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The boy sat on the cold wooden floor, his small frame hunched over, fingers tracing the edge of his plate without touching the food. The meal in front of him had long since gone cold, the rice hardening at the edges. He knew better than to complain—silence was safer, even though the words always found their way to him regardless. His legs ached from sitting still, but he didn’t dare shift or fidget. Not under her watch.
Across from him sat his mother, her long legs crossed elegantly, ankle brushing the edge of the low table. She was a beautiful woman—once. Her sharp cheekbones, once the envy of every magazine spread, were now softened by time and a bitterness that settled deep within the lines of her face. Her once radiant skin, still powdered meticulously, stretched tighter around her eyes, betraying the signs of exhaustion she refused to acknowledge.
She hadn’t looked directly at the child all evening, too preoccupied with flipping through the latest issue of a glossy fashion magazine. The models on each page stared back at her—young, smooth-skinned, their bodies untouched by the ravages of childbirth. Her dark brown hair, though carefully styled, no longer shone the way it once had, and her slim frame looked less deliberate and more brittle, as though too much life had been drained from it. Every glance at those pages seemed to deepen the coldness in her expression.
“Osamu,” she snapped, eyes still scanning the magazine. The sound of his name from her lips was razor-sharp, as though wielded to cut him down. “Stop slouching. You’re not an old man. Sit properly before your spine twists and you grow up crooked.”
The brunette straightened his back instinctively, his bony shoulders tensing. His hands clutched his knees, fingers curling tightly against the fabric of his pants.
A sigh of impatience escaped his mother. She flicked the page with a practiced hand, as if the gesture alone would wipe away the sight of him. “Look at your hair. It’s an embarrassment. When’s the last time you brushed it?”
His fingers grazed the dark strands that framed his face, messy and unkempt. “I— I’ll fix it,” he mumbled, voice small and thin.
“You always say that,” she cut in sharply, setting the magazine down with a loud snap. For the first time that evening, her full attention landed on him, and the weight of it pressed like cold steel against his chest. Her dark eyes, framed by faint crow’s feet she pretended didn’t exist, narrowed. “But you never do, do you? Everything with you is half-done. You don’t try. You think it’s fine to walk around looking like some street urchin. Do you think it reflects poorly on just you? People are watching, Osamu, and when they look at you, they see me.”
Her words dripped with venom, thinly masked behind the guise of concern. The deeper meaning sank into the child like hooks—you’re a failure, and you make me look like one, too.
He pressed his lips tightly together, blinking fast to stop the sting behind his eyes. But she wasn’t finished.
"Do you even know how much work I put into this family?” she hissed, folding her arms over her chest. Her slender fingers gripped her elbows, knuckles paling slightly. “Do you think it’s easy keeping everything in place? You wouldn’t understand. You’ve done nothing—nothing—your entire life. And yet you sit there, acting as if you’re the victim. You make everything harder, Osamu. Every day feels like trying to carry dead weight.”
Her voice dropped into a cold, scornful whisper. “Do you know how humiliating that is?”
The boy’s fingers tightened against his knees until his knuckles turned white. His chest constricted painfully as the words poured out of her, each one colder than the last, like shards of ice driven straight into his heart.
“No one wants to be around you. You know that, right?” she continued, her tone almost conversational, as if she were stating an obvious truth. “You suck the life out of everything. Even as a child, you're exhausting. You don’t smile, you don’t talk like other boys, and Kami-sama knows you don’t make things easy for me. Sometimes I wonder how someone like you even came from me.”
The words shattered something fragile inside him, something he had held together for too long. His vision blurred, the walls closing in around him. He tried to swallow the knot in his throat, to keep it buried deep where she couldn’t see, but it was too late—the cracks were already spreading.
A ragged sob clawed its way out of the boy, sharp and ugly, tearing through the stillness of the room. It escaped without his permission, and once it began, there was no way to stop it. His breath hitched violently, body folding in on itself as the floodgates opened.
He sobbed—loud, harsh, broken sounds spilling out like jagged glass. His small, delicate face twisted into a grotesque mask of grief, cheeks reddened and streaked with tears that burned hot against his skin. His nose ran freely, and his lips, usually soft and pale, trembled as they pulled into an uncontrollable grimace.
The cries came in heavy, stuttering bursts—each one uglier than the last, as if his entire being had collapsed under the weight of everything he had held in. His breath hitched unevenly, sharp gasps cutting through the sobs like hiccups gone wrong. His swollen eyes scrunched tight, lashes soaked with tears, while snot mixed with the salt of his grief, dribbling down his upper lip.
He sounded nothing like a child anymore—his wails were unrefined, unrestrained, almost animalistic. There was no pretense left in him, no attempt to save face. This was the kind of crying no one could fake—the sound of someone unraveling, piece by piece, in the harsh light of a world that refused to show kindness.
“Stop that,” his mother snapped, her voice sharp with irritation. “Do you know how disgusting you look right now? Wipe your nose. You're embarrassing yourself.”
But the boy couldn’t stop. The more he tried to choke back the sobs, the more they fought their way out, louder and more desperate. His small shoulders shook violently, each sob wracking his fragile body with painful force.
“Do you think anyone cares if you cry like this?” she said coldly, crossing her arms. “No one does, Osamu. The world won’t care. All you’re doing is proving how weak you are.”
The boy gasped between sobs, as if searching for air in a room that refused to give it. He pressed his hands against his face, trying to hide the mess of tears and snot, but it only smeared them further.
