Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“I have always hated the world."

 —Dazai Osamu, No Longer Human

Dazai had never particularly cared for the world.

Perhaps hate is too strong a word. Hate requires passion, and passion is something he has been running short of lately. The world simply exists, and he has long since stopped finding much of it worth noticing.

At twenty-eight, Dazai had already accomplished more than he ever expected to. His novels sit on shelves in bookstores across the country, his name appears regularly in newspapers and magazines, and strangers occasionally recognize him in cafés. He has money, success, a comfortable house, and enough freedom to do practically whatever he pleases.

None of it makes him particularly happy.

None of it makes him particularly unhappy, either.

That is perhaps the problem.

He is simply bored.

So Dazai does what any reasonable person with too much money and too little inspiration does: he leaves the city behind and moves into a quiet apartment in the countryside, hoping that the silence might somehow coax a story out of him.

Tonight is his first night here.

His manuscript sits open on the desk in front of him, the same blank page staring back at him with an almost insulting patience. Outside, the countryside is quiet enough that Dazai can hear the faint rustling of leaves beyond the window. There are no car horns, no distant voices, no neighbors arguing through thin apartment walls.

It should be peaceful.

Instead, it's just boring.

Dazai leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling, wondering if perhaps he has made a terrible mistake to seek comfort in this ghost of a village.

Then he hears something fall in the living room. His gaze shifts toward the doorway.

Driven by curiosity, he gets up to investigate.

And finds a stranger sprawled unconscious on his living room floor.

Dazai holds his phone out in front of him, using the pale glow of its screen to illuminate the path toward the noise. He hasn't bothered turning on any of the lights since he arrived earlier that evening. 

There hadn't seemed to be much point when his attention is occupied by the far more pressing problem of staring at an empty document and trying to convince himself that there is, somewhere inside his head, a story worth writing. 

The apartment is still mostly filled with unopened boxes, the furniture sparse and unfamiliar, and the darkness suits him well enough. Besides, he has always found it easier to think when there is nothing around him to distract him.

Although, judging by the loud thud that came from his living room, perhaps he had spoken too soon.

Dazai glances at the clock on his phone as he walks. 12:03 a.m.

Midnight.

That explains the darkness, at least. Although, it does not explain the man currently sprawled across his living room floor.

Dazai stops at the entrance and stares. For several seconds, neither of them moves.

The stranger is lying face-down on the carpet with one arm stretched awkwardly above his head, a bottle of whiskey still clutched loosely in one hand. One leg remains caught halfway through the open window, as though whatever attempt he has made to enter the apartment ended rather abruptly somewhere between the windowsill and the floor. 

His shoes are nowhere to be found. His coat is bunched beneath him. A few strands of vivid red hair are scattered across his forehead, and from somewhere beneath the mess comes a quiet, incoherent mumble.

Dazai blinks a few times as he looks at the man. Then at the open window. Then back at the man. His apartment is on the fourth floor, what kind of sorcery is this?

“Hello?”

Objectively speaking, 'Hello' is a ridiculous thing to say to a stranger in this type of situation.

Dazai knows this.

Why should he greet the mysterious man who had just broken into his apartment in the middle of the night? There are several far more sensible things he could be doing. 

Calling the police would probably be the most appropriate. Locking himself in the bedroom and waiting for someone else to deal with the problem would also be reasonable.

Instead, Dazai walks closer.

He isn't particularly afraid. Fear requires the possibility of losing something, and lately Dazai has been struggling to think of anything he would miss. He supposes there is a certain irony in dying inside the apartment he has just bought, although he can already imagine the newspaper headline.

"FAMOUS NOVELIST DAZAI OSAMU MURDERED IN HIS NEW HOME." 

It doesn't sound particularly unpleasant. A little dramatic, perhaps. The publicity would probably be excellent.

Unfortunately, the stranger doesn't appear to have any intention of murdering him. If anything, he seems to be losing a battle against gravity. Another incoherent mumble escapes him, followed by a faint hiccup, and Dazai begins to suspect that the whiskey has done most of the work already.

He crouches beside him and gives his shoulder a tentative poke.

The stranger shifts.

Dazai watches with mild interest as the man's body rolls awkwardly onto its back, his trapped leg slipping free from the window frame in the process. His head lands against the carpet with a soft thump, and for the first time Dazai gets a proper look at his face.

Oh. This is unexpected.

The stranger is crying.

Not loudly. There is no dramatic sobbing or desperate attempt to wipe the tears away. They simply continue to spill from the corners of his closed eyes, warm trails disappearing into flushed cheeks. His nose is red, his face is warm with alcohol, and every few seconds his expression tightens as another hiccup catches in his throat. 

There is something almost childlike about the sight, though the thought feels unfair when the stranger is clearly an adult.

Dazai remains crouched beside him.

He had never been this drunk himself. He was often warned enough by his doctor to stay away from alcohol, and he has never been particularly interested in testing how much damage he can do to himself while intoxicated.

Watching the stranger now, however, Dazai finds himself wondering what could possibly drive someone to drink until his body simply gives up and carries him somewhere unfamiliar.

Or maybe somewhere familiar?

His gaze drifts toward the open window.

That thought catches his attention.

The stranger hasn't broken the glass. He hasn't forced the window open. There are no signs that he came here intending to steal anything, and judging from the way he has collapsed the moment he got inside, he probably wouldn't be capable of stealing anything even if he wanted to.

Dazai looks down at him again.

He should call the police. That is what normal people do when they find an unconscious stranger inside their apartment at midnight.

But the stranger's face is still wet with tears. Dazai understands very little about the man, but he understands that much. Whatever has brought him here, waking up in a police station probably isn't going to make his night any better.

Dazai sighs quietly.

“Well,” he murmurs, “I suppose one more problem won't make much difference.”

Getting the stranger onto the couch proves easier than expected. The man is considerably smaller than Dazai, and his body offers almost no resistance beyond the occasional incoherent sound. Dazai managed to pull him upright, half-carries him the short distance across the room, and lowers him onto the cushions. The whiskey bottle slips from the stranger's cold fingers along the way, hits the carpet, and spills a dark, fragrant puddle across the floor.

Dazai looks down at it.

He should probably be annoyed since the carpet is new. Everything in the apartment is new. Yet somehow, he can't bring himself to care.

He picks up the bottle, sets it on the coffee table, and pulls a blanket over the stranger. The redhead immediately curls onto his side, burying his face against the cushion as though the entire world has become too exhausting to look at.

Dazai stands there for a moment.

The apartment is silent again. Except now there is a sleeping stranger on his couch. He should feel irritated. Instead, he feels something he hasn't experienced in quite some time.

Interest.

Not necessarily in the man himself. That would be disturbing. But rather at the unexpected turn of events. 

There is simply something strange about the entire situation, something sufficiently absurd to pull him out of the dull fog that has settled over his life. A stranger appears in the middle of the night, climbs through a fourth-floor window while drunk, cries himself unconscious, and somehow expects the apartment to take care of him in the state.

Dazai almost smiles.

Perhaps this is the universe's answer to his prayers. He has been staring at a blank page for months, searching for something interesting enough to write about.

Perhaps all he needs is an interesting story. And, apparently, one has just fallen through his window.

The thought is enough to make him turn toward his study. He needs to write this down before the details disappear. The strange circumstances. The window. The whiskey. The red hair. The tears. Perhaps there is something here worth turning into fiction, something ridiculous enough to finally break through the wall of nothingness that has surrounded his writing lately.

Dazai takes exactly two steps.

Then a hand shoots out from the couch. Fingers catch in his hair.

“-Ow!”

Dazai is yanked backward so suddenly that he nearly loses his balance. He turns around in disbelief and finds the supposedly unconscious stranger still lying on the couch, eyes firmly shut, one hand tangled in Dazai's hair with the stubborn determination of someone refusing to surrender a particularly important possession.

Dazai tries to pull himself free but the hand tightens.

“Ah!”

He tries again. Nothing. The grip is astonishingly strong for someone who looks as though a moderate breeze could carry him away.

Dazai stares at the sleeping man. The sleeping man continues to sleep.

“You know,” Dazai says slowly, “I was beginning to think you were harmless.”

The stranger makes an unintelligible noise and pulls his hair again. 

Dazai winces. Perhaps he has spoken too soon. He carefully reaches for the stranger's wrist, attempting to pry the fingers loose one by one, only for the redhead to cling even more stubbornly to him.

