Chapter Text
WORKS OF DAZAI OSAMU JUNE 19, 2008
Entry One,
“This was the beginning of the Summer in which I met Chuuya. The day I had learned his name. The day I learned how to breathe.
You take four steps on the tongue to say his last name — “Na - ka - ha - ra” — the tip of your tongue touching the roof of your mouth, then drifting to rest on the floor of it while three punches are given to the lungs to pronounce it. You’d get mutilated if you said it too loudly, or too often. Yet, people, or rather, I couldn’t resist the temptation — like the needles Mori-san would inject me with for my medications.
Then there was his first name, “Chuu - ya”, two syllables of pure bliss, pure bliss that only I could harbor. The way I can drag out the “uu” in his name like a stream. It’s like saying the name of an angel. He was like a summer thunderstorm. Unexpected, unnatural, disastrous, yet so beautiful.
Oh, dearest, Nakahara Chuuya, what have you done to me?”
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The day Chuuya had walked through that classroom door during 4th period Japanese Historical Literature taught by Mr. Oda was on June 19th, 2008. Just a month and a day away from Summer break, yet exactly on Dazai’s sixteenth birthday. It was the day Dazai Osamu saw the world in color. The day Dazai Osamu believed in miracles. The day Dazai Osamu believed in God, in love.
The day Dazai Osamu would be hurled into a whirlwind of a life full of tendencies, of disappointment, of detrimental woos and affairs. Yet, he didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, he seemed to be the one who jumped into that whirlwind of such an excruciating life.
Unruly, but clean, strawberry blond hair that matched the sunset, piercing blue flame that had been encased into his right iris that belonged to the beautiful eye sockets of golden, sunkissed skin, the twin iris holding the Grand Canyon within its gaze. A magnificent phenomenon, one that Dazai couldn’t take his mind off of.
“My name is Nakahara Chuuya,” he spoke, the angel can speak, “I’m sixteen, and I moved to Yokohama from Provins, a rural town just a bit away from Paris, France,” his voice softening when he said Paris, pronouncing it like Paree, the A almost feather-like, the S nonexistent, “I enjoy fabricating poetry. Sewing is another thing I indulge in ..” By that point, Dazai had stopped listening, and began observing.
The French accent that slightly slips whenever he talks in front of the class, all because he’s a tad nervous, Dazai can tell by the way Chuuya fidgets with his uniform buttons. The small gap between his incisors, the one he seems to be careless about. Confident, even.
Chuuya’s fingers were nimble, smooth-looking. They looked like the type of hands you would want to hold, kiss, keep close no matter what. His nails were cut a short, healthy, and hygienic length. A habit that Dazai himself didn’t possess most of the time, due to his depressive episodes. Mori never liked it when Dazai was dramatic.
Chuuya was the opposite of Dazai. Prim, proper, polite, well rounded, hygienic and overall perfect. Not like Dazai; who’s hair was greasy, his teeth yellowing, braces needing tightening, nails beginning to look long and gross. Chuuya was what Mori always wanted in a son, wanted in Dazai. He knew it was wrong, wrong to get so close to another boy, but maybe he could learn. Learn how to be perfect, just like Chuuya, for the approval of his father.
“.. I apologize for interrupting the lesson, Mr. Oda. The time is different in France than it is here in Japan.” A voice cut through Dazai’s inner thoughts, an angelic voice that he simply wanted to take home and have it coo, sing for him at night when he had trouble falling asleep, for when he had night terrors of the previous day.
Oda smiled calmly, “No need to apologize, Nakahara-kun. You were lovely, thank you for that. Go ahead and take a seat between Shirase-kun and Yuan-san, I hope you feel welcome here at Suiran.” Chuuya nodded, heading over to the seat as directed as Oda continued the lesson on how literature impacted the environment.
The second Chuuya sat down, Shirase and Yuan immediately started chattering. They were like a bunch of excited dogs. Oh, how Dazai hated dogs. They were asking him so many personal questions. They were nosy, making him uncomfortable. Dazai would never make him uncomfortable.
“What the hell am I thinking? Father would kill me if he knew I was having such thoughts about a boy.” Dazai thought, mentally reprimanding himself, “It’s simply envy. I just want a life in Nakahara’s shape. That’s all it is. Romance is too sophisticated for someone of my complexity. Especially a romance between two boys. That is sinful — haughty.” Once he composed himself, instead of focusing on the lessons he usually loved to learn about, he decided to learn about the sensation named Nakahara Chuuya.
Thankfully, Mr. Oda had told the duo of overbearing students to quiet down due to being a distraction to the lesson. That meant Dazai could observe — mimic — Chuuya’s actions more efficiently, without an annoying boy and girl making him unnerved on his first day in Japan.
Dazai began to daydream as he subtly gawked at Chuuya. He pictured Chuuya’s life as a soft, gentle and nurturing environment, which only made him ache. His stomach churned, feeling jealous just looking at that strawberry blond.
