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Chapter Text

Backstage at the Port Studio fashion show, 30 minutes before curtain. The runway music springs throughout the room, the thumping making everyone's heart beat synchronize. Assistants sprint throughout the room, arms full of almost finished dresses. Makeup artist argue about what makeup style looks best on the model they are applying cosmetics on.

Chūya is checking the seams on each of the models dresses, adjusting the fits. She walks past the makeup artists that are bickering, grabbing the makeup brush out of one of the artist's hands "No, no, no, she has a round face! You hear me? A ROUND face, contour her jawline and temples, blush above the apples of the cheeks, high arch!" As she says this she wiggles the makeup brush around, gesturing at parts of the models face. The makeup artists nod, before going back to work. Chūya fixes her ponytail, and rolls up her sleeves. "Remember people we are going for chic, yet cold. Like a snowflake, intricate but simple." 

She hears a crunch and a hushed "uh-oh", she looks over at the model that was wearing a silk corset, she quickly goes to hide something. Chūya sees it before she could hide it completely, she sighs heavily walking over to the model. "Are you really eating chips, 30 minutes before curtain and ruining the corset I spent ages working on?" she glares at the model. The model quickly shakes her head no, hiding her hands behind her back. Chūya reaches behind her and pulls the chip bag from her hands. "Lying now are we? Clean yourself up! We don't want you to look unprofessional." She hands the chip bag to an assistant that was walking past "Here throw this away and make sure this one here gets cleaned up." The assistant nods, before ushering the model to the bathroom to clean her up. 

Chūya looks around taking in all the model's faces. Noting that none of them are his lead model. She walks over to her lead assistant, Higuchi, who looked pale in the face. "What's going on where is she?" Chūya asks. Higuchi pulls out his phone showing her a message from the lead model "hey sorry lol i got food poisoning, can’t make it xx"


Chūya's face goes red “We open in twenty minutes! Does anyone here even understand the concept of deadlines?” she cries. Higuchi scrambles to find a replacement. Someone from the sidelines, an assistant holding at least 5 dresses mumbles, “We could call Dazai Osamu...” Chūya pauses "Who the hell is that?" Higuchi speaks before the assistant can “He’s… available. And popular. Kind of famous.” 

...

10 minutes before showtime.

"Where the hell is she?" Chūya mumbles. Surprisingly right as she says that a tall, disheveled brunette walks in, coffee in hand, sunglasses on top of her head, her long bone straight hair flowing behind her. The room visibly shifts, assistants stop scurrying about to stare, the makeup artist whisper. She greets every single person like she owns the place. Taking her time to shake hands and flirt. She turns to Chūya, smiling before holding out her hand for a handshake "“Ah, Mrs. Nakahara! The genius behind the red collection. You look exactly as terrifying as they said.” Chūya doesn't accept her hand and only spits out two words "You're late" Dazai smirks her eyes gleaming, “Time is an illusion.” Chūya sizes her up "So is your career if you mess up my show.” She hates to admit it, but Dazai looks perfect for the outfit; tall frame, perfect posture, unfairly photogenic. Dazai teases, sensing the tension in the air "Don’t worry, Mrs. Nakhara. I’ll make your little project look divine." Chūya's jaw twitches.

On the runway. The show begins.

Despite his arrogance, Dazai kills the runway. He doesn't just walk, he glides. The audience is in awe. Chūya watches from backstage, hands gripping her clipboard so tightly it creaks. Then Dazai improvises. He pauses mid-walk, turns his head slightly toward the press pit, and smirks. The flashbulbs go insane. Backstage Chūya hisses "She's ruining my line's tone!" Someone near him whispers "The crowd loves her" Chūya shakes “That’s the problem!”

Dazai makes direct eye contact with Chūya as she reaches the end of the runway and smirks, tilts her chin like she’s saying, “You’re welcome.” The crowd erupts in applause.


Chūya realizes with growing dread that Dazai has just turned her show into Dazai’s show.

Backstage post-show

Dazai lounges in a makeup chair, still half-dressed in the final look, completely unbothered. Chūya walks up to her. Dazai speaks without looking up from her phone, "You're welcome by the way" Chūya's eyes twitch “For what, exactly?” Dazai looks up from her phone now "For saving your brand." Chūya snaps, “You’re a walking PR nightmare.” Dazai smiles, “And yet, you can’t stop looking at me.” Chūya's sputters and goes to walk off. But before he can escape, the PR head arrives, ecstatic “Fantastic work, Nakahara. The media loves the chemistry between you two. They’re already calling it ‘designer meets muse’!”

Dazai raises a brow "Muse, huh? I like that. Has a ring to it.”

Chūya quickly responds "You’re not my muse. You’re a migraine."

The PR head, Mori just smiles "You two are doing a joint interview tomorrow."

"Like hell we are" Chūya snaps

"Sorry, already scheduled.” Mori responds

Chūya glares daggers. Dazai just grins.


Next day, at high-end café used for press interviews.

Chūya arrives early, dressed impeccably. Dazai strolls in late, sunglasses on indoors. Dazai just waves tiredly. Chūya sighs. When the interviewer arrives, Dazai had already ordered two black coffees, even after Chūya refused. They sit at a table while the interviewer pulls up a chair, he pulls out a recorder and a notepad before speaking “What’s it like working together?”

Chūya: “Chaotic.”

Dazai: “Exhilarating.”

Chūya: “Unbearable.”

Dazai: “Unforgettable.”

Every time Chūya said something, Dazai felt the need to tease her, turning every professional answer into flirtatious banter.

Mid interview Dazai catches Chūya off guard with a sincere line —

“For what it’s worth, you make beautiful things.” before hiding it with a smirk. Chūya’s stomach flips. She hates that it does.

At the end of the interview Chūya left quickly not saying goodbye leaving a cold cup of black coffee behind, while Dazai sat at the same table having a interview after the main one with the interviewer.

The photos from the interview — Dazai leaning too close bating her eyes, Chūya mid-eye-roll — go viral. Fans start “shipping” them as #MuseAndMaker.

Later that week, Chūya’s design studio. Fabric rolls everywhere. Rain tapping the windows.

Chūya swore from that she would never see Dazai again. The universe just laughed. Mori walks in cheerful as ever, "Vogue wants a feature on your ‘collaboration.’ And… Dazai already said yes.”

Chūya cupped her head in her hands “Of course she did.”

Dazai walked in and leaned on the doorframe, coffee in hand, smiling. “Morning, partner.” Chūya just sighed heavily "I hate you" Dazai sat up straight raising her coffee in a toast "Then it’s mutual inspiration.” Chūya just stares, while Dazai grins. They’re stuck together — publicly, professionally, and soon, emotionally.

Chapter Text

Port Studio headquarters — fabric everywhere, assistants running around, loud music playing.

For the past couple of weeks Dazai had been showing up uninvited.

Chūya is in full designer mode, sketching, directing fittings, criticizing seam work; when Dazai strolls in like she owns the place. No one knows who keeps letting her in. Rumor says Mori gave her a key card. She’s perched on a table, sipping coffee, giving “creative feedback.” She holds up a couple of color swatches “This color suits me better, don’t you think?” she slides them towards Chūya, she just glances at the not even bothering to stop pinning the mannequin shes currently working on. “You’re not the center of my palette.” 

Dazai just laughs “Oh, I think I am.” Chūya's assistants just watch in fascination and horror. As Dazai continues to tease Chūya every couple of minutes her “creative feedback.” making Chūya's hands shake, she misplaces a couples pins as Dazai goes on and on.

"I don't think that color goes well with my skin tone, y'know? I have a red undertone, too much red."

"Shouldn't you change the body shape, dress for an hourglass not a pear."

"You should go with some gold, bronze, and purples, and it matches my eyes better."

Every couple of days Dazai volunteers for fittings, for "creative research" she says. She steals half of Chūya’s attention, making her make more outfits then shes ever done. Dazai has made herself at home — lounging on cutting tables, trying on scarves, drinking coffee she didn’t pay for. Eventually one day while fitting Dazai for a red fishtail dress, Chūya side eyes Dazai through the mirror “Why are you here again?” she asked her tone aggressive. Dazai stares at Chūya longingly “Creative consultation.” she offers. Chūya “You don’t even work here.” She smiles “Then fire me.” Chūya looks away and mumbles “Don’t tempt me.”

The production manager groans, muttering something about HR forms. An intern whispers to another "Are they... flirting or threatening each other?” The other intern responds "Both."

After the fitting, Dazai struts around in the dress, acting like it wasn't halfway finished, she grabs one of Chūya coats, and hats from the coat rack and puts it on and spins around. "How do I look?" She asks. “Like you broke into my closet and robbed me.” Chūya remarked “So — stylish?” She said her eyes lighting up like stars. Chūya’s irritation is genuine, but there’s admiration underneath — Dazai does look good in her designs. Too good. She hates that it matters.

When Dazai finally leaves, Chūya catches herself staring at the red fishtail dress that now sat on a mannequin, covered in pins from Dazai's fittng. She shakes it off, muttering, “Get a grip.”

Private fitting room, late afternoon — quiet, warm lighting, racks of new pieces.

Dazai’s supposed to try on the new centerpiece coat; a structured black-and-gold piece meant to headline the next show. Chūya refuses to trust anyone else with the fitting (he claims precision; it’s actually nerves). He circles Dazai, tugging at fabric, adjusting buttons, pinning seams — all business.

Dazai out of nowhere has to make it weird. “You’re staring awfully hard, Chūya.” Chūya pauses struggling to remember when they were on a first name basis. She ends up pushing it into the back if her head before replying “I’m making sure you don’t ruin the shape.” 

"And what shape would that be — mine or the coat’s?”

Chūya’s hands falter for a second. Dazai notices and smirks. There’s a charged silence. Chūya steps back to check proportions, and for a split second, they lock eyes in the mirror. Neither looks away immediately. Chūya then clears her throat "Done you can change now."