He looks toward the ceiling.

The universe has finally given him an interesting story. Unfortunately, it seems the story has already decided to be difficult.

—

“Ah.”

Dazai stares at the scene before him, his expression settling into the quiet sort of disbelief usually reserved for situations that are too ridiculous to deserve an immediate reaction. 

Smoke fills the kitchen, curling lazily toward the ceiling while oil crackles violently in the pan, and for a brief moment he simply stands there with the wooden spatula still in his hand, watching two eggs burn into something that resembles charcoal.

Perhaps they are salvageable.

He leans closer. Perhaps not.

Dazai opens the window above the sink in an attempt to let the smoke out, coughing once as another wave drifts past his face. He glances at the stove, then at the ruined pan, and wonders why Kunikida has bothered packing an entire box of kitchenware for him when the man has known him long enough to understand that Dazai's relationship with a kitchen has always been fundamentally hostile. 

His manager had witnessed him burn toast, ruin instant noodles, and somehow make a perfectly ordinary cup of coffee taste suspiciously like regret, yet apparently still believes there is a version of Dazai capable of feeding himself without causing structural damage.

Although, in fairness, the more pressing question is why Dazai has decided to touch the stove at all. He knows perfectly well that he is hopeless at cooking.

There are several perfectly reasonable alternatives available to him. 

He could walk into town and find a restaurant. He could order something. He could survive on whatever snacks Kunikida has inevitably stuffed into one of the moving boxes. 

The only problem is that Dazai has already discovered that the small town is considerably quieter than he anticipated, which also means that most of the conveniences he had grown accustomed to in the city simply do not exist here. Food delivery services are practically nonexistent, and the nearest restaurant appears to be a good twenty-minute walk away.

Twenty minutes is a long time when one is hungry.

And perhaps, if Dazai is being honest with himself, that isn't even the real reason.

He had looked at the stranger sleeping on his couch that morning and, for some inexplicable reason, decided that the man should have something to eat when he woke up.

It had seemed like a simple idea at the time.

Breakfast. Eggs. How difficult could it possibly be? Apparently, very.

The hurried footsteps coming from the living room suggest that his breakfast has attracted an audience.

Dazai turns just as the stranger appears in the doorway, one hand clutching the side of his head while the other braces against the wall. His hair is a complete mess, red strands sticking out in every direction, and his face is considerably paler than it had been the night before. 

The effects of the hangover are impossible to miss, particularly in the way his eyes squint against the light and his expression twists with every new wave of whatever headache is currently punishing him.

Yet somehow, despite looking as though he has just returned from a battle he very much regrets fighting, the first thing he notices is the kitchen.

His blue eyes widen.

“What the fuck?!”

Dazai blinks at him.

The stranger looks from the smoke, to the pan, to Dazai, and back again.

“What are you doing in my kitchen?!”

Dazai's head tilts slightly. 

As far as he knows, this is his kitchen.

He glances around just to make sure. The refrigerator is his. The cabinets are his. The stove is his. The burnt eggs are unfortunately also his.

“Cooking breakfast,” he answers.

The stranger's expression becomes one of genuine horror.

“You're setting up a goddamn fire!”

Dazai looks at the pan. A small flame flickers beneath it.

“Oh.”

That seems worth mentioning.

“Calm down, grumpy. It's not that bad-”

The punch lands against his shoulder before he can finish.

“Ow!”

Dazai stumbles a step backward, more startled than hurt, while the stranger immediately moves toward the stove and switches it off. He grabs the pan with a cloth, drops it into the sink, and turns on the faucet, all while glaring at Dazai as though he has personally committed an unforgivable crime against the kitchen.

Dazai watches him with mild fascination.

The punch isn't particularly strong, which is probably fortunate considering the stranger's current condition, but it is strong enough to communicate a very clear warning.

Apparently, the redhead does not appreciate people nearly burning down his former home.

“I'm sorry,” Dazai says, although his tone carries very little regret. “I didn't realize you were so passionate about breakfast.”

The stranger turns toward him.

“Breakfast?! You nearly burned the fucking place down!”

“It was only the pan.”

“It was on fire!”

“A temporary condition..."

The redhead stares at him. Dazai stares back. For a moment, neither says anything.

Then the stranger closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, looking as though Dazai's mere existence is adding several years to his hangover.

Dazai almost finds it endearing.

Almost.

“If you punch me again,” he says, raising both hands in surrender, “I'm going to cry.”

The redhead opens one eye. There is a long pause. Then he rolls his eyes so dramatically that Dazai almost feels offended on behalf of his own dignity.

“Leave before I call the police.”

“Excuse me?” Dazai lowers his hands. “You're in my apartment. If there's anyone who has the right to call the police, that's me.”

The stranger's mouth opens, presumably preparing another argument. Then he stops. Something changes in his expression.

His eyes move past Dazai, slowly taking in the kitchen and the rest of the apartment beyond it. The unfamiliar furniture. The unopened boxes stacked against the walls. The new curtains. The books that Dazai has already managed to scatter across several surfaces despite only arriving yesterday.

His gaze lingers. Once. Twice. The anger gradually drains from his face. 

Dazai watches as the realization settle in.

The stranger looks toward the living room, then toward the hallway, as if seeing the apartment for the first time despite having walked through it only hours ago. His fingers loosen around the broom he has apparently grabbed from beside the doorway at some point during his outrage.

Blue eyes widen.

“Shit...”

It's the first word the stranger says that sounds entirely sober.

Dazai waits. He expects an explanation. A name, perhaps. An apology would be nice. Maybe even an elaboration on how exactly he has managed to enter a fourth-floor apartment through the window without breaking every bone in his body.

Instead, the stranger drops the broom back against the wall and bolts out.

Dazai barely has time to process what is happening before the redhead disappears through the front door.

The apartment falls silent.

Dazai remains standing in the kitchen, staring at the doorway. A faint trail of smoke continues to drift toward the open window behind him.

The ruined eggs sit abandoned in the sink. The broom leans crookedly against the wall. And somewhere outside, the mysterious stranger is presumably running for his life.

Dazai slowly lowers his hands.

He still doesn't know the man's name. He doesn't know where he lives. He doesn't know why he appeared in this apartment. He doesn't even know why the sight of Dazai's new furniture seems to have frightened him more than the possibility of being arrested.

But Dazai does know one thing.

His quiet new life has become considerably more interesting.

He glances at the blackened remains of breakfast. Perhaps this is a sign that he should stick to writing. Or perhaps, he thinks as he looks toward the door one last time, he should simply wait. 

Something tells him the redhead isn't finished with him yet.

—

His guess proves to be correct.

Exactly one week after the mysterious redhead incident, Dazai finds himself standing in the middle of his living room in precisely the same circumstances as before, phone in one hand, its pale glow barely illuminating the darkness around him, while the clock on the wall quietly announces that it is midnight. 

The lights remain off, as usual. At this point, Dazai is beginning to suspect the apartment has been designed with the specific intention of making every midnight encounter unnecessarily dramatic.

And, once again, there is an unconscious redhead inside his home.

Dazai stares at him.

The stranger has at least made it as far as the sofa this time. He is curled up on one side, knees drawn toward his chest, one arm tucked beneath his head while the other hangs loosely over the edge of the cushion. His shoes are missing, his clothes are slightly disheveled, and there is another bottle lying abandoned on the carpet beside the sofa.

Dazai looks at the bottle. It's wine this time.

“Well,” he murmurs, “at least you're diversifying.”

The redhead doesn't respond.

Dazai approaches the sofa and crouches beside him, studying the sleeping man with the same quiet curiosity he had felt during their first encounter. There is something almost impressive about the stranger's ability to repeatedly find his way back to this apartment while apparently remembering absolutely nothing about the journey. 

Dazai has spent the past week wondering whether the first incident was some elaborate coincidence, but the second occurrence makes that explanation considerably less convincing.

Perhaps the man really does know how to get here. Or perhaps he simply doesn't know why.

“I'm starting to think you're a ghost haunting this apartment.”

Dazai reaches out and pokes his cheek. Warm and soft.

The stranger makes a small, irritated sound but doesn't wake.

“Nope,” Dazai decides. “Not a ghost.”

He sits back on his heels for a moment, staring at him.

The first time this happened, Dazai had been surprised. The second time, he is beginning to feel something dangerously close to anticipation.

He doesn't particularly understand why.