After fourth period, Suiran students are hauled into the unnecessarily massive library for study hall. Finals month was starting to roll in, and study hall was crucial amongst students, especially for those who wanted, and needed, to pass their final exams this year.
Dazai was naturally smart, it was always on the nights that he brought home test results that Mori would have some mercy. It was natural for Dazai to have gotten smarter over time — all things evolve for a reason, after all. Dazai’s reason was simply a reason he couldn’t tell anyone, not even Mr. Sakunosuke, or Mr. Sakaguchi, who was currently supervising the students.
Unfortunately, Dazai was pathetic enough to only have teachers as friends. Nobody liked talking to him, they all thought he was an embarrassment. To his peers, it was sheer humiliation to be his friend. Obviously, the only ones not affected by this humiliation were the teachers. Odasaku, as Dazai called him, was basically a second father, and Ango, was a third. Even with that, you don’t exactly share everything with an authority figure, even if they are your friend.
Aside from the presence of Mr. Sakaguchi, Dazai usually sat alone during study hall. Mr. Sakaguchi always gave him some books to read in the meantime, since he was aware that Dazai was abnormally intelligent for a boy his age, only having turned sixteen today.
Which meant that this time, as he handed the teenager a couple of books, he handed him a long, narrow box that had a blue ribbon tied around it. “Happy sixteenth birthday, Dazai.” He smiled. A genuine smile. He felt as though he really got through the kid this semester.
As Dazai wordlessly unraveled the blue ribbon, some of the students were whispering as they witnessed the scene. Ango could care less, knowing they were simply rumors, none that would jeopardize his career, yet, he knew such rumors would affect a kid of Dazai’s age. He did wish he could do more than giving out detentions.
“Look, Dazai’s boyfriend is giving him a gift.” “They’re so gross. Why even do that during study hall? Don’t they know this is a public setting?” “Do you think they’re going to make out behind the bookshelves?” “Shh! Mr. Sakaguchi is looking! You know how strict he is!” All murmurs great and small had their effects, even if Dazai didn’t want to admit it.
Inside the box was a fountain pen. The expensive kind. He knew Dazai enjoyed writing down his thoughts, enjoyed losing himself in the world of scribbles on parchment. It seemed to be his only vice in the world. “Thank you, Mr. Sakaguchi.” He mumbled under his breath, a small smile coming up on the corners of his lips.
Usually, Ango would ask Dazai to speak up, but it is his birthday, so he simply nodded, and walked away. He didn’t see the need to pry anything out of the kid. He was, after all, just a kid. He’ll lay off, even if it is for a day.
As soon as Mr. Sakaguchi walked away, leaving Dazai with the books and fountain pen, he quietly, and gently, placed the pen back into its box. It was a fancy-looking pen, the expensive kind, the kind you would have to save up for when on a teacher’s salary. The last thing he wanted was for it to break.
He then opened one of the books Ango had brought over — Run With The Wind by Shion Miura. It was a story about self-discovery amongst a group of friends. It seemed interesting enough, but it also felt like a mockery in some sense. Dazai felt as though he would never be able to feel such things, especially since he was alone.
While Dazai read, he couldn’t help but glance around occasionally. That’s when he saw him; Nakahara Chuuya, the epitome of perfection in his eyes, sitting two rows ahead of him. Chuuya was studying, probably trying to catch up with the material, as he was a new student. He had a physics textbook in front of him, and a notebook. He was reading, periodically writing down notes. He seemed so productive, not like Dazai, who was reading a dumb book about a friend group. Maybe he should study too.
He was unable to resist the temptation to fixate on Nakahara, how he acted, how he functioned as a human being. He wanted to follow in his steps, to be just like him for the sake of his father’s approval. If Dazai had the courage to speak to Chuuya, to ask questions — he would.
For now, he settled for scrutinizing Chuuya subtly. Chuuya was a mystery, a mystery that Dazai wanted to slice open and analyze, like the frog dissection they did last year (he wondered how Nakahara would’ve handled it). He was in AP physics, from what Dazai had seen. He liked listening to music — Dazai didn’t know exactly what kind, but it seemed to be on the louder side judging from how he bobbed his head consistently. He liked using colored pens; blue and black. He was able to balance friendly conversations and studying pretty well. Shirase and Yuan were bothering him awfully much.
“So, if you’re from France, why is your name Japanese?” Yuan asked, staring at Chuuya as if he were some sort of exotic animal, the audacity of this girl, “Yu, you can’t just ask him why his name is Japanese.” Shirase scolded, rolling his eyes as he looked back at Chuuya with the most lovestruck eyes the world has ever seen. How disgusting.
Chuuya blinked, and sighed inwardly as he kept one earbud out of his ear to listen to the prattling of the two beside him. Dazai couldn’t imagine how he must be feeling, being surrounded by two of the most annoying people he’s ever met. “Well, I was actually born in Japan, my brother took me to France when I was seven to live with him and his partner after my parents were in an accident.” He explained calmly, a hint of sorrow flashing through his eyes.
