Chapter Text
The pen hovered inches above the paper, his hand struggling to move as if held back by steel chains. Dazai clicked the pen repeatedly, pushing his glasses up.
Under the searing lights of the Tokyo runway, a figure in cascading ivory silk…
He made a sound of annoyance, crossing off the single written line with more force than necessary.
When Japanese fashion houses first emerged on the global stage decades ago…
He clicked his pen over and over again, crossing off yet another line.
Every generation produces a handful of figures who redefine what…
He groaned, crossing off the lines until the paper was an inky, ripped up mess. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair and grasping at the roots.
Dazai took pride in the quality of his work. He was a firm believer that quality is infinitely superior to quantity, thus he never worried himself with meeting deadlines and rushing articles.
And it never really caused him any problems, besides his boss threatening to fire him every time he missed a deadline. If anything, it was amusing to Dazai—he knew his boss couldn’t afford to fire him because once again, he took pride in the quality of his work. He was the best their company had.
That was until something shifted a few months ago. Usually, he allowed himself to miss a deadline by a week or two, even three if he felt like causing some more trouble for his boss.
Then he missed the last deadline by a month. The month turned into two months. Now he was pushing the third month, and even with the intense anxiety overtaking him, he couldn’t will himself to write a single line worth publishing.
The subject wasn’t the problem either. He had the opportunity to meet with and interview one of the rising stars in the Japanese modelling industry, Yosano Akiko, who had a more than interesting story to share with the world.
Yet he still couldn’t write a single line. It was as if some invisible force was pulling him back and draining every single word out of his vocabulary.
Just before he could lay down on his bed and wallow in some well-earned self pity, his phone rang. Once, twice, thrice…Dazai ignored it until it hung up.
He couldn’t even feel relieved before the phone rang once again.
Of course. Kunikida.
Right, he must have really pushed it by now. Three months was too much, even by his standards.
“Ah, do you already miss my presence that much Kunikida?” Dazai picked up, dragging his words in the way he knew Kunikida hated.
“Do you take me for a fool?!” Kunikida yelled, his voice barely recognisable as the static broke up from the volume.
Dazai winced, moving the phone away from his ear. “Now why would you suggest that?”
“Come to my office!” Kunikida said, his voice still shaky with anger. “I can’t believe I’m still putting up with—”
“Yeeees I’m on my way! See you!” Dazai hurried to hang up, a grin plastered on his face. Now he might actually get fired!
If he got fired, then there would be no reason to keep living, so he would have no choice but to kill himself. He believed it was a pretty neat Plan B.
—
“Sit.” Kunikida gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk. There were pieces of paper scattered all over the desk, unusual for Kunikida’s neat-freak nature.
He did inherit the company just recently so everything was still a bit hectic, but Kunikida could easily run the place like the navy, so the sight of his unorganised office was unnerving.
Dazai obeyed, sitting down with his legs crossed, more than ready to hear the two magic words.
You’re fired—
“i have a job for you.”
The grin on Dazai’s face slowly fell, his body sagging in disappointment. A job? That was the complete opposite of what he expected and wanted! “Kunikida! You can’t do that!”
“Can’t do what?!” Kunikida’s voice rose. “Do you know how many months it has been since you last submitted anything? You don’t even bother to call, are we supposed to assume you’re dead in a ditch somewhere? Fukuzawa has been asking for you every day!”
“I know it’s been months but I’m working on it! I can’t take another job when I haven’t even finished my last one, no? Let me finish it and then you can fire me, okay?” Dazai negotiated, his eyes wide and pleading.
“Forget the last job. We already had to pay Miss Yosano and her agency for the trouble and the time wasted,” Kunikida said, his voice steadier now. “This job will either be your best one, or your last one.”
Dazai felt a slight pang of guilt and disappointment—he was fully aware he pushed the deadline and Yosano Akiko and her agency were under no obligation to wait that long, but he was genuinely interested in her story and knew he could write an amazing fucking article if it wasn’t for the creative paralysis that had taken root in him.
“What is that supposed to mean? You’ll fire me?” Dazai asked hopefully. “No need to put it in such a fancy way then!”
