Chapter Text
The air was buzzing with all kinds of different emotions: excitement, fear, anxiety. The dorm lobby was filled with students, all with different majors. There were multiple, identical dorms, each one housing a different year. The lobby was big, chairs and sofas being everywhere and a small coffee table laying in the middle of every circle. The windows were large, allowing enough sunlight of the early morning to intrude.
Chuuya was currently in dorm 1A, mindlessly scrolling on his phone and sitting in an armchair near the front desk, where two ladies were calling out names and giving room keys, as well as class schedules. He was wearing a slim cream turtleneck, with a cropped black, wool blazer on top and chunky silver chain resting around his neck. He had charcoal grey tailored high-waisted trousers on and his favorite pointed leather ankle boots. His fiery ginger hair, long enough to fall just beneath his shoulders, was nicely tied in a low bun, a few strands falling around his face, the curled ends framing his cheekbones perfectly. Of course, he wouldn’t be Chuuya if he didn’t have accessories on, like the delicate rings that he wore on his right ring finger and both thumbs or his favorite French style hat with a ribbon around and a chain falling on the left, creating a loop.
His older sister, Koyo, a tall, slim woman with a more reddish hair color than Chuuya, who was a fourth year at the Yokohama University and in Art History major, had dropped him off a few minutes ago after quickly telling him her dorm building, 4B if he heard correctly, and leaving to said location. After around 20 minutes, his name was called. He pocketed his phone, took his suitcases, backpack and box and went to front desk.
“Chuuya Nakahara, yes?” an older lady asked him. Her slightly greyed hair was tied in a low bun, a few loose strands slipping in front of her face. Her hazel eyes were hidden behind her round, blue glasses that sat lazily on the tip of her nose, clearly too low to be comfortable. She had a simple, black t-shirt on with a beige jumper on top and skinny, blue jeans. Her name tag read ‘Ms. Chen’.
“Yes, that’s me.” Chuuya replied. The woman smiled gently and turned in her chair, opening a drawer from the desk behind her and pulling out a schedule, a key card and a set of dorm guidelines. She turned back around and placed them all on the top counter.
“First, I need you to sign these papers. They confirm that you understand and agree to follow the dorm’s rules and respect the university property. You’ll also find all of these outlined in your dorm guidelines.” Ms. Chen explained, placing a short stack of papers in front of him and offering a pen. Chuuya nodded, took the pen and swiftly worked through the papers—reading just enough to know what he was agreeing to—and put the pen down on top of the forms.
Ms. Chen took them without another word and smiled once more. “You’re all set. Good luck, Nakahara-san.”
Chuuya gave her a polite nod. “Thank you.” He took his key card, schedule and guidelines in one hand and walked over to where he previously waited. He set the papers and down onto the box and checked the hey card which read ‘Dorm 1A, room 103, floor 1’. He quickly put that in one of his pockets, put the box with the papers still on top on his suitcase and walked over to the elevators. With one hand dragging the luggage after him and with one hand balancing the box, he had no way of pressing the button but with his elbow. As he waited for the elevator to come, he took in the way the other students looked.
First thing he noticed: none of them looked as good as he did, and he took pride in that. Most students were dressed comfortably—loose pants, oversized t-shirts with jackets on top or just hoodies that look like they’ve gone through hell just to be here— and girls mostly having their hair in buns, ponytails or braids. The rest were more dressed up, having taken this more seriously and wearing dress-up shirts with vests on top and paired with jeans or straight black slacks. The building was nicely decorated, without personality but that was expected from a university dorm that had purple curtains tied at three quarters of it with a beige ribbon for a dramatic flair. The walls were filled with multiple posters and flyers, each one presenting a different major—and there were a lot—or activity. Students passed him in every direction, laughing, shouting, dragging their luggage with far too much noise for his liking.