Yuan gasped, her hands immediately flying to her mouth as she began to apologize profusely for even asking about it. An idiotic girl, for sure. On the other hand, Shirase had his hand on Chuuya’s back, gently rubbing it as he gave his condolences for a tragedy that happened 9 years ago.
“I wish my father was dead.” Dazai thought for a split second. An intrusive thought, is all. They were common throughout his day-to-day life. Stab father. Poison him. Take Elise and run. Run to Odasaku’s home, to Ango’s home. Kill father. Dump his body into the local lake. Nobody will find him there. They’ll think it’s an accident. Nobody knows his true nature. All sorts of thoughts just like that. It wasn’t a strange occurrence anymore.
As soon as Dazai realized what went through his mind, he mentally slapped himself. Chuuya was speaking about a travesty — one that he shouldn’t even hearing about — and Dazai was here, wishing it were his own father that had suffered from the accident. How apathetic can he be? No wonder his father disapproved so much. No wonder his peers found him mortifying to be around.
He shook his head, and decided to stop listening. It wasn’t his place, nor was it his business. It was a private conversation between Chuuya and his new friends. Dazai had no right to listen in on his supposedly tragic life story. As much as he wanted to know about the spectacle that was Chuuya, this wasn’t the way to go about it, was it? Social norms weren’t exactly his forté.
Normal people would approach the person they wanted to get to know, would introduce themselves, would say some sort of fun fact that wasn’t all that interesting. Or maybe that was just in class when a new school year began, and the teachers forced everyone to do icebreakers.
Either way, Dazai wasn’t normal people. He didn’t have any fun facts to share about himself, he didn’t have the gall to even approach someone like Chuuya. He would probably wait it out, wait for Chuuya to come to him, or maybe Chuuya will hear the rumors about Dazai, and decide that he hates him. That was honestly the most probable case here.
“So.. uh, are you gonna join any sports, Nakahara?” Shirase asked, resting his cheek in the palm of his hand as he watched Chuuya with a loving eye. “Have you seen the sports list yet? The clubs? They have some pretty interesting ones.” He added, distracting Chuuya from his much needed studies.
Chuuya pressed his lips together into a thin line, putting his pen down as he thought it over for a moment, “You can just call me ‘Chuuya’.. and, well, my brother and I used to play soccer together back in Provins, I think I was pretty good. I might sign up for that if there’s still tryouts happening, or even spots available.” He replied, fidgeting with the buttons of his uniform polo like he did earlier.
Shirase smiled, a giddy grin full of, well, delight, “That’s awesome! I’m on the soccer team, and if you want, I can talk to coach. She’s really nice, I think she’ll be more than glad to welcome you on the team.” He sat up, practically beaming at the thought of Chuuya joining the soccer team as he pat him on the back.
“Oh, that’s nice of you.. Yeah, I’d appreciate that. Thank you.” Chuuya smiled, the tips of his ears coated in a soft pink hue. Paul will be pleased to know that he’s made some friends, and that he’s going to be able to join a sports team. His older brother always chastised him about being social and active, saying it was important for his development as a teenager going into adulthood. It was overbearing at times, but he knew Paul just wanted the best for him.
The reason Paul and Arthur moved back to Japan was so Chuuya could connect with his hometown, his culture, and make friends. They figured that living in France, away from the city in a medieval town, was probably not the best way to raise a teenager who had needs to be met. Homeschooling was probably not the best vice either. Paul and Arthur were incredibly intelligent, however there were things they couldn’t teach a sixteen-year-old boy; like social skills.
As Shirase, Chuuya, and Yuan all laughed together, Dazai simply watched in an emotion he couldn’t quite explain. Envy? Admiration? Jealousy? Enamour? He didn’t know. He hasn’t felt this much emotion since he was a boy. Once he turned six — the year his mother left, the year young Elise had come into their lives once she decided that she didn’t want any child of Mori’s — he seemed to just be a shell of himself, of who he used to be. It’s like there was nothing behind his ribs. He had a hollowed out chest, but it felt full when he saw Nakahara laugh like that. He wished that it was he that was making him laugh like that.
The closest Dazai had to a Shirase and Yuan, was Odasaku and Ango. Even so, they were much better than two immature teenagers who were no doubtedly going to fail the finals. Everytime Dazai saw them, they were either goofing, or struggling to understand the most basic of concepts. Not even the most understanding and patient of teachers — Ms. Kouyou, and Mr. Oda — could teach them. Dazai felt as though Chuuya deserved more than that. Someone who could challenge his intellect, who could keep up. Someone like himself, yet someone like himself didn’t have the courage to talk to someone so exemplary, exotic.
Before Dazai could even blink, the bell suddenly rang, signaling for nutrition. It startled him out of his daze, making him clumsily stuff his things into his book-bag, while everyone else had already begun walking out of the library. Way to be timely, Osamu. Luckily, he managed to make it to the food line on time. It would be a tragedy for him later if his father found out that he had “accidentally” skipped another meal during their weekly checkups.
