Chapter Text
Dazai didn’t need to look to know where Chuuya was.
He felt him first, when the camera flashed again.
The light bled briefly against the white backdrop, soft yet sharp—like it carved clean edges out of everything it touched. Dazai had long since learned how to move within it, timing his turns and simply tilting to match the rhythm only professionals seemed to notice.
Half a smile, shift of angle, even a small drop of gaze. All of it was calculated, effortless.
He made perfection look easy.
And Chuuya was watching.
Behind the camera, his silhouette was a constant—always steady and unwavering, always just on the edge of Dazai’s vision. It was strange, how he didn’t even feel the need to look anymore to find him. Dazai could feel the familiar presence like static in the air—the soft click of the shutter syncing with his very own breathing.
Another flash.
When the spots faded from his sight, Dazai let his gaze wander subtly past the lens, to the man holding it. Chuuya’s focus was razor sharp, though his expression stayed neutral, almost too neutral—his mouth pressed into that small line. The studio lights caught in his hair, turning the copper strands to fire.
Even in silence, Chuuya photographed like he was pouring himself into every frame. His hands adjusted the camera carefully, almost reverently, as though it were something alive.
Dazai had always found that fascinating—the way Chuuya looked at the world like he was seeing it through glass. Almost as if everything was always filtered and framed.
The shutter clicked again.
That same noise—so ordinary yet suffocating—cut between them like a pulse.
Later, the photos would circulate online: Dazai Osamu, perfection in motion. Chuuya Nakahara’s lens captures every detail flawlessly, as always. He’d seen those headlines before, read through the captions with detached amusement.
How easily they romanticized professionalism.
How easily they missed what really laid underneath everything.
Because if there was one thing Dazai had noticed, it was the tremor. The faintest shake in Chuuya’s hands whenever he pressed the button. Barely perceptible, gone as soon as it appeared. But it was there. Always there.
And each time, Dazai couldn’t decide if it unsettled him—or thrilled him.
“Perfect, Osamu,” one of the lighting techs called out. “Let’s get a few more with the tie loosened. We’re almost done.”
Dazai’s grin he responded with was automatic, practice. His fingers loosened the silk tie by his throat, his shoulders rolling as if exhaustion looked fashionable. When his gaze flicked up again, Chuuya was already ready—camera aimed, focus locked.
Another flash, another perfect shot.
From the outside, the two of them were immaculate—a star idol and his equally famous photographer, caught in a seamless collaboration. The chemistry people called ‘magic’, like something born from trust.
Or intimacy.
They couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Alright, take five!” Someone shouted across the set. Crew members scattered with relieved laughter or sighs, voices mixing with the hum of equipment powering down.
Dazai stepped off the backdrop, onto the cool flooring—brushing invisible dust from his sleeves.
He barely made it three steps before snippets of conversation reached him.
“—crazy story, huh? That fan from the last tour, they said she’s been missing for a week.”
“Really? God, that’s creepy. Maybe they should bump up security again.”
“Maybe?” Another voice snorted, joining into the conversation. “They already doubled it after that last stalker incident. What next, guard dogs?”
The laughter that followed was nervous, thin.
Dazai’s brows lifted mildly. A missing fan, which wasn't unusual in his world—obsession had a way of eroding boundaries. Still, the topic drew a faint chill through him. People who loved too deeply always made him feel uncomfortable more than those who hated.
“Don’t let it get to your head,” a familiar voice said behind him.
Dazai turned just in time for Kunikida to stride past, clipboard in his hand, his habitual frown softening only slightly at an attempt at dry humor. “Guess this is one way to keep the maniacs at bay,” the manager muttered.
Then, he followed by giving Dazai’s shoulder a brief but firm slap before disappearing toward the dressing room.
The gesture was harmless. Friendly, even.
But somewhere by the light stands, Chuuya had looked up.
The flicker of movement was small, easy to miss—but Dazai had caught it. The way Chuuya’s gaze lingered on Kunikida’s hand as it left Dazai’s shoulder, his jaw tightening just barely enough to crease the corner of his mouth. Then it was gone—buried behind that same calm mask he wore on set.
Dazai brushed it off anyways, turning his back.
The murmurs followed him toward the refreshment table, weaving in and out of laughter and the clatter of cups. A name came up—one he recognized faintly from a fan letter or two.
The missing girl.
