Archive of Our Own

It's three in the afternoon when Chuuya receives a suspicious email.

He had just finished his last class of the day, and his brain is already halfway relaxed, halfway sprawled across the sofa with the movie from his watchlist that he has been putting off for an entire week. His phone buzzes once on the desk beside him, a single notification cutting through the quiet of his room. He picks it up without thinking.

Buichirō Shirase. 

The name hits him like a bucket of cold water.

The devil himself.

For a moment, Chuuya simply stares at the screen, his thumb hovering uselessly above the notification. If there is one thing in this life he regrets, it is definitely dating that manchild. If there is one prayer he has said a thousand times, it is that he will never have to hear from Shirase again.

And yet, despite every instinct telling him to protect his peace of mind, he opens the email. He immediately wishes he hadn't.

His eyes scan the page once. Then twice.

A wedding invitation.

Gold lettering. An obnoxiously elegant font. His name sitting right there at the top of the guest list as if Shirase has every right in the world to put it there.

For several seconds, Chuuya simply stares.

Then he starts laughing.

It begins as a short, disbelieving bark of laughter before quickly spiraling into something much worse. He throws his head back, clutching his stomach as he nearly slides off the edge of the sofa, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

Of course. Of course it is a wedding.

Shirase must have gotten his new girlfriend pregnant. With a family as devoutly Christian as his, they are probably rushing the whole thing to avoid a scandal, to avoid the whispers that would inevitably spread through their church by Sunday.

“Karma,” Chuuya says aloud, his voice still shaking with laughter. “This is karma.”

The amusement dies the moment his eyes catch the second line.

We would be honored if you could attend..

Honored.

“Shit…”

This is a wedding invitation, and Chuuya is quite literally the groom's ex-boyfriend. The same ex-boyfriend who broke up with him in spectacularly bad fashion after catching him cheating. By all reasonable standards, Chuuya should be the last person Shirase would want anywhere near his wedding.

Yet here his name is, written in elegant gold lettering as though this is some perfectly normal invitation being sent to an old friend.

“You bastard…” he mutters. His grip tightens around his phone until the edge digs into his palm.

This isn't an invitation. It's a trap.

Shirase didn't send this out of nostalgia or some sudden desire for closure. He is doing this on purpose. Chuuya can practically hear the bastard's smug voice already. He wants to humiliate him, to paint him as the bitter ex who still hasn't moved on, or worse, the petty loser who deliberately showed up to his wedding just to make a scene.

Surely, no one in their right mind would invite the ex who broke their nose and beat the shit out of them after catching them cheating.

And Chuuya knows what the obvious solution is.

Don't go.

The smart thing would be to delete the invitation, pretend it never arrived, and let Shirase get married without him. Who cares? Shirase is getting married. Good for him. Congratulations. Chuuya couldn't care less.

Except he knows Shirase too well.

If he doesn't go, Shirase will tell everyone it's because Chuuya is still in love with him. That he couldn't bear to watch. That he's still hung up on their relationship after all this time. And if Chuuya does go, then he'll be labeled the wedding crasher, the bitter, petty ex who couldn't let go and had to show up just to ruin the groom's big day.

It doesn't help that they have the same group of friends. They practically live in the same village, too, which means there is absolutely no chance of this staying private. Everyone attending the wedding knows their history. Everyone will know exactly who Chuuya is, exactly how badly things ended, and exactly what happened between him and Shirase.

And, because people apparently have nothing better to do with their lives, Chuuya knows they'll spend the entire ceremony watching him out of the corner of their eyes, waiting to see whether he'll cause a scene.

So apparently, there is no right answer.

Frustration burns hot beneath his skin. He grabs the nearest pillow and hurls it across the room with a curse that would probably make his old literature professor faint. It smacks against the wall before dropping uselessly onto the floor.

“Fuck!”

Chuuya drags a hand through his hair and stares helplessly at the ceiling.

It's three in the afternoon.

Somehow, his entire week is already ruined.

The door creaks open behind him, soft and slow, like whoever is on the other side is debating whether they should even exist in Chuuya’s personal space.

He hears footsteps, followed by the faint sound of fabric being picked up from the floor.

“Bad day?”

Chuuya doesn't answer right away. He looks up, and there he is.

Dazai Osamu.

His new roommate. The philosophy major who treats attending class like a suggestion but somehow still collects university awards as though they're participation ribbons. 

He's tall in the way that makes Chuuya's eye twitch, all long limbs and messy brown hair, with bandages peeking out from beneath his sleeves. His side of the dorm is a disaster of open books, half-empty coffee mugs, and papers he never bothers putting away. He's lazy, he's quiet, and he's, by every metric, an enigma to practically everyone on campus.

And yet, the moment the dorm door closes behind them, he becomes the single most irritating person Chuuya has ever met.

It's only been a month since Dazai transferred in. One month. Somehow, that has been enough time for Dazai to decide they're best friends. Close friends. Friends who share snacks without asking, comment on each other's schedules, and casually ask, "What are you doing?" when Chuuya is very clearly doing absolutely nothing.

On the first day, Dazai took one look at Chuuya's red hair and opened his mouth to say something stupid. Thankfully, Chuuya punched him in the arm before he could finish.

It didn't help.

Now Dazai simply does it from a safe distance. 

He teases, he pries, and he has developed an uncanny ability to appear in the doorway at precisely the moment Chuuya is trying to enjoy five minutes of peace. He knows what time Chuuya's classes end. He knows what Chuuya usually eats for lunch. He knows far too much about him for someone they've only known for a month, and he acts as though he's somehow entitled to all of it.

Chuuya should hate it. He should tell him to back off.

But he doesn't.

Because despite the mess, the nosiness, and the way Dazai sometimes grins as though he knows something Chuuya doesn't, the dorm hasn't felt this lively in a long time. It certainly hasn't felt this much like home.

“Something like that,” Chuuya mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He still doesn't look at Dazai. He can already feel the grin coming.

The floor creaks as Dazai steps closer. A moment later, the pillow lands back on the sofa beside him.

“Well,” Dazai says lightly, “you're not bleeding, you're not on fire, and nothing appears to be actively exploding. So I'm guessing it's Shirase.”

Chuuya freezes.

The pillow is still beside him. The room is still. And Dazai is standing there as casually as if he didn't just read Chuuya's entire life in three seconds.

“How the hell did you know it was him?”

Dazai doesn't answer. Instead, Chuuya notices what's in his hand. His phone.

His phone, with the wedding invitation still open on the screen.

“Hey!” Chuuya shoots to his feet. “Give that back, you thief!”

Dazai laughs and lifts the phone high above his head, safely out of reach. Of course he does. The bastard is at least half a foot taller than Chuuya, and apparently every inch of that height exists solely to make his life more difficult.

“Wow,” Dazai says, glancing at the screen. “Possessive. I didn't realize our relationship had progressed this far.”

“That's my phone!”

“Is this a private conversation?” Dazai asks innocently. “Should I look away?”

“You're already looking!”

Dazai's smile widens. “Is it really that bad? Did your ex send you something scandalous?”

“Don't be disgusting!"

“I'm only asking.”

“Give me my phone before I break your nose.”

“Oh, so we're escalating to violence already? That's a little intense for a roommate relationship.”

Chuuya jumps, reaches for the phone, and misses by several miserable inches.

Dazai snickers.

“Dazai, I swear to God-”

“All right, all right~"

With an exaggerated sigh, Dazai finally lowers his arm and drops the phone into Chuuya's waiting hand. Not before scrolling once more, though.

Chuuya immediately checks the screen, expecting some stupid message or comment.

Nothing.

When he looks up, Dazai's expression is perfectly neutral, but something in his eyes has changed. Just for a second, they sharpen as he reads the invitation again. Then it's gone.

“So,” Dazai says, dropping onto the sofa. “Are you going?”

Chuuya shoves the phone into his pocket and crosses his arms. “Obviously not. It's Shirase's wedding. Why the hell would I voluntarily go watch my ex marry someone else?”

“Because you're thinking about going.”

“I'm thinking about how much I want to throw the invitation into the trash.”

“That's not quite the same thing.”

Chuuya scowls. Damn him. He drops back onto the sofa and kicks the edge of the coffee table with the toe of his shoe.

“If I don't go, he'll tell everyone I'm still hung up on him,” he mutters. “He'll say I couldn't stand watching him get married. And if I do go, I'll look like some bitter ex who showed up just to cause trouble.”

Dazai listens without interrupting, which is almost more unsettling than when he talks.

“And considering everyone we know is going to be there,” Chuuya continues, “I'll have an entire audience waiting to see whether I embarrass myself. We have the same friends, we practically live in the same village, and everyone knows how badly things ended between us. There's no way people aren't going to spend the entire ceremony watching me.”

He exhales sharply and leans his head against the back of the sofa.

“There is literally no winning here.”

Dazai hums.

He tilts his head, studying Chuuya with the same expression he probably uses when trying to solve some ridiculous philosophy problem. He doesn't say anything for several seconds.

“Oh.” Dazai's eyes suddenly brighten.

“What?” Chuuya slowly turns his head, only to immediately regret asking.

Dazai claps his hands together once, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet room. “I have it! The solution.”

Chuuya narrows his eyes. “That's not exactly reassuring.”

Dazai leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A grin slowly spreads across his face. It's the dangerous one. The one that means Chuuya is about to regret everything.

“You need a date.”

Chuuya blinks.

“A what?”

“A date.” Dazai gestures as though the answer should be painfully obvious. “Someone to accompany you to the wedding. Someone charming, handsome, and sufficiently intimidating to make Shirase question every decision that led him to that altar.”

Chuuya stares at him.

“I don't have a boyfriend, Dazai.”

“I know.” 

The answer comes too quickly. Too easily. Dazai pauses, as though only then realizing how that sounded. He clears his throat and gives Chuuya the most innocent smile imaginable.