“I—I’m sorry,” he whimpered, his voice garbled and wet.
“Sorry?” His mother scoffed, disgust curling her lips. “Sorry won’t change anything. You’ll always be this way—a burden.”
The words settled over the child like a heavy shroud, suffocating and absolute. And in that moment, he realized something—there was no comfort waiting for him, no warmth to soften the edges of the world.
There was only silence, cold and endless, wrapping around him like the night itself.
—
The boy's cries, soft yet persistent, filled the dimly lit alley with an almost melodic rhythm. It wasn’t the harsh, jarring wails that most people would expect from a child caught in trouble. No, these were the kind of tears that, if someone listened closely, could almost be mistaken for a lullaby. Smooth, controlled, and… oddly soothing. The sobs rose and fell like waves lapping against the shore, the perfect blend of sadness and restraint, the kind of sound that could lull someone to sleep.
And that was exactly the point.
The police officer standing in front of them shifted uncomfortably, his stern demeanor faltering as Dazai’s cries tugged at whatever shred of sympathy still lingered in his chest. The officer sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t paid enough for this, for dealing with street kids who had mastered the art of begging for mercy with tear-streaked faces.
“Fine,” the officer muttered, waving his hand in defeat. “Just get out of here and don’t let me catch you causing any more trouble.”
Dazai lifted his head slowly, as if the effort was too much, his cheeks damp and eyes glistening, lips quivering just enough to maintain the illusion. He looked every bit the pitiful boy—a masterful performance, really. With a sniff, he wiped at his face with the sleeve of his tattered coat and whispered, “Thank you, sir.” His voice cracked at just the right moment, a perfect final touch.
The officer nodded, still uncomfortable, and turned to leave. As his footsteps faded, the alley fell silent.
As soon as the coast was clear, Dazai’s tearful expression melted away. He stood up straighter, rolling his shoulders back with a grin. The tears evaporated as if they’d never been there at all.
“That was ridiculous,” Chuuya said, eyeing Dazai with something like disbelief. “How the hell do you cry like that?”
Dazai smirked, wiping the last trace of fake tears from his eyes with a theatrical flourish. “Ne, Chuuya, I was just born talented,” he replied smoothly. “It’s a gift. Some people are blessed with strength—” he gave Chuuya a pointed glance—“while others are blessed with beauty, charm, and the ability to manipulate emotions with a single tear.” He tapped his cheek as if deep in thought, then added, “Actually, I’m blessed with all those things.”
Chuuya snorted, crossing his arms. “Don’t let it get to your head.” He could already feel the swell of Dazai’s ego as the brunette flashed him a winning smile.
“You can’t inflate perfection, Chuuya,” Dazai said, his tone casual but laced with a kind of playful arrogance. “I mean, did you hear how the officer caved? Those tears, that sorrowful little voice? It’s like I plucked his heartstrings with every sob.” He sighed dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “I might’ve been the world’s greatest actor in another life.”
“Or the world’s biggest pain in the ass,” The redhead shot back, though there was no real venom in his words.
Dazai chuckled, swiping a stray lock of hair away from his face. “You can admit it, Chuuya. You were impressed.”
“Don’t push it.”
They walked in silence for a moment, the night air cool against their skin, the city’s noise distant and muffled. The quiet stretched out between them, comfortable, until Chuuya glanced sideways at Dazai, curiosity lingering despite himself.
“So…” Chuuya began, trying to sound casual. “How’d you learn to do that? I mean, most people just cry and sound like a mess, but yours—yours was…” He trailed off, not wanting to give Dazai too much satisfaction. “Not awful.”
Dazai raised an eyebrow, his smile widening. “Oh? You want to know? I suppose I can share my secrets, seeing as we’re partners and all.”
The shorter rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of interest behind his nonchalance.
“Well,” The younger began, adopting a thoughtful tone, “it’s all about control. Most people cry and lose themselves in it. Their voices crack, their breath catches, it’s ugly—too raw, too real.” He shook his head. “But that’s not useful. If you want to get what you need, you have to control the chaos. Make it sound just sad enough to pull at the heartstrings, but not so desperate that it becomes uncomfortable to listen to.”
Chuuya raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “So you fake all of it? Every time?”
“Of course,” Dazai replied, looking almost offended by the question. “Emotions are a tool, Chuuya. You wield them when you need to, not when they overpower you.” He flashed another grin. “But I have to admit, I make it look easier than it is.”
Chuuya huffed. “You’d make anything sound like it’s the easiest thing in the world.”
“Because it is. For me.”
They walked a little further in silence, the night settling around them, the stars hidden behind a layer of thin clouds.
Chuuya glanced at Dazai again, something flickering in his chest that he didn’t want to acknowledge. Dazai, with his perfect cries and calculated performances, had built himself into a puzzle—one that Chuuya wasn’t sure he’d ever figure out.
But there was something haunting in the way Dazai described it, something in the idea that he never really felt what he showed the world. That everything, even his sadness, was just another act.
“You’re so full of yourself, you know that?” Chuuya said after a beat, trying to shake off the heaviness settling in his thoughts.
Dazai smiled, a sharp glint in his eyes. “Well, someone has to appreciate me.”
They walked on, Dazai’s footsteps light, as if the world itself couldn’t hold him down, and Chuuya beside him, grounded and solid. Two opposites tethered by fate, dancing in the shadows of a world too heavy with expectations.