“We’ll all be fired, idiot! The company is practically sinking like a damn ship!” Kunikida yelled again, his face red. He exhaled, sweeping his hair back and sitting back down on his chair. “So you better pull some extraordinary shit out of your ass unless you want this place to go under.”
“Fine then. What exactly is this miraculous job? Who am I writing for?”
“Nakahara Chuuya. He’s a—” Kunikida started, getting cut off by Dazai making a sound of what he could only describe as pure horror.
It took a second for Dazai’s brain to register the name he just heard.
“I know who he is! You want me to write for that guy?!” Dazai shrieked.
“Yes.”
“The red-haired pop-star whose fans are ready to commit murder if I said the wrong thing?!”
“Yes.”
“The one who got into a scandal last year for flipping off a paparazzo and cussing off a reporter at a press conference?”
Kunikida nodded again, unimpressed.
Dazai narrowed his eyes. “You’re sending me off to get sued. This is your final revenge, isn’t it?”
“It’s a job,” Kunikida snapped. “A well-paid, career-saving, ship-saving, reputation-saving job!”
“But he hates the press,” Dazai groaned. “There’s a whole compilation of him looking like he’s about to maul a reporter every time someone sticks a mic in his face. This isn’t journalism, Kunikida, it’s self-sabotage.”
“He’s an A-list star! I don’t care what your problem is, you’re writing this article!”
“He’s also an A-list asshole, have you considered that?” Dazai groaned, recalling all the scandalous interviews and articles he had seen written about Nakahara Chuuya.
He wasn’t exactly familiar with the man—he had heard a few popular songs on the radio and seen him on some billboards, and Dazai had to admit, he did catch himself humming a few tunes every once in a while. However, his reputation was practically swept through the mud. Dazai didn’t want to judge someone that quickly, especially based on stuff he had seen on the internet, but the sheer amount of articles and interviews all showing the same behaviour…there was no way it was a coincidence.
“And yet you’ll do it,” Kunikida replied, calmer now, as if he had already won the war. “Because he agreed to it. His agency reached out first. You’re the only writer on staff they were interested in.”
Dazai stared at him. “You’re joking.”
“No,” Kunikida said, tapping his index finger on a file placed on the desk. “The contract’s signed. The label wants something more ‘personal’, but nothing corny, no fluff. They want it raw, serious. Real. He’s gearing up for a new album and some kind of image rehab. You’ll be shadowing him over the next few months. He’ll let you in.”
“I don’t want to get ‘let in,’” Dazai muttered, eyes still on the file like it might miraculously erupt into flames. “I want to write a nice, normal article. About someone who won’t try to murder me.”
Kunikida sighed, rubbing his temples. “Nakahara Chuuya is a walking headline, and if anyone can write something worth reading about him, it’s you.”
Dazai didn’t answer. He opened the file and looked down at the press shots—Nakahara Chuuya standing under the stage lights like he owned them, flaming hair and an expression carved from stone.
Unreachable.
Dazai snapped the folder shut. “I hate you.”
“Then do your job,” Kunikida replied.
Dazai stared at him for a moment, contemplating. Kunikida wasn’t one to fall into desperation, so the situation must be beyond serious. And he supposed he did care about the company, more so about the people working there. Dazai came from Yokohama all the way to Tokyo with dust in his pockets to pursue the work of writing against his father’s wishes, and no one was willing to take him on with barely any experience and his lackluster attitude. Except for Fukuzawa's journalist agency.
He took him in, gave him a place to stay and offered a job that many could only dream about. He frequently wrote about many of Japan’s stars, be it singers, models, actors.
Now that Fukuzawa retired and left the agency to Kunikida, Dazai had no choice but to listen to his new boss just like how he listened to Fukuzawa, much to his displeasure.
He groaned, loud and drawled out, sliding down his chair. “Fine, I’ll do it. If I die, it’s your fault.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Kunikida said, pushing up his glasses. “Before you start, you’ll be meeting Nakahara Chuuya and his manager to discuss the details. You better not cause any trouble.”
“I don’t think you should worry about me causing trouble, considering you’re sending me off to meet the devil.”