“So I'll be your boyfriend.”

The room goes dead silent. Chuuya's brain stops functioning.

“…Come again?”

“For one night,” Dazai adds, raising one finger. “Fake dating. Totally harmless. Completely platonic.”

Chuuya continues staring.

Dazai smiles wider.

“I'll hold your hand. I'll introduce myself as your boyfriend. I'll make Shirase wonder why he ever thought inviting you was a good idea. It'll be fun. We'll turn the tables on him."

Chuuya opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Because, against every shred of common sense he possesses, his brain immediately supplies an image of Dazai dressed in a suit, standing beside him at the wedding with one hand resting casually against his back while he introduces himself as Chuuya's boyfriend.

The image is so embarrassingly easy to imagine that Chuuya has to look away.

And that is the real problem.

“No.” The word comes out flat and immediate. Chuuya folds his arms and glares at Dazai as though the man has finally lost whatever remained of his mind. “Absolutely not. That's the stupidest idea you've had all month.”

Dazai looks delighted rather than offended.

“Is it? Because I think it's brilliant.”

“It's ridiculous.”

Dazai places a hand over his chest. “You're hurting my feelings.”

“You don't have feelings.”

“Exactly. So imagine how impressive this must be.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes.

Dazai shifts closer, lowering his voice as though he's presenting a carefully researched argument rather than trying to convince his roommate to fake a relationship.

“Think about it logically. If you don't go, Shirase gets to tell everyone whatever story he wants. If you go alone, everyone spends the night watching you to see whether you'll fall apart.”

“I wouldn't fall apart.”

“I know.” Dazai smiles. “But they don't.”

Chuuya goes quiet. Dazai continues before he can interrupt.

“Now imagine you walk into that wedding with someone on your arm. Someone who looks completely devoted to you. Someone who has absolutely no reason to care about Shirase's little performance.”

He leans back, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Suddenly, the story isn't about the bitter ex who couldn't move on. It's about the guy who showed up with a boyfriend and didn't give the groom a second thought.”

Chuuya's jaw tightens. Damn him.

Damn him for making sense.

“That still doesn't explain why it has to be you.”

Dazai points at himself. “Excuse me? Have you seen me?”

“Unfortunately, every day.”

“I'm tall.”

“Annoying.” Chuuya rolls his eyes.

“Handsome.”

“That's debatable.”

Dazai grins. “And I can act nicely.”

Chuuya sighs and drags a hand down his face. 

The worst part is that Dazai has a point. He doesn't have another date. He certainly doesn't have a boyfriend right now. And finding someone willing to pretend to be his boyfriend at his ex's wedding, of all places, is not exactly an easy task.

“One night,” Dazai says, softer this time.

Chuuya looks at him.

“One night,” Dazai repeats. “No feelings. No strings attached. We go, we make Shirase regret ever sending that invitation, and we come home. Simple.” He smiles. “And if you hate it, you can pretend you never met me.”

“You're my roommate.”

“Then you'll have to move out.”

Despite himself, Chuuya snorts. "Why does it have to be me to move out you idiot!"

He hates that he's considering it. He hates even more that he can't think of a better solution. So eventually, he agrees.

“…Fine.”

Dazai's eyes light up.

“But!” Chuuya adds sharply, pointing a finger at him, “I have rules.”

Dazai straightens immediately, looking far too enthusiastic. “I love rules!”

“I'm sure you do.” Chuuya raises one finger. “Rule number one: no kissing.”

“Obviously.”

“Rule number two: no calling me embarrassing pet names in front of people.”

Dazai hums thoughtfully. “We'll see.”

“There is no we'll see.”

“All right, all right.”

Chuuya raises a third finger. “And rule number three: you do not flirt with anyone else. You're pretending to be mine for the night, so act like it.”

Dazai's eyebrows lift. For a fleeting second, his expression turns strangely pleased. “Of course, my darli-”

“Don't.”

Dazai stops. Chuuya points at him threateningly.

“Don't even finish that sentence.”

Dazai slowly raises both hands in surrender, but the grin spreading across his face is far too shameless.

“Deal.” He extends his hand. “Fake boyfriend Dazai, at your service.”

Chuuya stares at the offered hand. Then at Dazai. Then at the ridiculous bandages peeking out from beneath his sleeves, the messy hair, and that unbearably smug expression.

He takes the hand.

Only so he can pull Dazai toward him and punch him squarely in the arm.

“Ow!” Dazai recoils, clutching his arm dramatically. “Violence wasn't in the contract!”

“Consider it a down payment.” Chuuya turns away before Dazai can see the heat creeping into his ears. He tells himself it's because he's annoyed.

It definitely has nothing to do with the way Dazai is looking at him like this is the best idea he's ever had.

Chuuya is still rubbing his knuckles from punching Dazai when he suddenly pauses.

Something's off. 

“Wait.” He narrows his eyes.

Dazai, who is still in the middle of dramatically nursing his injured arm, stops mid-performance. “What?”

“Why are you offering to do this?” The question comes out flat, suspicious enough that Dazai's expression briefly falters. Chuuya folds his arms. “What's in it for you?”

“What do you mean?” Dazai blinks.

“I mean, there has to be a catch.” Chuuya studies him carefully. “You don't do anything for free, Dazai. So what exactly are you getting out of pretending to be my boyfriend for a night?”

For a moment, Dazai simply stares at him.

Then he hums thoughtfully, tapping a finger against his chin as though Chuuya has presented him with a genuinely difficult philosophical question.

Finally, his face brightens.

“The food.”

Chuuya stares. “…The food?”

“Mhm.” Dazai nods with complete sincerity. “Weddings have catering. Expensive catering. And I've heard Shirase's family is quite wealthy.” His eyes practically sparkle. “Think about it, Chuuya. An entire evening of free food. Appetizers, dinner, desserts…”

He pauses dramatically. “…Cake.”

Chuuya's eye twitches. “That’s it?”

Dazai nods.

“You're agreeing to fake-date me for an entire wedding because you want free food?”

“Not just free food.” Dazai raises a finger. “There's usually an open bar too.”

“You don't even drink.”

“I can admire the beverages.”

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“Neither does philosophy, and yet here I am.”

Chuuya stares at him for a long moment. It is so stupid. So unbelievably, painfully stupid that it almost has to be a lie.

He knows Dazai is hiding something. There is no way the bastard is volunteering to spend an entire evening pretending to be his boyfriend without expecting something in return. Dazai is nosy, shameless, and far too clever for his own good. He always has an ulterior motive.

But whatever that motive is, apparently, Chuuya isn't getting it out of him.

And honestly? He's too tired to care. If Dazai's price for helping him survive Shirase's wedding is a plate of expensive food and a slice of cake, then fine. Chuuya can live with that.

He sighs and waves a hand dismissively.

“Whatever. As long as you don't embarrass me.”

Dazai gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “Chuuya. I'm offended.”

“You'll survive.”

“I would never embarrass you. I am the picture of elegance and sophistication.”

“You look like you sleep under a bridge.”

Dazai looks genuinely wounded.

“I prefer the term mysteriously impoverished .”

“Whatever you say.” Chuuya gets to his feet and reaches for his keys from the table. “Come on. If we're actually doing this, we need to get you a suit.”

Dazai's head snaps up. “A suit?”

“Yes. You can't show up to a wedding looking like a philosophy major who lost a fight with his laundry.”

Dazai looks down at himself. His wrinkled shirt. His loose trousers. The sleeves that are slightly too long. The general appearance of a man who has not seen an iron in several years.

“I think I look charming.”

“You look unemployed.”

“I am a student.”

“Exactly.”

Dazai laughs as he gets up from the sofa and follows Chuuya toward the door.

“So we're going shopping together?”

“Yes.”

“Like a date?”

“It's not a date. We're just going to pick out clothes for our fake relationship.” Chuuya doesn't even turn around. "It's not a date.”

“Sounds like a date to me.”

Chuuya finally turns around and gives him a flat look. “Keep talking and I'll leave you here.”

Dazai grins. “You wouldn't abandon your boyfriend.”

“Fake boyfriend.”

“For now.”

“What?”

“Nothing~”

Chuuya rolls his eyes and opens the door. Behind him, Dazai follows with an almost suspicious amount of enthusiasm, humming under his breath as though they've just made plans for the most exciting evening of his life.

Chuuya shakes his head.

Free food.

Right.

That had better be the only thing this idiot wants.

—

The mall smells like cologne and poor financial decisions.

Chuuya is already done. He's been done for the past ten minutes, possibly longer, but Dazai, apparently, has decided that shopping for one suit is a life-or-death mission.

“This one.” Dazai holds up a navy suit and examines it critically. He doesn't even bother looking at the price tag. “It'll make your blue eyes look stupid.”

“Your eyes look way more stupid,” Chuuya mutters yet despite the insult, Dazai looks pleased with himself.

Chuuya takes the suit anyway because, damn it. The bastard is right. The suit does look good in him.

What makes it worse is that Dazai actually seems to know what he's doing. He runs his fingers over the fabric, checks the stitching along the seams, examines the buttons, and even asks the sales associate for a slimmer cut with the kind of confidence that suggests he's done this before.

Chuuya watches him for a few seconds before narrowing his eyes.

“Since when do you know anything about suits?”

“I read.” Dazai says it vaguely, as though that explains everything. Then he sneezes into his sleeve.

Chuuya stares at him. Right. Reading. He's not entirely convinced.

There's something strange about Dazai today. Not Dazai is weird strange because that has been established since the day they met. This is different. He carries himself differently in the store, like he knows exactly what he's looking for and doesn't need anyone to explain the difference between one fabric and another.

He doesn't hesitate over the prices, either.

Actually, now that Chuuya thinks about it, Dazai hasn't looked at a single price tag since they walked in.