“Would you like to help me with that too?”

Chūya's face turns bright red "Out. Now." 

When Dazai leaves begrudgingly, Chūya realizes she never actually told her the fit was perfect. She just couldn’t say it out loud.

Port Studio’s PR office / Chūya’s phone screen.

A leaked behind-the-scenes photo of their fitting goes viral overnight. The photo: Dazai mid-laugh, coat almost open enough to expose her breast, Chūya focused, holding a measuring tape — close enough to look intimate.

The internet lost it. #MuseAndMaker trends in Japan, fan edits, “Port Studio’s Power Couple?” headlines. Chūya screams internally as she scrolls her news feed, every single article talking about it. She goes to Mori to complain but Mori thinks it brilliant “Free publicity, Mrs. Nakahara! Chemistry sells!” She sighs mumbling under her breath as she exists the PR's office "I'm going to kill her"

Dazai's reaction was quite the opposite, she changed her socials bios to: “Port Studio’s favorite muse xx.”

She ends up printing the photo and tapping it to Chūya's desk saying “We photograph well together.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably photogenic!"  She responds happily.

Chūya’s mortified, but… she can’t get rid of the photo. She tells herself it’s for “branding reference.”

The studio after hours. Dim lights, rain pattering against the windows. The city hums beyond the glass.

Chūya’s exhausted, hunched over sketches. Dazai shows up with a convenience store bag she claims she came because of “artistic hunger.” But Chūya knew that was a lie. “Dinner delivery for one overworked designer." Chūya’s expression stayed the same as Dazai walked near her to lean over her shoulder “I didn’t order anything.” Chūya said focused Dazai just smiled taking in the sketches “Lucky you — it's free.” 

After a bit of tugging and convincing they eventually sit on the floor and eat between piles of fabric. Today Dazai seemed to have an air of seriousness, she starts out the conversation with questions “Why do you do it? All this pressure, perfectionism.” Chūya thinks for a moment taken aback "Because I don't know how not to." Dazai takes a bite of cheap instant ramen, swallowing before replying "That's not an answer." She says matter-of-factually. "Well it's the truth." Chūya shifts her legs into a more comfortable position. Dazai watches her, eyes softening. “You design like you’re trying to hold the world together.” Chūya looks away murmuring “Someone has to.”

The rain fills the silence. For a rare moment, Dazai isn’t teasing. She’s sincere. Something shifts; Chūya feels seen, and Dazai seems human for once. When he looks up again, Dazai’s gaze lingers just a second too long. Then Dazai breaks it with a grin "Don’t worry, I’ll dedicate my next scandal to you.” Chūya insistently regrets everything "You're impossible" Dazai continues with the stupid grin "Irresistibly so.”

Dazai eventually leaves and Chūya goes back to sketching at her desk, she glances up at the photo and at her drawing and realizes with great horror that shes drawing Dazai’s silhouette.

Empty venue, morning before the big show.

Chūya’s directing the models; Dazai’s supposed to practice her final walk. For once, Dazai’s serious; her movements perfectly capture the tone of Chūya’s collection: elegance, tension, control. Chūya watches silently, half proud, half unnerved. Dazai finishes the walk, stops at the end of the runway, and turns — eyes locking with Chūya across the space. The silence feels loud.

When Dazai returns to Chūya's side for a couple of fixes to the dress, Dazai asks a question genuine curiosity in her eyes “You designed this one for me, didn’t you?” Chūya focuses on the dress fixing the zipper in the back so it wouldn't unzip during the runway. “I designed it for the show.” Dazai smiles, “You didn’t deny it.”T he tension’s thick. Even the assistants can feel it; whispering behind clipboards. Chūya turns away first. Dazai smirks but doesn’t say more. Both are a little breathless, neither understanding why.

Magazine photoshoot and interview set — minimalist, bright, expensive.

After the photoshoot Chūya sits down with the interviewer. Dazai joining after getting out of the photoshoot's look, she was now wearing a black turtleneck, and alight brown trench coat. The interviewer asks, “How would you describe your partnership?”

Chūya responds first “Strictly professional.”

"Emotionally devastating.” Dazai says second.

"What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I’m inspired.”

Everyone laughs. Dazai’s grin looks genuine. Chūya, flustered, forces a smile.

Then the interviewer presses: “So you really see her as your main designer now, Dazai?”
Dazai pauses — longer than expected.

“She creates the kind of beauty that makes people want to be seen.”

It’s too soft, too direct. For a moment, Chūya can’t breathe.

She laughs it off for the cameras, but later, she replays that line in her head. Over and over.

Backstage dressing room after the interview. Dim mirror lights, scattered clothes, the hum of silence.

After the interview Dazai had walked off to her dressing room, the clothes she had taken off before the interview scattered on the couch. Chūya storms in, shutting the door behind her."What was that out there?” She demanded. Dazai just stared into the mirror putting her long hair up into a braid “An interview.” she replied simply. Chūya hissed “You don’t mean things like that.” Dazai tone stayed calm.; too calm“You think I don’t? Maybe I just see more in you than you want to see in yourself.” 

"You’re deflecting again.”

“No, you’re hiding your true feelings.”

Silence. The kind that buzzed in the air.

Their reflections in the mirror look too close. 

Dazai mummers “You keep saying you hate me, but you keep letting me in.”

...

“You keep showing up,” Chūya whispers.

Neither moves, but something between them clicks. The realization they’re past pretending this is just business.

Dazai leaves with a small, unreadable smile.

Chūya sits down, heart pounding, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

Back at the studio.

Chūya’s back at her drafting table that night. Every sketch she tries ends up looking like Dazai — in posture, in silhouette, in expression. She tears the pages out, one by one.

But the next line she draws always curves back into Dazai’s shape.

She whispers to herself, “You’re not my muse.” The rain outside says otherwise.

Chapter Text

After their last successful collaboration photos and behind-the-scenes clips flood social media; Chūya’s face flushed while staring at Dazai in bewilderment, Dazai whispering something in Chūya’s ear backstage, Chūya smiling in rare, unguarded amusement.

Fan edits, gossip blogs, and fashion media explode. #ChuuDazai trends overnight. The media headlines range from playful to scandalous:

"Are Port Mafia’s Golden Duo More Than Business Partners?”

"Runway Sparks or Just Stagecraft?”

“Designer Chūya Nakahara’s Secret Muse Revealed?”

... 

The PR department seemed to smell blood (and money).

The fashion house’s PR team decides to capitalize on the rumors. They proposed a joint campaign built around their “chemistry." Photoshoots where Dazai models Chūya’s designs, with Chūya in the photoshoots (Chūya was completly against this saying "I'm a fashion designer, not a model" her pleas were ignored and she was forced to do the shoot.) Long interviews spreads full of leading questions about “creative connection.” Dazai goes along with it;  finds the whole situation hilarious, and even flirts with reporters just to see Chūya turn red.

Chūya, meanwhile, is mortified. She insists they’re professionals, but every denial seems to make the gossip louder. People referring to her as playing "hard to get" 

...

Chūya found Dazai dramatically "rehearing" fake interview questions in the dressing room mirror "'What’s it like being Chūya Nakahara’s muse?' Well, darling, exhausting!” She almost ended up strangling her with a measuring tape. The crew spent the days watching them banter and whispering, “...they’re totally dating.”

...

Chūya felt like she was ripping apart at the seams, just like should would do to an ugly unused garment. Between the public attention and campaigns, Chūya started to use every possible moment to avoid Dazai. Her work becomes more meticulous, more guarded — and her designs lose their usual fire. Mori starts getting onto her about not ruining the “brand chemistry.” Chūya feels trapped between her art and the image PR has forced onto her

Though Dazai plays it off, there are moments when the mask slips; she lingers on Chūya’s name in interviews, or her eyes soften when watching old interview clips. Her “teasing” feels heavier now, less like mischief and more like defense. In a rare moment alone with a stylist friend she admits "It’s funny, isn’t it? The only time people believe I care is when it’s for a headline.”

Paris Fashion Week

Chūya had been working non-stop for 36 hours, running off espresso and soda. The Paris show is the biggest event of the season; Chūya’s new line debut. Dazai surprisingly wasn’t scheduled to walk this show; their contract only covered earlier events. Yet, despite this rumors spread that she would make a “surprise appearance.” Chūya already in edge and sleep driven, doesn’t want more speculation or distractions.

Chūya looks out onto the runway, the showcase about to start any second. The lights dim. The music starts. The runway glows white. About halfway through Chūya finally relaxes, no Dazai meant no more media speculation. Right as she turns away, gasps ripple through the crowd. She quickly turns back around. Dazai steps out uninvited, wearing an unreleased piece Chūya had designed but never intended to show. The outfit fits him perfectly; it’s bold, elegant, hauntingly personal. The audience is amazed. Cameras flash. The show becomes an instant hit. Chūya watches from backstage, torn between awe and fury.

As soon as Dazai steps off the runway, Chūya storms toward her. “You had no right to wear that! It wasn’t finished; it wasn’t for the show!” She stuttered out, the anger making her words stumble. Dazai doesn’t argue; she just smiles faintly, quiet for once. “You made it for me.” she just said softly. The words stop Chūya cold. For a long beat, neither speaks; the sounds of applause muffled beyond the curtain. There’s something fragile in the silence: admiration, exhaustion, and something else they’ve both spent too long denying.

The fashion house, oblivious to the emotional fallout, pushes Dazai and Chūya onto the runway together for the final bow. The crowd roars, flashes of cameras, people whistling. Dazai leans in just enough to murmur “Smile for them, partner. They love a happy ending.” Chūya forces a smile, his heart pounding too fast to call it anger. They walk offstage side by side; the applause fading behind them, the truth still hanging unspoken in the air.

