Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

December 23rd

Chuuya's POV

The countryside rolled past the passenger window in a blur of snow-covered fields and bare trees, but Chuuya barely noticed the scenery. His mind kept drifting back to the goodbye kiss and was already running in circles about how the brunette's winter break was going to unfold.

"So," his mother Fuku said from the driver's seat, her voice carefully casual in that way mothers had when they were fishing for information. "Anything new, sweetheart?"

Chuuya glanced at his father Kensuke in the passenger seat, who was trying very hard to appear absorbed in checking his phone but was clearly listening intently.

"Uhm? No... I mean, what do you mean?" Chuuya asked, a slight frown forming on his forehead.

In response, Fuku sighed dramatically, the kind of maternal sigh perfected over years of dealing with evasive children. "Oh, Chouchou, don't do that to your poor mother. Last I heard from Kouyou, Dazai was giving you quite a hard time, and now..." She gestured vaguely with one hand while keeping the other on the steering wheel. "Now you're kissing him goodbye in front of us like it's the most natural thing in the world."

Heat crept up Chuuya's neck and spread across his face, and suddenly he felt like he was fifteen again and being questioned about staying out past curfew. He'd been so focused on navigating his feelings for Dazai and supporting him through his struggles that he'd somehow failed to consider how the sudden shift from "difficult roommate" to "somewhat boyfriend" would look to his parents.

"It's... we're trying to figure things out," he said finally, his voice slightly higher than usual.

"Figuring things out?" Kensuke repeated, finally abandoning the pretense of being distracted by his phone. "Son, that was not a 'figuring things out' kind of kiss. That was an 'I'm completely gone for this person' kind of kiss."

"Dad!" Chuuya's face burned even hotter.

"I'm just saying," Kensuke continued with a gentle smile, "it's been a while since we've seen you look at someone like that. The last time was probably that boy from high school—what was his name? Toma?"

"Yuma. And we will not be talking about him," Chuuya said firmly.

"So we're talking about Dazai instead?" Fuku asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror with that knowing look mothers seemed to be born with.

Chuuya sighed, knowing there was no point in being evasive. His parents had always been good at reading between the lines, and after eighteen years, they knew when he was trying to deflect.

"I don't know, we're... we're dating, I guess. It's new, and it's complicated because he's been going through some difficult stuff..." He found himself smiling despite his embarrassment. "I really care about him. A lot."

"What kind of stuff?" Fuku's voice took on that concerned mother tone. "He didn't seem the type to struggle with school... Please tell me you're not hanging out with people who do drugs, Chuuya. That boy does have such dark under-eye circles—"

"No, Mom, it's nothing like that," Chuuya interrupted quickly. "It's just... his father has very high expectations, and he doesn't always want what's best for Dazai. But I also feel like it's not really my place to tell you everything about his personal life."

"Wait," Fuku said, her voice carrying a note of confusion. "But when we met Dr. Mori back in October, he seemed like such a caring father. Remember, Kensuke? He was worried that Dazai wasn't taking proper breaks, that he was pushing himself too hard academically..."

"Oh yes," Kensuke nodded, "he seemed genuinely concerned about his son's wellbeing. Said something about wanting to make sure Dazai wasn't overworking himself."

Chuuya felt his stomach twist as he remembered the conversation the two families had had after running into each other at the cafe. "Well, I guess... yes, he said that but—" Chuuya felt unwell. How was he supposed to explain to his parents that Dr. Mori had presented a false persona, that this was completely contrary to what he had learned from Dazai and even heard Mori say to Dazai himself later? The manipulation had been so smooth, so calculated, that even at first Chuuya had believed him.

"That's not..." Chuuya struggled to find words that wouldn't betray Dazai's privacy. "His father's expectations are very different from what he shows other people."

His parents exchanged glances in the front seat.

"Chuuya," his father said carefully, "are you sure you're seeing the situation clearly? I love that you care about him, I do. But are you sure you're not letting your feelings cloud your judgment? Sometimes when we're attracted to someone—"

"This isn't about attraction," Chuuya interrupted, his voice sharper than intended. "This is about recognizing when someone needs support instead of judgment."

