Chapter Text
Ango Sakaguchi prided himself on being composed.
A man of clean desks, orderly rosters, and dignified neckties. In a school brimming with hormonal chaos and hallway melodrama, he was the calm at the eye of the storm.
Except for one storm.
“Dazai Osamu.”
The name left his mouth in a sigh, almost habitual now. On his desk sat the latest report: a smashed bento box—no ordinary lunchbox, mind you, but some absurdly expensive thing imported from Germany that belonged to one of the class's more delicate students. When Ango had asked for an explanation, Dazai had simply blinked, face expressionless, and replied, “It looked better broken.”
That had been it.
No apologies. No remorse. Just a boy drowning in layers of gauze and wrapped in a silence so thick it echoed.
Ango had tried. God, had he tried. Emails home—ignored. Progress reports—unreturned. Notes—unopened. So today, he did what every exhausted, frustrated, thoroughly at-his-limit teacher eventually did.
He scheduled a parent meeting.
Friday afternoon arrived like a quiet warning. The staffroom smelled of stale coffee and cheap printer toner. Ango sat at his desk, fingers laced, waiting.
And then—
Knock knock.
The door creaked open. And there, framed by the wan light of the hallway like a damn painting, stood a man. Tousled black hair that brushed against his cheeks, a long beige coat slung lazily over his shoulders, and warm amber eyes that held a tired softness. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a novel Ango was too afraid to write.
“Ah… good afternoon,” the man said, his voice smooth, low. “I’m Oda Sakunosuke. Dazai's guardian.”
Ango blinked once.
Twice.
A beat passed before he realised he was still staring.
“Ah—yes! Yes, of course. Please, come in,” he said, rising so fast he nearly knocked over his coffee. “I’m Sakaguchi—Ango. Please, sit.”
Oda stepped in with the quiet poise of a man who never demanded attention and yet owned the space entirely. He took the offered seat, folding his hands neatly in his lap. The soft rustle of his coat, the way his fingers idly brushed a scar on his knuckle—all of it felt far too intimate for a bland office on a tired Friday.
Ango cleared his throat.
“I called you in because…” He paused, searching for something vaguely professional in his fogged mind. “Dazai broke a classmate’s property. Again. And we’re seeing continued behavioural issues. Silence during lessons, inappropriate comments, dangerous habits—”
“I see,” Oda murmured, with a sigh that made his shoulders slope further. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He’s…” Ango hesitated, lowering his voice. “I’m worried about him. He wears bandages that he won’t discuss. He isolates himself. Sometimes it feels like he’s trying very hard to make people hate him. It’s not just attention-seeking. It’s something else. He’s—”
“—sad,” Oda finished.
Ango blinked.
“Yes. That’s a word I’ve danced around for weeks.”
Oda nodded. He looked tired in a way that went deeper than the skin under his eyes. The kind of tired that came from sleepless nights and painful choices.
“Dazai was placed under my care three years ago,” Oda began. “His history is… complicated. Trauma doesn’t heal in neat timelines, and some scars don’t fade just because they’re covered in gauze. He’s not cruel. He’s just convinced the world is.”
For a moment, the room was quiet.
Ango felt the lecture he’d prepared wilt in his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t call you here to accuse you of anything. I just… wanted to understand.”
“I appreciate that,” Oda replied. His smile was small, but kind. And devastating. Ango had to avert his eyes slightly to survive it.
“Do you… have any suggestions for how to reach him?” Ango asked.
Oda tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. “He likes riddles. Questions that don’t have obvious answers. He pretends to hate effort, but he craves people who try. Even when he pushes them away.”
Ango scribbled this down like scripture.
Oda chuckled gently. “I know he’s difficult. Thank you for not giving up on him.”
And there it was. That damn warmth again. Ango found himself fidgeting with his tie, a flush creeping up his neck. “It’s… nothing. Just doing my job.”
Oda glanced down. “You don’t get paid nearly enough for what you do.”
The compliment hit him like a bolt to the chest. He looked up sharply.
And found Oda smiling at him.
Soft. Sincere. Deadly.
God help him.
Was he flirting?
No, no, no. That was inappropriate.
Unprofessional. Impossible.
But as Oda stood and reached out to shake his hand, fingers warm and calloused and slow to let go, Ango found himself thinking something utterly stupid:
I want to see him again.
And the moment passed. Oda gathered his coat, his keys, and his weary grace.
“If Dazai gives you too much trouble,” he said, stepping toward the door, “feel free to call me again.”
Ango nodded, a little too quickly. “I will.”
Oda smiled.
“I wouldn’t mind.”
Then he was gone.
The next day, Dazai showed up to class five minutes early.
With a new lunchbox.
Wrapped in tissue paper.
He didn’t say much, but he placed it carefully on his classmate’s desk, then returned to his seat and stared out the window.
Ango stared at him, completely thrown.
Later that week, he found a note on his desk, written in a deliberate hand:
“I still don’t like people. But you’re not terrible.
You met my dad and didn’t run.
That’s more than most.—Dazai.”
Ango stared at the paper for a long time.
And later that night, he found himself dialling a number he’d scribbled in the corner of his planner.
It rang once.
Twice.
“Hello?” came that voice again, deep and kind and too dangerous for someone like Ango to want.
“This is Sakaguchi. I… I was wondering if you might like to meet again. Maybe for coffee? Not about school. Just… in general.”
A pause.
Then a laugh—quiet and warm.
“I’d like that,” Oda said.
And Ango, for once, felt something bloom in the silence.
Maybe, just maybe, some storms were worth chasing.