“Since when are you that prejudiced? Just give it a try, if he’s an asshole then write that he’s an asshole and get the damn story out! His manager was desperate to have you write this article, so there must be something that everyone else was missing when it came to Nakahara. If you pull this off, you can go big Dazai. I’m talking Los Angeles.”
Dazai’s eyes widened, considering the opportunity. Every journalist around him dreamed to put themselves out on the big markets, New York, London, Los Angeles. If this article was his ticket there, then he had no reason not to grasp it.
It made sense—Nakahara Chuuya was world renowned. In fact, at least half of his fans were based in the United States.
Dazai could handle assholes. He himself was one, so he shouldn’t have much of a problem enduring the man. He could even make some connections with people in the industry through him.
It was decided then, plan B was in the drafts for now. He was writing that article and taking a fucking plane right after.
—
The “office” he was told to be at for the meeting resembled more of a music studio rather than an office–there was a mixing board with chairs around it near the wall, a microphone propped up on a small stand sat atop a white table in the middle of the room, and instruments were scattered around in every corner.
The room was dim, save for the computer monitors that were lit up in front of the mixing board. It was still empty, which was weird as he actually arrived 15 minutes late, so he decided to take a look around the studio while he waited. He set his notebook down on the table and walked over to the keyboard in the corner, lightly running his fingertips on the surface, pressing the last key and wincing at the sharp note that rang.
A second later, the lights suddenly flashed on. Dazai jumped, turning around to face the door.
A tall man in a formal blue suit walked in, quietly closing the door behind him. His posture was perfect, so much so that it made Dazai’s back ache. He walked over, sitting on one of the chairs. His face was completely blank.
“Take a seat, please,” the man said, his voice surprisingly light and cheerful, contradicting his inexpressive features and formal attire.
Dazai sat down across from him, taking his notebook in his hands. The atmosphere was painfully awkward, though the man across from him didn’t seem to mind a bit.
After a few minutes of silence, Dazai spoke up, “Excuse me, but can I ask who you are? I’m supposed to be meeting Nakahara Chuuya and his manager. Could you inform them I’m here?”
The man gave a polite nod. “That is a good question. My name is Adam, I am Nakahara Chuuya’s manager.”
“I see,” Dazai replied, surprised. “Then…may I ask where Nakahara is? I am writing the article about him after all.”
“Not yet. I am afraid Chuuya-san doesn’t know about this meeting as of this moment.”
Dazai blinked, trying to comprehend what Adam just told him. “What do you mean he doesn’t know?”
Adam calmly adjusted his tie. “I am sure you have heard about Chuuya-san’s reputation, which I assume would make you feel reluctant about writing an article about him.”
Dazai stayed silent.
“Which is why I felt it was necessary for us to speak first, without Chuuya-san’s presence. Before you go into this job, I need you to understand some things.”
Now Dazai was interested. Was the manager going to warn him? Advise him to abandon the job?
“I was the one who commissioned you for this job,” Adam said, honest.
So this manager really has some guts. He commissioned an article and set up a meeting behind Chuuya’s back. “And why is that?”
“As Chuuya-san’s manager and friend, I feel a sense of responsibility towards him and his career. I wish to clear his name, and I believe that you are the only journalist I can come to. Your work has always been honest, and your words reach the right people.”
He was trying to clear his name?
“As I said, you are probably aware of Chuuya-san’s reputation. You must have seen videos and read articles, and this is why I had to set up a meeting between the two of us. You need to understand that almost all of the negative content about Chuuya-san has been taken out of context. That is not who he is.”
Dazai struggled to believe Adam. He knew the media could be cruel, but could they have distorted things that much? So many people have spoken out about the pop star that Dazai didn't know whether to believe Adam or assume that he was being used for a PR scheme to do some damage control.
But on the other hand, Adam seemed genuine with his words. It really seemed like he thought of Nakahara as a friend, and he went through all this effort and secrecy in an attempt to clear his name.
It would be hard, but Dazai should at least give it a try. Maybe Adam was telling the truth.
“Okay,” Dazai said, “But I would prefer to speak to Nakahara himself before proceeding any further. Now, if it’s possible.”
“Certainly,” Adam said, already taking out his phone from his pocket. He put it up to his ear and waited before speaking, “Chuuya-san, you have a session with the producer. We are waiting for you at the studio.”