The next morning

Headlines of new articles are everywhere;

“The Kiss That Almost Happened: Dazai & Chūya’s Runway Chemistry Steals Paris.”

"Chūya Nakahara’s Secret Muse Confirmed?”

Dazai posts on social media, a single photo: the back of Chūya’s head, blurred by stage lights. Captioned “Every masterpiece deserves chaos.”

Chūya stays silent, but when the team meets the next day, and Dazai shows up uninvited, she doesn't tell her to leave.

Chapter Text

The Days After Paris

The world can’t stop talking about that show. Clips of Dazai’s surprise walk dominate every feed. Commentators debate whether the moment was a “marketing stunt” or “real chemistry caught live.” PR celebrates but Chūya is nowhere to be found. She’s been holed up in her studio, surrounded by sketches and fabric swatches she’s been avoiding touching. The same unfinished design Dazai wore hangs on a mannequin; taunting her. She’s furious, not just at Dazai but at herself for caring.

She checks her phone; dozens of missed calls, most from PR. None from Dazai. She deletes the trending tags from her feed, but the headlines still find her; “Runway Lovers?” She finally mutters to no-one but herself “You always did like stealing the spotlight, bastard.” but instead of sounding angry she sounded tired.

A week later, they’re both scheduled to appear at a major industry gala; damage control disguised as celebration.

Dazai shows up late (of course), flashing smiles at every reporter. Soaking in the attention like a sponge. During a live interview, a journalist teasingly asks “So, Dazai, who’s your favorite designer to wear?” Dazai’s grin softens, just a fraction too genuine. “My favorite person in the industry? Easy. Chūya Nakahara.” The cameras explode. Reporters shout, lights flare — it’s chaos. From the sidelines, Chūya nearly drops her drink. She can’t tell if Dazai’s mocking her or… meaning it. Later, social media erupts again;  memes, edits, posts with millions of likes, all talking about how Dazai "confessed on live TV" Chūya’s fury returns, but beneath it is something quieter; confusion, curiosity, hope she doesn’t want to feel.

Hours after the gala, the studio is empty besides from Chūya. The city hums outside.

Chūya sits at her desk, sketching half-heartedly, the sound of rain against the windows. The door creaks open; Dazai slips in, still in her tuxedo, tie undone, looking far too casual for someone who just caused an international scandal. “Couldn’t sleep? Dazai asks lightly. Chūya drops her pencil and sits up her hair barely in the ponytail she always wears “You can’t keep doing this, Dazai. Turning everything into a joke!"

Dazai's voice stays calm and a small smile on her face “Would you prefer I lied, Chūya?”

The longer the argument goes on, the less their words match their tone. They circle around what they really mean; fear of vulnerability, of ruining the fragile thing between them.

Finally, Dazai stops smiling. "You think I don’t take any of this seriously. But you’re wrong.” She glances at the designs pinned around the studio; all the colors, the fabric. “You put yourself in everything you make. It’s terrifying. I envy it.” Chūya doesn’t know how to respond. “You hide behind every damn word you say,” she mutters. “But I still…” she trails off, jaw tightening, unable to finish. Dazai sits beside Chūya's desk, for once not saying anything. After a long pause, she admits "Being admired is easy. Being known isn’t.” Dazai leans her head lightly against Chūya’s thigh, exhausted. “You’re really not going to yell at me?” Dazai asks confused. “You’re not worth the energy,” Chūya says; but she doesn’t move away. The tension that’s been burning for months softens, not vanishes. It’s not resolution; it’s permission; to stop performing, just for tonight.

The Morning After

The next morning, the world spins on. More headlines, more speculation. But this time, Chūya doesn’t delete the articles. She just looks at the photos of the standing side by side, a smile so genuine on Dazai's face it made her almost sick. A letter arrives; the message inside being "“Every designer needs inspiration. Thanks for being mine.” — D.” Chūya rolls her eyes; but doesn't throw the letter away, instead she pins it next to the photo of them that had been sitting there for months. 

Weeks later, Chūya debuts a new concept sketchbook. The theme? Duality.

Hidden among the designs is a single outfit in deep plum silk — elegant, chaotic, familiar. She had finally token Dazai suggestions.

Chapter Text

Weeks Later — A almost easy life.

Chūya’s studio hums again with steady creative energy. The scandal has faded, replaced by genuine anticipation for his next line. Dazai has been keeping a low profile; fewer interviews, fewer games. Every couple of days Dazai drops by unannounced, lounges across fabric tables, offers chaotic critiques, and somehow always inspires something useful. For the first time since they met their relationship isn't stressful.

...

Dazai reposed, on a couch, sipping tea from a mug from Chūya personal cupboard (she doesn't trust that they wash the community ones properly) she sighed eyeing mug taking in its intricate deals, "You have terrible taste in ceramics." She spoke out randomly. Chūya side-eyed her "Get out." She said a slight sense of humor in her voice. Dazai just dramatically draped herself over the couch pretending as though gravity had sucked her into the couch, not letting her go "Oh no! I'm stuck, how will I ever leave now" She teased. Chūya just rolled her eyes and continued to work on her newest works, a line of unisex outfits, dangerous and chic. The rhythm of a truce hung in the air; fragile, but real.

Dazai's phone dings loudly, a fashion gossip account had posted a teaser; “Word from Paris: Another designer is about to ‘redefine inspiration.’” Chūya looks over at the notification before rolls her eyes, dismissing it. Dazai, though, looks oddly quiet for a second.

An almost empty cafe.

Dazai and Chūya sat at a table inside, Dazai wearing her signature sunglasses indoors, and Chūya's ponytail tighter than it's ever been. This time Chūya's phone goes off which is surprisingly unusual, it's Higuchi. He sent a screenshot of a post with the text "Have you seen this??" It's a post from Verlaine, Chūya's mentor-turned-rival, the post contains new campaign leaks; featuring a model styled exactly like Dazai in designs that mimic Chūya’s aesthetic. The tagline? “Inspired by the ones who inspire too much.”  Chūya gasps, embarrassment flooding her body. She scours the internet for more information, Dazai just watches confused. The media goes feral. Every article frames it as a jab at the “Dazai–Chūya affair.” Chūya finally checks her socials only to see thousands of messages from fans and journalists: “Did she copy your designs?” “Was this about Dazai?” 

PR messages about suing, Dazai finally realizing what's happening and jokes about “having good taste if people are imitating her."

Chūya, though, is quietly humiliated. Her work; the thing that means most to her; has become gossip again.

Backstage at a photoshoot

Chūya storms up to Dazai, "You have something to do with this! You couldn’t just let it die down, could you?” Dazai just looks confused “What did I do this time?” Chūya furrows her brow “You exist, that’s what you did! You walk in, and the whole world loses its mind!” Dazai doesn’t fight back; just watches her, uncharacteristically serious. When she finally speaks, her tone is soft “I didn’t ask for them to see us this way. And I definitely have nothing to do with this new Verlaine situation, all I've done is stand by your side." Chūya falters. She expected sarcasm — not sincerity. Dazai adds, almost carelessly “If you want me gone, say it. I’ll disappear before the next camera flash.” Chūya’s anger burns out instantly. “You’re such an idiot. I don’t want you gone. I just… want to design without it feeling like confession.” Dazai smiles; that quiet, knowing one that means she’s pleased with what she heard.

The Fashion House Meeting

Mori suggests fighting Verlaine publicly; press conference, lawsuits, the works. Dazai interrupts somehow in a meeting she wasn't invited to (the usual) yet no one seemed to want to kick her out not even Chūya. “Let her do what she wants. If she wants to copy Chūya, she’s already behind.” Everyone stares. Dazai, the chaos magnet, is defending Chūya’s dignity instead of her own ego. Chūya pretends not to be affected, but later admits to Higuchi “For once, she didn’t make it worse.” The fashion community rallies around Chūya. His originality and integrity become the story. Verlaine’s “tribute” line flops under the weight of its own pettiness.

Late night at the studio again — quiet, dim light, unfinished designs.

Dazai shows up with a bottle of cheap champagne and two plastic cups. Chūya just smiles when Dazai walks over, handing her a half full cup of champagne. "To surviving scandal number… what are we on? Twelve?” Dazai laughs lightly, raising her cup to meet Chūyas'. “Feels like fifty,” Chūya mutters, as she clinks the cups together. 

After a long silent moment, a sip of champagne taken every so often. Dazai admires the new suits and dresses and miscellaneous outfits scattered about. “You know, for someone who hates attention, you sure make things people can’t stop staring at.” 

"And you make everything a performance,” Chūya replies.

“Maybe that’s why it works.”

They both fall silent; comfortable, not awkward.

Dazai leans back, watching the studio lights flicker over Chūya’s latest sketches

"You know what they’ll say if we keep working together, right?”

“They’ll say whatever they want.”

“And you’ll let them?”

“As long as we know what’s real.”

Dazai looks at him — genuinely looks. Then she laughs softly, tired but content.

The next morning, a new headline trends: “Chūya Nakahara’s Defining Line: The Designer Who Doesn’t Flinch.”

A single photo from an unknown user leaks; Dazai in the corner of the studio, asleep beside the sketches, Chūya’s jacket draped over him. The caption reads: “Every great artist has a muse. Some just refuse to admit it.”

Chapter Text

Months have passed since the Verlaine incident. Chūya’s new winter line has just debuted in Tokyo; a minimalist, mature collection inspired by “reconstruction.”

During the show Dazai stood backstage with Chūya, whispering "You finally stopped fighting the fabric.” Chūya didn't reply, but internally, she knew Dazai was right. The designs were all about her, about them. The show was a success. Critics calling it "Her most emotionally transparent work yet.” 

