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Chapter Text

Dazai Osamu had always considered himself clever—too clever for the humdrum of high school life. He glided through classes with half-lidded eyes and a smirk, drifting between clubs and classrooms without ever anchoring himself. Yet, for all his games, there was one constant.

Chuuya Nakahara.

The name alone was enough to make Dazai’s thoughts spiral like tangled threads. The boy was luminous, the kind of person people gravitated to without hesitation. Captain of the track team, student council vice president, and impossibly, unfairly handsome. His hair—bright, flame-colored waves that refused to be tamed—was the first thing Dazai had noticed. Then came the sharp eyes, like fragments of the evening sky, and the sharp tongue to match.

Everyone knew Chuuya. Everyone wanted him.

And Dazai? Dazai was a ghost at the edge of his world, watching from a distance with an intensity he never admitted out loud. He memorized the rhythm of Chuuya’s laughter, the arc of his stride across the courtyard, the way he shoved his hands in his pockets when embarrassed. Dazai knew which vending machine Chuuya favoured (the one by the west gym, because it carried his preferred peach soda), and he knew that Chuuya always chewed the end of his pencil when he was deep in thought.

But Chuuya didn’t know Dazai existed. Not really.

That changed on a Friday afternoon, when their science teacher clapped his hands and announced the weekend competition.

“You’ll be paired off,” the teacher said, reading from a list. “Two nights, one hotel, full immersion. You’ll need to design and present a functional prototype. Teams are random, to encourage collaboration.”

The class buzzed. Names rattled off. And then—

“Chuuya Nakahara . Dazai Osamu.”

The room tilted for Dazai. He could have sworn the universe itself had winked at him.

Chuuya, sitting two rows over, twisted in his chair with a frown. “Who?”

Dazai lifted his hand lazily, lips curling. “That’d be me.”

Their gazes met. For the first time, Chuuya’s eyes—blue, sharp, impatient—were locked on his. And for the first time, Dazai wasn’t invisible.

The weekend arrived faster than Dazai had anticipated.

The hotel was modest, two twin beds with stiff white sheets, a desk piled with supplies, and a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city. Dazai sprawled across one bed immediately, long limbs splayed, while Chuuya unpacked with methodical precision.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Chuuya warned, setting a notebook down. “We’re here to work, not slack off.”

Dazai rolled onto his side, watching the way Chuuya’s hair caught the fading sunlight. “But I work best in comfort, Chuuya-kun. Don’t you think inspiration strikes more easily when the mind is relaxed?”

“Don’t call me that,” Chuuya snapped, flushing faintly.

Dazai smiled. He hadn’t expected to like the sound of his own name on Chuuya’s lips so much.

The first night was chaos disguised as collaboration. Chuuya was focused, efficient, sketching diagrams and laying out equations, while Dazai drifted around him like an orbiting moon. He offered “creative” solutions—half of which were nonsense—and poked fun at Chuuya’s intensity. Yet, when the prototype began to take shape, it was Dazai who saw the missing piece, the adjustment that made their model actually work.

Chuuya stared at him, wide-eyed. “Wait—you actually know what you’re doing?”

Dazai tapped his temple. “Brains and beauty, though the latter is tragically overlooked.”

“You’re insufferable,” Chuuya muttered, but his lips twitched in something dangerously close to a smile.

That night, as they settled into their separate beds, the room dipped into silence. Dazai lay awake, staring at the shadowed ceiling, hyperaware of the steady sound of Chuuya’s breathing just a few feet away. It was intoxicating, unbearable. Chuuya—so close, so real.

The second day blurred into a haze of work and laughter. Somehow, they’d struck a rhythm: Chuuya driving forward, Dazai weaving sideways, pulling unexpected brilliance from seemingly thin air.

It was during a late-night snack run to the vending machine that things shifted. The hallway was quiet, empty. Chuuya knelt to grab his peach soda, and Dazai leaned casually against the wall, watching.

“You stare too much,” Chuuya said suddenly, not looking up.

Dazai tilted his head. “Do I?”

“You do. It’s weird.” Chuuya stood, cracking open the can. His gaze flicked toward Dazai, sharp and searching. “What’s your deal, anyway?”

For once, Dazai didn’t have a quip ready. His mouth was dry. His heart tripped over itself. He wanted to say everything: that he’d been in Chuuya’s orbit for years, that he’d memorized him like scripture, that this moment was everything he’d ever wanted.

Instead, he leaned in, close enough that the scent of peach soda and citrus shampoo filled his lungs.

“My deal?” Dazai murmured. “You’re my deal, Chuuya-kun.”

Chuuya blinked, stunned. The can slipped slightly in his grip.

The air between them pulsed with something heavy, something alive. And Dazai, for once, felt gravity pulling him in a way he couldn’t resist.