Dazai looked at Adam, shaking his head. Was he lying again?
Adam made a poor attempt at winking and continued, “It was rescheduled for today. Please make your way here. Thank you.”
He hung up and set the phone down.
“Did you just lie to him?” Dazai asked, leaning back in his chair with a smile. “What kind of a manager are you, Adam-san?”
“He would not come if I had told him I called a journalist here. I am strictly against the act of lying, but if this lie helps Chuuya-san, I will happily accept the consequences of my actions.”
Dazai nodded, shrugging his shoulders in acceptance. “As long as you’re the one who gets yelled at, I’m fine.”
If he was ready to accept the consequences, that was his problem, not Dazai’s. All he had to do was write that article. Whether he finishes it and gets paid or Nakahara kicks him out and he gets paid as compensation, he still wins in the end.
Around 5 minutes later, the door opened again. Dazai turned to look–and immediately regretted it. Not because Chuuya looked bad, but because he looked nothing like the tabloid photos he had seen. He was dressed in plain dark sweats and a hoodie that was just a little too big for his ridiculously small sized body, clothes that would easily make him blend into any crowd. But one look at his face would tell anyone that he belonged to a different, flashier world.
The light auburn streaks of hair fell over his face perfectly. His hair wasn’t styled, nor gelled back or forced into perfection—it was a little tousled, like he’d just gotten out of bed. The colour was richer, too. Deeper than what Dazai remembered from the tabloids. It was a blend of rust, wine, and faint sun-kissed streaks.
It made him look…human. In a way that hurts to look at. It was like seeing someone who didn’t belong in a harshly lit studio or gossip forums, but in a painting—frozen mid-movement, unaware of being seen.
And his gaze, it was striking; two different shades, blue and brown. Impossible to ignore.
Since when did he have different eye colours? Dazai could’ve sworn they were always brown. Was it a trick of the light?
Up close, every feature of his face was sharp and chiseled. Jawline defined, nose slightly upturned, sculpted cheekbones. As he looked more closely, he could also notice spots of freckles littered all over his nose and cheeks.
Obviously he was gorgeous, he was a pop star. Seeing it in real life however felt like seeing a being straight out of a fantasy novel. Dazai had to consciously stop himself from staring.
“What is this?” Chuuya said, his voice rough. He looked Dazai up and down, his eyes lingering on his bandages. “Did you hire a new producer?”
Dazai smiled, ready to hear how Adam handled this one..
“Chuuya-san.” He stood up from his chair and bowed. “Take a seat, please.”
Chuuya made a sound of displeasure, closing the door behind him with a click. He slumped into the seat next to them with an audible sigh. “I told you to stop calling me that.”
Dazai almost rolled his eyes. He had a problem with his manager being respectful towards him?”
“I apologise.”
“Whatever.” Chuuya waved him off. “Anyway, who is this?”
Adam hesitated.
Dazai took the initiative to introduce himself. “Dazai Osamu–”
Chuuya’s entire demeanor shifted, his gaze sharp and intimidating. “You’re not a producer. You’re a fucking journalist, aren’t you?
“Is that a problem?” Dazai asked, an innocent smile on his face. Obviously, it was.
“I commissioned Dazai-san to write an article about you. I know that you are not very keen on meeting with journalists, but I assure you that Dazai-san’s work is honest and will not include any false rumours and assumptions,” Adam rushed in to explain.
“Dazai Osamu, the same one that Akiko hired and never got an article?” Chuuya scoffed. “No. I don’t need or want an article written about me, much less by him. Pay him for his time, I’m leaving.”
Dazai’s smile fell, overtaken by annoyance. So this was the ‘misunderstood’ pop star? So far he was checking all the boxes. Arrogant. Prickly. Dismissive. “I haven’t read the best things about you either, you know.”
Chuuya’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure you have. You wanna add to the pile?”
“Chuuya-san, I can guarantee you that you will not regret it if you allow Dazai-san to write an article about you. Think about your career and character. He will only work with you for around a month and a half and will only be there during your work hours. Please think about this opportunity.”
Adam looked at Dazai for help.