"But sweetheart," his mother said gently, "Dr. Mori was so genuine when we spoke with him. And if Dazai is struggling with family issues, isn't it possible that he might be... well, presenting things in a way that makes his father seem worse than he actually is? Young people sometimes—"

"He's not manipulating me," Chuuya said firmly, cutting her off. "His father isn't the man he pretends to be in public. I've heard it with my own ears."

The conversation faded into uncomfortable silence after that, but Chuuya could feel his parents' concerned looks even though his gaze was focused outside, replaying the conversation over and over in his head: Of course Mori had laid groundwork to make himself look caring while painting Dazai as the problem. They think I'm being naive, he realized with growing frustration. They think I've fallen for someone who's using family problems to gain sympathy.

The rest of the drive passed quietly, his parents only speaking up to ask if they should stop by the supermarket to get any special food requests for the holidays. Chuuya mumbled something about being fine with whatever they usually got, then let his head rest against the cool window. The gentle vibration of the car and the steady hum of the engine eventually lulled him into a drowsy state.

"Chuu, sweetheart, we're home."

Chuuya's eyes fluttered open to see warm light spilling through the windows of the house in front of them. The familiar sight of his childhood home—with its slightly crooked mailbox and the wreath his mother had probably put up weeks ago—filled him with a complicated mix of comfort and homesickness for the dorm room he'd left behind.

Home.

Dazai's POV

The house stood before him, imposing in its silence. Dark windows, no Christmas lights, no signs of life or welcome. Just the cold, clinical perfection that Mori demanded from everything, including his home.

Dazai pulled out his keys and unlocked the front door.

The house was empty, exactly as he'd expected it. Mori would be at the hospital for several more hours, leaving Dazai alone in the echoing silence. He climbed the stairs to his room—the same room he'd inhabited for the past eighteen years, frozen in time like a museum exhibit of his adolescence.

Everything was exactly the way he had left it when he had moved out to university in August. The anatomy poster still hung above his bed, the white frame making it look too perfect, not the way a young boy's room should look. He had tried to put up a poster of a band he'd liked at fifteen, had wanted to make the room at least a bit more personal, more his, but Mori had gotten angry, calling him childish and had ripped the poster from the wall, leaving only the nails still holding pieces of the wall art behind. His old desk sat in the corner, scarred from years of aggressive studying and frustrated pen-stabbing. Everything exactly as he'd left it when he'd escaped to university four months ago.

He unpacked his bag in a few swift movements, hanging the clothes he brought with him in the closet that still held remnants of his high school wardrobe, before heading to the kitchen that, according to his father, was in desperate need of cleaning.

An abandoned bowl with remains of oats accompanied by a coffee mug with a dark ring at the bottom sat in the sink. A spoon and sugar grains decorated the granite countertop next to the expensive portafilter machine.

Such chaos. Desperate need of cleaning. Dazai almost laughed. Almost. But instead he rolled up his sleeves and got to work, methodically cleaning everything to the standards Mori expected. Hot water, soap, the different kitchen towels for different materials—one for glasses, another for plates, a third for the countertops. He'd learned years ago that "clean" in this house meant something very different than it did in the rest of the world.

It was only when his phone buzzed with a text from Chuuya, pulling him back into the here and now, that he took a break and headed back to his room.

Chuuya: made it home safely. drive was bit awkward tbh, mum n dad asked bout "us" 🙃 did u make it home ok?

Dazai found himself almost smiling, imagining Mr. and Mrs. Nakahara questioning their youngest.

Dazai: poor u. hope u survived the interrogation 💀 yeah just got home bout 30 min ago

Chuuya: how's it?

Dazai looked around the sterile space.