There is nothing particularly convenient about having an unconscious stranger repeatedly appear in one's living room. It creates messes, interrupts his writing, and raises several legal questions that Dazai has no intention of answering. Yet when he had gone to bed the previous night, a small part of him had wondered whether the redhead would return.

He had been right.

How disappointing.

And yet, somehow, not entirely.

Dazai glances toward the hallway leading to his study. His manuscript is still waiting for him, the same unfinished chapter sitting open on his desk. He could leave the stranger where he is and deal with everything in the morning. The man appears to be breathing normally, and considering the amount of alcohol involved, waking him now would probably accomplish very little.

Dazai stands. He takes one step before his foot catches something.

“Oh-"

His balance disappears.

There is a brief, almost graceful moment in which Dazai realizes he is falling and has absolutely no intention of doing anything about it. Then he lands heavily on the floor, his phone slipping from his hand as the bottle rolls away across the carpet.

It bumps lightly against the coffee table.

The sound is barely loud enough to matter. Apparently, it matters anyway, because he redhead shifts at the sound.

Dazai remains exactly where he is.

The stranger's fingers twitch against the sofa cushion, his brows drawing together as though waking is an inconvenience he would very much like to decline. A faint groan escapes him before he slowly lifts his head.

His eyes remain closed.

“...Baki?”

Dazai blinks.

The redhead's voice is rough with sleep, barely more than a mumble.

“...is that you?”

Dazai sits on the floor. He doesn't move. He isn't entirely sure why.

Perhaps moving too quickly would interrupt whatever strange dream the stranger is having. Perhaps he is simply curious about what comes next. Or perhaps he has finally learned that every attempt to interact with this man tends to end in unexpected consequences.

The redhead shifts again, his cheek pressing against the sofa cushion.

“...Baki...”

Dazai's gaze settles on him. There is something different about his voice this time.

The usual irritation isn't there. Neither is the anger from their first meeting. He sounds almost hopeful, the single name leaving his lips with a softness that seems completely out of place on the same man who had punched him for attempting to cook breakfast.

Dazai doesn't know who Baki is.

A friend, perhaps. A family member. Someone important enough to appear in a drunken dream. He considers asking, but decides against it.

The stranger's eyes remain closed, his breathing gradually settling as sleep pulls him back under. Within seconds, he is curled against the sofa again, seemingly unaware that Dazai is still sitting on the floor a few feet away.

Dazai retrieves his phone and checks the screen.

12:07 a.m.

Seven minutes. That's all it has taken for his quiet evening to become strange again.

He looks at the redhead. Then at the wine bottle resting against the coffee table. Then at the open window.

Dazai sighs. Perhaps he should start keeping a record. Not for the police, necessarily. Just for himself.

A notebook, perhaps.

The Redhead at Midnight. 

It has a certain ring to it. Dazai almost smiles at the thought. Then the stranger mumbles something else in his sleep.

Dazai pauses. He can't make out the words this time. For some reason, he finds himself listening anyway.

—

The redhead wakes earlier than Dazai expects.

To be fair, Dazai hasn't slept at all.

The night has passed in a blur of discarded pages, half-finished sentences, and cups of instant coffee that have long since gone cold before he remembers to drink them. 

He has spent hours sitting at his desk, writing the same story in different forms only to tear it apart again, unable to identify the precise thing that is missing. There is a story somewhere in his head. He knows it is there. He can almost see the shape of it, almost grasp the thread that might pull everything together, but every time he reaches for it, it slips just beyond his fingertips.

Dazai refuses to call it a proper story until he is satisfied with it.

Unfortunately, satisfaction has become rather difficult to achieve lately.

By the time the sky outside begins to pale, he has abandoned his desk and moved to the spare single sofa beside the balcony. His reading glasses rest low on his nose, one hand wrapped around a fresh cup of coffee while the other holds several pages of his manuscript. He reads the same paragraph for perhaps the sixth time without absorbing a single word.

His attention drifts toward the kitchen. He should probably make breakfast. 

Not that he trusts himself anywhere near the stove after yesterday's incident. Perhaps something simple.

Toast, maybe.

There is a bakery in town. He could walk there. It would be considerably safer than attempting to cook again, and judging by the amount of alcohol the redhead has consumed over the past night, food might be the least Dazai can offer him before sending him on his way.

He turns another page.

A low groan comes from the living room.

His eyes lift.

The redhead shifts beneath the blanket, one hand slowly rising to clutch his forehead. His face twists with pain before he makes another miserable sound, rolling onto his back and squeezing his eyes shut as though doing so might somehow make the headache disappear.

Dazai watches quietly over the rim of his coffee cup. 

It seems the effects of last night's wine have arrived in full. The stranger groans again. Then again. Dazai considers offering him painkillers, but he decides against it. The man might punch him if he's within reach.

After several minutes of what Dazai can only assume is an internal battle between consciousness and regret, the redhead finally opens his eyes.

Blue. Bright, even through the exhaustion. 

They wander across the room without focus before eventually settling on Dazai. There is a long silence. The stranger stares so Dazai lowers his coffee.

“Good morning~”

The response is immediate.

“...You.”

Dazai smiles faintly.

“Yes. Me.”

The redhead's brows draw together as he pushes himself upright. The movement is clearly a mistake. His expression twists almost instantly, and he presses a hand against his temple while muttering something under his breath that Dazai suspects is not particularly polite.

Dazai watches him with mild interest.

“Headache?” The glare he receives is answer enough. Dazai takes another sip of coffee. “Thought so.”

The redhead looks around. Slowly at first. Then more carefully.

His gaze moves across the living room, taking in the unfamiliar furniture, the boxes that still haven't been unpacked, the books stacked haphazardly near the wall. There is a brief flicker of confusion in his expression, followed by something closer to alarm.

“...What am I doing here?”

Dazai considers the question.

“Excellent question.”

The redhead's eyes narrow. Dazai waits for a remark but nothing follows. Apparently, he is the one expected to provide the answer.

“You came through the window,” Dazai eventually explains.

The stranger's face goes blank.

“Again.”

The silence that follows is almost impressive. “Again?”

Dazai nods. The redhead looks toward the balcony doors. Then toward the window.

“...I did that?”

“Unless I have developed a habit of carrying unconscious redheads into my apartment, yes.”

The stranger looks deeply offended by the possibility. Dazai finds himself wondering whether he should mention that the man had called for someone named Baki during the night.

He decides to wait. There are more immediate questions.

For instance-

“What should I call you?”

The redhead's eyes flick toward him. Dazai smiles pleasantly.

“Your name, preferably. Calling you ‘the mysterious redhead’ is becoming rather inconvenient.”

The stranger says nothing. Dazai waits but the redhead continues staring.

“Not even a first name?”

Dazai takes a slow sip of coffee. He has never been particularly bothered by silence, and apparently neither is the stranger, although his expression suggests that he would be perfectly happy if Dazai disappeared from the room altogether.

Eventually, the redhead looks away. So Dazai doesn't ask again.

Instead, he watches as the man gets to his feet.

He's unsteady at first, one hand catching the edge of the sofa for support. His clothes are still rumpled from the night before, and his red hair is sticking out in every possible direction. He looks nothing like someone who should be capable of climbing four floors through a window.

Then again, Dazai is beginning to suspect that appearances are not particularly reliable where this man is concerned.

The stranger takes a few steps toward the entrance.

Dazai expects him to leave. He almost does. But then the man's gaze shifts. He stops beside the window. For a moment, he simply stands there.

Dazai follows his line of sight. There is nothing remarkable there. Only the window, the balcony beyond it, and the quiet morning stretching over the unfamiliar countryside.

Yet something changes in the stranger's expression. The irritation disappears. So does the lingering confusion.

His blue eyes settle on the corner beside the window with an emotion Dazai cannot quite name. It isn't fear. It isn't anger. There is something softer beneath it, something almost painful, but it vanishes so quickly that Dazai wonders if he has imagined it.

The stranger reaches toward the window frame. His fingers stop just short of touching it. Then he pulls his hand back.

Dazai says nothing. He has the sudden feeling that whatever the redhead is looking at has nothing to do with him. Whatever this apartment means to the stranger, it is clearly something Dazai isn't supposed to understand yet.

The redhead finally turns away. He walks toward the door without another word.

Dazai doesn't stop him.

He doesn't ask where he is going, why he keeps returning, or why he insists on entering through the window when there is a perfectly functional front door a few meters away. He simply watches as the stranger opens the door and disappears into the morning.

