Chapter Text
Nakahara Chuuya was bored when he first heard of Dazai Osamu.
He remembers sitting on his couch with his bandmate Albatross listening to Dazai’s new album. They had an unspoken ritual of getting together every Friday night to listen to (and criticize) all the new releases of the week.
The room was humid in the July heat, a fan blowing into their faces but bringing no relief. They sipped cold beers as they sat in tank tops that stuck to them. Amongst all of this, Dazai’s melodic voice floated through the small room.
Can’t you see the difference then
Trepidation in the blue and white
Where did that friend of mine go
In that blue night
Albatross wrinkled his nose.
“This is shit,” he said poetically. Chuuya mindlessly tapped on his phone while they listened, clearly uninterested. The song had a folkish, almost childish lilt to it that Chuuya really did not vibe with. The red haired man nodded his head and moved to switch the album, which was on its last song, to the new Glass Animals album.
“Hopefully this will be a light in our streak of terrible albums tonight,” Chuuya said and held up his beer mockingly.
The next day, it seemed that Dazai had blown up overnight. His songs skyrocketed to #1 on almost every chart, he sold out tours across the globe, and he magically accumulated thousands of fans. It was an inevitable fact that Chuuya would be questioned about his musical talents sooner or later.
That time came about a week later during a random interview with a blonde girl Chuuya did not remember the name of. He had just come off stage from a show and was too tired to come up with a constructive answer.
“I think he tries too hard to be known as a good lyricist. His production is bland and monotonous. Maybe he’d be more interesting if he was more talented,” Chuuya said while picking his split nail apart. Chuuya really didn’t think Dazai’s popularity was built on a solid foundation, so he had no qualms with tearing the man apart. He continued to pick and tear off his old red nail polish.
The blonde interviewer’s jaw dropped and she pushed the pages she was scrolling through on her clipboard to lay flat with finality. It was obvious that she had more questions, but was just looking to put an end to this interview.
“Well, I think that’s enough for today then,” She said with a fake grin and shook Chuuya’s hand with disdain.
Chuuya couldn’t puzzle out why she was so put off by his answer; his typical interview approach was to give his honest, raw answers to questions, especially those about music. Any interviewer worth their salt should know that, and most of the time it was the reason why interviewers even contacted him at all. As the stage lights dimmed, he walked off into a corridor backstage lined with atrocious floral wallpaper and was greeted by the spun-out face of his grey haired manager.
“Chuuya, you have no idea what you just did,” Fukuzawa said with a smile on his face.
Dazai Osamu was furious when he first heard of Chuuya Nakahara.
After watching a clip of Chuuya’s interview on Twitter (“have you seen this nobody who tore you apart? lol” was the text following the link he received from his labelmate Tachihara), Dazai resigned himself to sitting in bed the rest of the day and seething with rage.
The blue light of his laptop burned into his eyes as he sat and watched interview after interview featuring the red-haired man. He was basically stalking the other man to fuel his rage.
Dazai didn’t agree with a single one of his musical opinions but nevertheless felt himself being drawn in by his performances.
This fact was just making Dazai more and more pissed. As he was scrolling, he noticed Chuuya did a lot of covers, and he couldn’t find live performances of any of his original songs.
He was currently watching a cover of a song he didn’t know at all, but he thinks Chuuya’s version is probably better than the original.
It’s not over till you’re underground, Chuuya screams into the microphone with passion.
He’s dressed in a patchwork leather jacket over a red flannel and looks significantly younger, his hair cut into a short red undercut rather than the long red hair he sported in his interview. He looks like something straight out of a 2000’s punk rock band to Dazai.
It’s not over before it’s too late. This city’s burnin’, it’s not my burden. It’s not over before it’s too late. The blonde haired drummer of the band loses his drumstick and Dazai laughs before his focus snaps back to Chuuya. The red haired man picks up a neon red electric guitar that has a bunch of stickers littering it, including a pride flag and a fist grabbing a bleeding heart that Dazai vaguely recognizes.