“I take my work seriously, Nakahara-san,” Dazai exhaled, speaking plainly. “I’ll write what I see. If you’re an asshole, I’ll have to write that you’re an asshole.”
For the first time, Adam showed emotion—pure defeat. He buried his face in his hands, turning around to face the wall.
“Write whatever the fuck you want! Not like I haven’t gone through this whole charade before.” Chuuya scowled. “Fine. Get your piece on me. Make some shit up, get paid, and leave me alone.”
“Deal!” Dazai said cheerily. “I will need your schedule, where can I contact you?”
“Talk about that with my manager, I’m done here,” Chuuya said, walking out and slamming the door behind him.
Dazai laughed, turning back to Adam. “Rumours you said?”
“Don’t get mistaken please, Chuuya-san doesn’t like to talk to journalists. Give him some time. I will send you his schedule and accommodate you for anything you need.”
Adam exchanged numbers with Dazai and a second later he received a few images.
“Thank you,” Dazai said, “We’ll keep in touch then.”
—
Once Dazai got home, he collapsed on his bed. His appetite disappeared as soon as he had to interact with someone like Chuuya, so he skipped dinner entirely.
He took his phone out and opened Adam’s chat. He clicked on the pictures and was immediately overwhelmed with information. Dazai had to sit up as he scrolled through Chuuya’s schedule.
The day starts at…five thirty in the morning. Morning run and work out…
That alone was enough to make Dazai want to quit on the spot.
Before he could type out his resignation message, he spotted a note included in the schedule:
Your work day starts at eight in the morning. You do not need to come to any of Chuuya-san’s activities before then.
A wave of relief washed over him and he kept reading.
Vocal lessons at eight, followed by hair and make up, an interview, dance practice, then recording sessions. That was almost a 12 hour work day, how the fuck was Dazai supposed to handle that? How did Chuuya handle that, was he crazy?
Still, he had already taken the job, there was no turning back now.
Dazai groaned into his pillow, dreading the alarm that would ring way too soon for his liking.
—
“Good morning, Dazai-san,” Adam greeted him the next day outside Chuuya’s company building, handing him a paper cup. “Would you like coffee?”
Dazai accepted it gratefully, enjoying the warmth of the cup in his hands. He was almost scared that he would fall asleep on the spot.
Adam’s phone chimed. “Looks like Chuuya-san is waiting for us. Let’s head to the studio.”
As they walked through the spacious halls, Dazai spotted many familiar faces. Akutagawa Gin, a successful actress that remained hidden from the public spotlight, and next to her, her brother Akutagawa Ryuunosuke, a rising acting prodigy. In the next hall, he noticed Izumi Kyoka, a young aspiring singer who Dazai had the chance to interview a year ago. She seemed to notice him, so he gave her a wave and a smile.
“So, Adam-san,” Dazai said as they walked, “do you actually enjoy your job?”
Adam replied immediately, as if the answer was automatic. “I do. Working for Chuuya-san has always been a pleasant experience.”
Dazai raised his eyebrows. Pleasant was surely a stretch. “How so? What do you enjoy about your job?”
“Before I came to work here, I had worked with many celebrities,” Adam said. “However, I cannot recall one client that I could say I enjoyed working with. Chuuya-san is kind to me, he allows me to work with him, not for him. We are friends.”
“Kind of hard to picture that,” Dazai admitted. “He doesn’t strike me as the kind type.”
“He is kind,” Adam insisted. “He listens to my jokes, although I am sure he does not find them funny. He lets me play billiards with him, and he even taught me every note on the piano."
That surely did paint a softer picture than Dazai imagined. But yet again, Dazai was not willing to fall for any biases so early. “Then how do you explain his behaviour towards others?”
Adam didn’t even blink. He responded calmly, “Chuuya-san has had…far too many negative experiences with people from the media. Please excuse him.”
That could be believable. Many reporters and especially paparazzis were like infectious parasites, Dazai was sure Chuuya had to deal with people like them almost every day. But that couldn’t be an excuse to act that way towards every journalist.
Dazai was a writer. He wasn’t looking for a sensational news report or a scandalous picture for the newspaper cover, he wanted a story.
And now, he was starting to think that Nakahara Chuuya could give him exactly that.