By the time the competition ended, they’d won second place—though neither seemed to care. What mattered was the shift, the fracture in the distance that had once separated them.

On the train ride home, Chuuya dozed against the window, and Dazai sat beside him, watching with the same silent obsession he always had. Only this time, Chuuya’s head tilted ever so slightly toward his shoulder, and Dazai allowed himself to believe: maybe he wasn’t invisible anymore.

Maybe, just maybe, Chuuya would see him.

And Dazai’s world—already turned upside down—would never be the same.

Chapter Text

By the time Monday rolled around, Chuuya Nakahara had already convinced himself that the weekend with Dazai Osamu was nothing. Just a school project. Just a weirdly intense two days. Just—whatever.

Except it wasn’t nothing.

He could still hear Dazai’s voice, low and teasing. Still see those unreadable brown eyes glinting when he’d said, You’re my deal, Chuuya-kun.

“Ugh,” Chuuya muttered as he tossed his bag onto his desk. “He’s such a weirdo.”

“Who’s a weirdo?”

Chuuya didn’t have to look up. The sing-song voice, the faint scent of cherry perfume—it could only belong to one person.

“Yuan,” he sighed.

Yuan—captain of the cheer squad, student council president, and the undisputed queen of the school—leaned on Chuuya’s desk with a grin that sparkled as much as the glitter on her manicured nails. Her hair, cotton-candy pink and perfectly curled, bounced as she leaned closer.

She looked every bit the gyaru she was rumoured to be: glossy lips, tiny skirt, layered jewellery that jingled when she moved. The kind of girl who could kill you with either kindness or her shoe heel, depending on her mood.

Behind her, Shirase strolled in quietly, hands shoved into his uniform pockets. His silver hair fell lazily over his eyes, paint smudged faintly on his sleeve as usual. The boy was an art prodigy—president of both the art and music clubs—and the resident “mystery.”

Where Yuan shone like sunlight, Shirase was the moon: calm, cool, and so effortlessly good-looking it was almost unfair.

“Morning,” Shirase said, voice low, calm, but with that subtle warmth reserved only for their small trio.

“Morning,” Chuuya grunted, shoving his notebook into his bag.

Yuan immediately hopped onto the desk in front of him. “Okay, spill,” she said, crossing her legs dramatically. “You disappeared for the whole weekend. Don’t tell me you actually enjoyed that science thing.”

Chuuya froze. “It was fine.”

“Fine?” Yuan raised a brow. “You never say ‘fine.’ You say ‘boring,’ ‘stupid,’ or ‘pointless.’ What happened? Did you meet someone cute or something?”

Shirase gave him a knowing glance. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not blushing!” Chuuya snapped.

“Ah,” Yuan gasped theatrically. “He’s totally blushing! Who was it? Don’t tell me it was that creepy guy who sits by the window in physics—what’s his name—Dazai?”

Chuuya’s head jerked up. “How do you even know his name?”

Yuan shrugged. “I don’t! I heard his name once when he was sleeping through class and the teacher yelled at him. Wait—was it him?”

Chuuya hesitated just long enough for Yuan to gasp again. “OH MY DAYS IT WAS HIM!”

Shirase raised a brow. “Dazai Osamu…” He rested his chin on his hand thoughtfully. “I know who that is.”

“Wait, you do?” Yuan turned to him. “How?”

“I’ve seen him around,” Shirase said simply. “He sits under the cherry trees sometimes, reading weird philosophy books. I’ve used him as a reference for a few paintings.”

Chuuya blinked. “You painted him?”

Shirase gave a soft shrug, eyes distant. “Not exactly him. More like… his aura. He’s got that kind of presence—quiet, detached. Like he’s here, but not really here. I added him into a few background compositions.”

Yuan laughed. “So you noticed him for his vibe? You’re such an artist.”

Shirase smiled faintly. “I noticed him because of his looks, too. He’s… strange-looking. In an interesting way.”

“Ugh, please.” Yuan rolled her eyes. “Every time I walk past that guy, he’s staring at the ceiling like he’s auditioning for an emo music video.”

“Yeah,” Chuuya muttered under his breath. “That tracks.”

Yuan tilted her head. “So what was he like, Chuuya? Weird? Creepy? Mysterious? Please tell me he didn’t, like, read poetry at you.”

Chuuya stared at his desk, remembering Dazai leaning close under the flickering vending machine light. You’re my deal, Chuuya-kun.

“…Weird,” Chuuya said quickly. “He’s weird. Annoying. Talks too much. And lazy.”

Shirase chuckled softly. “And yet you’re thinking about him.”

Chuuya’s glare could have killed. “No, I’m not.”

“Oh, you totally are,” Yuan said, nudging his arm with a grin. “Come on, Chuu, everyone in school wants to date you—so if you’re actually thinking about this guy, he must’ve done something.”