The elevator finally arrived, and he could get to his dorm. Once the doors opened, he stepped inside, pushing his stuff along and pressed the button to his floor. The ride there was not more than a few seconds long, the doors wide open again at his destination. He quickly exited and took his things with him. He was in the middle of a hallway. It was simple, blue carpet and white slightly stained walls, light bulbs being hung from the ceiling. It extended to his right, having a silver block stuck to the wall, reading ‘Rooms 101-110’, and to his left, having an identical block with ‘Rooms 111-120’ engraved into it. Each end had a small window, letting the natural light shine through.
He turned to the right and began walking down the hall, stopping after taking a few steps. He took his hand off the box and fished for the key card inside his pocket. He pressed the dark blue card against the pad and opened the door to his dorm.
Chuuya stepped inside the room, his eyes immediately having started to take in the new view.
The room was medium size. There were two beds, one on each side, blank panels were hung on the walls above the beds, two normal sized wooden desks were right by the bed head. Each desk had a lamp on top and a garbage bin underneath it. Above them was a large window, overlooking the campus grounds and having the best view for sunsets. Two closets were on either side of the room, right at the foot of the bed. There was an additional door on the left side, which he could only assume was the door that led to the bathroom. Everything was in the mirror.
Except for one thing.
On the left, boxes, different items and clothes were thrown on the floor and sprawled over the bed was a slim figure, holding a book in his hands.
“Who are you?” Chuuya asked the stranger.
————————————————————
Dazai had arrived hours before anyone else.
The halls had been empty, then quiet in a way he almost found comfortable, if it wasn’t for the place itself. The woman at the front desk, alone at the time, barely spoke a word as she handed him his room key and other papers he hadn’t bothered to look through. He quickly signed what he had to, the lady smiling politely with a smile that couldn’t quite reach her eyes and taking those faster than she gave them. She might’ve expected him to have questions or troubles, but Dazai asked nothing, and offered even less.
His drop-off had been quick, efficient.
He looked exactly like someone who hadn’t put any thought into his appearance and yet somehow still pulled it off. A loose white button-up hung off his frame, sleeves rolled just below the elbow, collar slightly wrinkled and open at the throat like he couldn’t be bothered to do the top buttons. Over it, he wore a tan trench coat—slightly too big on the shoulders, frayed subtly at the cuffs, and the kind of thing that looked like it had a story, or several. Slightly stained bandages creeped out from beneath his collar crawling their way onto his neck, as well as from under his sleeves, wrapping tightly around and above his wrists.
His dark trousers were slouched at the waist, held up by a black leather belt with a worn silver buckle, and his shoes—old loafers, maybe once polished—were now dulled at the toes, quiet when he walked—more like dragged his feet along the pavement.
His hair fell just past his jawline, tousled and layered, like he hadn’t combed it in days, but it still somehow curled at the ends in a way that framed his face too well. Soft brown, with a few strands falling forward, brushing the edge of his cheek and half-shading his unreadable expression.
He wore no jewelry, no rings or chains, just an old gold-rimmed wristwatch with a cracked face and a faded leather strap that wrapped loosely around his wrist. It looked like it had been fixed more than once.
He didn’t look tired, but he didn’t look awake either. Just present.
Just there.
Left at the front of dorm by his father, a well-respected and feared man, the only words exchanged not having been anything less than cold, stern and carried with such authority it could make metal bend— “Don’t you dare embarrass yourself.” like that has ever been something his father truly cared about. He only cared about his own image and reputation. And Dazai—well he was a risk to that. His luggage was in one hand, as his unfinished book laid in the other. The car quickly took off, disappearing behind buildings and continuing its route.
He picked the left side of the room, the one closest to the bathroom door, and threw his things down without a care. No ceremony, no unpacking, no nothing. Just him, his book and the surprisingly comfortable bed.
Minutes blurred together, but the weight of it all grew heavier with each one—a dull reminder that he was alone, and stuck exactly where he didn’t want to be. He hadn’t moved much since he dropped his bags. Just lay there, the ceiling above him white and blank, as if daring him to fill it with something that made sense. The book stayed open in his hands, but the words had long since blurred into nothing. He wasn’t reading anymore. He was just… existing. The room smelled faintly of new paint and dust. Too clean. Too untouched. Like it didn’t want him there either. Occasionally, laughter echoed from downstairs—other students, still full of nerves and excitement, dragging suitcases and futures behind them. He didn’t care to look. Instead, he turned a page he hadn’t read and let the paper crinkle beneath his fingers.