That should probably bother him.

Except Dazai looks like he got dressed in the dark. His hair is a mess, his shirt is half untucked, his sleeves are rolled unevenly, and one sock is very obviously sitting higher than the other. He looks exactly like a philosophy major who was dragged out of bed five minutes ago and told to become presentable.

A hot, unhinged beggar, maybe. No offense.

Which is precisely why Chuuya dismisses the strange feeling in his gut. Rich people don't look like this.

Rich people don't eat cup ramen for dinner three nights in a row. Rich people don't steal their roommate's hoodies because they can't be bothered to do laundry. Rich people certainly don't spend twenty minutes arguing with the dorm vending machine because it ate their coins.

Dazai is broke.

Chuuya has seen the evidence.

Besides, whatever money Dazai has is probably the result of some scholarship or student allowance he's somehow managed to stretch farther than humanly possible.

There's no way this man is secretly rich.

“Try this.” The sales associate interrupts his thoughts and hands Dazai a charcoal three-piece suit. 

The brunette looks at it. Then at the associate. “Three-piece?”

“It would suit you.”

Chuuya snorts. “Go on, Mr. Fancy Pants. Let's see it.”

Dazai gives him an offended look before disappearing into the fitting room.

Five minutes later, he walks back out.

Chuuya stops breathing. For a second, he genuinely forgets what he was about to say.

The suit fits Dazai perfectly. The charcoal fabric sits cleanly against his shoulders, the vest cinched neatly across his torso, the trousers falling exactly where they should. Someone has even managed to tame his hair enough to make him look vaguely respectable.

Vaguely.

The bandages around his neck and wrists are still there, unfortunately.

“…The hell?”

“What?” Dazai glances down at himself.

“You.” Chuuya gestures helplessly “You look…” He searches for the right word. “…expensive.”

Dazai's lips twitch. “That's a strange compliment.”

“You look like a CEO who commits tax fraud.”

Dazai's entire face lights up. “Perfect!"

“No, that's not what I-”

“I'm buying it!”

“You don't even know how much it costs!”

Dazai turns toward the mirror. “I have faith.”

“That's not how money works.”

“It's how my money works.”

Chuuya pauses. “What?”

Dazai looks at him through the mirror. A beat passes. Then he smiles. “I said I have faith.”

Chuuya squints. Something about that answer bothers him. Before he can ask, Dazai is already walking toward the cashier. He pulls out his wallet and hands over a card.

It's completely ordinary. Dark, unremarkable, nothing that catches Chuuya's attention. Dazai barely glances at the terminal before tapping it against the reader.

The cashier looks at the screen. Then at Dazai. Then back at the screen. “Everything's all set, sir.”

“Thank you.” Dazai nods.

Chuuya doesn't even see the price. Mostly because Dazai has somehow positioned himself directly between him and the register, blocking the screen with his body while the cashier folds the suit into a garment bag.

“Wait,” Chuuya says, looking at the bag. “How much was that?”

“Not much.” He gives him a lazy smile and starts walking. “Come on.”

Chuuya follows him out of the store, still suspicious.

The moment they're outside, Dazai loosens his tie, rolls his sleeves back up, and runs a hand through his hair until he's returned to looking like the same disheveled idiot Chuuya has known for the past month.

Just like that. The CEO look disappears and the beggar returns.

Chuuya looks at him. Then at the garment bag.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That was weird.”

Dazai looks innocent. “What was?”

“You. You looked like you do this every weekend.”

“I watch YouTube.” Dazai shrugs.

Chuuya stares at him.

“Sure.” He decides to let it go. There is no way Dazai is rich. If he were rich, Chuuya would know. Right?

Before he can think about it any further, Dazai bumps his shoulder against his and starts walking toward the next store. “Come on, grumpy.”

“Where now?”

“We're getting you fitted.”

“I already have clothes.”

“They're not suitable. Your suit makes you look like you're attending a funeral.”

Chuuya groans. Dazai grins.

“Can't have my date looking worse than me.” Dazai's smile doesn't disappear, but there's a tiny pause before he corrects himself. “Fake date.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes and follows him into the next store. He tells himself it's because he has no other option. Not because Dazai in that suit did something strange to his brain.

Definitely not.

And certainly not because, for one brief and extremely irritating second, Chuuya had forgotten that they were only pretending.

—

It's already night by the time they make it back to the dorm.

Chuuya drops the takeout bags onto the table with a tired sigh and kicks off his shoes near the door, too exhausted to care that one lands crookedly against the wall. 

“I got the spicy one and the regular. Don't touch the spicy, it's mine.”

“Possessive,” Dazai hums, already reaching for the regular container. “I thought we were sharing now that we're dating.”

“We're not dating.”

“Not officially~”

Chuuya gives him a look. Dazai only smiles and digs into his food, making an unnecessarily pleased noise after the first bite. Shameless as ever.

They settle into an easy silence after that, the kind that has become strangely natural between them despite knowing each other for barely a month. 

Chuuya eats while scrolling absentmindedly through his phone, occasionally stealing a glance at the suit bag hanging from the back of one of the chairs. Dazai, meanwhile, seems entirely content to eat without a care in the world, occasionally making some ridiculous noise whenever he finds something particularly good.

Halfway through his meal, Dazai suddenly looks up.

“So, when's the wedding?”

Chuuya wipes his fingers with a napkin before answering. “Next Saturday.”

Dazai nods as though filing away an appointment. “Good. I don't have classes that day.”

Chuuya snorts. “You don't have classes any day. You just don't go.”

Dazai presses a hand dramatically against his chest. “That's a horrible accusation to make against an innocent student.”

“I've lived with you for a month. I've seen you attend exactly three classes.”

“That's a respectable number. I go when attendance becomes spiritually necessary.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don't know. I haven't attended enough philosophy lectures to figure it out.”

Chuuya shakes his head, deciding there is no point arguing with him.

Once they've finished eating, he gathers the empty containers and tosses them into the trash before heading toward his desk. He had planned to spend the evening watching a movie he'd been saving all week, but the wedding invitation and everything that came after it has completely killed his interest. Besides, he has a project to work on, and there is no reason to waste the free time he has tonight.

“I’m going to work on my project,” he says, pulling his chair out.

Chuuya is an art major, which means his desk looks exactly like one would expect. Sketchbooks are stacked haphazardly beside his laptop, tubes of paint are scattered between pencils and brushes, and several sheets of paper are covered in half-finished studies. A canvas sits on an easel nearby, its lower corner still untouched despite the deadline being only a few weeks away.

He settles into his chair and starts sorting through his materials, expecting Dazai to disappear into his own room as he usually does.

Instead, he hears the scrape of a book being pulled from the shelf.

Chuuya glances over his shoulder.

Dazai is standing beside the bookcase, flipping through something with the same casual interest he gives everything else.

“You're not going to your room?”

Dazai doesn't even look up. “Why would I?”

“Because that's where your stuff is.”

“My stuff isn't going anywhere.”

“That wasn't my question.”

Dazai finally looks at him, smiles, and carries the book over. Before Chuuya can ask what the hell he's doing, he drops onto the floor beside his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him as though that has always been his designated spot.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you company.” Dazai opens the book and settles against the side of Chuuya's desk. “It's lonely over there.”

Chuuya stares at him.

Then he looks at his own tiny room, at Dazai sitting comfortably in the middle of the limited space between his desk and the bookshelf, and wonders how exactly this man has managed to turn invading his personal space into a routine.

It isn't even the first time.

There have been evenings when Dazai reads while Chuuya paints, afternoons when he sprawls across the floor while Chuuya works on essays, and countless moments when Dazai simply exists within arm's reach without needing to say anything at all. At some point, it stopped being strange.

Now, when Dazai isn't there, the room feels noticeably quieter.

Chuuya decides not to think about that.

He picks up his brush instead. The next hour passes without much conversation. He falls into the kind of concentration that makes the rest of the world disappear, his attention narrowing until all that matters is the canvas in front of him and the way each stroke changes the shape of the image. 

The dorm settles into its nighttime rhythm around them, with the faint hum of the air conditioner, the occasional sound of traffic beyond the window, the soft scratch of Chuuya's brush against the canvas.

Beside him, Dazai turns a page.

For once, neither of them feels the need to fill the silence.

Chuuya is halfway through blending two shades together when Dazai speaks.

“You're going to look really pretty in that suit.”

His brush slips. A streak of blue cuts across the canvas.

Chuuya freezes. He stares at the mistake for several seconds before slowly turning his head toward Dazai.

The bastard is still reading. As if he hasn't just sabotaged Chuuya's concentration with one stupid sentence.

“Shut up,” Chuuya mutters, turning back toward the canvas. He can feel the heat creeping into his ears. “And focus on your book.”

“I am.” Dazai turns another page, sounding entirely innocent. “I'm currently studying how people become successful in double suicide.”

Chuuya grabs the nearest crumpled napkin and throws it at his head. Dazai catches it without even looking up. His mouth curls into a smug grin as he finally glances at Chuuya, and Chuuya turns back to his canvas before he can see whatever expression is hiding behind it.

“Idiot,” he mutters.

Dazai simply laughs and goes back to reading.

Chuuya tries to return to his painting, but the stupid comment remains lodged somewhere in the back of his mind.

Pretty.

He presses his brush harder against the canvas.

It means nothing. Dazai says stupid things all the time. It's probably just another one of them.

—

The shrine courtyard smells of incense and freshly cut grass.

White shoji screens frame the edges of the garden, while red ropes mark the entrance to the ceremony hall. Beyond the torii gate, the reception has already been arranged beneath a canopy of white fabric, with long tables dressed in crisp linens and decorated with understated flower arrangements. 

Somewhere near the far end of the garden, a string quartet plays softly, the classical notes drifting through the air instead of the traditional shakuhachi music Chuuya had expected. Apparently, Shirase's family had decided to add a modern touch to the ceremony.