The Afterparty

The venue glitters, but Chūya feels detached, floating through congratulations and champagne flutes. Dazai arrives late; in simple black, no entourage, no camera-ready smirk. Their eyes meet across the crowd, and for once, Dazai doesn’t move first. Chūya steps out onto the rooftop, "for air" she tells everyone, but it was really to get some privacy. Moments later, Dazai joins her, wordless. The city hums below; cold wind ruffles Dazai’s long hair.

“You disappeared after the show,” Chūya says.

“Didn’t want to steal your spotlight.” Dazai responds quietly

...

“You always do anyway.” There’s no bite behind it. Just quiet truth.

Dazai gestures toward the skyline, the moon and city being their only source of light

“You ever think about what happens after all this? The shows, the noise… when it’s just us and the dark?”

Chūya hesitates. “I don’t think about endings.”

“I do,” Dazai says. “Because for once, I don’t want to disappear before the ending.” Dazai starts to laugh, softly, nervously.

“Do you know what it’s like, Chūya Nakahara? To be adored by a world that doesn’t know you — and ignored by the one person who does?”

Chūya stares "You think I'm ignoring you?"

"You do" Dazai admits “That’s the problem. We can't seem to get on the same terms”

The silence stretches; that familiar hum between them. 

Dazai speaks quietly and slowly “You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted that I couldn’t turn into a performance.”

...

Chūya looks down at the cars below, her voice hoarse “Then stop performing.” she looks back up at Dazai after saying this. Dazai mets her eyes; no smirk, no whitty comeback "I love you, Chūya."

No theatrics. Just said — like it’s been true for years.

For once, Chūya doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t argue. She just exhales "I know."

“That’s not fair,” Dazai says softly. “Say it back.”

Chūya hesitates, the skyline lights flickering below them like camera flashes.

Then, quietly, "I love you too, idiot.”

...

A small quiet moment of satisfaction is shared between them, They don’t kiss; instead, Chūya reaches out, adjusting Dazai’s collar, a small, grounding touch. "You are going to get sick" she mutters. Dazai doesn't respond. Their foreheads brush briefly; not quite a kiss, but closer than they’ve ever been.

The Morning After

Next day, Chūya arrives at the studio to find Dazai already there, sprawled out on the couch with a sketchpad.On the page: a rough doodle — Dazai’s idea for a new campaign. Caption: “Fall / Winter — Duality.” Underneath, in messy cursive: “By Chūya & Dazai.” Chūya sighs, sets down coffee beside her.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love that about me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Dazai grins; but this time, it’s soft. “You said it again.”

The rest of the morning is spent talking about Dazai's new campaign idea, soft pinks, creams, maroons and wine purple fabrics litter the space.

Chapter Text

The Studio at Sunrise

The studio was too quiet for Chūya’s liking. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, dust drifting in lazy spirals over her worktable. The coffee had gone cold an hour ago, but she kept sipping it anyway, sketching the same sleeve pattern for the third time.

The hum of sewing machines and footsteps was usually his soundtrack; assistants, stylists, Dazai’s constant commentary. Now there was only the occasional creak from the couch behind her, where said nuisance was currently asleep. Dazai had shown up two nights ago with a grin and a almost empty duffel bag and haven't left.

Chūya wasn’t sure when working late together had turned into Dazai draping herself across her sofa like a stray cat. It wasn’t new, exactly. What was new was the lack of tension in the air; no unsaid confessions hanging heavy between them, no arguments to mask everything else. Just… this.. strange yet comfortable calmness.

She set her pencil down, stretched, and glanced over. Dazai was half-buried under a pile of discarded coats, hair sticking out in six directions. Her phone buzzed against her stomach; she groaned and rolled over without opening her eyes.

“You planning on dying there?” Chūya asked.

Dazai cracked one eye open half asleep. “Only if you’ll design my funeral outfit.”

Chūya snorted. “I’ll make sure it’s tacky.”

“You’d never,” Dazai said, voice still rough with sleep. “You love my face too much.”

“Debatable.”

She picked her coffee cup up, finding herself smiling into it.

She turned back to the sketch — a jacket this time, slim-cut with sharp lapels. The lines weren’t coming together. Her hand hesitated halfway through, caught on a thought she didn’t want to name. Behind her Dazai stirred again, padding barefoot across the wood floor. The faint rustle of fabric stopped just beside her.

“You’re doing that frown thing,” Dazai said softly, leaning over her shoulder.

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

Chūya jabbed her in the ribs with her elbow, but Dazai didn’t move away.

For a while, Dazai was content to hover; until, inevitably, she noticed a loose button on her shirt. “You wouldn’t happen to have.."

“Don’t even..”

Too late. Dazai had already picked up a needle from the pincushion. The sharp yelp that followed was predictable.

You’re hopeless,” Chūya muttered.

Dazai frown, inspecting the tiny bead of blood on her thumb.

Chūya sat up and fixed the button on Dazai's shirt herself. Quick, clean stitches. The motion steadied her, like muscle memory.

When she looked up again, Dazai was watching her; not smirking, not teasing, just quietly… there.

“What?” Chūya asked, suddenly aware of how close they were.

"Nothing,” Dazai said, voice low. “Just thinking I could get used to mornings like this.”

Chūya didn’t answer. The silence between them was soft; like fabric being folded instead of torn.

...

Then Dazai’s stomach growled. Loudly.

Chūya sighed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately, that seems to be the case.”

...

It took ten minutes to bickering to drag Dazai towards the break room of the studio, and another five before Chūya realized she didn’t have much in the way of food. The studio wasn’t exactly stocked for guests, a few protein bars, some instant ramen, one sad apple. Dazai stood beside the open fridge, peering in like she was searching for meaning. “Do you survive off caffeine and soda?”

"Mostly soda."

"Charming."

In the end, they settled for convenience store sandwiches and the fresh pot of coffee Chūya brewed while muttering something about “parasites who don’t pay rent.”

They ate at the worktable, between bolts of fabric and scattered sketches.

“You know,” Dazai said around a mouthful of a egg sandwich, “if anyone saw us right now, they’d think we were domestic.”

“We’re not.”

“I said they’d think that. Not that we are.”

Chūya shot her a look. “You’re lucky I’m letting you eat here.”

Dazai only smiled, setting her cup down with a soft clink. “You've never actually kicked me out.”

...

Chūya didn’t reply, because she couldn’t argue with that. And for a long, easy stretch of time, they just sat; the clatter of the city outside muffled by the morning light and the low hum of the coffee machine.

It wasn’t loud or complicated or full of sparks.
It just was.

For the first time in years, Chūya thought that might actually be enough.

....

The peace lasted exactly three days.

Then the internet noticed.

It started small — a fan account posting a blurry photo of Dazai and Chūya leaving the studio at midnight. Someone captioned it “Power couple energy ✨.”
By morning, there were dozens of edits. By noon, there were rumors.

Chūya discovered this the way most disasters revealed themselves: through Higuchi knocking on his office door, holding his phone like it might explode.

“Uh… boss? You’re trending.”

Chūya blinked. “I’m what?”

Higuchi just turned the screen toward her.

#CHUUYADAZAI trended first on FashionNet, then on Twitter, then somehow on TikTok. Half the comments speculated about a secret relationship. The other half analyzed body language from red carpet photos like it was national security.

Chūya scrolled in disbelief. “What the hell is wrong with people...”

Then he saw one of the headlines:
‘Design Duo or Secret Lovers? The Unspoken Chemistry of Yokohama’s Fashion Phenoms.’

She nearly threw the phone across the room.

Dazai appeared in the doorway not even thirty seconds later, holding two coffees and looking far too pleased.
“You saw, didn’t you?”

Chūya groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t start this.”

“Define start,” Dazai said, breezing in. “The PR team might have mentioned something about... ‘leaning into the mystery.’”

"‘The mystery’— You mean our reputation?”

Dazai set the coffee down, grin unfazed. “Publicity is publicity. Besides, it’s not like we’re lying.”

Chūya shot her a glare sharp enough to cut fabric. “We are not— whatever they think we are.”

Dazai tilted his head. “We aren't?”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, come on, Chūya. The tension sells itself.”

Chūya pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, trying not to let her pulse show in her voice. “You actually like this, don’t you?”

...

“I like attention,” Dazai said lightly. “You know that.”

Yeah. Chūya did know that. Knew it too well.

...

She went back to her sketches — tried to, anyway. Her lines were unsteady, hands tight on the pencil.
She’d spent years building a reputation: clean, sharp, professional. She didn’t like being seen outside that frame.

Especially not like this.

“Hey,” Dazai said softly. “Breathe.”

Chūya blinked, startled by the gentleness.

“They’re going to talk no matter what,” Dazai continued, leaning against the table. “We might as well make something out of it.”

“Something like what?”

“Something honest,” Dazai said, like it was simple. “A campaign. Our work. Us.”

Chūya exhaled slowly. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m inspired.”

“I’m going to murder our PR rep.”

Dazai laughed — low, easy, that sound that always broke the edge off Chūya’s anger whether she wanted it to or not.
She handed Chūya one of the coffees. “For the stress.”

Chūya took it, muttering, “You cause the stress.”

“And I solve it,” Dazai replied cheerfully. “Perfect balance.”

The “perfect balance” lasted about a week.

Then came the interview.

They were supposed to talk about the upcoming collection — inspirations, textures, technique. Chūya had practiced answers. He was ready.

Until the interviewer smiled and said, “You two seem very close. Would you say your relationship goes beyond the professional?”

Chūya froze.

Before she could respond, Dazai leaned forward, all charm and composure.
“I’d say Chūya is my partner in every way that matters.”

The interviewer’s eyebrows rose.

Chūya’s heart did something that could only be described as a controlled implosion.

When the segment aired, the internet combusted again.

The clip spread like wildfire: Dazai’s voice smooth and calm, Chūya beside him trying not to choke on air.
The captions were merciless;

“In every way that matters”

“She said it so casual omg.”
“Find someone who looks at you like Dazai looks at Chūya during this quote.”