Dazai: just quiet. making myself at home

Chuuya: Quiet isn't necessarily bad is it? Like look at this paradise where no one will keep me awake because SOMEONE is loudly turning pages while studying at 2 AM :D
*Attachment: Selfie of Chuuya throwing a peace sign in his room*

The redhead's big smile made Dazai's chest feel warm. Chuuya's room looked cozy but chaotic, band posters and photos of friends covering every inch of wall space. Fairy lights casting everything in soft gold. An unmade bed with a ridiculous amount of pillows.

Dazai knew it was meant as a joke, he understood, but still something about seeing Chuuya's space—so alive, so personal, so full of evidence of a life fully lived—made his chest tight.

Dazai: your room looks exactly how i imagined it would. complete chaos

Chuuya: its not chaos its organized mess tyvm 😡

Chuuya: what bout yours?? give me the grand tour

Dazai hesitated before he opened his camera app, finger hovering over the camera button, but he never pressed it, simply couldn't. How could he share this museum exhibit with someone who lived surrounded by such warmth?

Dazai: trust me its not worth seeing. boring compared to yours

Chuuya: come onnnnn

He could imagine Chuuya's voice all whiny and a small smile tugged at his lips, when he heard the front door slam shut downstairs.

Mori's voice carried up the stairs, sharp with irritation: "Osamu! Get down here!"

The sound of his father's voice made every muscle in Dazai's body tense, made him want to be small again, made him want to hide in his closet like he had as a child when the shouting got too loud. So before Mori's mood could get any worse, he shot Chuuya a text back and hid his phone beneath his pillow.

Dazai: maybe later. mori just got home

Dazai made his way downstairs, finding his father in the kitchen still wearing his hospital scrubs. Mori looked exactly the same—tall, imposing, with black-silver hair and that look in his eyes that made him feel like a specimen under observation.

"So you're home," Mori said without looking at him, opening the refrigerator with mechanical efficiency.

"Uhm, yeah, the dorms are closed for renovation," Dazai replied with a voice too small, avoiding Mori's eyes, "everyone was asked to go home over the holidays."

Mori huffed, then turned, studying him with those pale, calculating eyes. "Or this is just another one of your games, another one of your lies. Maybe you're here because they expelled you? Because your grades are that bad already?"

The words cut deep, but really that was nothing, wasn't it? Just the casual cruelty Mori used in every conversation with him. "No, I—my grades are fine. It's just Christmas break. Everyone goes home for Christmas."

"Hmm." Mori's expression suggested he didn't quite believe it, his irritation at having his routine disrupted clear in every line of his posture. "Well, since you're here disrupting my schedule, you might as well make yourself useful. I already told you the kitchen needs cleaning, I was hoping you would have at least gotten that done, but apparently I expected too much. The whole house needs cleaning, actually."

"The kitchen? I actually already—" Dazai interrupted himself, eyes still glued to the floor. "Of course, I'll take care of it."

Mori nodded absentmindedly and headed toward his study. "I have work to catch up on. Don't make noise. And don't expect me to entertain you—I didn't plan on having a houseguest over the holidays."

And just like that, Dazai was dismissed. Not welcome, not missed—just tolerated as long as he remained useful and invisible. A disruption to be managed rather than a son coming home.

Later that night, he was on the phone with Chuuya and tried to keep his voice light while answering all of Chuuya's questions.

"Honestly, it was fine," he said, staring at his ceiling. "Mori gave me some tasks I should tend to while he's at work, might actually be good, keep me busy, maintaining a schedule, all the things Ranpo and Oda said I should do..."

"Are you sure?" Chuuya asked after a pause. "You sound different. Smaller, somehow."

Smaller. The word hit too close to home. "I'm fine. Just tired, didn't sleep well and the bus trip was exhausting."

There was rustling on Chuuya's end, then: "Can we switch to video? I want to see your face."

Aww. Dazai felt a slight blush warming his ears. "Why, miss me that much already? Chuuya, Chuuya, it's not even been half a day—"

"Because you're lying to me, and I need to see your facial expressions to figure out how much you're lying."

Oh.

"So you don't miss me? That's mean, Chuuya."