The guests are dressed accordingly. Black tuxedos and dark suits mingle with elegant dresses, heels clicking softly against the stone path as people move between the garden and the reception area.

Only the two families have committed fully to tradition.

Shirase stands near the shrine doors in a pristine white wedding kimono, his parents beside him in formal montsuki and tomesode as they greet each arriving guest with practiced smiles and polite bows.

Chuuya doesn't look at him for long.

He'd rather not start the day by remembering why he almost broke a man's nose twice.

Instead, he tugs at the front of his navy suit jacket.

Borrowed. Tailored last week by a man Dazai had apparently “just known.”

Chuuya still doesn't know what that means.

The suit fits perfectly, though, which is annoying in its own right. The shoulders sit exactly where they should, the sleeves end neatly at his wrists, and the trousers fall without a single crease out of place. Chuuya had expected something decent at best.

Dazai had apparently expected perfection.

Speaking of Dazai...

Chuuya glances sideways. His roommate is walking beside him in the black three-piece suit, and for once, the sight of him makes Chuuya forget to be annoyed.

Not because he looks handsome. Obviously. That's just the suit... probably.

Dazai's hair is still slightly messy, because apparently even a wedding isn't enough to convince him to comb it properly, but everything else about him seems different. His back is straight. His shoulders are relaxed. His hands aren't shoved into his pockets, and his steps are measured as he walks through the courtyard as though he has done this a hundred times.

He doesn't look like the guy who falls asleep on Chuuya's couch with a book covering his face.

He doesn't even look like the same guy who had eaten the ramen out of Chuuya's cabinet two nights ago because he claimed he was “too poor to go shopping.”

For a brief moment, Dazai looks like he belongs here. Not merely like a guest, but like someone who knows exactly where he's supposed to stand.

Chuuya quickly looks away. Probably the suit.

“Stop fidgeting,” Dazai murmurs.

“I'm not fidgeting.”

“You've adjusted your jacket six times.”

Chuuya shoots him a look. Dazai smiles innocently.

“Your jaw is doing the thing, too.”

Chuuya immediately shuts his mouth.

He hates that Dazai knows that.

There are too many familiar faces around them. People from the art club. A few upperclassmen. One of his professors. Mutual friends and family friends who had seen him and Shirase together last year and therefore know exactly how ugly their breakup had been.

Chuuya can already feel the whispers before anyone actually says anything.

He should have stayed home. No. He shouldn't have been invited in the first place.

He should have-

“Hey.” Dazai's voice pulls him back. Chuuya looks over. “Breathe.”

The man says it so casually that Chuuya almost laughed.

They pass beneath the torii gate.

There is no announcement. No dramatic entrance. They're just another pair of guests arriving slightly late to the wedding.

And yet people notice.

Conversations falter around them. A few heads turn. Someone near the reception tables whispers something behind a hand. Chuuya catches his own name once and immediately wishes he hadn't.

His shoulders stiffen. “They're staring.”

“At us,” Dazai corrects.

“That's not better.”

“No, but it's more accurate.”

Before Chuuya can snap back, Dazai's hand finds his. 

There is no hesitation. His fingers slip naturally between Chuuya's, warm and steady, as though they've done this a hundred times before.

He looks down. Then back at Dazai.

“Act normal,” Dazai murmurs.

“This isn't normal.”

Dazai's mouth curves. 

“It should be, for us.” Then he smiles. Not the obnoxious grin Chuuya knows from the dorm. Not the smug expression he wears whenever he successfully gets on Chuuya's nerves.

It's softer than that. Easy and warm. The kind of smile Chuuya has seen couples exchange when they think nobody else is paying attention.

Dazai's thumb brushes once over his knuckles and Chuuya's brain promptly short-circuits.

Wow.

He's really good at this fake boyfriend thing.

That has to be it. Dazai is simply a better actor than Chuuya expected.

An older woman in a deep purple dress approaches them with a wine glass balanced delicately between her fingers. Her gaze moves between the two of them, lingering briefly on their joined hands before she smiles.

“You must be…?”

“Friends of the groom,” Dazai answers smoothly. He doesn't even hesitate. Then, with the same effortless confidence, he squeezes Chuuya's hand to catch the woman's attention. “I'm his boyfriend.”

The woman's eyebrows lift. For half a second, Chuuya expects questions. Instead, her expression softens.

“How lovely.” She gives them a small, approving smile before gesturing toward the garden. “Please, enjoy the ceremony. There should still be seats available near the front.”

“Thank you,” Dazai says politely.

The woman moves away.

Chuuya waits until she's out of earshot before turning toward him. “You're too convincing.”

“Am I?” Dazai looks genuinely puzzled. “Would you have preferred I stutter?”

“No, but-” Chuuya stops. He doesn't know what he was expecting. Dazai has always been shameless. Maybe that's all there is to it. He sighs and lets Dazai lead him toward the ceremony hall.

The inside of the shrine hall is cool and quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every small sound feel too loud. The tatami under them smells faintly of straw and incense, and rows of guests sit in perfect lines on low wooden chairs. At the front, Shirase and the bride kneel on a raised platform in full white, their movements slow and deliberate as the Shinto priest guides them through the sansankudo.  

Chuuya had thought a wedding would be over fast. He was wrong.  

His legs started going numb ten minutes in. Now, twenty minutes later, they’ve progressed to full pins-and-needles and he’s pretty sure he’s going to faceplant if he tries to stand. He shifts, just a little, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like torture. The navy fabric of his borrowed suit pulls at his shoulders.  

Beside him, Dazai hasn’t moved once.  

He’s sitting seiza like he was born in it. Back straight, hands resting neatly in his lap, head bowed slightly during the prayers. The black montsuki makes him look older somehow. Sharper. The bandages are hidden, his hair is combed back instead of falling in his eyes, and for a second Chuuya almost doesn’t recognize him.  

This isn’t the Dazai who steals his pens and naps through 8am lectures.  

“Stop moving,” Dazai murmurs, without even looking at him.  

“I’m not-”  

“You are. You’re going to topple over.”  

Chuuya bites his tongue and forces himself still. The priest’s voice continues, low and rhythmic. Offerings of sakaki branches. The exchange of cups.  

And then, under the cover of the chair between them, Dazai’s hand finds Chuuya’s thigh.  

It’s not grabbing. It’s not obvious. Just a warm, steady pressure through the fabric of Chuuya’s pants, like he’s anchoring him to the floor.  

Chuuya stiffens. “Dazai.”  

“Shh,” Dazai says, eyes still forward. “Be respectful.”  

“You’re touching me.”  

“I’m keeping you upright,” Dazai corrects, and his thumb brushes once, barely, against Chuuya’s knee. 

“Your legs are shaking. People will notice.”  

Chuuya wants to argue. He wants to knock Dazai’s hand away. But the priest is speaking and Shirase is looking out at the guests between rituals, and the last thing Chuuya needs is to cause a scene.  

So he doesn’t move.  

Instead he stares straight ahead and pretends his heart isn’t beating too fast. Every time Shirase’s eyes sweep over the crowd, Dazai leans in a fraction closer. Not enough for anyone else to see. Just enough that their shoulders brush, that Chuuya can feel the heat of him.  

“Smile,” Dazai whispers, so quiet only Chuuya can hear.  

Chuuya forces his lips up. His face aches with it.  

By the time the priest announces the end of the ceremony, Chuuya’s legs are completely dead. When he tries to stand, the world tilts.  

Dazai is there immediately, hand under his elbow, pulling him up with a steadiness that’s almost annoying.  

“You okay?” Dazai asks, and for once he doesn’t sound like he’s teasing.  

“Fine,” Chuuya mutters.  

“Good. You looked beautiful suffering.”  

Chuuya kicks his ankle. Dazai just grins.  

—

The garden is brighter than the ceremony hall, moonlight filtering through the maple leaves and catching on the white cloths covering the reception tables. Warm lanterns hang between the trees, casting soft pools of light over the stone paths as guests mingle with glasses in hand, talking over the quiet music drifting through the garden.

Chuuya is just beginning to relax when a staff member with a clipboard steps onto the small platform near the pond and claps her hands to get everyone's attention.

“Alright, everyone! We're taking the group photo by the pond. Couples and families toward the front, please!”

Chuuya immediately takes a step backward. He is not a couple. He is not family. He is barely even supposed to be here.

He has fulfilled his duty by surviving the ceremony without punching Shirase, and frankly, he thinks that deserves some kind of medal.

Unfortunately, Dazai has other plans.

Before Chuuya can disappear behind one of the tables, Dazai catches him by the wrist and starts pulling him toward the crowd with the kind of confidence that makes people instinctively move out of their way.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“Front row.”

Chuuya digs his heels into the stone path. “We don't have to be in the front.”

“We absolutely do.”

Chuuya opens his mouth to argue, but Dazai has already pulled him through the crowd.

There is no opportunity to escape after that.

Within seconds, Dazai has positioned them directly in the center of the first row, surrounded by couples and families. Not toward the edge. Not somewhere discreet where they could disappear into the background.

Dead center.

Right where the camera will have an unobstructed view of them.

Chuuya gives him an incredulous look. “You're enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

Before Chuuya can elbow him, Dazai's arm slides around his waist.

Chuuya goes rigid. The contact is warm and firm, Dazai's hand settling naturally against his side as though there is nothing remotely unusual about holding him like this. His other hand comes up to rest lightly against Chuuya's shoulder, fingers brushing over the fabric of his jacket.

his mind goes completely blank. “Dazai.”

“Smile.”

“You're holding me.”

“That is generally what couples do in photographs.”

“I know, but-”

Dazai turns his head toward him. His cheek is close enough that Chuuya can feel the warmth of his skin. “Smile, Chuuya.”