“Her account just stopped posting out of nowhere,” one of the assistants said, voice lowered conspiratorially. “She used to go to every one of his shows, every event—people online are freaking out.”
“Probably just burnout,” another shrugged. “You know how they get.”
Dazai stirred his drink idly, gaze half lidded. The conversation was beginning to blur together, pieces of them sticking like static. Missing fans to security, even the obsession.
He learned how to live surrounded by devotion that bordered on worship—it was a part of his job. He knew the consequences. But every now and then, hearing about someone who vanished because of it left that familiar cold weight pressed at the base of his throat.
Some people loved him like he was an idea instead of a person.
And ideas were easier to destroy.
“Break’s over!” Someone called out, snapping the atmosphere back into focus.
The energy shifted immediately, lights brightening as chatter died down to murmurs and the hum of machinery returned to life. The stylists scrambled to touch up the folds of Dazai’s shirt, the gleam on his cheekbones, fixing a stray strand of hair with easy precision.
Dazai slipped back into the role effortlessly. He stood as though the set were an extension of himself—the pop idol, the image, the myth. It was so familiar at this point that he’d stop needing direction. His body reacted to the rhythm of the lights, to the simple click of Chuuya’s camera, something they had tuned into each other's quiet metronome.
Behind the lens, Chuuya didn’t need to say anything.
Every motion was deliberate—adjust the focus, check the light balance, move, shoot and inhale. A cycle encoded into his nerves. The distance between them, that stretch of white flooring, almost hummed with unspoken tension.
When the final flash came, even the room seemed to sigh.
“That’s a wrap! We’re done here, everyone!”
With that signal, a few applause rippled weakly around the set, more out of relief than excitement.
Then slowly, people started packing up, laughter sparking in small pockets as exhaustion settled into the bones of everyone except—perhaps—the two men at the center of it.
Dazai drifted towards the side of the set, undoing the cuffs of his sleeves with an idle hand, expression lazy but content. The edge of the day’s work still clung to his skin, a hum beneath ease as he neared the folding chairs by the wall, collapsing into one with practiced laziness.
The exhaustion wasn’t real, but he wore it well.
He shrugged off his jacket and tossed in onto the chair behind him, fingers easily undoing the first two buttons of his shirt and leaned back until his head tipped just far enough to stare up at the rafters.
The studio smelled like sweat, metal, and filter light.
That’s when the soft rhythm of approaching footsteps caught his attention—which he didn’t even need to look up to know who they belonged to.
“Come to show me how devastatingly photogenic I am?” Dazai smiled, eyes still on the ceiling.
Chuuya’s voice came quietly but edged. “You’re lucky the camera likes arrogance.”
“Mm, I think it just likes honesty.” Dazai tilted his head enough to glance over, eyes half lidded. “Or maybe it likes the way you look at me.”
That earned him an eye roll that didn’t quite hide the faint twitch of a smirk. “Let’s just make sure your publicist doesn’t have to call emergency meetings over another bad angle.”
“Ah, my savior.” Dazai leaned forward as Chuuya joined the chair next to him, the camera already in his hands. The familiar blue light of the display washed over them both, faint—but intimate in its own way.
It was routine—ritual, even. No post shoot ever ended without this quiet moment of review.
Dazai liked to see what someone else saw when they looked at him. Especially Chuuya.
They fell into silence.
Chuuya flipped through frames with quick, efficient motions. The first ones were sharp, perfectly composed—floodlights spilling amber light along Dazai’s jawline, that effortless half laugh that looked spontaneous but wasn’t. Every image was artistry, captured under the pretense of professionalism.
Dazai leaned over, close enough to be something like half draped over Chuuya’s shoulder. He could see the reflection of his own eyes in the camera’s screen, along with the warmth radiating from Chuuya’s body.
“Beautiful,” Dazai murmured. “You have a way of making me look even more impossible than I already am.”
“That’s the goal,” Chuuya said dryly, thumb still scrolling.
The screen flickered from one perfect image to the next—until a flash of something different cut the flow.
In the photo, Dazai’s pose was less exact. He was standing too close to one of the other models—a slim brunette from earlier in the shoot—his expression near genuine as they shared a laugh between takes.
A rare, easy moment for the man.
Chuuya’s thumb moved quickly before the picture could linger.
Deleted.
Dazai saw the motion but didn’t speak. The silence stretched, taut and heavy.