He stood in the line, slouching as he held his book-bag strap over his left shoulder. People shoved around, calling him names, chortling as they did. It was routine, that’s mostly why Dazai skips meals. The hassle of the food line wasn’t worth the time. However, if he skips the second time this month, he fears his father won’t be as kind. So, he kept that in mind as he punched the number of his student I.D to pay for the hot meal.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Your account doesn’t have enough credits. Did your father forget to input some again?” Words Dazai dreaded to hear from the sweet old lady’s mouth. Mori intentionally didn’t leave any more credits. His mouth felt dry, his shoulders trembling as he tried to not think about the consequences he’ll receive when he gets home. Even with the breathing techniques he was given, panic continued to surge through him. “.. Y..yeah, he forgot. It must’ve slipped my mind to remind him this morning.” He lied through his teeth weakly, looking down to his feet.
“Uh, I’ll pay for it, if that’s not an issue.” A voice, a voice that was heaven sent, spoke from behind Dazai. That voice belonged to Nakahara Chuuya, the angel that stormed straight into Dazai Osamu’s life so unexpectedly. The angel was saving him. He was Dazai’s guardian angel. He had to be. “I.. I think my brother put enough credits into my account for whatever he’s trying to buy. I’m sure my brother will understand that it’s for someone.”
The lunch lady smiled, her wrinkled cheeks puffing out slightly, “That’s very nice of you, dear. Of course you can pay for him. It’s a good deed, what you’re doing.” The praise made Chuuya smile, but that wasn’t the reason he was doing this, nor was it out of pity. Arthur always taught him to be a good man — to help someone in need. “Ah, it’s nothin’.. No need for the praises. I’m sure anyone would’ve done the same.” He said, waving his hand as he paid for Dazai’s meal.
If only he knew how wrong that statement was. Chuuya was new — he didn’t know about the rumors surrounding Dazai, the strange stories that belonged to people insisting that he was in a secret affair with Mr. Oda and Mr. Sakaguchi. Nobody else would have helped Dazai, not when the risk is tarnishing their reputation, name, and image. To their classmates, Dazai Osamu wasn’t even human.
But to Nakahara Chuuya, Dazai Osamu was human. He was normal. He was just some guy who needed help. To him, Dazai Osamu wasn’t the freak who spent his time hanging around the study hall supervisor and the literature teacher. To him, Dazai Osamu wasn’t the guy who stayed after school to clean up the library. Nakahara Chuuya didn’t cry “inappropriate behavior!” at every interaction between Dazai and the teachers. Nakahara Chuuya was a genuine person, and he didn’t see Dazai Osamu as someone to avoid all the time.
Dazai thought he would find a reason to hate Chuuya, to make him have some sort of flaw so he wouldn’t have to envy him so much, so he wouldn’t see Chuuya as something to become and mimic to satisfy his father. But Chuuya was as perfect as they come. “U.. uhm.. Thank you.” Dazai managed to say as they walked together, despite his dry throat. “I really appreciate it.”
Chuuya gave Dazai a toothy grin, showing off that small gap — was that a chipped tooth? — with no shame, “You don’t have to thank me. It’s just basic human decency, y’know? You gotta eat, yeah?” He said, not even a hint of pity in his voice. Not a single comment about his unwashed hair, not a word about his posture. Maybe things in Provins were different than they were in Yokohama.
“Hey, you’re in Mr. Oda’s fourth period, right? I’m Nakahara Chuuya,” He introduced, a tad of familiarity oozing through his voice, “Uh, er.. You might already know that, since I did introduce myself in front of the whole class. Sorry, it just felt.. right, to do that.” He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, fiddling with his polo button. Why was he nervous?
Dazai stared for a moment, jaw agape before he realised what was going on and snapped out of it, “Uh, don’t worry about it. I’m Dazai Osamu, nice to meet you, Nakahara,” He uttered, his breathing a bit labored as he stared at the paradox he’s been obsessing over basically the whole day. Was this real? “So, I hear you like writing poetry-”
“Chuuya! What are you doing?! Our table is over here!” An annoying voice rang out. It caused Dazai to wince, his lips curling in an irritated manner. Shirase Buichirō. Dazai hated Shirase, and Shirase hated Dazai. They had a mutual hatred. And apparently, Shirase despised seeing Dazai have any sort of merriment. Either that, or he simply didn’t want Chuuya to besmirch his name on the first day by associating himself with Dazai. No matter the reason, it was annoying. Even if Dazai also didn’t want Chuuya to ruin his perfection by association.
Chuuya whipped his head around, looking over to the table where sat Shirase, Yuan, and some other students that were probably their friends. He swallowed, looking back at Dazai apologetically, “Uh.. I gotta go. You can just call me Chuuya, by the way, I don’t really mind. I’ll see you around, Dazai.” He said, smiling as he walked toward the table.
“..Yeah, see you around, Chuuya..” Dazai mumbled under his breath, watching as Chuuya sat down beside Shirase, smiling happily and laughing without a care in the world. What he would give to be able to do the same without shame. Chuuya.