Where will all the martyrs go when the virus cures itself? Chuuya has a spark in his blue eyes as he sings and mindlessly shreds the guitar. His voice is full of a rich confidence and sounds rough and gritty, but also has a beautiful edge to it. Dazai is addicted to it. He plays with an effortless charm, clearly the result of pure, raw talent.
Chuuya’s words of “ maybe he’d be more interesting if he was more talented” echo in Dazai’s mind. Dazai feels more rage grow deep in his heart.
And where will we all go when it’s too late? Chuuya continues to sing and it feels like he’s laughing at Dazai. He then effortlessly transitions into a guitar solo that is unlike anything Dazai has ever seen. Sweat is dripping down his face and he stands with one leg of a ripped skinny jean on a black box. The spotlight shines down to enhance his glossy features and, to Dazai, it almost looks like he is a rock god gracing the crowd with his guitar.
The crowd roars and screams the lyrics And don’t look back! with him, like they are his worshippers. The entire scene is so full of life - something Dazai thinks he hasn’t felt in a long time.
Dazai slams his computer shut and throws it to the floor as he storms out of his apartment. He hops in the elevator, the entire time fuming about how good that performance was and throws his blazer over the white button down that he never took off.
Once he hits the streets, he runs to the Port Records office building, a relatively short run from his apartment complex (courtesy of Mori). The building is cold and Dazai’s boots echo across the marble floor as he stomps across the lobby, echoing the rage in his heart. The secretary looks at him quizzically as he walks by, but makes no move to stop him. He is seething the entire time he is riding in the elevator up to Mori’s office.
“I’d like to make a formal reply to Chuuya Nakahara,” Dazai states as he is actively walking into his boss’s office. The office has always creeped Dazai out. It was huge, but nothing was in it except a polished dark oak desk, Mori’s obnoxious number of laptops and screens, and a black leather chair. Empty black bookshelves acted as an eerie sort of decor.
Mori simply raised an eyebrow as an act of requesting more information. Dazai did not blame him; he never requests interviews, and often shies away from them. Dazai stood firm and challenged the man by holding eye contact.
“I can arrange that,” Mori stated when he realized no other information would be coming out of the young boy’s mouth. Dazai nodded curtly. “Just please stick to the regular interview protocol. You are allowed to state that what he said was unbecoming and incorrect, but nothing else. Do not insult or degrade him,” Mori added. Dazai nodded profusely.
Later, when Dazai is sitting on a leather couch with white lights blinding his eyes, he would state that he did not recall Mori’s words.
“You insulted Dazai Osamu? Dude, you’re screwed,” Chuuya’s labelmate, Ranpo, stated while sitting at his desk sucking at a lollipop. For being the biggest artist their company has, Ranpo did a whole lot of nothing.
“I didn’t know he was like, America’s fucking golden child now. I thought he was just another fad,” Chuuya stated sourly while throwing his beat-up black backpack down on his desk in the corner of The Agency’s office.
The Agency was a small label, backed by a few strong artists. The label offered a lot of artistic freedom, which Chuuya appreciated and was the reason why he even signed to a label at all. All he got was a small cubicle in an office overlooking a coffee shop, but it was all he needed.
Chuuya unpacked the lyric sheets he had been working on for ages as he sipped his hot coffee. He scribbled out words he hated mindlessly and doodled in the margins.
And now introducing the nation’s newest craze, award-winning lyricist Dazai Osamu! The TV they had constantly running on random news channels crooned in the corner of the room. The noise sounded rather grating - the TV was extremely old.
“Ugh, turn that shit off,” Chuuya groaned, but no one moved to grab the remote. Ranpo looked particularly interested in what was unfolding, hands crossed on his lap and off of the keyboard he stopped playing mid-song.