“It seems we’ve arrived.” Adam knocked on the studio door.
A moment later, the door opened, revealing Chuuya who was still in casual, home clothes. He shot a glare at Dazai. “You again.”
“Good morning to you too!” Dazai said with a grin, stepping inside and flopping on the couch at the back of the room.
The first hour consisted of vocal warm ups and practicing a song Dazai had never heard before.
Chuuya’s raw voice, without any tuning or music, was like listening to a one-man choir. His voice could be full and powerful, but light and airy if he wanted to. He truly sang beautifully, and Dazai wondered why he rarely made ballads—he thought those types of songs would suit his voice perfectly.
After the first hour, Dazai found himself unable to keep his eyes open, as if he was being lulled to sleep.
He slowly drifted off to the sound of Chuuya humming an old song.
—
Seconds later, or half an hour later, Dazai had no idea, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He cracked his eyes open to see a figure standing above him.
“Sleeping on the first day of the job?” Chuuya said, his tone sarcastic. “We’re leaving, get up.”
“That’s because you aren’t letting me get enough sleep with this schedule. Do you have to be so cruel?” Dazai whined.
“Your day starts at eight! Stop complaining, let’s go.”
Yes, Chuuya really was cruel. This was exploitation!
—
Bare-faced, Chuuya was beautiful. With make-up on, Chuuya looked like a star. The soft smokey-eye highlighted his already sultry eyes, though he unfortunately covered his blue eye with brown contacts, which, for some reason, upset Dazai.
After the stylists were finished, the three of them headed to the centre of Tokyo to visit a broadcast station for a morning show Chuuya was invited to attend.
“So, you do attend interviews after all?” Dazai said in an attempt to get a reaction out of Chuuya.
“I attend interviews where I know the questions beforehand,” Chuuya answered sharply. “Like a TV interview. That way I know I won’t be asked a stupid question.”
Okay, hint taken. “Then you’ll agree to do an interview with me tonight, yes?”
“I never said—”
“Great! It’s settled then,” Dazai cut in, clapping his hands together.
Chuuya groaned, stepping out of the car as soon as it stopped.
—
It wasn’t Dazai’s first time being behind the scenes of a TV set, so he was pretty used to the whole process. He got to stay out of the camera’s view, but close enough to watch and hear everything clearly. This was a good time to observe how Chuuya acted during interviews without any out of context scenes.
He took out his notebook and settled down, observing as Chuuya waved at the audience and sat on the couch.
“Good morning and welcome back to our morning show! Today we are joined by none other than the current chart-topping pop sensation, Nakahara Chuuya! Nakahara-san, congratulations on the success of your recent album and thank you for joining us.”
“Thank you for having me.”
The host smiled as the crowd erupted into applause. “The title track, Sorrow Spoiled, is drastically different from your usual sound, it’s darker and heavier. What would you say made you take such an artistic shift?”
“I’ve always made it a point for my music to be honest and connect with people. Lately I realised that in order to do that, I had to be more open about my feelings—even the messier ones. This song was my way of sharing that.”
“I think we all agree that you conveyed your message perfectly. Your album, Soiled Sorrow, almost feels like a diary entry, was it difficult to write and how do you feel about putting it all out for the world to see?”
Chuuya thought for a moment. “The writing itself wasn’t difficult, it was accepting that those lyrics I wrote about me were true. I admit I was nervous about releasing it, but I don’t have anything to be ashamed about.”
Dazai almost forgot that he was supposed to be writing notes down, too entranced with the interview and the subtle honesty of Chuuya’s answers.
“There you have it!” the host said, followed by another round of applause. “Now, the third track, “I kept my distance, afraid to fall, then you came softly, the quietest call”...was that written about someone?”
The audience made a sound of intrigue, and Chuuya let out an awkward chuckle. “Not exactly.”
The sound got louder, and the host smiled, leaning forward. “On the topic of being raw and honest, forgive me but I have to ask. There’s been a lot of talk online about you and model Asai Yuan. Some fans speculate the album is about her, is there anything you would say about that?”
Chuuya shifted in his seat. “I prefer to keep that part of my personal life private.”
“So you aren’t denying it?”