"You're an idiot. You know I miss you."

"You really think you can read me that well?"

"I've gotten pretty good at it over the past few months. Come on, humor me."

So Dazai accepted the video call request Chuuya had sent and was greeted by Chuuya's concerned face filling his phone screen.

"There he is," Chuuya said softly. "Hey."

"Hey yourself."

"Osamu." There was something in Chuuya's voice, gentle but insistent. "You know you can talk to me, right? About anything. We've been through this."

And they had. The fights, the walls Dazai built when his thoughts turned dark, the slow process of learning to let someone care. For a moment, Dazai wanted to tell him everything—about the coldness in this house, about feeling like he was disappearing already. But what was the point? Chuuya couldn't fix this, and Dazai didn't want to ruin his break with his family.

"I know," he said instead. "I'm okay, really. Just need to adjust."

Dazai could see in the way Chuuya's head tilted slightly to the left and the way he pushed out his lower lip that the other wasn't buying it, but thankfully he dropped the matter. Instead, after a few seconds of silence, he picked up where their earlier texting had left off.

"Sooooo, I want a room tour now!"

Dazai sighed but obeyed. He got up from his bed, flipped the camera and slowly turned in a circle. He wasn't even paying attention to whether he was capturing his room properly, eyes glued to the little picture of Chuuya in the corner of his screen. Even through the pixelated connection, he could see the way a freckled forehead scrunched. When Dazai was done with his little spin and had flipped the camera back around, there was a moment of silence before they spoke again.

"It's—uhm—nice." "Mori never allowed me to put up any pictures."

They said in unison.

There was another pause before Dazai opened his mouth again. "It's not. It's far from nice. You always say I should be honest so don't lie to me because you don't want me to feel bad." He half chuckled.

Chuuya in response gave him a sheepish grin and shrugged his shoulders, "I'm sorry, but for what it's worth it could be worse, right? I half expected you not even having a real bed, sleeping on the floor with a tiny blanket."

Dazai rolled his eyes in response, but Chuuya had been successful. Had lifted his mood, and when they ended their call twenty minutes later, Dazai felt better. Lighter. Like maybe he could survive this after all.

He was wrong.

December 24th

Chuuya's POV:

The Nakahara house was everything Dazai had probably never experienced—organized chaos filled with laughter, the scent of baking cookies, and Kouyou's voice carrying from the kitchen as she argued with their mother about proper frosting techniques.

"The key is temperature control, Mom," Kouyou was saying as Chuuya wandered downstairs in his pyjamas and an old hoodie. "If the butter's too warm, the frosting won't hold its shape properly."

"I've been making Christmas cookies since before you were born, sweetheart," Fuku replied with amused patience. "I think I can handle buttercream."

The two women looked up as Chuuya entered the kitchen. His sister sported an outfit quite similar to his: sweats and a sweater. But hers was stained with flour and cookie batter, providing a stark contrast to her soft makeup and elegantly braided and complexly looped hairstyle.

"There's our sleepyhead. How'd you sleep?"

"Bien," Chuuya yawned, checking his phone for any messages from Dazai.

"Texting your mysterious boyfriend again?" Kouyou teased her brother, noticing him staring at his phone.

Chuuya shot a somewhat annoyed look at his sister. "His name is Dazai, as you're well aware, and he's not mysterious, nor is he my boyfriend."

"Right," Kouyou grinned, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Not mysterious at all, going from antagonizing roommate to someone you spend hours next to at a hospital bed to your new love interest."

Their mother looked up from the mixing bowl with sharp interest. "Hospital? Kouyou, sweetheart, what are you talking about?"

Chuuya shot his sister a warning glare that clearly meant don't you dare say anything, and quickly interrupted. "Uh, Mom, those cookies look amazing. When will Paul and Rimbaud arrive today? Are we picking them up from the airport?"

Luckily, the change of topic worked, and Fuku launched into details about flight times and dinner preparations. When she returned to her baking and cleaning up, Chuuya grabbed Kouyou's arm and pulled her upstairs to his room.