The interviewer droned on and Dazai continued to give boring, practiced answers. Chuuya was deeply uninterested but also could not focus on his lyrics. Continuous fake, practiced answers filled the silence in the office. Chuuya continued to scribble.
“Recently, rock artist Chuuya Nakahara slandered you publicly in an interview. How do you feel about that?” The dark haired interviewer stated. Chuuya’s red hair flew as he whipped his head up to look at the TV. Ranpo stifled a laugh.
“It was bold of him to criticize my lyrics when he never sings any of his own. I’m guessing he just does covers because he’s too scared to sing his own music. He’s an untalented coward who doesn’t even command my respect,” Dazai replies swiftly.
You could hear a pin drop in the normally rambunctious office.
“Chuuya-” Ranpo started to speak but Chuuya stood up frantically, making his chair screech against the floor. He grabbed his papers by crumbling them up and stormed out of the building.
Chuuya slammed the door on the way into his apartment. The one-room studio was a mess of musical instruments dusting the floor, clothes thrown all over the place, and an unmade bed shoved into the corner.
He flopped down onto his white mattress and screamed into his pillow (due to too many noise complaints) because Dazai was spot on.
Chuuya had hundreds, if not thousands, of notebooks full of lyrics and notes, but none of them would ever see the light of day. Chuuya was a chronic perfectionist to the point where it was ruining his life. He only had two or three original songs released, but he never listened to them again once they were released, and he rarely performed them.
He picked up all of his old notebooks from the hardwood floor, and one by one, started throwing them at his wall.
“Fucking!” Smack. “Asshole!” Smack. “Untalented!” Smack. “Piece of shit!” Smack. The last notebook ricochets off the corner of the wall and hits his record player, breaking the glass cover and spraying shards all over the messy floor.
“Fuck,” Chuuya exclaims while sinking back down into his bed with his head in his hands. He feels tears fill his eyes that refuse to spill and clumps his red hair in his hands.
He hears a knocking at the door and promptly ignores it until he hears a key turning in the lock.
“I heard you throwing shit around up here,” Albatross yelled across the apartment, throwing a beer onto Chuuya’s bed. “Don’t you have a show tonight?” Chuuya simply groaned.
“Why did I give you a key,” the red haired man muttered into the pillow. Albatross started to wave something brown in front of his line of vision, so Chuuya peeked an eye up to see a bottle of beer in the older man’s hand. Face down in his pillow, he made feeble attempts to grab at the beer until Albatross placed it into his hand.
“That’s why,” Albatross said with a smirk. Chuuya rolled his eyes and finally sat up properly.
“I take it you saw the interview,” The blonde man softly said, testing the waters. Chuuya nodded and took a small sip.
“You know what you should do?”
Chuuya shook his head.
“Go out there and perform entirely original songs tonight. I know you have a notebook full of them, and I know you say they’re imperfect”, (he frames the imperfect in poignant air quotes), “but think about it. It would be the ultimate payback,” Albatross smiles. Chuuya went to open his mouth with a counterargument, but the older man stopped him.
“Don’t give me any of that, you know the band could pick it up in a few hours.”
“Wouldn’t that just show that the weird fucker is getting in my head?”
“Ok, do two or three then. Maybe just songs you’ve already released for now. That way, you can shut that argument down by saying it’s not anything you haven’t done before.”
Chuuya contemplated Albatross’s idea for a few minutes, sipping the beer as he stared up at his white popcorn ceiling. He still couldn’t decide whether or not this was a genius idea that would rid him of all ridicule, or if it would just add flames to the fire.
“What if I announced an album?” Chuuya states in a half-joking tone. Albatross frowns and gives him a knowing look.
“An album that you don’t have.”
“I could make one,” Chuuya says unconvincingly. Albatross deepens his knowing glare.
“Fine, fine. I’ll sing Hold On as my opener,” Chuuya says, waving a hand in front of Albatross’s face as a dismissal of the conversation. Albatross, however, looked determined.