The lock clicks softly behind him and the silence returns.

Dazai remains on the sofa, coffee cooling between his hands. For a moment, he considers going back to his manuscript. Instead, his eyes drift toward the window. The redhead has left without giving him a name.

He still doesn't know where the man lives, why he keeps coming here, or what exactly he sees whenever he looks at that particular corner of the apartment.

Dazai should probably find the whole situation irritating. But strangely, he doesn't. There is only a quiet certainty settling somewhere in the back of his mind. He has no reason to believe the redhead will return.

And yet, somehow, Dazai already knows he will.

Perhaps it is intuition. Perhaps it is curiosity. Or perhaps, for once, Dazai simply has the feeling that fate has decided to interfere with his life.

Either way, he has a feeling this isn't the last time he will see the mysterious redhead.

—

Their third meeting comes earlier than expected.

Dazai had just finished a late phone call with Kunikida, who, despite being several prefectures away, somehow managed to make his displeasure sound as though he is standing directly beside Dazai's desk. 

His manager had spent the better part of the conversation attempting to convince him to attend at least one of the book-signing events his publisher had been arranging, reminding him that his fans have been asking for a chance to meet him in person for years.

Dazai refused, as usual.

Book signings require far too much energy for very little reward. He is expected to shake hands, smile for photographs, answer the same questions about his novels over and over again, sign hundreds of copies of books he has already forgotten writing, and spend several hours surrounded by people. 

None of those activities appeal to him, and the fact that Kunikida continues to insist that they are good for his career only makes them less appealing.

Eventually, Kunikida sighed so loudly that Dazai held the phone away from his ear.

Now, finally, the apartment is quiet again.

Dazai was about to slip his phone into his pocket as he begin walking toward his study, already thinking about the manuscript waiting for him, when his foot catches something lying across the floor.

A shoe.

He stumbles and his phone slips from his hand. There is a sharp crack against the wooden floor that made Dazai freeze.

He looks down. The screen is facing the ceiling. A thin fracture has appeared across the glass.

“Ah.”

Wonderful.

He crouches to pick it up, already considering whether he can convince Kunikida that this is somehow his fault, when a quiet sound reaches him from somewhere nearby.

A hiccup. Followed by a sniffle.

Dazai's hand stops. He slowly raises his head.

There, tucked into the far corner of the living room, is the redhead.

Again.

This time, however, he hasn't collapsed in the middle of the floor or fallen asleep on the couch. He is sitting with his back against the wall, knees drawn tightly toward his chest and his face buried between them. His shoulders shake every few seconds, and another muffled hiccup escapes him before he hurriedly wipes his face against his sleeve.

Dazai stands still. For a few seconds, he doesn't know what to do. The sight is difficult to look at.

Not because there is anything particularly dramatic about it. There are no loud sobs, no desperate cries, nothing that demands immediate intervention. The redhead seems determined to make himself as small and unnoticed as possible, as though the corner of the room is the only place where he can allow whatever he is feeling to exist.

Dazai knows that look.

Perhaps not personally. But well enough.

There are moments when people don't want to be asked what's wrong. They don't want advice, sympathy, or someone hovering over them with concerned questions they aren't prepared to answer. Sometimes all a person wants is a quiet corner where nobody expects anything from them.

Dazai understands that.

So he says nothing.

He picks up his cracked phone, retrieves the abandoned shoe, and quietly leaves the room. He doesn't ask how the redhead got inside this time. He doesn't ask what happened. He doesn't even ask whether he needs anything.

He simply gives him the same thing Dazai himself has been seeking since moving here.

Silence.

By morning, Dazai nearly forgot about the incident.

Nearly.

He is standing in the kitchen with an egg in one hand and a chopstick in the other, staring suspiciously at the frying pan when a familiar voice comes from the doorway.

“Don't. Even. Think. About. It.”

Dazai stops midway through cracking the egg. Slowly, he turns his head.

The redhead is standing in the doorway.

He looks considerably more composed than he did the night before, although the faint shadows beneath his eyes and the way he keeps rubbing his temple suggest that the hangover has not been particularly merciful. His arms are crossed over his chest, his brows are knitted together, and he is staring at Dazai as though he has just caught him attempting to commit a felony.

Dazai looks at the egg. Then at the redhead. “I haven't done anything yet.”

“You're about to cook.”

“Yes.”

“You nearly burned down the kitchen last time.”

Dazai considers this. “That is a somewhat exaggerated interpretation of events.”

The redhead closes his eyes. Dazai thinks he might be counting to ten. When he opens them again, he marches directly toward Dazai.

“Scoot over.”

Dazai obediently moves aside. The redhead takes the egg from his hand, plucks the chopstick from his fingers, and takes over the stove without another word.

Dazai watches.

The transformation is immediate.

Whatever hostility the man has displayed since their first meeting seems to disappear the moment his hands touch the cooking utensils. He cracks another egg with practiced ease, adds it to the pan, adjusts the heat, and moves with the sort of confidence that suggests he has done this countless times before.

Dazai slowly lowers himself into one of the kitchen chairs.

At least he doesn't punch him. That's progress.

He rests his cheek against one hand and watches the stranger cook. There is something oddly domestic about the scene. Dazai isn't sure why the thought occurs to him.

Perhaps because the redhead looks completely at home in the kitchen despite being a stranger in every other sense of the word. He knows exactly where to stand, how much heat to use, when to turn the egg, and which cupboard to open without asking.

It is almost as though the kitchen remembers him.

Dazai finds himself studying him more closely.

“Good morning, grumpy.”

The man's shoulders stiffen. 

“Don't call me that.”

Dazai smiles. “Unless you give me your name, I'll call you whatever I think of.”

The glare he receives is considerably sharper than the previous one. Dazai takes it as encouragement.

The redhead flips the egg with effortless precision and Dazai begins clapping.

The man turns around glaring at him before he returns his attention to the stove, muttering something under his breath that Dazai doesn't quite catch.

“You have any tea?”

Dazai looks toward the cabinets. 

“I think I do.” He gets up and walks toward the boxes stacked in the corner of the kitchen. After a brief search, he finds three different boxes and brings them over.

“Go make some.” The redhead doesn't even turn around.

Dazai looks at him. Apparently, he has been promoted from owner of the apartment to kitchen assistant.

“Grumpy, which one do you like?”

“Don't call me that!”

“Grumpy~”

The spatula stops moving. There is a long, dangerous silence. Then the redhead finally turns around.

“It's Chuuya, okay!”

Dazai blinks. There it is. A name.

He looks at the stranger, Chuuya, more carefully.

“Chuuya.”

The name fits him somehow. Short. Sharp. Easy to say.

“Cute.”

Chuuya's eyes narrow. “I'll punch you.”

Dazai ignores the threat and looks back down at the three boxes of tea.

Since Chuuya has apparently decided that choosing is beneath him, Dazai selects one at random and begins preparing it.

“I'm Dazai Osamu, by the way.” Dazai pauses. “Although I prefer being addressed as the Great Dazai Osamu.”

Chuuya looks over his shoulder. There is absolutely no admiration in his expression.

“Fine.” He turns back to the stove. “I'll call you Dipshit.”

Dazai smiles into his tea.

For the first time in a very long while, breakfast doesn't feel boring.

Dazai thinks it is nice to finally have a proper conversation with the redhead.

Or, at least, what passes for a proper conversation when only one person is answering questions.

Chuuya spends most of the morning gathering his belongings from wherever they have ended up after last night's drunken wandering. One shoe is beneath the coffee table, the other has somehow found its way beside the balcony door, and his coat is crumpled on the floor near the sofa. 

There is an empty wine bottle beneath one of the chairs that Dazai doesn't remember seeing earlier, although at this point he has learned not to question how far the redhead's drunkenness extends.

Chuuya, for his part, refuses to explain any of it.

Every question Dazai asks about him is met with either a vague answer, a glare, or a remarkably efficient change of subject.

Where does he live?

“Somewhere around here.”

Why does he keep coming back?

“I don't.”

Why does he come through the window?

“I don't remember.”

Is he always this stubborn?

“Shut up.”

Dazai eventually gives up.

It doesn't bother him particularly. If anything, there is something amusing about how easily Chuuya turns the conversation around whenever it threatens to become personal. He asks Dazai where he came from, why he moved here, how long he has lived alone, whether he actually cooks his own food, and why there are so many books scattered around the apartment.