When Dazai arrived at room 213 — Odasaku’s room — he sat down at his usual desk. He had the freedom to sit wherever, it simply didn’t feel right to do so. “Odasaku,” He called out, using his fork to play with his hot meal. He knew he should eat, he just couldn’t bring himself to, not with the storm brewing in his head.
“Yes, Dazai?” Oda replied as he graded papers, not looking up once. He was used to Dazai spending his nutrition hours in his room, either scribbling in his literature book, or just mindlessly babbling. Sometimes his rants were interesting, other times they were more like nonsensical rhapsodies of the religiously psychotic.
Dazai continued to poke at his food, his cheek on the heart of his palm. “You know that boy? The one from Provins?” He asked, looking bored. “Yes. He seems like a nice boy, promising. What about him?” Oda asked, looking up from the essay he was reading written by one of his AP literature students.
“..He talked to me today. Well, actually, just a few minutes ago.” Dazai finally took a bite of the hot meal. Why does it taste better knowing that he bought it? “Was he nice?” Oda asked. He was more than well aware of the way Dazai was treated amongst the students at Suiran. It was honestly demoralising. He remembered one of the days during Dazai’s freshman year, the day he came running to his classroom in a fearful manner about pigs vomit in his locker. Teenagers were cruel.
“He paid for my hot meal. He was.. really nice. Everytime I look at him, I just see.. perfection. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted to be in life. He’s also in AP physics, with Ms. Kouyou. He takes care of himself, and is beautiful like a religious icon, someone you’d sacrifice yourself for. He looks like one of the stained glass paintings I see at the local Church.” As Dazai spoke, his voice held this certain fondness in it. He didn’t quite understand it, but he knew it was wrong, that father would disapprove if he heard it.
“..Please don’t tell my father.” He mumbled in a small and humiliated voice. He trusted Odasaku a whole lot. Not enough to notify him about the things at home, but enough to speak to him about the teenage ordeals of life without telling his father about it all. It was a silent vow between them both.
Oda looked at Dazai concerned. He was always feeling something. He supposed that was a good thing for a developing teenager, especially for a teenager who has experienced so much.. psychological trauma in the two years he’s been in high school. Seriously, pigs vomit? “I won’t, Dazai. You know I won’t.” He reassured, returning to the papers he had to grade.
The remainder of nutrition was rather silent, mind the scratching of pens against paper. “Oh, dearest, Nakahara Chuuya, what have you done to me?” Dazai scribbled down into his fresh new journal, courtesy of his father. The pen gifted by Ango was hopelessly working as Dazai etched his personal thoughts onto the pages of his new sanctuary.
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The rest of the classes were a chore. They always were. They were filled with students Dazai hated, teachers that he utterly despised, work that was far too easy for him, and questions only the illiterate struggled in. Yet, the only difference was that he was there. Somehow, he made it more bearable.
Chuuya had 4/9 classes with Dazai, five if you count the study hall. Possibly seven, since he did arrive during the fourth period. His presence simply made everything seem more lively. Dazai wanted to see the world in colour through his eyes, and yet, he still saw colour even with just having Chuuya around.
But it didn’t feel like enough. He felt as though he had to have more than that. He had to do more than that. Had to be more than that. He didn’t just want to see the world through Chuuya’s eyes, he wanted to be Chuuya. He wanted to be in Chuuya’s skin. He wanted to be his fingernails, his teeth, his hair follicles, his oxygen and carbon dioxide, his feces, his vomit. He didn’t care what it was, he wanted to be a part of Chuuya, even if it meant being something outright repulsive.
So much so that Dazai was willing to collect all of those things. Dead skin, freshly cut fingernails, baby teeth, a small lock of strawberry blond hair — he wasn’t sure how he would get the oxygen from Chuuya’s lungs, but he would try — he wasn’t sure if he would touch feces, and as for vomit; after the incident of May 14th, 2005, he gained emetophobia. Therefore, Dazai would have to settle with what he can get his grubby hands on. Perhaps a page of Chuuya’s poetry, maybe a piece of fabric from his personal study. Anything that was Chuuya’s was akin to the Holy Grail.
Student-after-hours at Suiran were mostly for extracurriculars or after-hours clubs. The swim team was at the pool, as expected. The volleyball team was in the gym, the clubs took place in the buildings. The soccer team took one half of the field, while the football team took the other. And then there was Dazai Osamu, who stayed after school to help clean the library and room 213.
Dazai always went to the library first, considering it was larger, and Ango would need the extra help before he leaves for home. Odasaku, on the other hand, left around two to three hours after lessons have ended, therefore it wouldn’t be a problem to begin with the library whatsoever.
As he walked to the library building, he caught sight of the field. He noticed Chuuya, holding his book-bag, looking a bit nervous. Why was he there? Dazai tried to remember anything he had eavesdropped on, any mention of joining sports. Dazai wasn’t in any sports. He was too scrawny. Chuuya was athletic?