“Hey. You know we wouldn’t be in this band if we didn’t believe in you, right?” Albatross softly spoke as he placed a hand on Chuuya’s shoulder. Chuuya rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah. Get off of me and go practice,” Chuuya said. The blonde haired man smiled in return and got up from the bed.
“See you tonight,” he punctuated with a wave and shut the door quietly.
Chuuya sat in the small backstage area, reviewing his setlist. It was a small, five song setlist, as he was just part of a lineup all performing in some obscure venue outside of Long Beach. However, Chuuya could see his small number of loyal fans waiting at the barricade. He preferred performing at smaller shows like this, since he didn’t exactly have the song number to produce a substantial solo-concert setlist.
Albatross and his keyboard player, self-dubbed Piano Man, came up to him as he was biting his thumb on one hand and mindlessly strumming strings on his guitar sitting next to him with his other hand.
“You ready?” Albatross stated, sticking out his hand. He feigned confidence, but Chuuya can tell he seems concerned deep down from the lines on his forehead.
Piano Man tapped his foot impatiently and Albatross glared at him, so intensely that it could be felt from behind the sunglasses he used for performances. Chuuya sighed.
“Yeah, let's go.”
Chuuya allowed himself to be dragged on stage, but almost felt like he isn’t there, like he was floating outside his body watching what was happening. He stepped onto the harshly lit stage and got ready to put on a performance.
“Hey everyone, I’m Chuuya Nakahara. This is my own song.”
Dazai had tried to fight back when Higuchi and Tachihara had decided to drag him out to some show on the outskirts of Long Beach.
“It’s a Thursday night! We have work tomorrow!” He had protested. Tachihara had just called him old and continued to drag the sleeve of his white button down into his beat-up Jeep.
Now, standing in the middle of a crowded bar that smelled like weed and booze, Dazai wished he had protested a little bit more.
The air felt thick, and the performer on stage right now was singing some song about drugs, as had been a common theme for tonight. The teenagers in the back of the venue were enjoying it, holding up their beers and singing along.
Dazai could never understand the appeal of concerts like this, and was deeply confused as to why The Terrible Two (a Dazai-made nickname for the auburn and blonde duo) insisted he come.
Speaking of, Tachihara sauntered up to their table and laid down two of some fruity looking drink. Dazai rolled his eyes - cocktails were not his vibe - but took a sip anyways. After all, he needed something to get through tonight.
“Where’d your other half go?” Dazai inquired about Higuchi lazily. Tachihara shrugged.
“Ran off to flirt with some girl. We’ll probably never see her again,” Tachihara sighed and put his hand on his chin.
The performer on stage was saying his thank you’s and ungracefully exiting the stage. The crowd at the back looked deeply disappointed and withdrew their beers in disapproval.
“That was making my ears bleed,” Dazai muttered while staring down at his drink and stirring it absentmindedly. He was overwhelmingly bored. He couldn’t help but think of all the flaws in the venue; the spotlights sometimes slipped and shone over the crowd instead of on the performer, the bass was way too loud, and the lighting way too dim. It looked like a bar venue that college students went to for the purpose of getting drunk.
Dazai was cut from his thoughts as the audience slowly started to get increasingly louder, but it didn't really pique the man’s interest until he heard one girl at the back near him scream I love you Chuuya!
…Chuuya?
Dazai’s head shot up from his drink to see the red haired man setting up on stage with his band. He was simply wearing a white t-shirt and black ripped jeans with a black choker, but Dazai thought he looked like a rock star. It was clear that he was the star of the show; he could see heads at the barricade jumping up and down and even some signs being held up. He whipped his head over to Tachihara, who returned his shock with a shit eating grin.
“You fucker, you tricked me!” Dazai said while shoving his shoulder. Tachihara burst out into laughter while losing his balance on his stool.
“Hey everyone, I’m Chuuya Nakahara. This is my own song,” the man stated.
