtains, the sky fading into gorgeous golds, pinks, and lavenders, the clouds barely visible in the haze. His next door neighbor was suspiciously absent, the fiend known as Albatross usually throwing pebbles (where does he even find so many?!) at his window this time of evening. Oh well. If he didn't do it now, he'll either do it at some ungodly hour at night or double the amount thrown tomorrow.
Why was he even doing this? He could be studying for that new science assignment or doing his long overdue math homework, but no. He was thinking about his stupid classmates at 9, the haze of mid-June heat seeping into his skin and making him awfully aware of how he felt. Just so that he wouldn't have to hear the dishwasher outside, he puts his headphones on, dragging them from his desk and plugging them into his phone, putting on whatever playlist he could find.
It was the second to last week of school.
The others would be graduating soon, Pianoman and the others heading to university, either in another country or overseas.
And soon...
It would be Chuuya's turn.
It would be Chuuya's turn to graduate in a year. His friends were all going to scatter, and so will he.
He may never see some of them again.
But he was just being dramatic, wasn't he? It wasn't like his friends were dying, they were just moving away. Plus, it wasn't all of them, only the seniors were leaving. His other idiot classmates would stay. Like the insufferable fish-boy from his algebra class who'd fling little bits of paper at him when the teacher wasn't looking and gape like a mackerel when surprised.
Regrettably, they had gotten to know each other. Some would say that they were friends, best friends, even. Chuuya agreed to an extent, but there was something about Dazai that just felt... different. Maybe it was just the power of how obnoxious he was, the boy standing out in his memories both as a troublemaker and not. Some of his pranks were funny. The others were painful, sometimes even seeming malicious. He had lost many an hour of sleep to the boy's antics, like the time he'd nearly thrown up after finding a dissected frog in his bag after getting home, the innards making a mess of his possessions.
He would be lying if he said they weren't close, even if the other made no sense to him at times and pestered him and texted him so much in the middle of the night Chuuya thought he was dying. Even if Dazai was dying, he would've probably been happy about it, his strange fixation on suicide alarming but easy to get used to after more afterschool hangouts than anyone could count, outings to cafes and boba shops and...
Just what was he feeling?
What was this feeling of safety and familiarity and warmth?
What was making those tiny sparks he felt in his fingertips when he held onto the other's freezing hand, leading him through the crowd or vise versa?
What was the bubbly feeling in his chest when Dazai joked about how when they were 30, if they were still single, they would marry for tax benefits because of course the bastard was interested in not paying as much money as he would otherwise? Why didn't he want it to be a joke?
His hair looks soft. Chuuya wants to run his fingers through his fluffy brown hair, all choppy and messy. It was the special kind of self-made haircut, one that screamed "I hated my long hair and fuck anyone who tries to comment on it" and makes Chuuya think that if Dazai had been given any dresses, he'd burned them.
He remembers how they tried to come out to each other at the same time, on Chuuya's bed scrolling through Dazai's twitter feed, both of them somehow yelling "I'M TRANS!" at the exact same time and collapsing into a fit of giggles afterward, Dazai's arm on Chuuya's chest and Chuuya's foot poking the bottom of Dazai's. He remembers cuddling hard it knocked the breath out of his lungs. He remembers starting to trust Dazai, how he had taken off his binder in front of him for the first time, expecting some sort of comment on "chibi's boobies" but getting nothing of the sort. He remembered the sharing of snacks and soda. How they tricked people into believing they were a couple. (It was Dazai's idea!)
And come to think of it, Dazai's eyes were quite pretty too, but Chuuya thought all eyes were pretty, and Dazai's just happened to stand out. Reddish brown eyes that shone amber in the sun, looking almost black when they stayed out late with hot chocolate in the winter to stargaze.
Chuuya's never liked a girl, though plenty liked him. Whenever prompted with the question, he'd simply tell everyone that he didn't know her name and that she was in a grade above him, leading to many, many rumors and lots of drama. That excuse would stop working soon, but he'll cross that bridge when he gets to it. Maybe he'll move on to saying grade below him instead. He sure hoped it would work.
If he's never liked a girl, or anyone for that matter...
Was he in love with Dazai?
Was that a possibility?
Would it even be possible to figure this all out before Dazai left for summer vacation? Would he have enough time next year with how easily sick the other got to stay with him?
Chuuya's face flushes at the realization that he thought Dazai was attractive.
Fuck. Maybe he really did have a crush on Dazai.
But would there be enough time to spend with him? Would there truly be enough for both of them before Dazai had to leave for America?
As the last rays of the sun died away, Chuuya realized something.
There will never be enough time.
There will never be enough hangouts, enough outings, enough moments. There will never be enough. It would be good while it lasts, if it does.
There will not be enough.
And there never will be.
There will never be enough time to be small.
Time is a funny, funny thing. So are memories. Some you will never get back, and that little thing you thought was insignificant may be your only piece left. The seashell on your desk. That faded polaroid from elementary school. The shoes from your first school dance that pinched your toes. Your aunt's fresh baked pie.
Silently, Chuuya hopes that he will never forget.
Silently, as he slept, he did not dream.