The camera is already being raised. Chuuya forces his mouth into something that he hopes resembles a smile.

He can smell Dazai's cologne now, something clean and faintly woodsy that he doesn't remember noticing before. It is annoyingly pleasant, which only makes the whole situation worse. He can feel the weight of Dazai's arm around his waist, the steady pressure of his hand against his side, and the attention of what feels like half the garden suddenly directed toward them.

The photographer smiles.

“Everyone ready?”

Chuuya barely has time to breathe.

“Three…”

He instinctively glances toward the crowd.

And sees Shirase.

He's standing several rows behind them with the bride and her family, a glass held loosely in one hand. He's staring. Directly at them.

The smile on his face is still there, but something about it has changed. It has become stiff around the edges, his expression pulled tight as though he's trying very hard not to let whatever he's thinking show.

The bride says something to him but Shirase doesn't answer.

“Two…”

Chuuya's stomach twists. Then Dazai notices. His gaze follows his, landing briefly on Shirase. For half a second, something unreadable crosses his face. Then it disappears.

Dazai simply draws Chuuya a little closer.

“One!”

The camera flashes.

Before Chuuya can process what just happened, Dazai leans closer, his lips brushing near the shell of Chuuya's ear as he murmurs under his breath.

“You're doing amazing, baby.”

Chuuya's entire face catches fire. Dazai's voice drops even lower.

“He saw.”

Oh.

Oh, that bastard.

Chuuya has absolutely no idea how he is supposed to recover from this. He is going to be in Shirase's wedding photos forever.

There will be photographic evidence of him standing in the middle of the groom's wedding party with Dazai's arm around his waist and his face practically pressed against Chuuya's.

Worse, they look convincing.

Not fake convincing. Actually convincing.

The photographer lowers the camera with a satisfied smile.

“Perfect! Thank you, everyone!”

The group begins to break apart, guests immediately returning to their conversations and drinks.

Chuuya expects Dazai to let go but he doesn't. Not immediately. Bandaged arms remains around his waist for another few seconds, his hand giving the slightest squeeze before finally dropping away as casually as though nothing happened.

Chuuya exhales. He looks at Dazai and sees that the bastard is already smiling.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're staring. Stop it.”

Dazai's smile widens. “Maybe I just wanted to admire my date.”

Chuuya groans and rubs his burning face. “Don't start.”

Dazai laughs as Chuuya turns toward the pond, trying desperately to cool his face.

He's too good at this.

That's all it is. Dazai is simply taking the fake-boyfriend thing far too seriously. There is absolutely no other explanation.

The garden has grown warmer by the time the reception begins, thousands of lanterns glowing among the trees and casting everything in a soft golden light. White-clothed tables are arranged in neat rows beneath strings of lights that haven't been switched on yet, while the air carries the smell of grilled fish, soy, steamed rice, and sweet mochi. The string quartet has moved outside as well, their music blending into the background beneath the steady murmur of conversations and the occasional clink of glasses.

Chuuya's legs still feel like jelly from the ceremony. He's hungry, irritated, and one more suspicious glance from Shirase away from losing whatever patience he has left.

So the moment he spots the buffet, he makes a decision.

“Buffet. Let's try the snacks.” He heads toward it before Dazai can say anything. 

The brunette follows at an unhurried pace, hands tucked into his pockets and looking far too relaxed for someone who has just walked into his roommate's ex-boyfriend's wedding and announced himself as the boyfriend.

“I told you I was here for the food~”

Chuuya doesn't bother answering. 

The spread is ridiculous.

There are platters of sashimi arranged over crushed ice, trays of tempura still warm enough to send little wisps of steam into the air, bowls of rice and miso soup, grilled fish glazed in sauce, and an entire section devoted to sweets. Wagashi are arranged like tiny works of art beside sliced fruit and rows of strawberry daifuku dusted with powdered sugar.

Chuuya immediately starts filling his plate.

He's reaching for the chopsticks when Dazai leans over the table. He expects the man to steal something. Instead, Dazai picks up a strawberry daifuku and holds it out toward him.

“Open.”

Chuuya blinks. He looks at the daifuku. Then at Dazai. “What?”

“Open, Chuuya.” Dazai says it so naturally that for a moment Chuuya wonders if he's somehow missed a crucial part of their fake-dating agreement.

Dazai's expression is relaxed, his eyes half-lidded with amusement, a dusting of powdered sugar clinging to his thumb.

Around them, guests continue talking and laughing. Nobody seems to be paying attention.

Chuuya could take the daifuku himself. He should take the daifuku himself. But Dazai is looking at him as though this is simply another part of their performance, another little detail they're supposed to get right if they want everyone to believe they're actually together.

And Chuuya is already too tired to argue. So he leans forward and lets Dazai feed it to him.

The soft mochi gives way beneath his teeth, sweet strawberry filling spreading across his tongue. Dazai's fingers brush briefly against the corner of Chuuya's mouth before pulling away, and when Chuuya looks up, Dazai is already reaching for another piece as though nothing happened.

“Good?”

Chuuya chews and swallows.

“It's fine.”

Dazai gives him an unimpressed look.

“It's really good. You should have another one, baby.”

Chuuya nearly chokes.

The word hits him for the second time tonight, somehow even more embarrassing than the first.

“Don't call me that!”

Dazai's eyebrows lift with exaggerated innocence. “Call you what?”

“You know exactly what.”

Instead of answering, Dazai simply smiles and takes another daifuku for himself. Chuuya glares at him while chewing, but his attention is pulled away when he notices movement across the garden.

Shirase.

He's standing near the bar with a glass of champagne in his hand, talking to one of the guests. Except he isn't really listening to the conversation. His eyes keep drifting toward them.

Toward Dazai. Toward Chuuya. Toward the hand Dazai has casually placed against the small of Chuuya's back.

Chuuya feels the stare like a weight while Dazai doesn't even look over. Instead, he reaches for Chuuya's plate, adds another piece of tempura, and sets it back in front of him.

“Eat.”

“I can feed myself.”

“I know.” Dazai says it quietly, almost absently, before picking up a piece of sushi with his chopsticks and holding it out.

Chuuya stares at it.

He's an adult. He is perfectly capable of eating sushi without assistance. There is absolutely no reason for him to play along with this particular part of the performance.

Except Shirase is still watching. And Dazai has apparently decided that subtlety is beneath him.

So Chuuya leans forward and takes the sushi from the chopsticks.

Dazai hums, satisfied. “Good-”

Chuuya swallows and gives him a warning look. “Don't.”

Dazai's mouth twitches. He doesn't say anything else.

Across the garden, Shirase's champagne glass meets the bar with slightly more force than necessary.

Chuuya notices. Dazai doesn't. Or perhaps he does and simply doesn't care. Either way, he remains beside Chuuya, casually stealing food from his own plate and occasionally nudging something toward him whenever Chuuya gets distracted.

It's absurd. This is supposed to be fake. And yet Dazai is so effortlessly convincing that Chuuya keeps forgetting there's supposed to be a line between acting and reality.

He looks at Dazai, at the relaxed smile and the hand resting lightly against his back, and shakes his head.

He's too fucking good at this fake boyfriend thing. 

Dinner is served beneath the lanterns, with long tables covered in crisp white cloth and decorated with low arrangements of white flowers that leave enough room for the endless procession of dishes and drinks being brought out by the wait staff. 

Chuuya and Dazai have been seated somewhere near the middle of the reception, far enough from the garden's edges that slipping away would be conspicuous and close enough to the center that they have become impossible to ignore, which is particularly unfortunate considering Chuuya had spent most of the evening hoping he could survive the wedding without becoming part of its entertainment.

At least the food is good.

Chuuya has been eating steadily since the first dish arrived, partly because he skipped lunch and partly because focusing on his food gives him something to do besides think about Shirase. 

Unfortunately, even that small refuge isn't entirely his own. Dazai keeps finding excuses to invade his personal space beneath the table, their knees knocking together whenever one of them shifts, although Chuuya has noticed that Dazai never seems particularly interested in moving away afterward. 

He steals pieces from Chuuya's plate despite having his own food directly in front of him, reaches across him for dishes that are perfectly within his own reach, and has developed an irritating habit of slipping casual endearments into otherwise ordinary interactions as though they have been calling each other those names for years rather than agreeing to fake a relationship less than a week ago.

By the time Dazai passes him the soy sauce with an absentminded, “Here, baby,” Chuuya is seriously considering kicking him under the table.

He doesn't get the chance.

The master of ceremonies taps the microphone, and the sound carries easily through the garden, drawing the attention of the remaining guests back toward the small stage. Conversations gradually fade as waiters move between the tables to refill glasses, while the quartet lowers their music until the instruments become little more than a quiet accompaniment to the evening.

“We'd like to begin the toasts.”

Chuuya settles back in his chair, grateful for the interruption.

Shirase is the first to stand.

Against the warm glow of the lanterns, the white of his tuxedo seems almost painfully bright, every detail of his appearance immaculate in the way Chuuya remembers him being whenever he wanted to impress someone. He lifts his glass and waits until the garden has gone completely quiet before beginning.

“Thank you all for being here tonight. To my wife, to our families, and to everyone who helped us reach this day. I hope we can all be fortunate enough to find someone who makes us want to become better versions of ourselves.”

His gaze moves across the guests.

When it reaches Chuuya, it lingers for the briefest moment.

Chuuya looks down at his drink before Shirase can mistake the glance for an invitation to speak.

The guests raise their glasses.

“Kanpai!"

Chuuya takes a small sip and sets his glass down. He thinks that will be the end of it, and for once, he is relieved to be wrong about something.

After the speeches of the bride and the families, the MC turns toward the guests with an encouraging smile. “If anyone else would like to offer a few words, you're more than welcome.”

Nobody responds.