“Lame ass intro,” Dazai muttered into his drink, his face scrunched up in displeasure.
The crowd roared about 20 decibels higher than the volume level they were at before and almost everyone pulled out a phone camera. Dazai contemplated how Chuuya’s words had created this shift.
This is my own song.
Dazai’s mouth fell open. This was a direct response to him.
Tachihara looked even more smug as the beginning notes began to play, a strangely dressed white haired man plunking them out on the keyboard. The song sounded rather melancholic, Dazai thought, a strong divergence from the covers Chuuya usually sings.
All we can do is hold on, The man was gripping his microphone with one hand, the same electric guitar slung over his body but not currently in use.
Even from the back, Dazai could see Chuuya’s hand shaking on the microphone. He was obviously holding back on this part, but his voice sounded smoother than Dazai had ever heard it, the grit and vigor from his covers missing.
So hold on to me, take my last breath. Consume all of my darkness, lay me to rest. He held out the last note for a while before adjusting his grip on his guitar. Dazai saw the drummer also preparing and realized the song was about to tremendously pick up pace.
I watch my life from the outside, anger fuels me, dust runs through me. He belts into the microphone.
The passion in his voice was palpable, and Dazai was captivated. His drink sweated with neglect and created a wet ring around the table as he sat at the edge of his seat.
I watch the ashes between us, I burnt you down, you came undone. Chuuya continues on to sing All we can do is hold on, along with the rest of the chorus again, but this time screaming it into the microphone and accompanying it with a riff on his guitar. The music itself also picked up pace, and he was seemingly sharing his next words in haste, like sharing a love letter to someone about to die. It created an atmosphere where everyone was on the edge of their seats, waiting to hear the next words, like the story would end well.
The song does not end well - it slowly dwindles down back into the melancholic state it once was in, with the last line being I’d rather just die than go back to being alone. I’m all alone here.
The piano played a soft outro, and Dazai stared blankly at the man on stage, who seemed to stare down at the ground in shame. He uncoiled his guitar from around his neck and placed it back on its stand with reverent care.
“That was depressing,” Tachihara states blankly and breaks Dazai out of his stupor. When Dazai looks at him, he has a knowing look on his face.
“You loved it,” Tachihara says with a smug smirk. “I knew it!”
Dazai did not dignify that with a response.
“You only hate something that passionately when you can’t stop thinking about it,” Tachihara said with a wink. Dazai simply stared at his pink drink. He heard Chuuya playing some other song and he vaguely recognized the words ‘friends’ and ‘blue’ through his daze. He doesn’t dare look up at the stage.
“Can we leave now?” Dazai whispered to Tachihara. He saw the blonde outline of Higuchi walking over, her pink dress swaying to the music. He sighed, laying his head down on the table. Tachihara almost looked pitiful.
“Dazai! Are you liking the performance?” Higuchi said way too loudly, slinging an arm around Dazai’s slumped figure. She took a sip from Dazai’s drink by leaning over his shoulder. Dazai simply groaned.
Tachihara stood up to greet Higuchi with a smile on his face.
“You missed the grand reveal! You were too busy trying to win over that girl again!”
“Will you stop it! We were simply chatting!”
“Yeah, if it were ‘simply chatting’ you would not abandon us every time we go to a bar anywhere around Los Angel-”
Their arguing was cut off by Chuuya grabbing the mic and putting off alarming feedback. Dazai’s face scrunched in displeasure, but his body turned away from the table and back to the stage nonetheless.
“I know you all have been waiting for this one,” the man on stage said with a smirk. The crowd fell silent in anticipation. Dazai rolled his eyes.
“I guess you could call this my formal and final response to Osamu Dazai. Screw you, asshole,” Chuuya said into the mic. Dazai froze and he could hear Tachihara and Higuchi oooing like he was just sent to the principal’s office.
I don’t know you, but I think I hate you. You’re the reason for my misery, Chuuya sang.