“Yeah, like drive me insane.”

“Still thinking about him,” Shirase said under his breath.

Chuuya shot him a look. “You’re both insufferable.”

“Admit it,” Yuan sing-songed. “He’s got that mysterious bad-boy energy, right? The kind that drives girls—and apparently you—crazy?”

Chuuya groaned and buried his face in his hands.

The bell rang, and Yuan slid gracefully off the desk. “Anyway, I’ve got a student council meeting, and Shirase’s got art club. You better tell us everything later, okay?”

Shirase nodded lazily as he followed her. “Don’t forget, you’re popular for a reason, Chuuya. Whatever this Dazai guy is, he’s lucky to even be near you.”

Chuuya didn’t reply.

He knew what they meant. He was popular—he’d been that way since first year. Everyone wanted to be his friend or be him. Teachers trusted him, students admired him. He was Chuuya Nakahara—captain, vice president, the golden boy of Yokohama High.

But for some reason, that weekend with Dazai had made him feel like he wasn’t the one being seen.

It was Dazai who’d looked at him like he was something rare. Like he wasn’t just “Chuuya Nakahara, student council vice president”—but someone real.

That thought stuck with him all day.

Later, when classes ended and the campus emptied, Chuuya found himself walking past the cherry trees behind the gym.

There he was.

Dazai Osamu, sitting in the shade, legs stretched out, notebook balanced on his knee. He wasn’t reading this time—just staring at the sky, sunlight flickering through the branches above him.

He didn’t even notice Chuuya approaching at first.

“Hey,” Chuuya called, voice uncertain.

Dazai looked up, smile slow, easy, familiar. “Ah, Chuuya-kun. I was wondering when you’d find me again.”

Chuuya folded his arms. “Don’t flatter yourself. My friends were just asking about you.”

“Really?” Dazai tilted his head, smirk growing. “I didn’t think I’d made much of an impression.”

“You didn’t.”

Dazai’s eyes glinted. “And yet, here you are.”

Chuuya’s throat tightened. He wanted to say something biting, but the words caught somewhere between his chest and his pride.

He hated that Dazai was right.

He was there.

And he had no idea why.

Chapter Text

The cherry blossom tree behind the gym stood like an old guardian—branches heavy with pink petals, the air scented sweetly with spring. Beneath it, where the fractured sunlight dappled the grass, Dazai Osamu sat with his back to the trunk, his notebook open but forgotten.

He twirled a fallen petal between his fingers, watching it spin.

His head felt too full for so early in the day.

Too full of someone.

The crunch of approaching footsteps barely registered at first—Dazai was used to people walking past, never toward him.

But then a sharp voice cut through the air:

“Move.”

Dazai didn’t even flinch. “You know, most people start with ‘hello,’ Akutagawa.”

Ryuunosuke Akutagawa glared down at him like a judgmental crow. His usual black aesthetic was broken only by the soft, rosy pink washed into the ends of his hair—the color almost glowing in the sunlight. His long mesh sleeves, layered necklaces, and heavy eyeliner made him look like he’d stepped out of an alt-fashion magazine.

“I don’t do greetings,” Akutagawa said coldly. “And you’ve chosen the exact spot I wanted.”

Dazai blinked up at him. “There’s an entire field available.”

Akutagawa scoffed. “The lighting here is better. I have a design review after school, and my ring photos need consistency.”

Of course.

Akutagawa: textiles club president, budding fashion designer, part-time menace, full-time diva.

He dropped onto the grass beside Dazai with a dramatic sigh, adjusting his jewelry so it caught the light just right.

A moment later, a much softer shadow approached.

“Sorry I’m late! I had to finish watering the hydrangeas—oh! Dazai-san, you’re actually awake today.”

Atsushi Nakajima plopped down on Dazai’s other side, carrying the faint scent of soil and wildflowers. His hair was soft and slightly messy, his uniform blazer dusted with stray flower petals he hadn’t noticed. He had a small notebook tucked under his arm—likely filled with sketches of plants or notes from the animal care club.

Atsushi smiled warmly. “It’s nice, sitting here with both of you again.”

And it was true: the three of them looked mismatched enough to confuse teachers, but they’d been close for years.

Dazai’s chaos, Akutagawa’s grudging loyalty, Atsushi’s gentle steadiness—they fit together strangely well.

They were the trio people whispered about.

Not because they were loud—

but because they were noticeable.

So when both boys leaned in a little too close, eyes narrowing at Dazai, he knew he was doomed.

Akutagawa crossed his mesh-covered arms. “So. What happened.”

“With what?” Dazai played innocent, twirling the petal again.

Atsushi fiddled with a small sprig of lavender he’d tucked behind his ear—because he always had something floral on him. With Chuuya.

Dazai stopped twirling.