"What the hell was that supposed to be?" Chuuya said, shutting his bedroom door a little too hard. "I told you that stuff in confidence, and you just—"

"Oh my god, chill." Kouyou flopped backward onto his bed without invitation. "I was making a joke. It's not like I told her anything she didn't know or whatever."

"It's not funny, Kou." Chuuya leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. "Mom and Dad already think he's... I don't know, manipulating me or something. They made these comments in the car about how maybe he's lying about his dad."

Kouyou propped herself up on her elbows. "Quoi? But didn't you say you literally heard his father being awful to him?"

"Yeah, but—" Chuuya ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. "Remember back at the family weekend when we met Dr. Mori and he was all charming and concerned parent? Now they think I'm the one who's not seeing things clearly."

There was an awkward pause. Kouyou picked at a loose thread on his comforter, and Chuuya stared down at his hands, his shoulders tense.

"So... are you guys like, together together now? Since the hospital thing?" she asked, sitting up fully. "Mum mentioned you kissed, and she asked me for details. I was actually hurt you didn't tell me anything!"

"I..." Chuuya was quiet for a long moment, picking at the edge of his desk. "It's complicated."

"When is it not with you?" she said, but there was something guarded in her tone now.

Chuuya looked up at her, noticing the shift. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, just..." Kouyou shrugged. "Tell me about the kiss thing. When did that happen?"

"It wasn't right after the hospital," Chuuya said quietly. "He'd been in therapy for like a month, working on his issues, getting better. We'd been... I don't know, closer. Talking more." His voice got softer. "Then there was this party, and I came back drunk, and apparently I was rambling about... about how I felt about him, and one thing led to another..."

"Wait." Kouyou sat up straighter. "You were drunk?"

"Yeah, but—"

"How drunk are we talking?"

Chuuya ran his hand through his hair, looking embarrassed. "Pretty bad." He paused. "Hell, I woke up with such a bad hangover I didn't even remember it happened at first. Trust me that was awkward—"

"Wait, what?" Kouyou's voice went sharp. "You didn't remember?"

"Not immediately, but—"

"Chuuya, if you were so drunk you had memory gaps, then you absolutely could not consent!" Her voice had gone protective and angry. "If he kissed you when you were that messed up—"

"Putain!" Chuuya snapped, switching to French in his anger. "Are you serious right now? It wasn't like that!"

"I'm just saying—"

"You're just saying what? That he took advantage of me?" Chuuya stood up abruptly. "Jesus Christ, Kou. I was the one talking about my feelings. I was the one who wouldn't shut up about how much I cared about him. Yes he might have been the one who initiated the kiss, but then he pulled back when I tried to... you know, take it further. Said he was worried about me being drunk. He tried to get me to go to sleep first!"

"But if you were that impaired and having memory gaps—"

"The memories came back! And he was the one freaking out about it the next day when I told him I didn't remember. We had to have like three conversations before he stopped beating himself up about it!"

Kouyou held up her hands defensively. "I'm trying to protect you."

"From what? From someone who actually cares about me?"

"From someone who might not be in the right headspace for a relationship." The words came out harsher than she'd intended. "Chuu, think about it. You told me about the struggles he had, how you were there for him, he gets therapy for a month, then suddenly he has feelings for you and he's kissing you—"

"He didn't suddenly do anything," Chuuya said dangerously quiet. "We talked about it. A lot. He was getting better."

The words hung heavy in the air. Kouyou's expression shifted, but not to the understanding Chuuya had hoped for.

"A month of therapy doesn't fix someone who was suicidal," she said slowly. "And Chuu, that doesn't change what I'm saying. If anything—"

"If anything, what?"

"People who are that unstable... they make impulsive decisions about relationships. Sometimes they think being with someone will fix their problems, or they're so grateful to the person who saved them that they confuse it for love."