He was taken out of his trance by the sound of the lock clicking and the door opening. There was some shifting before a smooth, slightly surprised and annoyed voice filled the silence.
“Who are you?”
Dazai turned his head towards the stranger and taking in his appearance, the way he looked, the way his hair fell in front of his face, the confidence and grace he held himself—and of course…
“You’re short.” Dazai laid out as a matter of fact as his eyes glimmered with something new, something Chuuya couldn’t yet pinpoint, and a smirk plastered itself onto his previous blank stare. Chuuya blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. Before he erupted.
“What did you just say to me, bastard?! I’m not short, I’m still growing damn it!” Chuuya retorted back. How dare he?? He hasn’t been in this room for more than ten seconds and this guy was already picking a fight. This stranger, a tall, messy haired deadass looking person, was commenting on his height, no ‘Hello’, no name asking, no nothing. The audacity and manners this guy had were shameful, really. And on top of that, did he really have to leave his stuff sprawled everywhere? It looked like a tornado has been here and it hasn’t even been a full day since they’ve arrived! Hell, Chuuya has barely been in this space for three full minutes, and he’s been insulted already!
He walked over to the other bed, the right one, and dropped his box alongside with his back onto it. He pulled his suitcase, that has previously held open the door and placed it in between his closet and the foot of the bed. He had to stay calm; he couldn’t knock his teeth out. Not yet—at least. He took a grounding breath before turning back to face the guy.
“I’ll ask again. Who are you?”
Dazai has sat up now, book closed, page forgotten, laying on the soft bed covers as he examined his stance and face. He hummed. “Fashion design major, right?” It was more like a statement rather than a question, his style in clothes having clearly given it away, but for some reason Chuuya was still surprised by his correct assumption.
“Yes, and answer my question, asshole.” He clicked his teeth. He could feel his eye twitch and a headache appearing. He’d known him for barely five minutes, and he already had a need—to strangle him. He was genuinely curious on how someone could be this insufferable. “Stop deflecting.”
Another hum followed, this time accompanied by a smirk. Dazai got up, put his right hand across his chest to his left shoulder, his left arm behind his back and bowed dramatically sixty degrees.
“Dazai. Dazai Osamu at your service, roommate.” He winked at him before standing up, his full height on display.
Chuuya’s eye twitched.
He was trying—God, he was really trying—not to blow up on day one. But this Dazai guy… he wasn’t making it easy. That smirk was glued to his face like it’d been carved there at birth, like he knew exactly which buttons to press just from looking at Chuuya once. Arrogant bastard. Chuuya turned back around, jaw tight, shoulders even tighter, and forced himself to unpack with some semblance of control. He folded his shirts with rigid precision, lined them up in the closet like they were soldiers, like he wasn’t seconds from launching a shoe at the other side of the room.
Behind him, Dazai was too quiet. The kind of quiet that was loud in its own way. Like he was watching him. Picking him apart with his eyes. Waiting for something. Chuuya didn’t give him the satisfaction. He tucked the last shirt in place and slammed the closet shut harder than he needed to. The sound echoed.
“You gonna keep staring, or is that just your thing?” Chuuya snapped without turning around.
A pause. The bed creaked.
“You’re interesting,” Dazai said, tone smooth, unreadable. “Like a teacup that’s already cracked, but someone keeps pouring boiling water into it.”
Chuuya stiffened. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Dazai hummed. “Just thinking out loud.”
Chuuya finally turned, slow, sharp, eyes narrowing as they landed on Dazai still lounging like a prince on a throne that didn’t belong to him. He didn’t like this. The way Dazai spoke. The way he looked at him. Like he saw more than he was supposed to. Like he enjoyed it.
Chuuya didn’t like being seen.
“You don’t know anything about me,” he said lowly, voice like a warning.
Dazai tilted his head, lips twitching up again. “Not yet.”