Atsushi’s tone was gentle, but his curiosity was sharp enough to be felt. “He came into school this morning looking… well… flustered.”

Akutagawa clicked his tongue. “He looked like someone dropped him into a vat of emotions and forgot to pull him out.”

“Aka—” Atsushi sighed. “That’s not very nice.”

“It’s accurate,” Akutagawa deadpanned.

Dazai closed his notebook. “Chuuya’s always dramatic.”

“Not like this,” Atsushi said.

Akutagawa nodded sharply. “Exactly. Chuuya Nakahara is controlled. He is refined. He is the school’s golden boy. The student council’s prince. The guy who once won three awards in one semester and didn’t even brag about it.”

Atsushi added softly, “Everyone loves him.”

“And yet,” Akutagawa continued, eyes narrowing, “he stomped into school blushing like someone insulted his entire bloodline.”

“And then,” Atsushi said, “he muttered your name.”

Dazai froze.

Atsushi flinched at his own boldness.

Akutagawa leaned in predatorily.

“So what did you do,” Akutagawa demanded. “And more importantly: did you break him?”

“No,” Dazai said quickly.

Akutagawa jabbed a ringed finger against Dazai’s shoulder. “You better not.”

Atsushi leaned forward, concerned. “You didn’t, right? Chuuya’s important to a lot of people. If you hurt him, the art club, the cheer squad, the basketball team, the volleyball team, and the music club might actually form an alliance.”

“Yes,” Akutagawa added flatly. “A terrifying alliance.”

Dazai stared at them.

Then laughed.

“You two have such faith in me.”

“We truly don’t,” Akutagawa said.

Atsushi nodded softly. “Not at all.”

“Rude,” Dazai murmured.

Atsushi tilted his head innocently. “So? What happened with Chuuya?”

Akutagawa folded his arms again, pink hair fluttering with the breeze. “Tell us everything. Now.”

Dazai paused.

Then said quietly:

“…It was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing.”

Atsushi blinked.

Akutagawa’s jaw dropped a fraction.

Atsushi whispered, “That’s… That’s sort of poetic, actually.”

Akutagawa groaned into his hands. “This idiot is falling in love.”

“I didn’t say that,” Dazai protested.

“You didn’t deny it,” Akutagawa shot back.

Atsushi looked between them with wide eyes. “Do you… maybe… like Chuuya?”

Dazai looked up at the cherry blossoms swaying above.

Chuuya’s face flashed in his mind—annoyed, flustered, intense, alive.

“…Maybe,” he said softly.

Atsushi made a noise like a kitten discovering sunlight. “That’s… that’s so sweet—!”

Akutagawa pointed a threatening finger at him. “One wrong move, and I’m reporting you to the student council for ‘emotional misconduct.’”

“Is that a real rule?” Dazai asked.

“It will be when I finish writing the draft,” Akutagawa muttered.

Dazai sighed.

But then—

A loud voice carried from across the courtyard.

The three of them turned simultaneously.

Chuuya was storming toward the school building, hair bouncing, eyes blazing, phone pressed to his ear. He looked furious, flustered, and very much like he wanted to throw the phone into the nearest wall.

Atsushi whispered, “Oh… oh wow. He’s really worked up.”

Akutagawa squinted. “Is he always that red?”

“Only when he’s angry,” Atsushi said.

“…Or embarrassed.”

Dazai stood up slowly, brushing petals from his uniform.

Atsushi looked up at him. “Are you—are you going to go talk to him?”

“No,” Dazai said gently.

Akutagawa raised a brow. “Coward.”

Dazai smirked. “He’ll come to me.”

Atsushi looked horrified. “Dazai-san, please don’t provoke fate like that.”

Dazai tilted his head, amused.

But before he could respond—

The lunch bell rang.

The three of them exchanged looks.

“Well,” Akutagawa said reluctantly, “shall we?”

Atsushi stood, adjusting the lavender behind his ear. “We always eat together. So… yeah.”

Dazai slung his bag over his shoulder, expression unreadable. “Let’s go.”

And so the trio walked toward the canteen—

Akutagawa with his dramatic strut,

Atsushi with his gentle steps,

Dazai with his slow, lazy stride.

But the moment they entered—

The entire canteen went silent.

Forks froze midair.

People turned in their seats.

Whispers ignited instantly.

“Is that—Akutagawa? With Dazai?”

“Atsushi too? That’s the trio—”

“Wait, why does Dazai look like he knows something?”

“Chuuya was acting weird earlier—does this have to do with—?”

Atsushi swallowed. “They’re… staring.”

Akutagawa muttered, “Idiots.”

Dazai simply smiled.

A slow, knowing, dangerous smile.

And in the corner of the canteen—

Chuuya Nakahara stood up so abruptly his chair screeched.

Their eyes locked across the room.

The whispers erupted like wildfire.

And that was when everything really began.