“So.. uh, are you gonna join any sports, Nakahara?” “..my brother and I used to play soccer together back in Provins, I think I was pretty good. I might sign up for that if there’s still tryouts happening, or even spots available.” Dazai dreaded having to replay those words in his head. Chuuya was going to join soccer. That meant on game days, Chuuya would be away for the classes they had together. Dazai could always sneak away from lessons, to watch, but then father.
“Father would kill me. He would never approve if I skipped lessons, much less if it’s for a boy. He will force me to repent beneath the Church podium. I can’t handle another month of that, not this year.” He thought, shuddering at the mere prospect of his knees hurting from the kneeling. When Dazai was in kindergarten, he kissed a boy on the cheek. He was full of delight, excitedly telling his father about it on the car ride home. Home turned into the local Church down the block, and into kneeling on cold, frozen peas as he repeated Bible interventions while his father watched from the pew. That continued for several months.
Yet, as he watched Chuuya, alongside Shirase, speak with the soccer coach — Mathilde Loisel, a young Christian woman of French descent, Dazai has seen her at the Church, his father speaks with her from time to time — he felt like throwing it all away would be worth being able to stare at Chuuya’s back all day, even if that’s the only privilege he could have. Was this more than just mere admiration? More than envy?
Nonsense. Absolute nonsense. Dazai scrunched his nose, facing away from the figure of Nakahara Chuuya and continued his journey to the library. His interventions. Interventions! “I refuse to accept a false solution, I will resist temptation, and seek to quiet, calm, and conserve my sinful thoughts. I refuse to accept a false alternative, I will resist temptation, see through my problems..” He mumbled, keeping his gaze down the whole way. Mori would be proud.
“So, you want to join the soccer team?” Loisel asked, holding a whistle in her left hand as she looked Chuuya up and down. “Yes, that’s correct.” He confirmed, nodding enthusiastically, “I played a lot back in Provins, I think I’d make a good addition to the team. I’m resourceful, a quick thinker, and I can adapt to my surroundings easily,” He listed, seeming anxious.
Shirase piped up, noticing Chuuya’s anxious demeanor, “He’s new. But he’s like.. super smart! He’s in AP physics, he can probably help us calculate the speed and shi— I mean, stuff. Sorry.” Loisel’s eyebrow quirked-up at the near-cuss. She huffed, “That’s nice, boy, now go run 5 laps.” She pointed to the field, firmly enforcing her authority.
Shirase groaned, but ultimately jogged away. Loisel looked to Chuuya, who was watching his friend run off, “Back to what you were saying,” She said, taking an interest in the one in front of her, “You’re from Provins?” She asked, a small smile gracing her features. “I was born near there, I’m from Paris.”
Chuuya’s eyes seemed to have lit up. Someone from France? Just like him? “Really? That’s.. cool. I’ve been to the city a few times with my brother and his partner, it’s honestly really beautiful at night. The people there are very fashionable as well, gorgeous people, really.” He blabbered. He was passionate, that was good.
Loisel’s small smile turned into a grin as Chuuya yammered on, “Do you think I’m fashionable? Or even gorgeous?” She asked, a playful tone etched into her voice. It was amusing to watch Chuuya stammer, how the tips of his ears tinged pink. Her favorite color was pink, she just didn’t think she’d love it the most on a young boy.
“Oh- er.. You’re a stunning lady, of course! I.. I mean.. I don’t mean it like that. You just look young, not that you’re super old.. uh..” He fumbled. How does one reply to that? He was flustered. Way to go, Chuuya. Embarrassing yourself in front of your future team. “Don’t fret, sweetheart. I know what you mean,” Loisel’s voice was smooth like honey, soothing like a lullaby. Her smile was akin to a caring mother. That reassured Chuuya, just a teense.
“You show promise. You can join the team. I’ll just need your physical, and a signed copy of parental consent. You can start practicing once I receive those forms,” She said, ruffling Chuuya’s hair. Soft, she could braid it, if he would allow it. “I’ll see that the office gets them for you. Make sure you come to school early to get them,” Loisel hummed, reluctantly removing her hand.
Chuuya was practically beaming, he got in! Paul will be in seventh Heaven once he finds out the great news. “O.. Of course! Thank you so much!” He thanked, smiling widely, his eyes almost shut, cheeks puffing out in excitement. “Oh, and.. uhm, I’m Nakahara Chuuya,” He said, just now remembering to introduce himself. He stuck out his hand for a shake, an innocent gesture.
Loisel looked down at the hand, taking it in her own in a firm handshake, “Loisel. You can call me Coach Loisel, or even Mathilde. I don’t mind, you don’t have to be so formal with me,” She responded with a soft voice. Chuuya let go of the handshake, and nodded, “Well, you can just call me Chuuya, then,” He reciprocated, a joking tone embracing his words.
As soon as Dazai finished cleaning the library, and saying his goodbyes to Ango, he practically ran to room 213. He was late. His father never took kindly to Dazai being late. So, he ran as quickly as his lanky legs could take him. Why has the library been so messy today? So many books out of place, dust contaminating the air, some sticky substance on the desk surfaces. Does anyone have decency these days? Can Dazai even speak about decency with recent events?