One of Chūya’s coworkers texted him a screenshot with the message: You two finally stopped pretending? About time.

Chūya turned her phone off for the rest of the day.

That night, she found Dazai in the studio again, sitting cross-legged at the worktable surrounded by sketches and takeout containers.

...

“Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame?” Chūya asked, trying for even tone.

...

“Do you hate me for it?” Dazai didn't say anything else besides this.

Chūya hesitated. The easy answer would’ve been yes. The true one caught in his throat.

“I just…” She ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t like being looked at like that.”

Dazai’s expression softened. “I know.”

For once, there was no teasing. No grin. Just that quiet, disarming sincerity that always hit harder than any joke.

...

“Then let them look at me,” Dazai said. “You don’t owe anyone a story.”

Chūya blinked, surprised by the simplicity of it. “You’d really take all the spotlight?”

“I live for it,” Dazai said, smile returning, gentler now. “But you already knew that.”

Chūya exhaled, tension disappearing from her shoulders. She sat beside him at the table, close enough that their knees touched.

“Next time,” she said, “warn me before you declare your undying partnership on live TV.”

“No promises.”

Chūya rolled her eyes, but the smile this time wasn’t forced.

The world might have been watching; dissecting, speculating, turning them into clickbait and headlines, 
but here, in the quiet of the studio, with takeout and cooling coffee between them, it was just them again.

Dazai nudged her shoulder. “You didn’t deny it, though.”

“Shut up and eat your noodles.”

“See? Domestic.”

Chūya didn’t throw the chopsticks at her. That was progress.

The studio always felt different after hours.
By day it was a flurry of interns, assistants, and fabric samples, a chorus of zippers and steamers and chatter.
But at night, when it was just them, the place fell into a heartbeat rhythm — faint music from Dazai’s phone, the hum of the sewing machine, the sharp scent of dye and coffee.

It was their language.

Chūya had always been meticulous when she worked. Measured. Controlled. Every hem an act of discipline.
But with Dazai there, control kept slipping — not in a bad way, exactly. Just… shifting.

Tonight, Dazai had her sleeves rolled up and scissors in hand, standing too close as usual, offering opinions nobody asked for.

“I’m telling you, it needs asymmetry,” Dazai said, holding up one of the prototypes. “This line’s too safe.”

“It’s clean, not safe.”

“It’s boring.”

“It’s wearable.”

“It’s predictable,” Dazai sing-songed. “You’re too afraid to ruin perfection.”

Chūya turned, giving her the full force of her glare. “And you’re too addicted to chaos.”

Dazai’s grin widened. “That’s why it works.”

It did.
That was the worst part, she was right.

She’d built her reputation on precision, on garments that spoke with structure. But since Dazai started walking for her shows, her presence had bled into his design philosophy. Looser cuts. Bolder color. Subtle defiance.

...

She had this way of making imperfection magnetic.

Chūya exhaled sharply and stepped back from the mannequin. “Fine. You want chaos? Show me.”

Dazai raised a brow. “Permission to ruin your masterpiece?”

“Permission to try.”

She didn’t hesitate — never did.
Within seconds she was rearranging pins, tugging fabric, folding lines that had taken Chūya hours to set.
She opened her mouth to protest, then stopped.

Because somehow, impossibly, it worked.

The piece transformed — sharper angles, asymmetrical drape, something fluid yet deliberate. It shouldn’t have worked. But it did.

Dazai stepped back, satisfaction in her eyes. “See? Messy’s beautiful.”

Chūya looked at the mannequin, then at her. "How-?"

"You’re welcome.”

She hated how she said it so easily

She turned back to the table, sketchbook open. Dazai leaned over her shoulder — too close again, her hair brushing her arm.
“Keep that angle,” she murmured, tapping the page. As Chūya drew. “There. It moves like you.”

She froze.
“Like me?”

“Yeah,” Dazai said, voice soft. “Sharp, but graceful. Always on balance.”

For a moment, the air thickened.

Chūya swallowed. “You… really think that?”

“Always have,” Dazai said simply. Then she smiled again, careless and brilliant. “You’re a natural muse.”

“Don’t call me that.”

..

"Why not? It’s true.”

Because it meant something, that’s why. Because muse implied trust, connection — creation tied to affection. And Chūya didn’t want to think about what that said about them. Even if she loved Dazai she couldn't accept it.

She tried to change the subject. “You ever take anything seriously?”

Dazai’s hands stilled. Her smile faltered, just for a breath.

“You,” she said quietly.

Chūya looked up.

The silence between them wasn’t comfortable anymore — it was electric, trembling on the edge of something neither of them dared name.

...

Dazai stepped back first, exhaling a laugh to break the tension. “Anyway. I’m starving. You cooking or am I ordering?”

“Ordering,” Chūya said automatically, still staring at the half-finished design like it might explain what just happened.

They ate takeout cross-legged on the studio floor, surrounded by sketch pages
Dazai was rambling about the newest show — plans, fabrics, themes — and Chūya found herself watching her more than listening.

It wasn’t just attraction. It was… recognition.
The way her eyes sparked when she got an idea, how she gestured with her hands when explaining a concept.
She’d always thought Dazai’s charm was an act — smoke and mirrors. But here, in this space, it was real.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“You’re imagining things.”

She grinned, not fooled. “I always am.”

She threw a napkin at her. She laughed. It hit his chest like warmth.

...

Later, after Dazai had dozed off on the couch, Chūya stayed behind, sketching. The mannequin still wore their hybrid creation — her structure, her chaos.
She traced its silhouette in pencil, softer now.

There was something honest about the piece. Something theirs.

She glanced toward the couch. Dazai was half-asleep, her jacket draped over her like a blanket, one arm thrown across her face.
She looked… peaceful.

For the first time, she let himself smile without restraint.

Maybe she was right.
Maybe messy was beautiful.

London smelled like rain and perfume and nerves.

The show was supposed to be perfect.
Months of preparation, endless fittings, late nights that blurred into dawn.
And Chūya had promised herself, no matter what happened, no matter what headlines followed , this would be about the work.
Not rumors. Not gossip. Not Dazai.

She was wrong on all counts.

...

The lights were blinding. The music pulsed like a heartbeat. 
Backstage, Chūya gave final instructions to models, pinning stray threads, adjusting drapes. She lived for this rhythm — precision and chaos locked in step. And then, from the corner of her eye, she caught it: a familiar silhouette slipping between the racks of clothing.

Her stomach dropped.
“Dazai— what the hell are you doing here?”

She turned, half-smile already loaded. “Checking on the talent.”

“You’re not in this show.”

“Tragic oversight, isn’t it?” she said, already thumbing through the garments. “Good thing I’m proactive.”

Chūya stepped forward, panic edging into her voice. “Don’t— Dazai, I swear, if you touch—”

But she had already found it.

The unreleased design. The one he hadn’t shown anyone yet — not even the board.
A piece meant for the next season: black silk, sculpted shoulders, long asymmetric line that caught the light like spilled ink.
It was personal. Too personal. A reflection of every sleepless night, every secret thought she couldn’t voice.

“Put that back,” Chūya said, trying to sound calm.

Dazai just looked at her, eyes unreadable. “You made this for me, didn’t you?”

“I made it for the collection.”

“Sure you did,” she said softly.

Before she could stop her, she had already put it halfway on, and was already walking toward the curtain.

“Dazai— don’t you dare—”

But the music shifted, the lights flared, and she stepped onto the runway.

...

For a second, the world stopped.

The audience gasped — not in confusion, but awe.
There she was; Dazai Osamu, uninvited, unannounced, striding down the catwalk in a dress that caught every flash of light like liquid shadow.
Every movement of her body turned the fabric into poetry.

Chūya stood frozen backstage, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the music.

The crowd erupted, applause, shouts, cameras flashing like a storm.

It was everything she should’ve wanted.
Except it wasn’t hers to take.

...

When the show ended, the applause still echoing, Chūya pushed through the maze of assistants until she found her in the dressing area, laughing with the makeup team like nothing had happened.

She didn’t say a word. Just grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the empty side corridor.

The door clicked shut behind them.

“What the hell was that?”

“Improvisation,” Dazai said breezily.

“You hijacked my show.”

“Don’t be dramatic—"

“You wore something I hadn’t even unveiled yet!”

Her smirk faltered under the weight of his fury. “It looked better on me anyway.”

“Stop joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Then tell me why,” Chūya snapped, voice breaking. “Why’d you do it?”

Dazai looked at her — really looked. And for once, she didn’t have a clever line ready.

“Because no one else could’ve worn it,” she said finally. “Because it meant something.”

Chūya’s throat wesnt tight. “You had no right.”

“You loved it,” she murmured.

“That wasn't the point.."

She stopped. Words failed.

She was still in it — the gown draping perfectly around her, silk tracing every movement.
It was hers. She made it hers.

Dazai tilted her head, eyes dark and amused. “You’re angry because I was right.”

“About what?”

“That you made it for me.”

The air between them went still — too charged, too fragile.

Chūya’s throat went dry. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t have to,” she said softly. “You already did.”

She turned away, but she followed, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her.

“You know what that crowd saw out there?” she whispered. “They saw what you’ve been trying to hide, your emotion, your chaos, your beauty. You think you’re disciplined, but your art.." She smiled faintly. “It feels like me.”

“Don’t twist this.”

“I’m not twisting anything. I’m reminding you what it looks like when you stop being afraid.”

Her words cut deep, not cruelly but surgically.
Because she wasn’t wrong.

The design had been for her, born out of frustration and longing, out of too many nights watching her move through the studio like she owned every inch of light.

But she wasn’t supposed to know that.

Chūya clenched her jaw, forcing steadiness. “You turned my show into a circus.”