“Real mature. Is this original too?” Dazai muttered to Tachihara.
“This is by Green Day, god, Dazai, sometimes you kill me with how little music you actually know.”
“I know music!” Dazai rebuttals weakly. On stage, Chuuya continued.
Strange how you’ve become my biggest enemy. Well, I’ve never even seen your face. Dazai tried to ignore the positive thoughts coming into his head and replace them with everything Chuuya was doing wrong, but his thoughts came up empty. He wanted to smash the still-full cocktail glass against his head.
Magic man, egocentric plastic man, Dazai froze when he saw Chuuya lock eyes with him. Chuuya did not even stutter, nor flinch. He simply held Dazai’s fearful gaze with a fire in his eyes matching the auburn of his hair. He looked electric. He looked alive.
Yet you still got one over on me, Chuuya strummed the guitar all while looking at Dazai. Eventually, people noticed and started to turn around. Some who recognized him pointed, and Tachihara tugged pleadingly on his shoulder.
Dazai thought he could not be the one to lose this unspoken battle. All he was focused on was Chuuya's voice and electricity.
Well, maybe it’s just jealousy, mixing up with a violent mind.
Tachihara practically dragged Dazai off his stool. Dazai saw strangers moving towards him out of his peripheral vision, but he was too drawn into the storm that is Chuuya to pay them any mind.
A circumstance that doesn't make much sense.
“Dazai! We have to go now,” Tachihara screamed.
“I’ll see you later,” Dazai simply stated, walking towards the backstage area.
“What the fuck? Dazai! Dazai!” Tachihara yelled after him, following a few urgent steps behind him.
Dazai crashed through metal doors into the backstage area and could only hear the voices of the crowd screaming I’m a chump! . He could feel Tachihara grab his arm forcefully.
“Osamu. What. Are. You. Doing.” Tachihara enunciated each syllable.
The fast guitar solo Chuuya was shredding out on stage as well as the dimly lit, small space added to Dazai’s mania as he laughed.
“I have no idea!” Dazai continued to laugh. Tachihara gave him a look of genuine fear. The band had wrapped up the final song and was headed off stage.
“Oh god, we’re gonna get killed,” Tachihara muttered while running a hand through his orange hair.
The keyboardist and drummer were the first to walk down the stairs leading to the backstage area, and they both simultaneously scowled at Dazai, stopping in their tracks on the narrow steps. Dazai could see a mess of red hair behind the two tall figures.
“Dazai? What the hell are you doing back here?” He heard Chuuya’s voice say. The two bandmates moved aside, and he emerged, like a curtain was parted for him.
“You’re shorter than you look on stage,” Dazai responded quickly. He could hear Tachihara groan and Chuuya’s blonde-haired bandmate stifle a laugh.
“What do you want?” Chuuya said exasperatedly, crossing his arms and shifting his weight onto one hip impatiently.
“I came to visit a fan! Since half your songs tonight were, you know, about me!” Dazai said with a shit-eating grin. He felt giddy, like he was talking to a celebrity crush. Chuuya sighed and hung his head.
“You’re insufferable.”
“So I’ve been told. ‘Magic man, egocentric plastic man’ is quite the line,” Dazai wore a maniacal smile and stepped closer and closer to Chuuya. He had no plan for what he was doing, and internally his mind was saying abort abort abort, but he could not bring himself to do so. “How long did it take you to pick the perfect song to diss me with? How long was I on your mind?”
“I thought of the perfect song to use immediately. Although, I was debating between using Chump or Dead by MCR.”
“How’s that song go?” Dazai said and cocked his head. Their faces were inches apart now.
“Fuck off,” Chuuya said, using an arm to push against Dazai’s white button down and walk past him towards the dressing rooms. His bandmates shuffled behind him, sneaking curious glances back towards Dazai.
“I was serious,” Dazai muttered to Tachihara. The ginger man sighed and led him out with a hand on his back.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”