“Odasaku!” He essentially bellowed. He was breathing heavily, his chest laboring away in small puffs. However, when he came to, he was simply confused. The room was flawless. Not even a speck of dust was seen through the strips of the remaining sun that was peeking through the gaps of the blinds. “..Wh.. What happened?”
Oda was putting away a yellow-beige folder into his desk drawer with a certain grace that seemed to soothe Dazai’s nerves in a way that he was unable to explain. “I cleaned while you helped Mr. Sakaguchi. How is he, by the way? I hadn’t gotten the chance to speak with him today,” He gently shut the drawer, looking up at Dazai with a neutral expression.
Dazai blinked some, rendered utterly muddled, “He.. he’s okay. Just a bit stressed because of the mess others made in the library.” He mumbled, feeling a bit disoriented, but even with that, he was thankful. His punishment wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe God decided to pray mercy on him, it was his birthday, after all.
Oda nodded, opening a different drawer, pulling out a wrapped box, “I know you’re running late. However, it is still your birthday. I would have given it to you earlier, but it felt more appropriate to do it once everyone else has left,” he stated. They both knew it was best this way since Dazai would have gotten picked on if he had received the gift during school hours.
Dazai smiled, quickly taking the box, thanking Odasaku, then rushing out of the door, “Drive safely, Odasaku! Thank you!” He called out from the end of the hallway, waving goodbye. Until tomorrow, that is. Tomorrow, where hopefully the sun sets again.
As Dazai hurtled through the halls, out the building and through the campus towards the exit, he seemed to not have been paying much attention as he nearly crashed straight into someone, and he would have if it weren’t for the quick halt of his feet, his shoes scratching against the concrete. He stopped in front of beautiful strawberry blond tresses, in front of a noticeably smaller figure. Nakahara Chuuya, his turbulence.
Chuuya seemed shocked for a moment, then realising that it was just Dazai, he smiled warmly, “Oh, hey, Dazai,” He said kindly, “You’re in a rush, you have somewhere to be? Maybe a date?” He teased playfully, not at all like the teasing their peers would perform. Even if Chuuya was more than well aware that Dazai could not possibly have a date at this exact moment. Dazai was a mess. Greasy hair, yellowing teeth, and his uniform wasn’t exactly the best date attire.
Even so, the gentleman won’t say a word. It’s like he was married to silence, save for the occasional soothing sound of a running stream that was in the quiet he held. “Oh, no, not a date. I.. I just have to get home, to my little sister, and my father.” Dazai explained sheepishly, fiddling with the wrapping paper on the box he held.
Chuuya let out an accentuated ‘ah’ as he nodded his head in understanding. That made perfect sense. “Oh, I see,” He muttered, “I merely assumed because you’re holding a gift, and you seem a bit eager to leave,” He explained, shrugging his shoulders in a casual manner. Dazai simply shook his head no, swallowing the phlegm in his throat as he replied rather meekly, “No, this is just a gift from a friend of mine. It.. It’s my birthday.”
Chuuya’s mouth fell slightly agape, his incisors almost visible through the small gap, “Oh! Happy birthday!” he smiled. That was more than what the classmates Dazai has had for years have done on his birthday. It was different. It was new. It was special.
Dazai’s heart began to beat in a quick fashion, it’s just envy, jealousy, not enamour, that would be ridiculous, “..Thanks, I appreciate it.” he maffled, the corners of his lips curling up into a genuine, soft smile. He’s smiled more today than he has in his entire life ever since Chuuya’s come into his life like a spinner top. An angel in disguise, that’s what he truly was. His wings were for the picking, perhaps Dazai could glue the feathers onto his own body, and become a bird, a dove, maybe a canary if he’s lucky.
Chuuya’s smile widened, his cheeks appearing more rosy as they puffed out like the wolf in The Three Little Pigs. Such a beautiful smile, a smile that held so much warmth, so much sun and joy. Dazai wanted to snap a picture, and hold it close to his body as if it were a leg of raw ham. Chuuya seemed to realise how late it was, with the sun beginning to set, now matching his hair.
“I.. I gotta go. It’s getting late, and my brother will begin to worry if I’m out too long,” He said, turning around as he began to jog towards the exit gates of the school. For a moment, Chuuya twisted his neck to look back at Dazai, smiling and waving, “Goodbye, until tomorrow!” Ravishing sorrow.
Dazai felt a warmth begin to burrow in his chest, like a bunny rabbit in the Winter preparing for hibernation. He will protect that bunny rabbit with his life. He will not hunt it down like he did with the others. He will not hang it up on his bedroom walls. He will hold it close, he will nurture it, as it will save him from the diseases of humanity. He will be its lover.
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†
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Love is a deceptive little creature. It’s been 30 minutes since Osamu has arrived home. He was an hour late, an hour late to his weekly checkup. Adding onto that, Mori found out that he didn’t skip a meal. He didn’t pray for mercy. Osamu never prayed for mercy from the inevitable.