“I turned it into art.”

“You humiliated me.”

“I made you unforgettable.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any argument.

...

The audience still roared beyond the curtain. Journalists were already shouting for quotes, flashing bulbs slicing through the chaos.

And yet here, backstage, everything slowed, just the two of them, standing in the wreckage of something beautiful.

Chūya stepped closer, frustration and awe warring inside her. “You think you can just waltz into my world, tear it apart, and call it love?”

Her smile faltered — just slightly. “I didn’t say it was love.”

“But that’s what you meant.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them breathed.

Then Dazai looked away, whispering, “Maybe it was.”

That broke her, not in anger, but in the quiet way a dam finally gives under its own pressure.

She didn’t know what she wanted to say — thank you, stop, don’t leave — but none of it came out.

Because in that moment, the lights shifted again.
The finale cue started.
The press flooded backstage.

The world intruded.

And just like that, Dazai was gone... Swept away in a sea of cameras and applause, leaving her behind with only the echo of silk against the floor.

...

When the curtain fell, London roared.
Chūya’s name trended in every fashion feed, every luxury magazine, every late-night headline.
“Unplanned Brilliance.”
“The Runway Scandal of the Year.”
“Chūya Nakahara: The New Icon of Controlled Chaos.”

She should have been thrilled.

Instead, she walked out alone into the night rain, the city lights reflecting off wet pavement.
Somewhere across the Thames, laughter echoed faintly — familiar, maddening, beautiful.

And even then, even soaked and tired and raw, she couldn’t help but think:
Maybe she’d been right.

Maybe she had made it for her.

...

The world did what it always did after a scandal, it devoured.

By morning, every fashion site, gossip blog, and style columnist had their think piece ready.
‘Unplanned Brilliance or Calculated Chaos?’
‘The Dazai Incident: Genius or Sabotage?’
Some called it the most iconic show of the year.
Others called it reckless, unprofessional.
All of them called it unforgettable.

And in every photo, Dazai was radiant — chin tilted just so, fabric flowing like she’d known all along this would be legend.
Chūya was nowhere to be seen, except in the credit line that followed her name:
Lead Designer: Chūya Nakahara.

She should’ve been proud. She should’ve been furious.
Instead, she was tired.

...

The studio felt hollow without her.

She hadn’t come by since London; no teasing texts, no unannounced visits, no late-night ramen. Just silence.
And maybe that was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?
A break. A breath.

She sat at his desk, sketches scattered, coffee long cold.
Her phone buzzed for the fifth time that morning — another PR email, another offer, another statement to “shape the narrative.”

She ignored it all.

The world could write whatever it wanted. None of it mattered without her voice cutting through the noise.

...

Three days later, someone knocked.

She almost didn’t answer. But then —
“Chūyaaaa, it’s raining and I forgot my umbrella.”

Her voice.

She froze, heartbeat jumping before she could scold himself for it.

When she opened the door, Dazai stood there exactly as he remembered her — messy long hair tucked under a borrowed beret, trench coat soaked through, eyes bright with amusement and something like hesitation.

“Hi.”

“Do you ever not make an entrance?”

“Not in my nature,” she said, stepping in without waiting. Water dripped from her coat onto the studio floor.

Chūya crossed her arms. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Correction,” she said lightly. “You’ve been sulking.”

She exhaled, already exasperated. “You hijacked my show, Dazai.”

“And it was brilliant.”

“That’s not—” She stopped himself, jaw tightening. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“Then why’d you let me in?”

She had no answer for that.

Dazai smiled, not the teasing kind, not the mask she wore for cameras. Just soft, uncertain, almost shy.
“I brought breakfast,” she said, holding up a paper bag like a peace offering. “Croissants. And apology coffee.”

Chūya blinked. “Apology coffee?”

“Only the finest bribery.”

She sighed. “You’re crazy.”

She grinned. “And you’re still letting me in.”

...

They ended up eating at the worktable, surrounded by sketches and fabric swatches.
Outside, the rain tapped against the windows — steady, rhythmic, familiar.

Dazai broke a croissant in half, handing her a piece. “So… how mad are you?”

Chūya took it, considering. “On a scale of one to throwing you off the Big Ben”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“I’m still deciding.”

She laughed quietly, then grew serious. “I didn’t mean to ruin it.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Chūya admitted, voice low. “You just… made it yours.”

“Our,” she corrected.

She looked up. “What?

...

"You said it yourself once — I make the chaos, you make it beautiful. It’s not mine alone.”

Chūya stared at her for a moment, unsure if she wanted to yell or… something else entirely.

She set her coffee down. “You drive me insane.”

“I know.”

“You make everything harder than it has to be.”

“I know that too.”

She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Why do I even put up with you?”

“Because you love me.”

The words hung there — casual, like a joke.
Except it wasn’t a joke. Not this time.

Chūya’s breath caught. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” she said softly.

“Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean them.”

Dazai’s smile faltered. “Who says I don’t? We've said it once before we can say it again.”

She blinked, unprepared for the quiet certainty in her tone.

“You think I did all that for attention?” she asked. “You think I’d risk my entire career just to steal a spotlight?”

“You’ve done dumber things,” Chūya said, but her voice lacked bite.

“Maybe,” she said, leaning closer. “But not this. Not with you." She wanted to look away, to deflect with sarcasm, to escape. But her gaze pinned her, open, unguarded, the kind of look that made running impossible. 

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” she said. “You don’t chase applause. You don’t need to be seen. You just… are. And every time I’m near you, I feel like I am too.”

Chūya swallowed hard. “You’re not making sense.”

“Yeah,” she said, a faint laugh breaking through. “That’s love for you.”

She froze again

Love.
She’d said it like it was obvious, like it wasn’t the very thing she’d spent almost a year denying even to herself.

Dazai watched him, the silence stretching between them. Then, softly, she said, “You don’t have to say it back. I just needed you to know.”

She stood, picking up her coat. “I should go before you decide to throw me out.”

She was halfway to the door when she spoke.

“Dazai.”

...

She got up slowly, crossing the distance between them.
When she reached her, she didn’t touch her, just stood close enough that she could hear the tremor in her breath.

“You’re right,” she said finally. “You drive me insane.”

Her lips quirked faintly. “You’ve mentioned.”

“But you also make me better,” she continued, voice steady now. “You make me,ris k things. Feel things. And yeah, maybe I hate that. But I also-”

He hesitated, searching for words that didn’t sound like surrender.

“I also can’t imagine doing this without you.”

Dazai turned then, eyes wide, something breaking open behind them. “Chūya—”

She cut her off, not with words, but with a small, deliberate movement forward.

A kiss.

Soft. Hesitant. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything, only offers.

It wasn’t grand or cinematic. It was quiet, human, inevitable.

When they pulled apart, Dazai’s smile was small and real. “Finally.”

Chūya huffed, cheeks flushed. “Don’t ruin it.”

She laughed, that same familiar, infuriating, beautiful laugh, and leaned her forehead against hers. “No promises.”

...

Later, after the rain stopped, they sat together on the studio couch, coffee cups empty, croissant crumbs scattered.
The storm outside had cleared, but the air still smelled of damp pavement and something new.

Chūya leaned back, eyes half-closed. “So what now?”

Dazai tilted her head against her shoulder. “Now we work. We argue. We make something brilliant again.”

“And the press?”

“Let them talk,” she said. “We’ll give them something worth talking about.”

Chūya smiled faintly. “You never change.”

“Would you really want me to?”

She thought about it; about quiet nights and bright lights, about the chaos and calm they somehow balanced.
And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t have to think too hard about the answer.

“No,” she said softly. “Not anymore.”

Dazai smiled against his shoulder. “Good.”

They stayed like that, no declarations, no dramatics, just two people sitting in the golden quiet of afternoon, the world still humming outside.

Maybe tomorrow the rumors would start again. Maybe the chaos would return.
But for now, there was peace, and for them, that was enough.

Chapter Text

New York didn't sleep; it buzzed.

Even through the tinted taxi windows, Dazai could feel it, neon signs flashing against wet pavement, steam curling from subway grates, the endless pulse of footsteps and horns.

Chūya hated it immediately.

Too loud, too bright, too many people walking like they had somewhere better to be. The air smelled like rain and metal and pretension.

But Dazai — Dazai looked like she’d been dropped into paradise.

She leaned toward the glass like a kid, a delighted grin tugging at her mouth. “You feel that?” she asked. “It’s like the whole city’s caffeinated.”

Chūya groaned. “It’s like the whole city’s having a panic attack.”

“You’re just jet-lagged,” Dazai said cheerfully, patting Chūya's knee. “Give it a day. You’ll fall in love.”

“Not likely.”

“Famous last words.”

Their rental was a narrow flat in the East Village — two bedrooms, one noisy radiator, and a view of the fire escape that might’ve qualified as “charming” if you squinted.

It wasn’t much, but it was theirs for a month.

They were in New York for a joint design project, a Japanese fashion collective partnering with a Brooklyn-based art house. But for both women, it was less about the work and more about catching their breath.

After months of headlines, tension, and pretending not to care, they needed the distance to be themselves.

The first morning started early; too early.

Chūya was up before sunrise, unable to sleep with the city murmuring outside, Japan was 14 hours ahead of all this. She made coffee, black and strong, and stood at the window, watching the streets slowly come to life, delivery trucks rumbling, the distant wail of a siren, pigeons arguing on the fire escape.

When Dazai padded in, still half-asleep in one of Chūya’s T-shirts, she looked like chaos personified, long brown hair sticking up, one sock missing, eyes soft with sleep.

“Morning,” she mumbled, reaching for the coffee Chūya handed her.

“Morning,” Chūya replied, already rolling her eyes at the sight. “You look like you lost a fight with a blanket.”

Dazai smiled faintly over the rim of her mug. “It won.”