Chuuya stared at her in disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

"I'm not trying to be cruel. But Chuu, people with that level of mental health issues—they can be unpredictable in relationships. What happens if he has another breakdown? What if he threatens to hurt himself if you try to leave him?"

"He would never—"

"You don't know that! People with borderline tendencies, people who've attempted suicide—sometimes they use that history as emotional blackmail."

"Bordel de merde," Chuuya swore, his face flushed with anger. "You're talking about him like he's some kind of manipulative psychopath!"

"I'm talking about him like someone who's seriously mentally ill and might not be capable of a healthy relationship right now!"

"He's getting better! He's taking medication, he's in therapy—"

"And what happens when he decides he doesn't need those things anymore? What happens when he's 'cured' and realizes he doesn't actually want to be with his roommate who saw him at his lowest point?"

Chuuya fell silent, the words hitting closer to home than he wanted to admit.

"Or worse," Kouyou continued, her voice softer but still skeptical, "what happens if he relapses? What if you become his entire support system and then you can't handle it? What if he becomes so dependent on you that neither of you can function without the other?"

"That's not... we're not like that."

"Aren't you? You said yourself you've been taking care of him, making sure he's okay. That's not a relationship, Chuu. That's you being a caretaker."

"I care about him," Chuuya said quietly, but some of the fight had gone out of his voice.

"I know you do. And that's exactly why this scares me." Kouyou moved to sit next to him on the bed. "You have such a good heart, mon petit. But sometimes people in crisis make promises they can't keep, and sometimes people who care too much get hurt when reality sets in."

Chuuya was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. "You really think he's just... confused? That he doesn't actually want to be with me?"

"I think he's scared and alone and you're the person who saved his life. That creates a really intense bond that might feel like love but isn't necessarily... sustainable."

The words hung between them. 

"You're wrong," Chuuya said firmly. "You haven't been there, Kou. You haven't seen the way he looks at me, the way he actually listens when I talk. You haven't seen him stay up all night helping me study, or how he remembers stupid little things I mention in passing."

"But what if—"

"No, there's no 'what if.' You don't know him. You don't know us." Chuuya's voice was getting heated again. "You're sitting here making all these assumptions about someone you've met once, about a relationship you know nothing about."

"I know you, though. And I can see how invested you are—"

"Of course I'm invested! I care about him!" Chuuya ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "But that doesn't mean I'm some naive idiot who can't tell when someone actually gives a shit about me versus when they're just using me."

"I'm not saying you're naive—"

"That's exactly what you're saying!" Chuuya stood up, pacing to the window. "You're acting like I'm so desperate for affection that I can't tell real feelings from fake ones. Like I'm some charity case he's stuck with out of guilt."

"That's not what I meant."

"Isn't it?" Chuuya turned back to face her. "Because that's what it sounds like. That I'm too stupid to see when someone's manipulating me, too pathetic by believing someone could actually want to be with me without ulterior motives."

Kouyou was quiet for a moment. "I just... I worry about you getting hurt."

"Then trust me to know my own relationship," Chuuya said, his voice still sharp but less angry. "Trust that maybe, just maybe, I can tell the difference between someone who cares about me and someone who's using me."

They sat in heavy silence. Chuuya felt torn between anger at her assumptions yet a small fear that she might be right.

"I hate that you're making me doubt this," he said finally.

"I don't want you to doubt your feelings. I want you to be realistic about the situation." Kouyou reached over and squeezed his hand. "I love you, Chuu. You're my little brother. I just don't want to see you get hurt because you're trying to save someone who might not be ready to be saved."

"And what if he is ready? What if I'm exactly what he needs right now?"

"Then you'll still be there for him as a friend. But you don't have to sacrifice your own emotional wellbeing to prove you care."

Chuuya looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "I know you're just trying to protect me."

"I am. Even if I'm being a bitch about it."

"You are being a bitch about it," he said, but there was no real heat in it anymore.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment before their father's voice calling up the stairs interrupted the peace.

"Kids! Come say hello!"

They headed back downstairs to find Kensuke standing in the doorway, accompanied by two familiar figures.