Dazai answers most of them because there isn't much to hide.

His life is remarkably uneventful when stripped of the things other people seem to find impressive about it. He writes. He sleeps when he remembers to. He drinks coffee. He occasionally travels when his publisher forces him to attend some event he doesn't want to attend. He has spent enough years watching people become interested in him because of his name that he has long since stopped finding it interesting himself.

Compared to the mystery sitting on his sofa, Dazai's life feels almost embarrassingly ordinary.

“You mean, you write novels?”

Chuuya says it while crouching beside the coffee table, fishing his wallet out from beneath it.

Dazai looks over.

“That's what I've been told.”

Chuuya straightens and glances toward the bookshelf.

There are only a few books displayed there at the moment, most of the shelves still empty. The majority of Dazai's collection remains packed away in boxes scattered throughout the apartment, waiting for him to decide where he wants them. 

He hasn't bothered unpacking everything yet. He has discovered that living among unopened boxes is surprisingly convenient. Whenever something goes missing, there is always a chance it is hiding somewhere inside one of them.

“You're a writer?”

“Mm.”

“What kind?”

Dazai shrugs. “The boring kind.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes and turns back toward the sofa.

Dazai watches him straighten the blanket he slept beneath, folding it with considerably more care than Dazai expects. There is something strange about seeing him like this. The redhead is still rough around the edges, still quick to glare whenever Dazai says something remotely irritating, but without the alcohol clouding his judgment, he seems considerably more ordinary.

Not boring.

Dazai catches himself thinking that and immediately dismisses it. He doesn't know enough about Chuuya to make that judgment. Besides, ordinary is not necessarily a bad thing.

“Do you like my books?”

The question slips out before Dazai thinks much about it.

Chuuya pauses. He looks toward the shelf again.

“I haven't read them.”

“Ah.”

Dazai isn't disappointed. At least, he doesn't think he is. He walks over to the sofa and picks up the pillow Chuuya has nearly kicked onto the floor, placing it neatly against the armrest.

“You don't seem very impressed.”

“I don't know you.”

“That's fair.”

Chuuya gives him a brief look. Dazai realizes he has said something that has made the other man pause again.

Perhaps because it is true. They don't know each other.

Dazai knows Chuuya's name now. He knows that Chuuya drinks too much, hates being called grumpy, cooks better than Dazai ever will, and has a habit of looking toward the window as though expecting to find something there.

That's about it.

Everything else remains behind a locked door that Chuuya clearly has no intention of opening.

Dazai doesn't mind.

For now, it is enough to know the small things.

Chuuya finishes collecting his belongings and checks his pockets one last time before heading toward the entrance. Dazai follows him only far enough to lean against the wall beside the doorway.

The redhead slips his shoes on.

Neither says anything. For a moment, Dazai expects him to leave without another word.

When Chuuya reaches for the doorknob, he pauses. His shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, as though he is reconsidering something. Finally, without turning around, he mutters,

“...Thanks.”

Dazai blinks. “For?”

There is another pause.

“The breakfast.” His voice is quiet enough that Dazai almost misses it. Then Chuuya opens the door.

Dazai watches him step outside. The door is already halfway closed when Chuuya adds, even quieter,

"I won't come back."

And then he's gone. The lock clicks.

Dazai remains where he is for a moment. His gaze falls toward the kitchen. The pan is still sitting in the sink. The tea Chuuya chose remains on the counter. There are crumbs on the table and a faint smell of fried eggs and toasted bread lingering in the apartment.

It is nothing remarkable. Just breakfast. Yet Dazai finds himself staring at the empty doorway longer than necessary.

Then he quietly returns to his study.

His manuscript is still waiting where he left it. The same unfinished chapter. The same blank space. The same story that refuses to become what he wants it to be.

Dazai sits down. He picks up his pen. For several seconds, nothing happens. Then, without quite knowing why, he begins to write.

—

Maybe it's because the redhead pointed it out the last time he was here.

Maybe it's because, for a brief moment, Chuuya looked genuinely interested when he learned that Dazai writes novels.

Dazai isn't entirely sure.

He only knows that, weeks later, he finds himself standing in the middle of his living room with a cardboard box at his feet and a half-unpacked stack of books in his arms. He has no particular reason to start organizing the apartment. He has never been bothered by disorder, and there is something almost convenient about knowing that everything he owns is still hidden somewhere inside a box. If he needs something, he can simply search until he finds it.

Besides, he has more important things to occupy himself with.

Or, rather, he should.

His manuscript sits untouched on his desk.

Every time Dazai picks up his pen, his mind offers him nothing worth putting on paper. He has tried changing the plot, rewriting the opening, abandoning the entire thing and starting again. None of it works. The story remains stubbornly incomplete, its missing piece refusing to reveal itself no matter how long he stares at the page.

So, with nothing better to do, Dazai decides to unpack.

One box becomes two.

Books find their places on the shelves. Clothes are folded into drawers. A few decorative pieces that Kunikida insisted he bring are placed around the apartment, although Dazai isn't particularly convinced that any of them improve the place. The work is mindless enough that he doesn't have to think about his manuscript, and perhaps that is precisely why he keeps going.

By late afternoon, the apartment finally begins to look lived in.

Dazai is reaching for another box when something catches his attention.

It is tucked beneath the large wall clock in the living room, partially hidden behind the frame and covered in a thin layer of dust.

A photograph.

Dazai pulls it free. He doesn't remember packing it.

For a moment, he assumes Kunikida has somehow slipped another item into one of his boxes without telling him, but the photograph is too old and too worn to belong to any of Dazai's belongings. He turns it over, finding nothing written on the back.

Then he looks at the front.

He recognizes the face immediately. The redhead. Chuuya. Only younger.

Much younger, judging by the roundness of his face and the way his bright smile reveals a missing tooth. He stands in front of a tall pine tree somewhere that certainly doesn't look like the countryside surrounding Dazai's new home, his arms wrapped around a small kitten as though the creature is the most precious thing in the world.

Dazai studies the photograph for a little longer.

He wonders how old Chuuya is here. Fourteen, perhaps. There is something strange about seeing him like this.

The Chuuya Dazai knows is loud, irritable, stubborn, and perpetually one poorly chosen word away from threatening violence. The boy in the photograph looks nothing like him.

Just a piece of someone's life that has somehow been left behind in an apartment that no longer belongs to its former occupant.

Dazai could throw it away since it isn't his.

Instead, he carefully slips the photograph between two of his books and places them back on the shelf.

Chuuya did say he won't come back. That there will be no next time. And perhaps he means it.

Nearly three weeks have passed since their last encounter, after all. Dazai had returned to his usual routine, although the apartment feels strangely different now that it has been properly unpacked. The silence is still there. The countryside remains quiet. His manuscript is still refusing to cooperate.

Nothing has really changed.

Except that, every now and then, Dazai catches himself glancing toward the window. He tells himself it is nothing. 

Perhaps he is simply remembering the peculiar circumstances of their first meeting. Perhaps he is curious whether Chuuya has finally learned how to use a front door. Perhaps he is only wondering if the man is all right.

There is no reason to expect him to return. And yet Dazai keeps the photograph. Just in case.

He isn't sure what he expects fate to do with such a small gesture.

But if fate decides to play her game once again, Dazai thinks it would be rather rude to be unprepared.

—

Dazai barely stepped out of Kunikida's car when the man starts talking again.

Something about deadlines and meetings.

After an entire day spent proofreading manuscripts and sitting through meetings at the publishing office, Dazai stopped listening somewhere around the third lecture about his refusal to attend promotional events. His attempts to convince the editors that online meetings are perfectly functional have been rejected with impressive efficiency, forcing him to make the trip into the city himself.

He is tired.

Not the kind of tired that makes him want to sleep, unfortunately. Just the kind that makes every word spoken to him feel like unnecessary background noise.

It is nearly midnight by the time Kunikida pulls the car to a stop outside Dazai's apartment building, and Dazai is already reaching for the door when a loud rustling from above catches their attention.

Both men stop.

Kunikida looks up and Dazai follows his gaze.

Three floors above them, a figure is climbing toward the fourth floor with an alarming lack of concern for gravity. The silhouette moves carefully but confidently, fingers finding the edges of the building with practiced ease as the person pulls himself upward, apparently completely comfortable with the fact that one wrong step would send him tumbling several stories down.

Dazai watches in silence as the figure reaches the balcony. Then climbs over the railing before disappearing through the window.