She drifted to the couch and flopped down, watching Chūya from across the room. “You’d make a good New Yorker,” she said. “All that glaring.”

Chūya snorted. “If that’s your idea of a compliment, you need to get out more.”

“Out with you?”

“Don’t push it.”

Dazai’s grin widened. “Too late.”

It was easy; the banter, the rhythm. Too easy. Somewhere between their teasing and the quiet mornings, something had softened.

That night in Yokohama, Dazai’s head on Chūya’s shoulder, the silence that felt like understanding.

They hadn’t named it, but it was there. Constant.

... 

By late morning, they were pretending to work.

Sketches covered the kitchen table. Dazai sprawled across the floor with fabric samples, offering unsolicited opinions.

“That tone’s all wrong,” she said, squinting at a swatch.

“It’s perfect,” Chūya countered without looking up.

“It’s boring. Needs contrast.”

Chūya set down her pencil and leveled her with a look. “Since when do you care about color theory?”

“Since I started living with someone who does.”

The words hit too softly, too directly.

Chūya blinked. “We’re not-”

Dazai tilted her head, teasing. “Working with. I meant working with.”

“You didn’t.”

She didn’t argue; just smiled that smug, gentle smile that always made Chūya want to throw something.

And still, the air between them felt charged, warm, fragile, alive.

...

They went out that afternoon, because Dazai insisted they had to explore.

It was raining again, but she dragged Chūya through SoHo anyway;  umbrella tilted precariously as she pointed out street art, food trucks, vintage shops that smelled like incense.

Chūya hated to admit it, but she loved it.

The noise, the motion, the colors; it was chaos in the best way.

“You’re smiling,” Dazai said, smug.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Chūya sighed. “You always this annoying?”

“Only when I’m happy.”

Chūya didn’t have a comeback for that.

They ended up in a café tucked between two galleries, small, dimly lit, jazz humming quietly through the speakers. Chūya ordered espresso; Dazai got the sweetest pastry on display and immediately dropped powdered sugar all over the table.

“What?” Chūya asked when she caught Dazai staring.

“Just thinking,” Dazai said softly.

“About?”

“How different you look here.”

Chūya frowned. “Different how?”

“Looser. Like you’re finally breathing.”

Chūya looked away, out the window. “Maybe it’s just the caffeine.”

Dazai smiled, but didn’t argue.

That night, they stayed up working again — or pretending to. The radiator clanked, rain tapping the windows. The flat smelled faintly of coffee and thread.

Dazai had somehow sewn her sleeve to the hem of a half-finished jacket, and Chūya was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.

“Stop moving,” Chūya said, trying to free her.

“Maybe if you stopped stabbing me—”

“Maybe if you stopped touching things!”

Their laughter filled the small room, soft and warm.

When it faded, they realized how close they were; Chūya’s fingers brushing the fabric near Dazai’s wrist, knees almost touching.

Neither moved.

...

“You know,” Dazai murmured, “you’re kind of incredible when you’re not trying to kill me.”

“Flattery won’t save you.”

“I’m not trying to be saved.”

...

Days blurred into a rhythm, breakfast and banter, work and wandering.

They shared the kind of routine that crept up softly, without announcement. Dazai made terrible, burnt coffee every morning; Chūya complained and drank it anyway.

Sometimes, Chūya caught herself brushing Dazai’s sleeve or laughing too freely. Sometimes, Dazai’s gaze lingered too long.

It wasn’t defined. It didn’t have to be.

Their last night came too soon.

The exhibit was a hit, critics calling their collaboration “raw and luminous.” The afterparty was loud, full of praise neither of them quite knew how to take.

When they finally escaped, they walked through the quiet streets of Lower Manhattan. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement slick and glinting beneath the streetlights.

“We did good,” Chūya said.

“We always do,” Dazai replied.

They stopped by the edge of a park, looking out at the skyline glowing across the river.

“You ever notice we never say what we mean?” Dazai asked.

“All the time.”

Dazai laughed softly. “I think I’m supposed to say something romantic right now. But…” She trailed off, her breath misting in the cold air. “This is enough.”

Chūya looked at her, hair tousled, eyes soft, and understood exactly what she meant.

So she stepped closer, until their shoulders touched.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “It is.”

They stood there until the wind picked up again, carrying the faint sound of a saxophone from a nearby bar.

...

The next morning, the city was pale and golden.

Dazai was in the kitchen, somehow managing to burn toast again. Chūya rescued breakfast before the smoke alarm could join in.

“Domestic bliss, huh?” Chūya muttered.

Dazai grinned. “You love it.”

“I love not dying of smoke inhalation.”

...

They sat at the table with coffee and jam, the window cracked open to the hum of traffic below.

Dazai brushed her fingers against Chūya’s as she passed the sugar. “You think we’ll miss this?”

“I already do,” Chūya said before she could stop herself.

Dazai smiled, small and real. “Then we’ll come back.”

Chūya didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The quiet between them said enough.

...

When the plane took off that afternoon, the skyline glittered beneath them, glass and steel and light fading into clouds.

Dazai leaned her head on Chūya’s shoulder, voice low. “Next stop, whatever comes next.”

Chūya smirked. “You mean work.”

“Same thing.”

Their shoulders stayed pressed together, neither pulling away.

Outside, New York disappeared into sunlight; but it felt less like leaving, and more like taking something with them.

Chapter Text

Post-New York trip; Yokohama evening. The airport lights have faded; the city hum has returned. It’s late, humid, faint smell of rain on asphalt.

Chūya returns to her apartment, dropping her suitcase by the door. Everything looks exactly the same, which only makes it worse.

She makes tea out of habit but doesn’t drink it.

She checks her phone: a message from Dazai: “Home safe?”

Her reply is delayed: “Yeah. You?”

She responds quickly: “Couldn’t sleep. Feels too quiet.”

A long pause. Then another message: “You wanna go out?”

Chūya stares at it for a long moment before texting back: “Give me 10.”

A humid Yokohama night. The kind that smells faintly of sea salt and hot pavement after rain. Streetlights halo the damp air in soft gold. The narrow backstreets are mostly empty, convenience stores still lit, vending machines humming, faint music leaking from a bar around the corner. The world feels suspended; too late for crowds, too early for dawn.

Chūya’s boots click against the wet pavement as she turns the corner. She spots Dazai waiting under a flickering streetlight near the 24-hour konbini, half-shadowed, hands buried in the pockets of her long beige coat.

She looks too composed for this hour. It irritates Chūya, and settles her in the same breath.

“You walk fast,” Dazai teases, hands in her pockets.

“You text slow,” Chūya shoots back, but there’s no bite.

There’s the faintest curve of a smile; that Dazai brand of humor that’s never quite a joke.

Chūya crosses her arms. “So you dragged me out at midnight because?"

“Because it’s quiet.”

...

“And because you’d come.”

The words hang there, simple but heavier than they should be.

Chūya sighs, but it’s more of an exhale than a protest. “You’re lucky I didn’t have plans.”

“At midnight?”
“Could’ve been sleeping.”
“You weren’t.”

She’s right, and Chūya hates that she’s right.

They start walking without deciding to. The street tilts downward toward the bay; neon reflected in puddles, air sticky with humidity. Their footsteps sync unconsciously.

Dazai keeps her hands in her pockets, gaze drifting upward. Chūya walks close enough to brush shoulders but doesn’t.

“You ever notice how the city sounds different at night?”

“It’s quieter.”

“No, not quieter. Just… softer. Like it’s tired too.”

Chūya glances at her, brow lifting. “You’re in a poetic mood.”

“Jet lag.”

...

“Or maybe I missed home

That catches her off guard, home. She hadn’t realized how foreign new was New York until Dazai said it.

Chūya studies Dazai out of the corner of her eye. The streetlight catches in her hair; darker now, damp from the mist. The faint circles under her eyes are proof of too many flights, too little rest.

...

But she’s smiling; softly, genuinely. And it hits Chūya how rare that used to be.

Back when they’d first started working together again, Dazai’s smiles were all edges: teasing, deflecting, protective. Now they’re warmer. Earnest, even.

And that, more than anything, unnerves her.

Chūya speaks softly “You look different.”

"Older?”
“No. Calmer.”
“Jet lag again.”

She laughs under her breath, shaking her head. “You’re crazy.”

...

They reach an intersection where the street narrows, and Dazai slows to a stop beneath another streetlight. The glow paints her hair amber, her expression unreadable. 
"Y'know... it's strange being back" she pauses “New York felt like we were somewhere else. Like we could pretend things didn’t mean as much as they did.”

“…And now?”
“Now it’s real.”

...

That last word lands with a quiet fragility that makes the air between them shift.

Chūya looks away, pretending to adjust the strap of her bag. “You always say stuff like that and leave me to figure out what it means.”

...

Dazai tilts her head, voice lower now. “Then maybe I’m hoping you’ll stop pretending you don’t know.”

It’s not a confession, not like what Chūya wants; not yet; but the crack in her voice makes it sound dangerously close.

The silence that follows is thick, full of the things they didn’t say in New York.

A car passes, spraying light across the puddles, breaking the spell.

They start walking again, slower this time. Dazai points out the glowing vending machines lining the road.

“You think they miss us?”

“They’re machines, idiot.”

“So am I sometimes."

Chūya snorts, but her voice is softer. “Yeah, but machines don’t drink all my coffee or hog the hotel pillows.”

“I was optimizing space efficiency.”

“You were snoring on my arm.”

Dazai gasped, mock-offended. “That’s slander. I don’t snore.”

Chūya’s lips twitched. “Sure you don’t.”

Their laughter drifted down the empty street, soft and genuine; the kind that felt like a secret shared only between them.

...

They pause again at the bridge overlooking the canal. The water mirrors the orange glow of the streetlights, the ripples catching every flicker.

Chūya leans against the railing. “You ever think about how we got here?”