There is the usual awkward pause that comes whenever an entire room collectively decides that volunteering is somebody else's problem.

Then Dazai rises.

Chuuya looks up so quickly he nearly knocks his glass over.

Dazai simply straightens his jacket.

There is no uncertainty in his movements, no glance toward Chuuya asking whether this is a good idea, and no trace of the lazy, half-asleep roommate who regularly wanders around their dorm with an unbuttoned shirt and a book tucked under his arm. 

Instead, he looks entirely at ease, one hand holding his glass while the other slips into his pocket, his posture relaxed but remarkably composed as he waits for the MC to notice him.

The MC blinks before gesturing toward the microphone.

“Of course.”

Dazai walks forward while Chuuya watches him with a growing sense of disbelief. He doesn't understand what man is doing, but then again, understanding Dazai has never been one of life's easier tasks.

Dazai stops beside the microphone and turns toward the guests.

For some reason, Chuuya expects him to make a joke.

Instead, Dazai looks directly at him.

“I don't know the groom well enough to pretend I have some grand story about his life,” he says, and the honesty of the opening earns a few quiet laughs from the tables. “So I'll spare everyone a speech about a man I barely know and talk about something a little more familiar instead.”

His eyes remain on Chuuya.

“Sometimes, someone comes into your life without asking permission. You aren't looking for them, and you certainly don't plan for them to become important, but somehow they do. Before you realize what's happened, they've become part of your routine, part of your everyday life, and eventually you can't imagine going back to the way things were before they arrived.”

Chuuya's fingers tighten around the stem of his glass.

He doesn't know why.

Perhaps it's the strange sincerity in Dazai's voice. Perhaps it's because Dazai has spent the entire evening acting so convincingly that Chuuya has started forgetting which parts of this ridiculous relationship are supposed to be an act.

Dazai gives the faintest smile.

“I think that's the sort of thing worth celebrating.” 

There is no teasing in his voice now. No exaggerated charm. Just something quiet and strangely earnest that makes Chuuya's attention sharpen despite himself.

“People spend a lot of time worrying about whether love arrives at the right time, in the right way, or with the right person. We convince ourselves that if something isn't planned, then it must be a mistake, when sometimes the things we never planned for are the things that change us the most.”

The garden has become completely still.

Even Chuuya has forgotten about the food in front of him.

Dazai raises his glass.

“So here's to finding someone worth showing up for, even when you don't know what comes next. To having the courage to stay when leaving would be easier, and to choosing the people who make an ordinary life feel like something worth looking forward to.”

His gaze softens.

“To love, wherever you happen to find it.”

He lifts his glass.

“KANPAI!"

The first person to applaud is someone near the front of the garden, and within seconds the entire reception joins in, glasses rising and voices echoing the toast as the musicians pick up their instruments again.

Chuuya remains seated, staring at Dazai as he returns to the table.

For once, he doesn't have a smart remark ready.

That had been...

Actually good.

He expected Dazai to embarrass him, make some ridiculous joke about Shirase, or turn the entire thing into another excuse to annoy him. Instead, he had stood in front of a hundred people and somehow delivered a speech that sounded like something from a movie, all while looking completely comfortable doing it.

Dazai settles back into his chair and reaches for his drink. When he notices Chuuya staring, he raises an eyebrow.

Chuuya looks away. “...Your speech was weird.”

“Was it?” Dazai smiles into his glass. “I thought it was appropriate.”

Chuuya mutters something under his breath and takes another sip, hoping the champagne will cool the uncomfortable warmth spreading across his face.

Then Dazai's shoulder brushes his.

“Besides,” he murmurs, low enough that only Chuuya can hear, “you looked adorable listening to me.”

Chuuya nearly coughs into his drink.

Dazai catches the glass before it spills, laughing quietly as he steadies it in Chuuya's hand.

“Careful.”

“You're unbelievable.”

“I've been told.”

Chuuya shakes his head and turns his attention back toward the garden, determined not to give Dazai the satisfaction of another reaction.

Across the reception, however, Shirase has not sat down.

His champagne glass remains suspended in his hand, forgotten halfway between the table and his mouth, while his attention stays fixed on the two of them.

Chuuya catches his expression from the corner of his eye and understands immediately.

Shirase had heard every word.

For the first time that evening, Chuuya allows himself a small, satisfied smile.

Maybe bringing Dazai really had been a good idea.

He glances sideways at his roommate, who is calmly eating as though he hadn't just turned an impromptu wedding toast into something that has left Chuuya's thoughts tangled beyond recognition.

Dazai is frighteningly convincing when he wants to be.

—

Chuuya has barely finished his drink when three gentlemen approach their table.

They look nothing like the university crowd. Their suits are expensive without being flashy, their manner polished, and the oldest among them carries himself with the kind of quiet confidence Chuuya has come to associate with people who are accustomed to being listened to.

They greet Dazai first, and the familiarity in their expressions immediately tells Chuuya that this isn't some chance encounter.

“Dazai,” one of them says warmly. “It's been a while.”

Dazai looks up. For the briefest moment, the lazy amusement disappears from his face. 

“Has it?”

The man laughs politely, seemingly unfazed by the indifference. “Your father mentioned you recently. We were actually hoping to speak with you about-”

“I'd rather not.” 

The interruption is so smooth that Chuuya almost misses it. Dazai sets his glass down and leans back in his chair, his expression pleasant but unmistakably closed off.

“Not tonight.”

The men exchange glances.

“It's only a brief discussion. Your father has been considering-”

“I said not tonight.” There is no sharpness in his voice, but something about the way he says it makes the conversation stop.

The older gentleman studies him for a moment before his gaze shifts toward Chuuya.

Then he smiles knowingly.

“Ah. I see.”

Chuuya immediately feels himself becoming part of a conversation he doesn't understand. 

Dazai, however, doesn't seem interested in explaining. He simply reaches for his glass again and says, “I'm here with my date.”

The word makes Chuuya glance at him. Dazai's expression softens almost imperceptibly as he looks toward Chuuya.

“And I'd like to spend the evening with him without discussing business.”

The gentlemen look between them again.

Chuuya suddenly feels as though he's accidentally wandered into the middle of something much bigger than he understands.

“Of course,” the oldest man says after a moment. “We didn't mean to intrude.”

“I'm sure you didn't.” Dazai's smile remains perfectly polite.

The men eventually excuse themselves, disappearing back into the crowd as smoothly as they arrived.

Chuuya watches them go before turning toward Dazai.

“They know you?”

Dazai takes another sip of his drink. “Unfortunately.”

Chuuya snorts.

There is something strange about the exchange, though. Dazai had been different with them. Not nervous, exactly, but more restrained than usual, every word carefully chosen. It was the same composure Chuuya had noticed during the ceremony, the same effortless confidence that seemed to appear whenever Dazai found himself surrounded by people who clearly knew how to navigate places like this.

Chuuya doesn't get the chance to question it.

Dazai looks toward him. “Sorry about that.”

“Don't worry about it.” Chuuya glances toward the garden, where the lanterns cast warm pools of light across the grass and guests have begun gathering near the pond. “You should probably talk to them if it's important.”

Dazai's eyebrows draw together. “I don't want to.”

“You don't have to babysit me all night just because we're pretending to date.”

Dazai is quiet for a moment. So he gives the brunette a small shove against the shoulder.

“Go. I'll be outside for a bit.” He gets to his feet before Dazai can argue, smoothing down his jacket. “Besides, I could use some air.”

Dazai watches him carefully, as though trying to decide whether Chuuya is genuinely giving him permission or simply trying to escape the crowd.

Finally, he sighs. “Don't wander too far.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes. “I'll survive.”

He leaves Dazai at the table and heads toward the garden, grateful for the excuse to get away from the noise for a few minutes.

Behind him, Dazai remains seated.

The moment Chuuya disappears into the crowd, the easy smile on his face fades. He looks toward the three men waiting near the far end of the reception.

Apparently, whatever his father's friends wanted to discuss tonight is important enough that they were willing to approach him here. And apparently, Dazai has no intention of letting it ruin the one evening he gets to spend pretending Chuuya is his.

After dinner, the reception gradually spills into the garden, with guests wandering away from the long tables to gather beneath the string lights that have finally been switched on above the pond. 

Chuuya has had enough of people.

So he waits until Dazai is occupied speaking with one of the guests before quietly slipping away from the reception, following the stone path toward the far end of the garden where the lights are dimmer and the noise gradually disappears behind him. 

A stone bench sits beside the koi pond beneath an old maple tree, and Chuuya drops onto it with a tired sigh, leaning back as he watches the fish drift beneath the surface.

The cool night air feels considerably better than the crowded reception.

He has barely enjoyed ten minutes of peace when a familiar voice comes from behind him.

“You're escaping me again.”

Chuuya glances over his shoulder to find Dazai approaching with his hands tucked into his pockets, his tie slightly loosened and his hair already returning to its usual state of disarray. 

There is something almost amusing about how quickly he has gone from looking like someone who belongs at an elegant wedding to looking like the same university student who regularly falls asleep on their couch with a book balanced over his face.

“I'm escaping everyone,” Chuuya tells him.

Dazai seems satisfied with that answer and sits beside him. He doesn't crowd Chuuya this time, although he is close enough that their shoulders nearly touch whenever either of them moves. For several minutes, neither says anything. They simply sit together and watch the koi glide beneath the reflected lanterns, their movements slow and almost hypnotic.

It is peaceful enough that Chuuya begins to think perhaps Dazai has finally learned how to sit quietly.

Then Dazai nudges his shoulder.

“See that lantern over there?”

Chuuya follows his gaze toward one hanging near the opposite side of the garden. “What about it?”

“I bet I can reach it before you.”

Chuuya turns toward him with an expression of immediate suspicion. “Why would we race to a lantern?”

“Because you look bored.”

“I am not bored.”