Kunikida's expression immediately turns horrified.

“He's entering your apartment!”

Dazai stares upward for another second.

Then laughter escapes him.

It starts quietly, but once the absurdity of the situation fully settles in, he can't help himself. Of all the things he expects to encounter after a long day at the publishing office, finding his mysterious redheaded acquaintance scaling the side of his building is certainly not one of them.

Kunikida turns toward him.

“What's so funny?!”

“Don't worry, Kunikida-kun.” Dazai slips his hands into his coat pockets and starts toward the entrance. “I know that person.”

“You know him?!”

Dazai raises one hand in a lazy wave. “Good night~"

“Dazai!” Kunikida's voice follows him into the building but Dazai doesn't bother turning around.

He can already imagine the questions his secretary is preparing to ask, and none of them are questions he particularly wants to answer. Explaining Chuuya would inevitably lead to explaining why Chuuya keeps entering his apartment through the window, which would then lead to the much more embarrassing question of why Dazai has somehow accepted this behavior without doing anything about it.

He isn't prepared to defend himself.

Besides, Chuuya is already inside.

By the time Dazai reaches his apartment, he isn't surprised to find the door unlocked. He steps inside. The living room is dark, illuminated only by the faint light filtering through the windows. For a moment, he expects to find Chuuya unconscious on the floor again. Or perhaps curled up on the sofa.

Instead, the redhead is standing in the middle of the room. Awake.

Dazai paused.

Chuuya looks different tonight.

His hair is disheveled, the red strands sticking out messily around his face, and there is a faint flush across his cheeks that tells Dazai he has been drinking again. Yet he isn't stumbling aimlessly around the apartment. He's simply standing there, staring directly at Dazai as though he has been waiting for him to come home.

Dazai closes the door behind himself.

“You good?”

Chuuya doesn't answer. His blue eyes remain fixed on Dazai. Then he starts walking toward him. Slowly and carefully.

His steps aren't particularly steady. He catches his foot against the edge of the carpet once, nearly loses his balance, and steadies himself against the wall before continuing. Dazai instinctively takes half a step forward, prepared to catch him if necessary, but Chuuya manages to recover on his own.

He continues walking, step by step until there is barely any distance between them.

Dazai looks down at him.

“Chuuya?”

The redhead raises a hand. His fingers settle against Dazai's cheek. Dazai freezes.

The touch is unexpectedly gentle. There is no punch. No insult. No irritated glare. Only trembling fingers resting against his skin as Chuuya studies his face with an expression Dazai has never seen before.

His blue eyes soften. His lips part.

“You look so much like him...”

The words are barely audible but enough to make Dazai stop breathing.

For a moment, the apartment seems completely silent.

He can feel Chuuya's fingers against his cheek, warm despite the slight tremor running through them. His gaze moves slowly across Dazai's face, lingering around his eyes before drifting upward toward his hair, which is undoubtedly a complete mess after an entire day of running his hands through it.

Dazai has no idea what Chuuya sees. But he thinks he understands what the man means.

Someone.

There is someone Chuuya misses. Someone whose face Dazai resembles enough to hurt. The thought settles heavily in his chest. He has never considered himself particularly memorable. His appearance is ordinary enough, his personality considerably less pleasant than most people would prefer, and his reputation has always been tied more closely to his writing than anything else.

Yet Chuuya is looking at him as though he has found a ghost.

Dazai doesn't know who this person is. He doesn't know what happened to him. He doesn't know why Chuuya keeps returning to this apartment whenever he drinks too much.

But suddenly, the tears from their first meeting make a little more sense. So does the way Chuuya sometimes stares into empty corners. The way his expression changes whenever he thinks nobody is watching.

The name he whispers in his sleep.

Dazai almost asks.

Who? 

The question reached the back of his throat yet he doesn't let it out. Something about Chuuya's expression stops him.

For once, Dazai doesn't want an answer simply because he's curious. He wants to give the other man a moment where he doesn't have to explain himself.

Chuuya's fingers remain against his cheek for another second before slowly falling away.

Dazai watches him carefully.

There is something painfully familiar about the expression on his face, although Dazai can't quite place it.

Grief, perhaps.

The kind that doesn't disappear simply because enough time has passed. 

Dazai has always thought grief belonged to people who had lost someone. Now, looking at Chuuya, he wonders what kind of loss could make a person return to a place that no longer belongs to them.

He doesn't know. Not yet. All he knows is that someone is missing from Chuuya's life.

And for reasons Dazai can't explain, Chuuya seems to have found a small piece of that person standing right in front of him.

He looks at the redhead.

And for once, he doesn't feel the need to fill the silence.

—

When Dazai wakes up, he expected to find Chuuya on the sofa.

Instead, there is nothing.

The blanket has been folded neatly over the armrest, the wine bottle from last night is gone, and the apartment is once again exactly as quiet as it is supposed to be. Dazai stares at the empty sofa for a few seconds, still half-asleep, before glancing toward the window.

The redhead must have woken up early and decided to leave without waiting for him.

Dazai shrugs.

He stopped being surprised by Chuuya's strange entrances and even stranger exits.

There is coffee to make, pages to finish, and another day of wrestling with a story that refuses to cooperate. Those things should be enough to occupy his mind, and for the most part, they are.

Almost.

Every now and then, as Dazai sits at his desk with his pen hovering above another empty page, his thoughts drift unwillingly back to the previous night.

The hand against his cheek. The quiet voice.

You look so much like him. 

And those blue eyes.

Dazai still doesn't know who Chuuya is talking about, but he knows what loss looks like when he sees it. He doesn't particularly enjoy the feeling it leaves behind.

So he pushes it aside.

He turns back to his manuscript, dips his pen into the ink, and stares at the blank page.

For now, the mysterious redhead is gone. And Dazai has a story to finish.

—

Chuuya moves back and forth in front of the apartment door, increasingly irritated with himself for not being able to make up his mind. 

This is stupid. 

God, what is wrong with him? He is twenty-five years old. A grown man who has somehow managed to graduate veterinary school and survive years of studying, exams, clinical work, and everything else that came with it. 

Yet here he is acting like some rebellious teenager with an identity crisis, pacing across the hallway in front of an apartment that isn't even his anymore. 

He should have left hours ago. 

He should have gone home, answered the increasingly persistent calls on his phone, and pretended that this ridiculous impulse to return here had never happened. 

Instead, he remains standing there, staring at the door as though it might somehow explain why he keeps finding himself drawn back to a place he has already decided to leave behind.

His phone vibrates inside his pocket again, and Chuuya doesn't even need to look at the screen to know who it might be. 

It is either Paul or Arthur, and judging by the number of missed calls already waiting for him, his dads have probably heard about his recent nightly adventures through his cousin, Tachihara. 

That snitch. 

Chuuya can already imagine the questions waiting for him if he answers the call, and he has absolutely no desire to explain why he has been disappearing at odd hours or why someone apparently saw him climbing the side of a building in the middle of the night.

The worst part is that he doesn't even have a good explanation for himself. 

The first few times, he had at least been drunk enough to blame everything on the alcohol. But today there is no such excuse. He isn't drunk, he isn't confused, and he isn't even particularly tired. 

He simply woke up with the inexplicable urge to come here, followed it without thinking, and has spent the past hour standing outside his old apartment wondering what exactly he expects to find.

There is nothing left for him here.

The thought should be comforting.

Instead, it leaves an uncomfortable emptiness in his chest.

Chuuya looks at the door one last time before finally deciding that he has wasted enough of his afternoon. 

He turns away from the entrance, ready to walk toward the street and put some distance between himself and the place, when the apartment door swings open behind him. He doesn't even get the chance to look before a familiar voice reaches him.

“Chuuya?”

His steps stop immediately.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Chuuya turns around and finds Dazai standing in the doorway, looking as though he has just dragged himself out of bed. His hair is messy, his clothes are crumpled, and there is something about the entire picture that makes Chuuya wonder, once again, how someone who looks this suspicious can possibly make a living writing novels instead of doing something illegal. 

Dazai stares at him for a moment, and Chuuya suddenly becomes painfully aware of the fact that he is standing outside the man's apartment with absolutely no explanation for his presence.

“Hi...” he manages.

It is possibly the worst greeting he could have chosen.

He should turn around and leave. 

He should come up with some excuse about being in the neighborhood, although that would be a terrible lie considering he has been standing directly outside the very front of the apartment for an embarrassing amount of time. 