Dazai scoffed quietly at the host’s lack of professionalism and the grin that spread on her face at the crowd’s reaction.
“I have no further comment,” Chuuya said, his tone shifting to the familiar cold one that Dazai was used to hearing.
The host’s smile faltered and she cleared her throat. Fixing her smile back on, she announced, “Soiled Sorrow is available now, and you can catch Nakahara Chuuya live in Kyoto next month. We’ll be right back after a short pause.”
As soon as the cameras stopped rolling, Chuuya stood up and walked off the set, ignoring the host’s attempt to talk to him. Dazai and Adam quickly followed behind.
“Take this show out of all my schedules. Refuse any invites,” Chuuya said, his voice sharper than Dazai had ever heard. “That question was not in the preview.”
“I understand,” Adam responded.
Dazai was already struggling to keep up with how fast they were moving, so he decided to keep his mouth shut for that one.
In all honesty, he couldn’t blame Chuuya for the way he responded and walked off. It was a common unspoken rule between all ethical hosts and journalists that there were two things you were never supposed to ask about unless the person allowed it beforehand—their salary and their personal life.
That host was obviously just looking to get a scoop of drama to boost their ratings, but it obviously backfired. Though Dazai was sure it would backfire on Chuuya too,
it was only a matter of time before the articles started flooding in.
—
The rehearsal room was bright and sunlit, a stark contrast to the cold, grey atmosphere of the company building—polished wooden floors, tall mirrored walls, stacks of water bottles ready to be taken in the corner of the room. Soft background music played as the dancers stretched while Chuuya stood in the centre, his flashy interview attire exchanged for joggers and a loose t-shirt.
Dazai positioned himself on a metal chair at the back of the room, Adam right next to him, balancing the notebook on his knee. To be completely honest, Dazai had no idea Chuuya danced on top of singing, so he was intrigued to witness the scene.
Chuuya tied his hair back loosely and signaled one of the dancers to turn the music on. “Take it from the chorus. No half-energy, go all out this time.”
The group of dancers nodded, focused, and Dazai could see they held unanimous respect towards him.
The soft music cut to an energetic beat, and Chuuya jumped in effortlessly—sharp, powerful, graceful. His body cut through the space with precision, but his face remained calm. He wasn’t dancing like he was trying to prove something, he danced like he lived for it. No wasted motion.
Most celebrities Dazai followed loved being seen, they fed on it.
Chuuya didn’t even seem to notice he was being watched. Or maybe he just didn’t care.
About halfway through, one of the dancers stumbled, and the group stopped.
“Cut it,” Chuuya said, and the music stopped. He turned to the dancer on the floor, “Don’t push the tempo. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sorry, I just—” she apologised, her voice shaky.
“It’s fine, go sit out,” Chuuya responded, his words firm but tone gentle and assuring. “Everyone else, get back into formation.”
Dazai expected fire. He expected arrogance, he expected rage. What he didn’t expect was care and precision—Chuuya didn’t dominate the room, he led it like a melody.
Chuuya must have noticed him scribbling something on his notebook, as he turned around and said, “Don’t make me regret letting you in here.”
Dazai put his pen down and crossed his arms, smiling. “Never.”
—
Two hours later, the dance practice finally concluded. Chuuya and Adam led him to their final stop at the recording studio where Dazai had the chance to hear Chuuya record a brand new song that Dazai assumed was for his next album.
Dazai had to admit, he never put much focus on Chuuya’s voice when he heard him on the radio, but hearing it raw and clear right in front of him was something else entirely.
It was strange—when he spoke, his words were sharp as a steel blade, cutting through anyone mercilessly. But when he sang…it was soft. Vulnerable. Not weak, never weak, just tender as if each note was something he intended to hide.
His voice wasn’t perfect–sometimes it cracked at the edge of the note, as if it folded under the weight of a heavy burden. It wasn’t about technical control, it was about the ache his voice carried, the soft, aching kind of beauty that didn’t beg for attention and applause.
It simply asked to be heard.
“You’re staring,” Chuuya said, taking off his headphones.
“Can I not?” Dazai shrugged, stretching his arms above his head.
“And?” Chuuya pressed, eyebrow raised.
Dazai looked up as if in deep thought, then concluded lazily, “You’re good.”