Dazai laughs, already standing.

Chuuya realizes what he is doing a second too late.

“Don't you dare-”

Dazai takes off down the path.

Chuuya stares after him in disbelief before scrambling to his feet and chasing him, muttering every insult he can think of under his breath as they weave through the garden. 

Dazai moves with irritating ease, slipping between groups of guests and laughing whenever the redhead gets close enough to grab the back of his jacket. At one point Chuuya nearly loses his footing on the uneven stones, and Dazai catches him by the wrist without slowing down, pulling him upright before continuing toward the far side of the garden.

The whole thing is so stupid that Chuuya can't help laughing.

For several minutes, he forgets why he came to the wedding in the first place.

He forgets his ex, forgets the stares from the guests, forgets the awkwardness of pretending to be someone's boyfriend and even forgets that they are technically trespassing on a perfectly respectable wedding reception with absolutely no reason to be sprinting through the garden.

Then someone calls his name.

“Chuuya.”

His laughter disappears.

Shirase stands several yards away on the garden path, still dressed in white, but the polished appearance he had maintained throughout the reception has begun to crack. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his shoulders are tense, and his expression carries none of the warmth he had displayed for his guests.

Dazai stops beside Chuuya.

For once, there is no joke waiting on his lips.

“Shirase,” Chuuya says, and even hearing his own voice makes something unpleasant twist in his stomach.

“Can we talk?”

Chuuya hesitates, but before he can answer, Dazai speaks.

“Is this really necessary tonight?”

Shirase's attention finally shifts toward him. “And you are?”

“Dazai Osamu,” he answers evenly. “Chuuya's boyfriend.”

The word hangs between them, and Chuuya notices the way Shirase's expression changes almost imperceptibly before his attention returns to him.

“Five minutes,” Shirase says. “That's all I want.”

Chuuya looks toward Dazai, expecting him to make some smart remark or insist on coming along, but Dazai only gives his hand a brief squeeze before letting go.

“Go ahead,” he says quietly. “I'll be here.”

Chuuya nods and follows Shirase toward the darker edge of the garden.

The farther they walk, the quieter the reception becomes. The string lights no longer reach this part of the grounds, leaving only the moonlight reflecting across the pond and the faint sound of water moving against the stones.

Shirase stops.

For a moment, he simply stares at Chuuya. Then his expression hardens.

“What the hell was that?”

Chuuya folds his arms. “You're going to have to be more specific.”

“You showing up here with another guy. Making a spectacle of yourselves. Letting him stand there and talk about love in front of everyone as if this were some kind of statement.”

“You invited me.”

“I know.” The answer comes too quickly. Shirase gives a humorless laugh and looks back toward the reception. “I wanted to see whether you'd actually come.”

Chuuya's stomach twists. He knew it. “So the invitation was a trap?”

“I wanted to know if you were still the same.”

Chuuya stares at him.

Shirase's gaze settles on him again, and there is something almost contemptuous in it now.

“You were always so intense about everything. Even when we were together, you couldn't just let things be what they were. You had to turn everything into something meaningful, like what we had was supposed to become some great love story.”

“You cheated on me.”

“That's because got tired of you.” 

The bluntness of it makes Chuuya's jaw tighten. “You could have ended it without making a complete mess of everything.”

“And then what? You would have wanted an explanation, another conversation, another chance to convince me to stay. You were always like that.”

Shirase takes a step closer.

“You thought I loved you because I dated you. You thought I wanted the same things you did because I let myself get curious.”

Chuuya feels his hands beginning to tremble, but he keeps them firmly at his sides.

“I was just curious,” Shirase continues, his voice growing colder. “That's all it was. I wanted to know what it was like to do it with a boy, and you happened to be there. Once I realized it wasn't what I wanted, I moved on.”

Chuuya's throat tightens.

Shirase gestures toward the illuminated reception behind them.

“Look at where I am now. I’m married now. To a woman. Like I’m supposed to be. Like normal people are. I don't have to explain myself anymore, and I don't have to pretend that something I never wanted was going to become my future.”

The word normal hurts more than Chuuya wants to admit.

He knows exactly what Shirase is trying to do, and the worst part is that some small, angry part of him still remembers being nineteen and believing every cruel implication Shirase had thrown at him back then.

But he refuses to give him that satisfaction now. “So you're done?”

Shirase's mouth twists.

“Not quite. You came here with him, didn't you? You dragged another guy into this just so you could make yourself look like you've moved on.”

“I didn't drag anyone anywhere.”

“You've always been desperate for attention.”

The words hit harder than Chuuya expects.

“You were clingy then, and you're still clingy now. I suppose some things don't change.”

Chuuya takes a slow breath.

“You invited me to your wedding, Shirase. If you're unhappy with the person who accepted the invitation, maybe you should have thought about that before sending it.”

Shirase's expression darkens.

“You really think you're the victim here?”

“No,” Chuuya says, meeting his eyes. “I think you're an asshole.”

For a moment, neither moves.

Then footsteps approach from behind them. 

Dazai appears at the edge of the path. His hands are in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but the expression on his face has changed completely. There is no trace of the playful roommate who had been racing Chuuya through the garden only minutes ago.

“Everything all right?”

“This doesn't concern you,” Shirase says.

Dazai looks at Chuuya before answering.

“It does if you're making him uncomfortable.”

Shirase gives a dismissive laugh. “You've known him for what? A day? A week? You don't know anything about him.”

Dazai's gaze settles on him.

“I know enough.” There is something in his voice that makes Chuuya glance toward him.

Dazai takes one step forward.

“I know he shouldn't have to stand here and listen to someone who hurt him explain why he deserved it.”

Shirase's expression twists. “Stay out of this.”

Dazai doesn't move.

“Then stop giving me a reason to get involved.”

The next few seconds happen too quickly for Chuuya to process. Shirase suddenly swings at Dazai, but Dazai steps aside with an ease that seems almost insulting, leaving Shirase stumbling forward as his own momentum carries him toward the edge of the pond.

His foot slips against the damp stone.

There is a frantic attempt to recover his balance. Then Shirase disappears into the water.

The splash is enormous.

For a moment, Chuuya can do nothing but stare.

Shirase resurfaces in the middle of the koi pond, his immaculate clothes soaked through and his expression one of complete disbelief as the fish scatter around him.

Dazai looks at him. Then at Chuuya. Then back at Shirase.

“I think,” he says thoughtfully, “that went better than expected.”

Chuuya presses a hand over his mouth, desperately trying to suppress the laugh threatening to escape.

It doesn't work.

The first laugh slips out, followed by another, until he is bent slightly forward with his shoulders shaking. Dazai joins him, and within seconds the two of them are laughing so hard that Chuuya can barely breathe.

Unfortunately, the sound attracts attention.

Someone near the reception notices the commotion and calls out, followed by several more confused voices. A waiter appears with a towel, another person rushes toward the pond, and somewhere behind them the MC seems to have started asking what happened.

Dazai glances toward the growing crowd, then toward Chuuya. “We should probably leave.”

Chuuya wipes his eyes and nods.

They turn and run. 

They make it only as far as the reception tables before Dazai's shoulder catches the corner of one of them. The table jolts violently, and before either of them can react, the entire arrangement begins sliding toward the edge.

Dazai tries to reach for it while Chuuya attempts to catch a tray.

Neither succeeds.

Plates rattle against one another, glasses tip over, and a serving dish lands on the grass as the table finally gives way. Chuuya tries to step backward to avoid the mess, but his heel catches against one of the table legs and sends him stumbling forward.

Unfortunately, the three-tier wedding cake is directly in front of him.

His hands shoot out instinctively and lands on the frosting. The cake.

Chuuya crashes straight into the enormous centerpiece of the reception.

The first tier collapses beneath his weight, followed by the second, and then the entire structure gives up spectacularly, sending white frosting, sponge, and decorative flowers across the table and onto the grass.

Chuuya emerges from the wreckage with frosting smeared across his jacket, his hair, and one side of his face.

The whole garden goes silent.

Someone's kid lets out a horrified cry about the cake.

Dazai stares at him for a moment, his lips pressed together as he struggles not to laugh.

Chuuya points at him.

“Don't.”

That only makes it worse.

Dazai turns away, shoulders shaking, and Chuuya finally starts laughing too because, at this point, there is absolutely nothing else he can do.

“What are you laughing at?” Chuuya manages, wiping frosting from his eyebrow. “This is your fault.”

Chuuya throws a small piece of frosting at him. It lands squarely on Dazai's cheek. Dazai slowly turns back toward him.

For one second, they simply stare at each other.

Then Dazai grins.

“Oh, so that's how we're playing?”

Chuuya barely has time to react before Dazai scoops a little frosting from the ruined cake and flicks it toward him.

It lands on Chuuya's collar.

“You bastard!”

Dazai laughs and grabs his hand.

“Run before they make us pay for it.”

They bolt through the shrine gates, still laughing as the shouting from the reception follows them into the street. Neither bothers looking back until they are several blocks away, where they finally slow down and lean against the wall of a closed shop, both breathless and covered in frosting.

For several moments, they can only laugh.

Chuuya looks at Dazai and has to bite his lip when he notices the ridiculous amount of cake still caught in his hair.

“You look terrible.”

Dazai reaches up, feels the frosting, and sighs.

“So do you.”

“I know.”

The laughter gradually fades, leaving only the quiet street and the distant sound of the shrine's music behind them.

Dazai looks at Chuuya more carefully this time. The amusement in his expression softens.

“You okay?”

Chuuya glances back toward the direction of the shrine.

Shirase's words are still there, buried somewhere in the back of his mind, but they no longer feel quite as heavy as they did before. Maybe because he finally said what he had wanted to say for years. Maybe because, for once, Shirase didn't get the last word.