He should at least pretend that this encounter is accidental, but instead of doing any of those things, he finds himself walking toward Dazai. Drawn forward by some impulse he doesn't quite understand. 

Dazai doesn't ask what he is doing there. He doesn't question why Chuuya has returned after insisting there would be no next time, nor does he look particularly surprised to see him. He simply takes a step backward and opens the door a little wider.

“Come in.”

Chuuya hesitates.

There is something almost ridiculous about how easily Dazai says it, as though Chuuya hasn't repeatedly broken into his apartment through a fourth-floor window and caused more than enough trouble already. 

He should probably be grateful that the man hasn't changed the locks, but instead he finds himself stepping across the threshold.

The familiar smell of the apartment reaches him immediately, although it is mixed now with things that weren't there before: coffee, paper, the faint scent of whatever detergent Dazai uses, and the unmistakable presence of someone else living in a place that once belonged entirely to him. 

Chuuya tries not to think about that. 

He walks toward the sofa and sits down, allowing himself to sink into the corner while Dazai closes the door behind him. His eyes wander around the room almost despite his efforts, taking in the changes he has already noticed from outside, and eventually they settle on the corner near the window.

He stares at it.

He doesn't mean to.

His gaze simply stays there, fixed on the empty space while memories he has spent weeks trying not to touch begin creeping into the edges of his thoughts. The room looks different now, but there are still certain angles that haven't changed, certain places where his mind insists on filling in what is no longer there. 

Chuuya's fingers curl against the fabric of his trousers, and he forces himself to look away before the ache in his chest becomes something he can no longer ignore.

He has no idea how long he sits there before something lands on his lap.

Chuuya startles and looks down to find a book.

When he looks back up, Dazai is standing a few feet away with the most annoyingly casual expression imaginable.

“I've decided to take you hostage,” Dazai announces.

Chuuya stares at him.

“What?”

“The only way you're allowed to escape this room is by finishing that.” Dazai gestures toward the book as though this is the most reasonable arrangement in the world, and Chuuya immediately rolls his eyes.

“You're an idiot.”

“Possibly, but you're still holding the book.”

“I'm leaving.”

“Not until you've at least finished the first chapter.”

Chuuya opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again when he realizes Dazai has already turned away. 

There is no interrogation waiting for him, no demand for an explanation, and no attempt to pry into whatever brought him here. Dazai seems perfectly content to leave him sitting on the sofa with a book and allow him to decide what he wants to do next.

Chuuya looks down at the cover.

He hasn't read a novel in a long time. Veterinary school had consumed most of his life for years, leaving little room for anything that wasn't studying, working, sleeping, or desperately trying to catch up on everything he had missed while buried beneath textbooks. 

Reading for pleasure had gradually disappeared from his routine until he barely remembered what it felt like to pick up a book without expecting an exam question to appear somewhere inside it.

“What is this?” he asks.

“A great book.”

“That tells me absolutely nothing.”

“It's written by a very talented author.”

Chuuya gives him a suspicious look. “Of course you'd say that.”

Dazai merely smiles before turning toward the hallway. “Just read it.”

Chuuya looks down again, turning the book over in his hands. His eyes move toward the author's name, and the moment he sees it, his expression goes flat.

Dazai Osamu. 

He slowly raises his head and sees Dazai already halfway toward the study.

“You're kidding.”

The novelist glances back at him. “Not at all.”

“You gave me your own book?”

“I gave you a great book.”

“You're a narcissist.”

Dazai's smile widens. “That seems unnecessarily harsh.”

Chuuya watches him disappear into the study, muttering something under his breath before looking down at the book again. He should put it aside. He should probably leave altogether. Instead, curiosity wins out, and he opens the first page.

The writing is better than he expects.

That annoys him.

He reads another page, then another, gradually becoming absorbed despite himself. He doesn't notice when Dazai stops moving around in the hallway, nor does he look up when the novelist retreats fully into his study and leaves the door slightly open behind him. 

The apartment settles into a quiet rhythm around him, filled only by the faint sounds of paper shifting somewhere in the next room and the occasional scratch of a pen against a page.

Chuuya sits alone on the sofa, surrounded by a silence that should feel unfamiliar now that someone else owns the place.

Instead, somehow, it feels almost like coming home.

He lowers his eyes to the book and continues reading, allowing the story to pull his attention somewhere else for a while, while behind the half-open study door, Dazai quietly begins writing again.

— 

By the time Dazai finishes writing, he finds himself surprisingly satisfied with what is sitting in front of him. 

It isn't the best thing he has ever written, and he knows better than to pretend otherwise, but there is finally a structure to the story that had been frustrating him for months. 

A few chapters have taken shape, the characters are beginning to feel less like names on a page, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he can look at his manuscript without immediately wanting to throw it across the room. 

Perhaps it will become something worthwhile eventually. 

Perhaps it won't. 

For now, it is enough that there is finally something there.

He pushes his chair back and gets to his feet, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders before making his way toward the kitchen. He is halfway across the living room when something catches his attention.

The sofa isn't empty.

Dazai stops. He had completely forgotten that Chuuya was still there.

The redhead is curled into one corner of the sofa, apparently having fallen asleep while reading. One hand is still resting on the open book in his lap, his fingers loosely curled around the edge of the page as though he had intended to finish the chapter before sleep caught up with him. 

Dazai glances at the book and realizes that Chuuya has managed to read nearly the entire thing. 

He hadn't expected that.

Then again, Chuuya has a tendency to surprise him.

As though sensing the attention, Chuuya stirs. His eyebrows draw together first, followed by a quiet shift of his shoulders before his eyes slowly open. For a few seconds, he looks completely disoriented, his gaze wandering around the room until it finally settles on Dazai standing in the middle of it.

“Dazai?” His voice is rough with sleep.

Dazai tilts his head. “Want some tea?”

Chuuya blinks at him several times as though considering whether the question is worth answering, then eventually gives a sleepy nod and pushes himself upright. He takes a moment to collect the book before placing it carefully on the sofa, then follows Dazai toward the kitchen in slow, reluctant steps that make him look considerably less intimidating than usual.

Dazai begins preparing the coffee without thinking much about it. He reaches for the kettle, fills it, and sets it down while Chuuya leans against the counter, still looking like he hasn't fully returned to the world yet. 

The quiet is comfortable enough that Dazai doesn't feel obligated to fill it, and perhaps because his mind is no longer occupied with writing, his attention drifts toward the bookshelf.

The photograph.

He remembers it suddenly.

Without saying anything, Dazai walks toward the shelf and pulls the old photograph from between his books. He brings it back to the kitchen and holds it out.

“I found this while unpacking.”

Chuuya's eyes land on it.

The change in his expression is immediate.

Whatever sleepiness had remained on his face disappears, replaced by something Dazai can't quite identify. His fingers reach for the photograph almost cautiously, and for several seconds he doesn't say anything at all.

“Where did you find this?”

“Behind the wall clock.”

Chuuya looks down at the photograph.

His thumb traces the edge of it, careful not to touch the image itself. Dazai watches him in silence, noticing the way his expression has softened into something distant, almost painfully so.

“It was collecting dust,” Dazai adds. “I figured it belonged to you.”

Chuuya doesn't answer.

For a moment, Dazai wonders if he has said too much.

Then a phone begins ringing somewhere in the living room.

Chuuya looks up sharply.

The sound continues.

He pats his pockets before remembering that he left the phone on the sofa. He immediately walks out of the kitchen to retrieve it, but the moment he sees the screen and the caller ID, his expression changes again.

“Shit.” He looks toward Dazai. “What time is it?”

Dazai glances at the clock hanging above the kitchen doorway.

“Almost three.”

“Three?!” Chuuya's eyes widen.

He answers the call, but the ringing stops before he can even swipe across the screen. A string of missed calls fills the display instead.

“My dads are going to kill me.”

He shoves the photograph into his pocket and hurriedly grabs his coat, moving around the living room with considerably more urgency than he had shown when he first arrived. Dazai watches him struggle with one sleeve before finally managing to put it on properly.

“You're leaving?”

“Yes.”

“At three in the morning?” Dazai glances toward the window. The town is completely dark.

There are hardly any cars passing outside, and the nearest taxi stand is probably several kilometers away. Even if Chuuya manages to find one, there is no guarantee anyone will accept a trip this late at night.

Dazai sighs. “I'll drive you.”

Chuuya stops. “You?”