Another image appeared—another model’s laugh tilted too close into his personal space, an arm brushed too close to Dazai’s shoulder.
He looked human there, too human.
Another flick. Another deletion.
“You’re ruthless,” Dazai said quietly, a smile never reaching his eyes.
“Just cleaning out the useless ones,” came the soft reply, “you know how management is about unflattering angles.”
“Hm.” Dazai hummed. “And those weren’t flattering?”
No response followed, only the faintest twitch in Chuuya’s jaw as he scrolled again, lips drawn in that faint, familiar concentration. The glow of the screen painted his fingers pale as the images continued to be flipped through in rhythm.
The ones that passed inspection were framed in reverence—perfect lighting, focus honed solely on Dazai. The other, where someone else intruded on the background, vanished without warning.
Without second thought.
If anyone had been watching, it might have looked harmless—artist’s instinct. But Dazai could feel it for what it was, something more tender and almost unhinged concealed beneath efficiency.
He didn’t stop him though.
He liked watching him do it.
Liked knowing that someone else wanted to possess his image as much as he had learned to perform it.
Chuuya paused on another photo, thumb hovering just slightly longer than usual.
This frame was different from the rest—no studio lights, no backdrop. Just Dazai off to the side, back against the concrete wall with his phone in his hand, unaware of anyone's gaze. A shot from a distance.
He hadn’t posed for that one.
Chuuya’s thumb hesitated only briefly before he flicked past it, skipped but not deleted.
Dazai’s eyes lingered, his smile untouched but his eyes slightly dimmed, thoughtful for just a second longer before his voice broke the silence.
“You take candid ones too?” He asked softly.
“Sometimes,” Chuuya said it too easily. “For lighting studies.”
“Of course.” Dazai let the corner of his mouth tick up. “And do the lighting studies often happen outside of the shoots?”
Chuuya laughed lightly, noncommittally, and didn’t bother to look at him. “You’d be amazed how much practice photographers need.”
“You’d be amazed how much idols like being followed,” Dazai murmured.
The line hung between them like smoke.
He shifted closer still, practically leaning over Chuuya’s shoulder now, elbow digging into the back of Chuuya’s chair. Their reflections blurred together in the glossy surface of the camera.
The next scroll stopped on an image again—a close up, his expression half shadowed, head tilted slightly, eyes drawn somewhere past the lens. He didn’t remember what he’d been thinking at the moment when that photo had been taken, only how Chuuya had said “hold” in that firm, low tone just before pressing the shutter.
The sound had cut through everything, grounding him in this weird commanding way.
Chuuya glanced at him, eyes briefly catching his own reflection on screen, then flicking up—meeting Dazai’s gaze for the first time since he’d sat down.
Their faces were close enough that a slight tilt would bridge the space between them.
Dazai didn’t even bother to move away.
He just smiled—soft and lazy, the kind that camouflaged intention too well.
“I think you like seeing me almost as much as I like letting you,” he whispered, almost like he was purposely flirting.
The tiniest quiver went through Chuuya’s hand before he lowered the camera into his lap. “You should go change,” he mumbled, voice steadier than it should’ve been.
“Should I?”
“It’s late.”
Dazai tilted his head, watching the slight tremor in Chuuya’s hands as he set the camera down.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Only the background hum of the studio filled the silence—the soft drone of equipment winding down, zippers closing, voices rising and falling. Light rippled faintly across the floor, catching on the reflective surface that still surrounded them. As though the day itself was dissolving into the aftermath.
Dazai didn’t answer Chuuya’s quiet insistence at first.
The air between them still felt charged, thrumming faintly under the hum of dying lights and distant chatter as crew members packed away their equipment. Finally, he hummed—a soft sound that was between agreement and dismissal—and unfolded from his chair, stretching leisurely, like a cat that knew it was being watched.
“Mm, you’re right,” he said, rolling his sleeves fully to his elbows. “If I don’t get out of here soon, Kunikida will write me a formal complaint for exhausting the staff with my face.”
“That’d be the most believable report he’s ever filed,” Chuuya muttered, standing up beside him. Then he slipped off the camera strap from his neck, placing it into case and snapping it shut, every movement practical, restrained—too restrained.
Dazai watched him from under half lowered lashes. “You wound me. I thought you liked my face.”
“I like it framed properly and lit correctly. Outside of that, it’s just a nuisance to look at.”
