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Dazai Osamu had made it painfully clear to everyone who’d ever had the misfortune of knowing him that he did not celebrate birthdays.
Not his, at least.
There was no specific trauma attached (at least not one he’d ever admit), no philosophical objection, and no symbolic disdain for the passage of time—though he could spin those excuses faster than Oda could light a cigarette. No, it was simply that Dazai hated attention that wasn’t on his terms. The thought of being cornered by sentimentality, affection, or—God forbid—cake, made his skin crawl.
So when Ango mentioned, very casually, that Dazai’s birthday was “coming up soon,” Dazai had given him a deadpan stare that could have curdled milk.
“Don’t even think about it,” he’d said.
Ango, glasses glinting, had blinked innocently. “Think about what?”
“The thing, Ango. You know exactly what I mean.”
Odasaku, who had been quietly sipping his coffee beside them, had smiled slightly. “Maybe he’s just trying to remind you that you’re getting old.”
“Old?” Dazai scoffed. “I’m in my prime, Odasaku. Perfectly youthful and radiant.”
Ango muttered under his breath, “That’s one word for it.”
Three days later, Dazai knew something was wrong.
For one, Ango was being far too quiet. And Ango quiet was never a good sign—it usually meant plotting, scheming, or paperwork. And since Ango didn’t have any papers in his hands, that left plotting.
Then there was Odasaku, who’d started asking the kind of loaded, conversationally dangerous questions that sent Dazai’s instincts into high alert.
“What’s your favourite kind of food, Dazai?”
“Why do you need to know that?”
“Just wondering.”
“You don’t ‘just wonder,’ Odasaku. You ‘subtly lead’ before you ‘execute.’”
“...You’ve been reading too many detective novels.”
“And you’ve been talking to Ango again, haven’t you?”
Oda only smiled in that quiet, knowing way that made Dazai want to crawl under a table and hiss like a cat.
The morning of June 19th arrived, and Dazai woke to an immediate sense of doom.
For one, there was silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the conspiratorial kind—the kind that meant someone, somewhere, had done something terrible to him while he slept.
He cautiously rose from bed, padding across the floor. Everything looked normal, but his instincts screamed otherwise. He checked the door handle. No tripwires. No confetti cannons. No suspicious string tied to the ceiling.
Maybe he’d been paranoid. Maybe his friends had actually respected his wishes for once.
And then he opened the door.
Standing there, grinning like a devil from hell itself, was Chuuya Nakahara.
“Morning, idiot. Happy birthday.”
Dazai slammed the door shut.
He heard a fist bang against it. “Don’t you dare look it!”
“Too late!” Dazai sang, voice dripping with false cheer.
Oda’s calm voice floated from down the hall. “Just let him in, Dazai.”
“No!”
“You have to eat breakfast sometime.”
“I could starve!”
Chuuya muttered something about wringing his neck, and Oda—always the peacekeeper—was probably smiling that infuriatingly patient smile.
After a few minutes of back-and-forth, a resigned sigh echoed through the hall. Oda said softly, “If you don’t open this door in ten seconds, Chuuya’s going to kick it down.”
“Ha! He wouldn’t—”
THUD.
Dazai yelped. “That was the wall, wasn’t it?!”
“Next one’s the door,” Chuuya threatened.
Grumbling curses under his breath, Dazai opened it, arms crossed and expression sour. “You’re all criminals. Every one of you.”
“Coming from you, that’s rich,” Ango said from the kitchen, already pouring coffee. “We made breakfast.”
“You mean they made breakfast. You’re incapable of basic culinary survival.”
Ango sipped his coffee without responding.
Oda smiled faintly. “Sit down, Dazai.”
And there it was. The trap.
The table was covered in everything he didn’t ask for—pancakes, fruit, tea, candles (why candles?), and something suspiciously resembling a wrapped gift box.
Dazai pointed at it accusingly. “No.”
Oda blinked. “No what?”
“No presents.”
“It’s not a present,” Chuuya said smoothly. “It’s a challenge.”
Dazai eyed him. “You’ve been spending too much time with me.”
“Probably,” Chuuya smirked.
Dazai sat, reluctantly, refusing to touch the food. “This is torture, you know. I said no birthday celebration.”
“And yet,” Ango said, folding the newspaper, “here you are. Alive. Among friends. Eating breakfast.”
“I’m not eating anything!”
“Not yet.” Oda’s tone was too calm to be argued with.
The chaos that followed was a perfect portrait of misery.
Chuuya insisted on singing—terribly off-key, deliberately loud, and with a smug grin. Dazai threw a pancake at him. Oda caught it midair.
Ango, meanwhile, had found a small camera.
“Ango,” Dazai said, voice flat. “If you take that picture, I swear—”
“Smile.” Click.
The photo caught Dazai mid-yell, Chuuya laughing, and Oda smiling softly between them.
It shouldn’t have meant anything. But something about it—something painfully, quietly human—made Dazai look away.
Oda noticed. He always noticed.
“Hey,” he said quietly, sliding the plate closer. “You don’t have to enjoy the day, Dazai. But we’d like you to spend it with us anyway.”
Dazai blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of it.
Chuuya leaned on the table, smirking. “Yeah, so stop being dramatic and eat before I shove it down your throat.”
“Such affection,” Dazai sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m truly blessed.”
Ango’s voice was dry. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yes, but you still showed up.”
“Unfortunately.”
Oda chuckled.
And for the first time that morning, Dazai felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward—not quite a smile, but close enough.
Maybe he still hated birthdays. Maybe he’d hate them forever. But sitting there, surrounded by laughter and bickering, he found himself quietly thinking—
If this was misery, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.
Later that night:
Ango went home early (he had a report to finish, of course). Chuuya left after declaring, “Next year, I’m doubling the chaos.”
That left Oda and Dazai, sitting on the couch.
The quiet was warm. Comfortable.
“...You really hate it that much?” Oda asked softly.
Dazai shrugged. “I don’t hate it. I just don’t see the point.”
Oda looked at him for a long moment, then smiled. “The point is that you made it another year.”
Dazai’s breath hitched ever so slightly.
“Don’t say things like that,” he muttered, voice half-joking, half-serious. “You’ll make me emotional.”
“Would that be so bad?”
Dazai’s answer was delayed, his gaze dropping to the floor.
“I’ll get back to you on that.”
Oda chuckled again, gentle and unbothered. “Same time next year?”
Dazai groaned, flopping back dramatically. “You’re both demons. I’m surrounded by demons.”
But Oda caught the faint, tired smile beneath the theatrics—and that was enough.
Because even if Dazai insisted on calling it the worst birthday ever,
Oda knew, deep down, it had been the best one he’d ever had.