“Yes.”

“You have a car?”

“I own one.”

That's not a lie. Dazai does have a car, yet he rarely uses it.

Chuuya looks like he wants to argue, but after glancing toward the dark window, he apparently decides that finding a taxi at this hour is not worth the trouble.

“Fine.”

Dazai retrieves his keys from the kitchen counter.

He rarely drives these days. Kunikida has somehow become accustomed to transporting him everywhere, partly because Dazai prefers being driven and partly because Kunikida considers it his personal responsibility to prevent Dazai from making poor decisions behind the wheel. 

Still, the car is perfectly functional, and tonight seems like as good a time as any to remember where he parked it.

Once they are outside, Chuuya gives Dazai his address.

Dazai types it into his phone before glancing at the route. Then he looks at Chuuya. Then at the route again.

“That's far.”

“I know.”

Dazai starts the engine.

The drive out of town is quiet, the roads almost completely empty at this hour. Chuuya sits in the passenger seat with his arms folded, occasionally checking his phone as though hoping the missed calls have somehow disappeared.

Dazai keeps his eyes on the road.

Still, one thought refuses to leave him.

Chuuya's new home is nowhere near the apartment. Not even close.

It is far enough that Dazai can't help wondering how someone who lives there keeps finding his way back to a building on the other side of town, especially when he has been drunk enough on previous occasions to barely remember his own name.

The first time could have been coincidence. The second time could have been habit.

But this?

Dazai glances briefly at Chuuya.

The redhead is staring out the window, completely unaware of the question forming in Dazai's mind.

How exactly does Chuuya keep finding his way back?

Dazai doesn't ask.

Not yet.

He simply continues driving through the quiet streets, wondering whether there is something about this apartment that Chuuya hasn't told him.

Or perhaps something about Chuuya himself that Dazai has yet to understand.

—

Dazai doesn't exactly know what he expects when he offers Chuuya a ride home.

Perhaps a quick goodbye at the front door, maybe a reluctant thanks from the redhead before he disappears inside, and then Dazai can finally return to his apartment and sleep for the first time in what feels like several days. 

What he certainly doesn't expect is to find himself standing in front of a rather large house at nearly three in the morning, watching two worried-looking men hurry toward Chuuya the moment he steps out of the car.

“Chuuya!”

The first man reaches him almost immediately, hands landing on his shoulders as he looks him over from head to toe, checking for injuries with the efficiency of someone who has clearly done this before. 

The second man follows close behind, his expression softer but no less concerned, and for a brief moment Dazai almost feels like he has accidentally stumbled into a family reunion he was never invited to.

Then their attention shifts toward Dazai and the atmosphere immediately changes.

The blonde man studies him quietly.

He recognizes the look almost immediately. It isn't hostility, exactly, but there is a certain protective caution in his eyes that makes Dazai straighten slightly. He can see the resemblance now, particularly around the eyes and the slight furrow of the brows.

At least he knows where Chuuya gets his personality.

“Thank you for driving our son back,” the blonde man says eventually. His tone is polite, though Dazai suspects there is something else beneath it. “Would you care for a drink inside?”

“Dad, he's-”

“Arthur, dear,” the man interrupts calmly, turning toward the other father. “Kindly accompany Chuuya back to his room.”

Chuuya immediately looks at him. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me.”

“But-”

“Come along.” Arthur gives his husband a knowing look before gently ushering Chuuya toward the house. 

Chuuya glances over his shoulder at Dazai as he passes, his expression making it very clear that he knows exactly what is happening.

Dazai gives him an apologetic smile. He isn't entirely sure what else he can do.

Once Chuuya and Arthur disappear farther into the house, the blonde man gestures toward the living room.

“I am Paul Verlaine, Chuuya's father. Please come in."

Dazai follows him inside.

The house is surprisingly warm and homey, a sharp contrast to the minimalist apartment Dazai has been trying to turn into a place worth living in. Colorful wallpaper covers the walls, family photographs occupy nearly every available surface, and there are bookshelves filled with books that clearly haven't been arranged according to some interior designer's idea of aesthetic perfection. Everything looks lived-in, comfortable, and deeply personal.

Dazai finds himself liking it.

He also finds himself increasingly certain that this is going to be an interesting conversation.

They sit across from each other in the living room, Verlaine taking one side of the sofa while Dazai settles into the opposite chair. 

For a moment, neither speaks. Chuuya's father isn't glaring at him or behaving aggressively, but his attention is unmistakably focused on Dazai, as though he is quietly trying to figure out exactly what kind of person would drive his son home at three in the morning.

“How long have you known my son?”

“Around two months, sir.”

Verlaine's brows lift slightly. “Just around the time my son started going out and returning late.”

That made Dazai pause. He's beginning to suspect where this conversation will lead.

The man folds his hands together. “He's been behaving differently lately. Going out at night, coming home late, sometimes not coming home at all. When he does return, he's occasionally drunk.”

Dazai listens quietly.

“We've asked him what's going on,” He continues. “But he doesn't tell us. His cousin had been more forthcoming, although I'm not sure whether that is entirely because he wants to help or because he enjoys getting Chuuya into trouble.”

Dazai suspects the latter.

“We're not trying to control him,” Verlaine adds. “He's an adult. But it's difficult not to worry when your son suddenly starts disappearing at night and refuses to explain himself.”

“That is understandable.”

Verlaine studies him for another moment. “Which is why we began to wonder whether there is someone else.”

Dazai tilts his head. “Someone else?”

“A relationship.”

Dazai's eyebrows rise. Oh no.

“We've been thinking perhaps Chuuya had met someone and is keeping it from us. Someone who might be encouraging him to drink, stay out late, and generally make decisions he wouldn't normally make.”

Dazai has to resist the urge to look toward the hallway.

So that's what this is.

They think Chuuya had gotten himself a boyfriend. And somehow, Dazai was pulled into the investigation simply because he happened to be the one driving him home.

“He has nothing to do with it!" Chuuya's voice suddenly calls from somewhere down the hallway.

Verlaine doesn't even turn. “You're supposed to be in your room.”

“But I can perfectly hear you!”

“That isn't permission to listen.”

Dazai presses his lips together to keep himself from smiling. What an extremely entertaining family.

Chuuya's voice became more irritated and childish. He doesn't entirely sound mad, rather he sounds defensive.

“He has nothing to do with whatever I'm doing with my life!”

His father finally looks toward the hallway. “That's what you keep saying.”

“Because it's true! That guy is some random asshole I met who happens to own my old apartment!”

Dazai lifts a finger, he wants to say something about being called "asshole" but decides against it.

A muffled exchange follows, and he catches Arthur's softer voice attempting to calm Chuuya down. Verlaine sighs before returning his attention to Dazai.

“You understand our concern?”

“I do.”

“And you aren't offended by my asking?”

“Not at all, sir." 

Dazai had been accused of far stranger things. Although this is the most entertaining one.

Verlaine seems satisfied by the answer, though his expression remains thoughtful. He sits back slightly, studying Dazai with a calmness that somehow makes the conversation feel even more like an interview.

Then, after a moment, he finally asks the question that has clearly been waiting between them since Dazai stepped through the front door.

“Tell me, what's your name?”

Dazai straightens slightly.

“I'm Dazai Osamu, sir.”

The room goes silent.

Verlaine doesn't respond. He simply stares at Dazai for a few seconds, his expression changing so subtly that Dazai isn't entirely sure whether he's imagining it.

Then Verlaine asks, very calmly,

“Are you dating my son?”

Dazai blinks.

“No.” He pauses. “I'm actually exactly who Chuuya had mentioned. I'm the current owner of his previous apartment.”

There's silence again. This time, however, Dazai can practically see the pieces falling into place behind Verlaine's eyes.

The man looks toward the hallway, then back at Dazai. Then, finally, he exhales.

“I see.”

Dazai smiles faintly. “I imagine that clears up the misunderstanding.”

“Somewhat.” Verlaine rises from his seat. “Thank you for bringing my son home.”

“Of course.” Dazai stands as well.

Verlaine gives him one last measured look before nodding toward the entrance. “You should probably get some sleep.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea.”

As Dazai walks toward the door, he hears Chuuya's voice from somewhere down the hallway.

“Dad, I told you he's not my boyfriend!”

Dazai can't help the small smile that appears on his face. He has no idea what exactly Chuuya has been doing with his nights.

But apparently, whatever it is, his parents have been trying to solve the mystery too.