"Paul! Arthur!" Chuuya grinned, immediately swept into enthusiastic hugs from his uncles. "Long time no see! I missed you guys."

"Look at you," Paul laughed, ruffling Chuuya's hair. "Have you grown?"

A small chuckle escaped Kouyou. "Good joke Uncle Paul, we all know Chuu stopped growing when he was twelve."

The small redhead lunged for his sister, but Kensuke stepped between them with a laugh. "Hey, you two, behave or no presents. We've got guests."

This, Chuuya thought as Arthur started telling them about their flight and Paul immediately got roped into cookie decorating duty, this is what I missed about being home.

Dazai's POV

Dazai, on the other side, didn't get to experience the luxury of sleeping in. After the few hours of sleep he had gotten thanks to his medication, he had been woken up by the sound of the front door slamming shut at 5:50 AM. He looked out his bedroom window just in time to see Mori's car pulling out of the garage and disappearing down the street in the dark.

He contemplated trying to catch a few more hours of sleep but ended up leaving his bed after tossing and turning for another thirty minutes.

Once he made it to his room, he spent about an hour just lying face down on his bed, trying to figure out how everything went wrong when his phone rang. Chuuya. The name on the screen felt like a lifeline.

"Hey Chuuya" he answered, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Samuu, how was dinner?? Did your dad like what u made?"

Chuuya was drunk. Or at least not sober. Probably had enjoyed a nice family dinner with one too many glasses of wine. Dazai closed his eyes, pressing his injured hand against the mattress while something like jealousy crawled up in him. What had he done to not be allowed such normalities? "It was... fine. Quiet," was what he said instead.

"S good tho right?? Peaceful family time."

How could he explain that peaceful and quiet weren't the same thing? That family time required a family, not just two people existing in the same space?

"Yeah," he lied. "Really peaceful."

"Oh my god, I'm so stuffed I can barely move. My mom went totally overboard with the feast lol. I'll probably be eating leftovers until New Year's. And I think I've had too much to drink, everything feels fuzzy. Oh and my uncle brought presents all the way from Paris—"

Chuuya's voice was warm and happy, full of the kind of joy that came from being surrounded by people who wanted you there. Dazai closed his eyes and tried to imagine what that must feel like.

"That sounds amazing," he said, and meant it.

"What bout you?? What'd you guys do after dinner?"

"Just... family stuff," Dazai said weakly, rolling onto his side and accidentally putting weight on his injured wrist. He bit back a hiss of pain. "Listen Chuu, I'm rather tired, all the food I guess you understand," he faked a yawn, "I'm gonna go brush my teeth and call it an early night."

The other returned a yawn, "Yeah I get it, I'm tired too. Sweet dreams 'samu. I miss you."

"I miss you too."

That night, while Dazai lay in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that wouldn't come, the house felt like it was pressing down on him from all sides. His wrist throbbed with each heartbeat, a constant reminder of how easily things could go wrong. Maybe if he just stayed very still, very quiet, he could disappear entirely. Maybe that would be easier for everyone.

Two days later, the storm in the Mori/Dazai household had somewhat subsided. Mori had resumed to ignoring Osamu, except for occasionally barking orders about what the brunette should accomplish while Mori was at work—or, in his father's words, 'doing something important with his time'. Apparently, only if one engaged in something worthwhile existing was justified. Nevertheless, things were good. Dazai felt okay. Okayish. He didn't feel like it would be better if he disappeared entirely, at least.

His phone calls with Chuuya were the light at the end of the tunnel, his highlight of each day. Right now Dazai was on the phone with Chuuya, laughing wholeheartedly at some story Chuuya was telling him. It was the first genuine laugh he'd had since the dorm renovations had forced him to go home, and for a moment, the oppressive weight of the house lifted.

"—and then he somehow managed to burn the noodles. Like, how do you even burn spaghetti? We're talking 20cm flames out of a pot that was filled with water???"