“Ah.” Dazai clutched his chest theatrically. “Even your affection comes in file sizes.”
Chuuya huffed, something similar to a laugh. “You talk too much for someone who’s supposed to be tired.”
“You photograph too much for someone who’s supposed to be bored of me.”
That earned him silence—the kind that didn’t need words to explain what passed. Chuuya busied himself with his bag, shoulders tense, fingers fussing with camera lenses as though counting them could anchor him.
Dazai smiled. He didn’t need an answer to know he’d grazed a nerve.
The last lights flickered as a technician began shutting them off row by row, dimming the world around them until the studio was no longer a sculpted, bright stage but a skeleton of wires and quiet spaces.
“See you tomorrow,” Chuuya said after a pause, fitting his bag strap over one shoulder.
“Leaving already?”
“I have to sort files before morning. Unlike idols, I can’t rely on charisma to fix my workload.”
Dazai chuckled, soft and slow. “So diligent. Careful, people might start thinking you have a life outside of me.”
That made Chuuya glance at him—not sharply, but enough that the lights show the dark circles under his eyes more apparent, exhaustion too layered to not be called simple anymore. His lips parted, maybe to answer, maybe to deflect, but then he simply shook his head. “Don’t wait up, Osamu.”
Dazai tilted his head, the corner of his mouth moving into that same unreadable half smile that was scarily familiar. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
But he rose when Chuuya did, gathering his jacket with languid grace, falling into step beside him as Chuuya began to walk off. Their footsteps echoed against the white floor, their own reflections passing in the glass of the viewing booth—two figures walking too close, too familiar.
As they reached the exit, Dazai slowed down just a fraction. “Go on ahead,” he stated suddenly, tone light. “I need a minute. Forgot something crucial.”
Chuuya frowned faintly, halfway through adjusting his scarf. “You? Forgetting something?”
“It happens when you’re burdened with beauty.”
“Or brain damage,” Chuuya muttered, but the corner of his mouth still twitched upwards before turning away, pushing past the metal doors. The sound of his boots in the hallway faded in a steady rhythm—sharp against the distance.
Dazai waited until the echo grew thin before he followed, slipping out through the same pair of doors.
His pace was slow and deliberate, footsteps light enough to let silence be left behind. Through the glass wall of the studio corridor, he could see the faint blur of Chuuya ahead, orange hair catching in the low light like a flame moving away from him.
Always a few steps too far out of reach.
There was no reason to follow, which was the strangest part. No curiosity, no necessity—just that quiet pull, the same one that made him pose instinctively toward the lens because he knew Chuuya was watching.
Now, he was the one behind the frame.
He kept distance, watching the tilt of Chuuya’s shoulders, the precise swing of his hand as he scrolled through his phone while walking.
The world seemed to shrink around the two of them, even the corridor’s low hum sounded like a faint metronome of breaths and steps.
What was it about him?
It wasn’t the artistry, nor the skill. Dazai had long been surrounded by talent. But Chuuya’s gaze—when it met his—always held that peculiar intensity, quiet yet addictive. It made him feel seen in ways that unnerved him. As though, beneath every flash, Chuuya was the only one who saw the cracks that fame couldn’t polish out.
Dazai’s hand curled loosely at his side.
There were moments like this—blurred and quiet—where he caught himself wondering what it would be like if that gaze never turned elsewhere.
He laughed softly under his breath. “Pathetic,” he murmured, lips curling at his own thought. “How possessive of me.”
Ahead, Chuuya rounded a corner as he lifted the phone and pressed it against his ear, voice too low to catch as he picked up a call. For a second, Dazai thought about getting close enough to hear the private conversation, but he forced himself to a halt.
The moment folded in on itself as the air lost that subtle charge it had when Chuuya was still within sight.
He let out a long exhale through his nose, which faded into a faint chuckle—soft, almost self deprecating. “You’re losing it, Osamu.” He muttered to no one.
Still, his eyes remained restless, drawn to the path where Chuuya had just gone, as though he was watching for a remaining trace.
Finally, Dazai turned back the way he came, heading toward the opposite exit. The echo of his footsteps trailed after him, dissolving into the low buzz of the hallway lights that were starting to shut off for the day.
But even as he reached the exit and began to slip outside, the echo of footsteps—Chuuya’s footsteps—stayed pressed in memory, looping softly like a song he couldn’t stop replaying.
He didn’t think much about what that meant.
Not yet.