“You mean this street or… here?”

“Both.”
“Yeah. All the time.”

She says it like a confession.

Chūya looks over, finds Dazai watching her, expression open and unguarded in a way that hits harder than any words.

For once, Chūya doesn’t look away.

The air by the canal was cooler, touched by sea breeze and the faint scent of rain-slick concrete. Somewhere behind them, a motorbike hummed past and disappeared into the distance, leaving the city in a fragile kind of quiet.

They leaned on the bridge railing, elbows brushing. Neither spoke for a long while.

Chūya watched their reflections ripple in the water below; two streaks of color blurred by the current. Dazai’s was bent around a passing ripple, stretching and reforming like the city light itself couldn’t decide what to do with her.

“Feels smaller here,” Chūya murmured.

Dazai tilted her head. “What does?”

“The city. Us. Everything.”
She hesitated, fingers tracing the damp iron rail. “New York was… loud. It made it easy not to think. Here, it’s like every sound has space to echo.”

...

Dazai didn’t answer right away. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, eyes half-lidded, the streetlight haloing the edge of her hair.
“Maybe that’s why I asked you out here,” she said softly. “To hear the echoes.”

Chūya gave a quiet laugh. “You’re not making sense again.”

“I know.” A smile, small but real. “It’s easier than saying what I actually mean.”

Chūya’s breath caught. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the tone, how unguarded it was.

Since New York, Dazai’s teasing had grown softer, her silences longer. The shift between them had been subtle, steady, but unmistakable. She wasn’t sure when being near her had started to feel like gravity instead of chaos.

Chūya turned to look at her. “Then say what you mean.”

Dazai met her eyes. The streetlight behind her flickered once, like even the world was holding its breath.

“I missed this,” Dazai said finally. “Not the work. Not the travel. Just… walking beside you. Talking about nothing. Being allowed to be quiet.”

It shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. But Chūya felt something in her chest loosen, like a knot giving way.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Me too.”

For a moment, that was enough. The night pressed close but not heavy, the sound of water filling the spaces their words left behind.

Then Dazai shifted, turning to face her fully. “Can I ask you something?”

Chūya raised a brow, wary. “You just did.”

“I mean another something.”

Her voice wasn’t teasing this time. She looked almost nervous, a rare, disarming thing to see on her face. The kind of vulnerability that stripped away all the masks and games they used to hide behind.

Chūya straightened slightly, sensing the change. “What’s with you tonight?”

Dazai breathed out through her nose, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “I’ve been thinking. About New York. About us.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Maybe.” She hesitated, gaze dropping to the railing between them. “But I don’t want to keep pretending it’s not… whatever it is.”

The way she said it; soft, deliberate, made Chūya’s pulse quicken. She didn’t need Dazai to finish the thought. She already knew.

Still, she asked, quietly, “What are you trying to say?”

Dazai’s eyes lifted again, brown and bright and unbearably open. “I’m saying…”
She laughed under her breath, the sound more nerves than humor. “God, I’m terrible at this.”

Chūya tilted her head. “At what?”

Dazai’s smile faded into something gentler. “At asking you to be my girlfriend.”

The words landed like rain; soft, sudden, completely impossible to ignore.

Chūya froze. The world narrowed to the hum of the vending machine down the block, the quiet lapping of water, the sound of her own heartbeat thrumming in her ears.

For once, Dazai didn’t look smug or expectant. She just stood there, waiting. Open in a way that made it hard to breathe.

“…You’re serious,” Chūya said at last.

Dazai nodded, barely. “I am.”

There was no dramatic buildup, no grand confession or orchestrated gesture. Just that. A simple question in the middle of a city that had seen too many versions of them already.

Chūya wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both. Instead, she exhaled. “You really know how to ambush someone, huh?”

“Occupational hazard,” Dazai said softly. “You can say no.”

“Yeah,” Chūya murmured. “I could.”

But she didn’t.

The silence stretched, and in it, Chūya realized something she hadn’t dared put words to before; she didn’t want to go back to how things were before New York. Before Dazai started looking at her like this, with affection that didn’t hide behind mischief.

She turned slightly, enough that their shoulders brushed. Dazai’s breath caught.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” Chūya said finally. “But yeah. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

For a second, neither moved. Then Dazai’s expression broke into a grin so bright it startled her. “Really?”

Chūya rolled her eyes. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

Dazai laughed; a low, genuine sound that vibrated through the still night. “Too late.”

They stood there, laughing softly under the flickering streetlight. Dazai’s hand brushed against hers, tentative, asking without words. Chūya let their fingers intertwine.

No fireworks. Just the steady thrum of their pulse where their hands met, the city lights stretching out before them like a map of everything still to come.

They walked home slowly after that, neither hurrying nor talking much. The streets smelled faintly of rain again, and for once, Chūya didn’t mind.

When they reached the corner where they’d part ways, Dazai stopped. “Hey,” she said quietly. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

Chūya met her gaze, steady. “If I wasn’t, you’d already know.”

A small smile, tired and tender. “Fair enough.”

“Goodnight, Dazai.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Don’t push it.”

But she didn’t let go of her hand until the last possible moment.

....

The world felt softer in the morning.

Sunlight filtered through the slats of the blinds, thin and gold, cutting across the apartment like ribbons of warmth. Outside, the city was already awake, car engines in the distance, the faint shout of a vendor down the street, the rhythmic thud of life beginning again.

The sun was already sliding through the blinds when Dazai woke; thin stripes of gold stretching across the sheets, catching in the dust that drifted lazily through the air.

It was one of those Yokohama mornings that felt suspended in amber: not too hot yet, not loud, not hurried. The kind of quiet that felt like a secret.

She lay there for a moment, blinking at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of cicadas outside. Her phone buzzed with a dozen unread messages from the PR team. She ignored them all.

Instead, her thoughts wandered , unbidden, familiar, to Chūya.

She could almost picture her: hair tousled, half-awake, making coffee in that impossibly tidy kitchen of hers, pretending she didn’t still hum when she was in a good mood.

Dazai smiled to herself, kicked off the covers, and decided that today, she’d be the one to cook.

...

By the time she stepped outside, the streets were already shimmering with early light. The air smelled faintly of asphalt and jasmine. Somewhere down the block, a radio was playing a love song from twenty years ago.

She stopped by the corner bakery for bread, then a fruit stand for strawberries. The shop owner recognized her, she’d been there enough times when Chūya sent her on errands, and slipped an extra apple into the bag “for the pretty one you live with.”

Dazai didn’t correct him. Just grinned and thanked him anyway.

Chūya’s building was an old one, the kind that looked like it had seen generations of arguments and reconciliations. Dazai didn’t bother knocking this time.

She balanced the groceries in one arm, used her key with the other, and stepped quietly inside.

The place smelled faintly of cleaning supplies and black coffee, so Chūya it hurt a little.

"Morning,” Dazai called softly, toeing off her shoes. No answer.

She peeked into the bedroom. Chūya was still asleep, sprawled on her side, hair falling across her face, one hand tucked beneath the pillow. Her breathing was steady, soft.

For a moment, Dazai just watched her.
There was something disarming about seeing Chūya like this — unguarded, peaceful. It made her chest ache in a way she wasn’t sure how to name.

She exhaled quietly and turned toward the kitchen.

She wasn’t exactly a chef, but she knew her way around a pan. The sound of sizzling butter filled the space, warm and domestic. She cut strawberries into small pieces, toasted the bread just right, and poured coffee into Chūya’s favorite mug — the one with a chipped handle and faint lipstick stain she never scrubbed off.

Halfway through frying the eggs, a voice floated from the hallway.

“You’re lucky I didn’t assume you were an intruder.”

Dazai grinned without turning around. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve threatened me before breakfast.”

Chūya leaned against the doorway, still in a loose T-shirt and pajama shorts, hair not in her usual tight ponytail, voice rough. “You broke in.”'

“I entered with enthusiasm.” Dazai flipped the eggs neatly. “And groceries.”

Chūya crossed her arms, but the corner of her mouth curved up. “You could’ve called.”

“And miss the look on your face right now? Never.”

That earned her an eye roll, but Chūya walked closer anyway, brushing past her to grab a mug. Their shoulders grazed; a small thing, but it made Dazai’s pulse jump.

“Coffee’s already poured,” Dazai said softly.

Chūya froze for half a second before taking it. “You even remembered how I like it.”

“I remember everything about you,” Dazai murmured, almost too quiet to hear.

Chūya didn’t answer; just took a sip and turned toward the window, sunlight catching in her hair.

....

They ate together at the little dining table by the window, the city unfolding below them — street vendors setting up stalls, scooters humming by, the air thick with morning life.

It was peaceful. Familiar. The kind of peace Dazai had never learned how to keep but found herself wanting to.

“You’re actually good at this,” Chūya admitted around a bite of toast. “Scary.”

“I’m multitalented,” Dazai said. “You just focus on being beautiful.”

Chūya gave her a flat look. “That line would work better if you didn’t burn the first batch.”

Dazai laughed, bright and shameless. “You caught that, huh?”

“Smoke alarm caught that.”

They fell quiet again. The kind of quiet that felt earned.

Chūya reached for her mug, and Dazai’s fingers brushed hers. Neither pulled away.

Dazai watched the light move across Chūya’s hair, copper bright against the morning. “You know,” she said after a long pause, “if this is what domestic life with you looks like, I could get used to it.”

Chūya smiled faintly. “You already have.”

...

Later, Dazai would joke that breakfast was “a stunning success, five stars on the girlfriend scale.”
Chūya would roll her eyes and call her a drama queen.

But for now, they just sat there in the soft sprawl of morning.

There was coffee, sunlight, laughter half-suppressed between bites of toast, and the simple, dizzying realization that they’d crossed some invisible line; that this, right here, was what together felt like.