Or maybe it is simply because Chuuya has spent the last ten minutes running through the streets with a lunatic who apparently considers destroying wedding cakes a reasonable emergency exit.

Either way, he finds himself smiling.

“Yeah,” he says. “I'm okay.”

Dazai watches him for another moment before bumping his shoulder against Chuuya's.

“Good. Then I think we've earned ramen.”

Chuuya laughs under his breath.

“You're paying.”

“Obviously.”

“And you're explaining the wedding cake to my dads.”

Dazai's expression immediately falls.

“Your dads?”

Chuuya starts walking. Dazai hurries after him, suddenly looking far less confident than he had when confronting Shirase.

“I was under the impression fake boyfriends were exempt from parental meetings.”

“Not after destroying a wedding.”

Dazai sighs dramatically as he catches up.

“Fine. But I'm choosing the ramen place.”

“Why?”

“Because after tonight, I deserve the good stuff.”

Chuuya shakes his head, laughing as they disappear down the street together, still dressed in their ruined formal wear and carrying the remains of the most disastrous date either of them could have possibly planned.

For Chuuya, the night had begun as a test of whether he could face his past without looking bitter, desperate, or broken.

Instead, he leaves the wedding with frosting in his hair, laughter still caught in his throat, and Dazai walking beside him as though this ridiculous disaster had been the most natural thing in the world.

He doesn't realize that, for Dazai, none of it had ever been pretend.

—

The stack of papers on Dazai's desk is thick enough to have taken months of his life, and yet the red stamp across the first page makes the entire thing feel strangely weightless.

APPROVED.

His thesis passed so he should be happy.

Instead, Dazai stares at the word until the letters begin to blur together, because he knows exactly how little it means. The panelists barely looked at his work before the room filled with applause, congratulations, and polite smiles. They had glanced at the name printed beneath the title, recognized it immediately, and decided that there was nothing left to prove.

He is Mori Ougai's son.

The heir to Mori Corporation.

Of course he would pass. Of course his thesis would be brilliant. Of course the university would be proud to have his name attached to another successful academic achievement.

Nobody had actually read it.

Nobody had asked him about the argument he spent sleepless nights developing, or the research he had gathered, or the conclusions he had struggled to put into words. They had simply looked at his surname and decided that the work must be exceptional because the person behind it was.

Dazai hates that more than he knows how to explain.

His phone begins vibrating across the desk.

He doesn't need to look at the screen to know who it is. His father already reminded him three times about the business dinner tonight, each reminder delivered with the same expectation that Dazai will appear in a pressed suit, sit beside the right people, smile at the right moments, and listen while executives discuss matters he is apparently supposed to inherit one day.

He lets the phone ring until it eventually stops.

Then it starts again.

Dazai looks at the stack of papers and reaches for it with the vague intention of throwing the entire thing into the trash. Perhaps that would be fitting. Months of work reduced to discarded paper because, apparently, that is all it was worth.

He barely reached the trashcan on the hallway when someone crashes into him.

Hard.

The papers scatter across the hallway in every direction, some sliding beneath benches while others flutter down the stairs. Dazai stumbles back, irritation already rising to his tongue.

“What the-”

He stops.

The person who collided with him is standing a few feet away, breathing heavily.

A redhead.

His face is wet with tears.

Not the quiet kind, either. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes are swollen, and he is clearly trying , and failing, to catch his breath between angry little hiccups. He looks furious about crying, which somehow makes the whole thing even more heartbreaking.

Dazai forgets what he was about to say.

The stranger immediately crouches down and starts gathering the papers.

“Sorry,” he manages between uneven breaths. “I wasn't looking.”

Dazai watches him pick up one of the pages, wipe at his face with the back of his hand, and then reach for another.

“Don't bother,” Dazai says.

The redhead looks up.

Dazai gestures vaguely toward the scattered pages. “I'm throwing them away anyway.”

For a second, the crying stops. The stranger stares at him as though Dazai had just said something profoundly stupid.

Then he looks down at the papers again.

“The fuck do you mean you're throwing them away?”

Dazai blinks.

“This is your thesis, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“You look like worked on this for months."

Dazai shrugs.

The redhead's expression changes from confusion to something dangerously close to outrage.

“Then why the hell would you throw it away?”

Dazai doesn't know what to say. He has spent the entire day surrounded by people telling him how impressive he is, how fortunate he is, how proud his father must be, how obvious it was that he would succeed.

Not one of them had asked whether he actually cared about the work.

This stranger, who doesn't even know his name, is the first person to look at his thesis and see something worth keeping simply because Dazai had made it.

“You worked hard on it,” the redhead mutters as he gathers another page. “So keep it.”

There is nothing particularly profound about the statement. It isn't poetic. It isn't even especially gentle.

But something inside Dazai shifts anyway.

As the redhead gathers the last page, straightens the stack, and holds it out. “Here.”

Dazai takes it. “Thanks.”

The stranger wipes his face again, clearly embarrassed now that he has realized he has been crying in front of a complete stranger.

“Sorry about crashing into you.” Then he turns and walks away.

Dazai watches him disappear around the corner. He never gets his name. He doesn't even know what department he belongs to. 

But he remembers the red hair. He remembers the irritated crease between his eyebrows and the overflowing emotions that the man is not afraid to let out, while Dazai is there locking up his own emotions for the sake of being formal.

Most of all, he remembers the way that stranger looked at his thesis without caring who had written it.

For the first time in a long while, Dazai feels as though someone has looked directly at him and seen a person instead of a surname.

He should have left it there, yet he doesn't.

At first, finding the redhead again is nothing more than curiosity. Dazai tells himself that he simply wants to know who that strange, crying student was and why he had seemed so offended by the idea of someone throwing away their own hardwork.

It takes him less than a week to find out.

Nakahara Chuuya. Art major. And apparently incapable of entering a room quietly.

Dazai begins noticing him everywhere.

In the library with paint under his fingernails. In the cafeteria arguing with someone over the last pastry. Outside the art building with a canvas tucked beneath one arm and three different coffees balanced precariously in the other. Sometimes he sees Chuuya sitting alone on a bench, headphones in, completely absorbed in whatever he is sketching.

The more Dazai watches, the more curious he becomes.

Chuuya is loud. He is reckless. He has a temper that Dazai finds endlessly entertaining, particularly because it takes very little effort to provoke him.

But there is another side to him, one Dazai discovers almost by accident.

When Chuuya paints, he becomes quiet.

Not awkwardly quiet, but completely absorbed, as though the rest of the world has simply stopped existing. His entire attention narrows to the canvas in front of him, and Dazai finds himself fascinated by the transformation.

That's why, when the opportunity comes to move into the dorm, Dazai doesn't hesitate.

There are plenty of rooms available yet he chooses Chuuya's.

Now the same person who complains about everything starts to remember when Dazai hasn't eaten.

The same person who calls him a lazy bastard every morning starts leaving the last cup of coffee on the table because he knows Dazai likes it.

And whenever Dazai finds an opportunity to speak to him, Chuuya doesn't treat him differently.

That is perhaps the most dangerous thing of all.

Dazai spent his entire life being treated differently.

Professors know his name. Students know his family. Business partners know exactly whose son he is. Even people who claim not to care about money become strangely careful around him once they find out.

Chuuya doesn't.

Dazai deliberately dresses badly around him, keeps his hair messy, leaves his shirts untucked, complains about being broke, and behaves like the world's most useless philosophy major.

Chuuya simply accepts him.

As far as the redhead is concerned, Dazai is a weird, lazy, insufferable roommate who eats his snacks and steals his hoodies.

Nothing more.

And somehow, that is the greatest freedom Dazai has ever experienced.

He doesn't tell him that the first night in their dorm, Dazai lies awake listening to Chuuya moving around on the other side of the room and realizes he hasn't felt this comfortable in years.

He doesn't tell him that the more time they spend together, the less Dazai feels like he is pretending to be someone else.

With Chuuya, he doesn't have to be Mori Ougai's son.

He doesn't have to be an heir.

He doesn't have to sit straight, speak properly, wear expensive clothes, attend every dinner, or pretend to care about the future someone else has already planned for him.

He can sleep until noon. He can eat instant ramen. He can complain about professors. He can sit on the floor beside Chuuya's chair and read while paint dries. He can be annoying. He can be ridiculous.

He can simply be Dazai.

And Chuuya, wonderfully and completely unaware of the weight of that gift, treats him exactly the same way every single time.

Maybe that is why Dazai fell for him.

Not because Chuuya was particularly kind, although he is. 

Not because Chuuya is beautiful, although Dazai would be lying if he said he hadn't noticed.

It's because Chuuya had looked at him before he even knew his name and told him that his work was worth something.

Because Chuuya had never once asked what Dazai's father did for a living.

Because Chuuya had never cared how much money was in Dazai's bank account.

Because Chuuya had somehow managed to make the boy who had spent his entire life being told who he should be, to feel himself for the first time, as though he is finally allowed to figure it out himself.

Dazai looks toward the doorway.

From the other side of the dorm, Chuuya is complaining loudly about having lost one of his brushes, muttering accusations at Dazai despite the fact that Dazai hasn't moved from his chair.

Dazai smiles.

“It's under your sketchbook.”

There is a pause. Then Chuuya's voice comes from across the room.

“Oh.” Another pause. “...Thanks.”

Dazai leans back in his chair and closes his eyes.

He thinks about the thesis sitting safely inside the drawer of his desk, preserved despite everything, because someone with red hair and angry tears had once told him that his work was worth keeping.

Perhaps that was the first thing Chuuya ever gave him.

Not love.

Not yet.

Just the simple reassurance that Dazai himself was worth seeing.

And somewhere between that first accidental collision and the month they spent sharing a dorm room, Dazai realizes he had started wanting something far more frightening than his father's approval.

He wants a life that belongs to him.

And, selfishly, he wants Chuuya in it.