“That’s all?” Chuuya crossed his arms, unimpressed.
“You sing better than you talk, is that enough?” Dazai leaned back in his chair, his voice playful, seeking a reaction.
Chuuya scoffed, but there was a flicker of amusement underneath. He picked up his water bottle, still watching Dazai. “Is that your idea of a compliment or are you just being a smartass?”
“A little bit of both.” Dazai cocked his head to the side. “Now, about that interview you promised me…”
“I didn’t promise you anything,” Chuuya said, exiting the studio booth.
“Well, you can’t expect me to write a whole article without giving me something to work with,” Dazai said, stepping closer. “I’m not here to dig up dirt, I’m here for a story.”
“I don’t do deep interviews,” Chuuya replied flatly, his eyes narrow, “and I don’t have a story for you.”
Dazai smirked, setting down his notebook. “Okay then, just trust me for ten minutes. It’ll be off the record, I won’t put anything in the article.”
“What’s the point then? What’s in it for you?” Chuuya took a step, his voice low and cautious.
“Getting to know you,” Dazai responded, “You are the story. Ten minutes.”
Chuuya paused, studying him for a second, looking for a lie or a crack in his ‘facade’. He let out a sigh, his shoulders sagging. “Ten minutes.”
Dazai clapped his hands. “See! That wasn’t so hard. Are you ready then?”
“Hit me with it.”
“Right, let's start off simple,” Dazai said, recalling some questions he prepared beforehand, “What was the first song you learned to sing?”
“I don’t know, some French lullaby. My father used to hum it,” Chuuya said, his voice dismissive as if he regrets offering even that much. He leaned back, his jaw tightening, bracing for a deeper question he wasn’t ready to answer yet.
“And the first song you hated performing?”
He scoffed, letting out a short breath. Not a laugh, more like relief. “Some generic pop track they forced on me when I first got signed. Sounded like a soda commercial.”
“I’ll watch that performance later!” Dazai laughed, ignoring Chuuya’s protests. “Next, favourite time to record? Morning, night…?”
“Late at night by myself. Everything is quiet and there’s no one hovering around your head."
“Does that make it easier to think or harder to avoid thinking?”
Chuuya paused briefly. “Depends on what you’re avoiding.”
“Do you write with someone in mind? Or are your songs more like notes to yourself?” Dazai’s tone shifted slightly, keeping eye contact.
Chuuya looked away. “I write for myself.”
Dazai nodded, thinking back on the incident with the morning show host’s invasive questions, and decided to accept his answer and continue. “So, do you ever feel like the more honest your music is, the less people hear it?”
“All the time,” Chuuya’s voice was quiet.
“Then why do you keep putting it out there?” Dazai rested his head on his palm.
“Better than letting it rot in some notebook.”
Dazai hummed. Chuuya was giving him more than he anticipated. “Alright, imagine everything ends tomorrow. No more cameras, no more tours. Would you still write music?”
“Yes,” Chuuya answers quickly.
“Why?” Dazai pried.
“Because I don’t know what else to do.”
“So it’s habit?”
“No, it’s instinct.”
Dazai watched him carefully, an intrigued smile lingering on his lips. He hadn’t written anything down, he simply burned every answer into his memory. “You talk more than I expected.”
“You ask better questions than I expected,” Chuuya said dryly.
“Get used to it.”
—
Dazai stayed long after Chuuya’s footsteps faded away. The studio was quiet now, and it gave him a chance to think. He leaned back on the couch, eyes drifting to the single light bulb on the ceiling, focusing on its faint humming. The sharpness of Chuuya’s voice, of his answers—it stuck with him. Most artists were eager to shape their own persona, yet Chuuya was content with letting his build itself in silence and half-truths.
His answers were short, cold even. But not empty.
Dazai exhaled slowly, fingers toying with the edge of a page. Chuuya dodged emotion, but not because it wasn’t there. No, Chuuya felt everything—he just didn’t see the point in putting it on display.
Dazai smirked to himself, finally picking up a pen and letting the words flow freely. He wrote a single line at the top of the page:
If you want to understand Nakahara Chuuya, stop listening to his words. Start listening to what he refuses to sing.