“Tch. Just, stay on your side and keep your stuff organized, not on the damn floor.” Chuuya retorted annoyed. Dazai’s smug face irritated him more and more the longer he stared at it. Dazai hummed and laid back down, eyes lingering just for a moment longer before returning to his book.
Chuuya took his box, the one he’s been careful not to move too much and placed it beneath his bed. From his backpack he took his black headphones and placed them around his neck before receiving a notification. He fished his phone out of his back pocket and checked it—Yosano texted him to meet up.
‘Hi, Chuuya! Koyo told me she dropped you off like 30 minutes ago and knowing how fast the ladies in the lobby are, I figured you were already in your dorm. Meet me at the café around the campus entrance in 10 minutes. Don’t be late!!’ He wouldn’t dare be late, not after what happened last time. It still sent shivers down his spine at the thought of it.
Yosano was a good friend of his, being his sister’s girlfriend had its perks. They started dating when Koyo was in her second year, while Yosano has just started university. He was a bit nervous when Koyo has suggested meeting up for the first time, expecting to meet either a nerd or a stick-up, but quickly discovered she was neither, just a kindhearted girl who brought light to his sister’s world and had an obsession for knifes. But he liked her, and having someone like her around, at this new faculty and a roommate like Dazai, was surely appreciated.
Chuuya sighed and shoved his phone back in his pocket. Ten minutes to kill, give or take a few. He figured he might as well start putting some of his other stuff away, like his work materials.
He crouched beside his second suitcase, one that was full of fashion stuff, too many to begin describing each one. The moment he unzipped it, the faint scent of linen, ink, and starch escaped into the air, grounding him. His fingers brushed over neatly packed rolls of fabric—velvet, tweed, chiffon—each one labeled, each one a different color, each one already part of a project in the making. Beneath them were his sketchbooks, stacked tightly together and wrapped in string. He untied one and flipped through it briefly, the pages filled with rough lines and sharp silhouettes. He'd worked on most of these pieces during the summer—late nights under dim desk lamps, pencil smudges staining the corners of his pages, some coffee stains visible as well. With practiced care, he stood, moved to the closet, and began placing the bolts of fabric on the top shelf. The left half of the closet would be his workspace—already mentally claimed. He hung up garment bags, tucked his measuring tape and pins into a small hanging organiser, and aligned his pencils and tailor’s chalk in a row on the desk.
This was routine. Familiar. Safe.
Until, of course, Dazai opened his mouth again.
“Chuuya,” he drawled from across the room, voice like he was already bored. “Do you always unpack like you’re prepping for New York Fashion Week?”
Chuuya didn’t turn around. “Do you always talk just to hear your own voice?”
“I was just admiring the precision,” Dazai continued, flipping a page in his book lazily. “It’s almost romantic. The way you treat that tape measure like it’s a sacred artifact.”
“It’s called respecting your craft, dumbass.”
A soft, amused hum was his only answer.
Chuuya carefully laid out a folded half-finished coat on his desk, smoothing the collar with his knuckles. The threads were a deep rust color, offset by a black velvet lapel—he’d been saving it for a fall show. Or maybe something bolder. He didn’t know yet.
Behind him, Dazai let out a dramatic sigh.
“You know, if you hang your swatches at a 5-degree angle instead of 90, they look more dynamic. You did say you were a fashion design major, right?” He didn’t, Dazai just guessed.
That made Chuuya freeze mid-motion.
He turned, slow and irritated. “Are you seriously criticizing my layout now?”
Dazai smiled, all teeth. “No, no. I’m helping. Roommates help each other, don’t they?”
“Help yourself to shutting the hell up.”
He grabbed the closest item—a spool of thread—and pointed it at him like a weapon. Dazai, predictably, was unfazed.
“Careful,” he teased. “You’re going to pull something trying to reach me from all the way down there.”
Chuuya nearly lunged.
Instead, he took a deep breath, jammed the spool back onto his desk, and stormed toward the door. If he stayed in this room another second, one of them was going to need stitches—and it wouldn’t be him. As he grabbed his jacket and yanked the door open, he muttered under his breath:
“I just met you and already don’t like you.”