Osamu lay face down on his bed, not quite awake anymore. Right outside the door, they’re right outside the door, and they don’t know how it feels so good. They’ll never know how Osamu sat in the dark of his room, with no thoughts like a blood-sniffing shark. Shameful. God wouldn’t approve of such modifications to his body. He won’t be accepted into Heaven like this. Nobody accepted him anywhere, what difference would it make if he were a Saint?
The turbulence wasn’t at all forecasted. Nakahara wasn’t supposed to come into his life like this. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was unpredictable, like a bolt of lightning. Yet, Nakahara was not to blame. It was not his fault that Osamu was a tall tree, vulnerable to such natural predators. Even then, was Nakahara truly a natural predator, or was Osamu trying to find a reason for what happened? A divinity to blame?
Osamu could hear the fireworks outside, no doubt the works of the local Church; the booming noises making Elise excited. The squeals of a 10 year old girl echoing through the silent home, murmurs of his father doting on her as he took her outside to watch the bright lights of his memories, to hear the crackles of his dreams crying out to the city of Yokohama. Perhaps one morning this mourning will fossilise, will turn into a memory, a firework for performative purposes. For the children of purity.
He sat up, his face flushed from the tears that would refuse to pour. He had forgotten how to cry. The house was cold. It was like Osamu: A shell of what it used to be. Warm, cheerful, full of laughter and jolly. Change is going to come. But when? When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When?
Osamu’s breathing was labored as he looked outside the window. Was Chuuya watching the fireworks too? Would he know that they were memories belonging to Osamu? Would he admire them, think they’re beautiful? Think that Osamu is beautiful too? Would he sin, and love Osamu in the way a man would love a woman? Sin for the rights to marry him?
Sinner. Father would never approve. Sinner. The world will rule them out. Sinner. Hell will keep them warm, hold them close and dear. Sinner. Heaven forbid they hold each other close, naked and pure, like Adam and Eve. Sinner. It will always be Adam and Eve, not the opposition with the same sex. Sinner. Sinner. Sinner. Sinner. Sinner. Sinner. Sin.
Osamu held his knees, burying his face between the hills, “I refuse to accept a false solution, I will resist temptation, and seek to quiet, calm, and conserve my sinful thoughts. I refuse to accept a false alternative, I will resist temptation, see through my problems, and seek God.. I refuse to accept a false belief, I will resist temptation, seek forgiveness..” He murmured, rocking himself back and forth.
He let out a choked sob, feeling as though the world was crashing down on him. Where was his angel? His soothing ache? His craving? He merely said a few measly words to Osamu, and he was already smitten. How pathetic can he be? Falling for the Devil’s temptation simply because of how perfect he was?
He was too perfect. He couldn’t be the work of Satan. He had to be the mural of God. Chuuya had to be his salvation. His heart, his beloved willow tree with the eyes of both the sky and land, with skin that belonged to the sun, hair that was like a flower, smile that was like a ray of moonlight. He was the Earth, God’s vision, personified.
As Osamu continued to ache, he felt his stomach seethe. He gagged, then a feeble attempt at covering his mouth before he regurgitated. A mess. To vomit was to see himself in a different physical property. Chemistry, what a great way to describe such a gross commodity.
“..Father, I have soiled myself.” He mumbled, unable to look at the disarray he created. Pigs vomit. He was a pig, a disgusting pig that God will never accept into the Promised Land. He can greet Abraham’s Bosom with goodbye the moment death welcomes him.
Osamu gathered up his clothes, blankets, and sheets, carrying it down the steps, “One, two, three, four, five..” He counted as he ventured down to the basement where the washing machines resided. He tossed them into the machine, pouring in the detergent — vanilla, for soft and sensitive skin — and beginning the cycle.
As he went back up the stairs, he felt a sense of dread. He looked at the various photos that were hung up throughout the hallway. There was a particular one, the day Mori had taken them to a corn field, when Elise was 5, and Osamu was 11. They looked so pretty all hand-in-hand. He remembered how Mori had wiped his tears with the corn they had picked on the way home. The leaves had cut the skin below his eye, causing the need for stitches. That was the day Osamu had forgotten how to cry; May 23rd, 2003.
Osamu lay naked on his plain mattress, the static rubbing against his skin, staring up at the ceiling fan. He felt like a nosebleed. The booming of the fireworks were muffled, the noises of laughter and childish joy had long been tuned out, it was silent. He looked over to the crucifix that hung above his bed. It was taunting him.
“Heavenly Father, forgive me for my sins, for I have fallen for the temptations of Satan. I will resist the temptations of the Devil himself, I ask for your protection from this symbol of homosexuality. I confess my acts of wrong-doings, and indulging upon homosexual activity. I ask for guidance, and mercy. Amen.” A faulty, insincere prayer. One that wouldn’t allow him to sleep properly that night. Tomorrow is the same weeping. Tomorrow, the sun will remain the same.