"Oh my god, Chuuya, I can only imagine your poor mother's face. She must have been shortly before a heart attack when she came to the kitchen and—" Dazai said, his laughter echoing through the room. The sound was foreign in the tomb-like silence Mori usually preferred.

"Oh god, yes her face was hilarious. I mean I get it, I was shocked too but—"

Mori burst through his bedroom door without knocking, fury radiating from every line of his body.

"What did I tell you about making noise in my house?" he snarled.

Dazai almost dropped the phone, his heart hammering, as he panically tapped on his phone screen trying to end the call, trying to prevent Chuuya from hearing what was inevitable going to go down now. "Sorry, I was just—"

"Talking to that red-haired brat again? Yeah, I heard you saying his name! Can't go a few fucking days without him?" Mori stepped closer, his presence filling the small room like a threatening storm cloud.

The casual cruelty in Mori's voice made Dazai's chest tighten. "He's not—he—he's important to me. He's my friend."

"Friend?" Mori's laugh was like breaking glass. He grabbed Dazai's chin roughly, forcing him to make eye contact. "You think someone like him actually cares about someone like you? You're pathetic, Osamu. A burden that no one wants to carry."

"That's not true," Dazai whispered, but the words felt hollow even as he said them. He tried to pull away, but Mori's grip tightened.

"Isn't it? When's the last time anyone chose to spend time with you? Someone who wasn't forced into rooming with you?" Mori's fingers dug into Dazai's jaw, sure to leave bruises. "When's the last time anyone was genuinely happy to see you? Even your own mother couldn't stand being around you."

The mention of his mother hit like a physical blow. Dazai felt his hands shake, but Mori wasn't finished. He released Dazai's face only to grab his shoulder and trap him against the headboard of his bed.

"Do you really think some boy you've known for a few months is going to stick around? When the novelty wears off and he realizes what exhausting work it is to care about you?" Mori's voice was low and venomous, his breath hot against Dazai's face. "Not even you can be that stupid to believe—"

"Stop," Dazai managed, but his voice was barely audible.

"Mark my words—he'll get tired. Everybody does. Your neediness, your constant problems, your inability to handle normal stress without falling apart." Mori's grip on his shoulder tightened until Dazai was sure the collarbone would crack. "Even I can barely stand being around you, yet I'm stuck with you. What makes you think some stranger will put up with your bullshit when your own father wishes you'd never been born?"

Something inside Dazai shattered completely. The small flame of hope he'd been protecting, the belief that maybe he was worth something to someone, died in that moment.

"Next time you want to disturb my peace with your pathetic laughter, remember this conversation. No one wants to hear the sound of your voice, Osamu. Not me, and certainly not him."

He left without another word, slamming the door behind him, leaving Dazai alone on his bed, shaking and trying to remember how to breathe. His shoulder throbbed where Mori's fingers had dug in, and he could already feel the bruises forming along his jaw.

His phone buzzed with worried texts from Chuuya, asking if everything was okay and why the call had been dropped, Dazai couldn't bring himself to respond. What was the point? Mori was right. It was only a matter of time before Chuuya realized what a mistake he'd made, how much effort it would take to love someone as broken as Dazai.

Better to spare him the trouble.

Chuuya: osamu?? r u ok? what happened?

Chuuya: seriously getting worried here, can u just send me a thumbs up or something?

Chuuya: if ur dad is being an ass again u know u can talk to me right?

Each message felt like another weight on his chest. Dazai stared at the screen through blurred vision, Mori's words echoing in his head. Exhausting work. Constant problems. Pathetic.

Maybe it would be kinder to let Chuuya think he was just busy. Let the distance grow naturally until Chuuya forgot about him entirely. It would hurt less that way, wouldn't it? For both of them.

Dazai: sorry phone died. all good. tired, going to sleep early

The lie tasted bitter, but it was easier than the truth. 

Chuuya: ?

Dazai: srsly all good, have a good night chuu

Chuuya: oh ok. sweet dreams then. love u

Love. The word sat on his screen like an accusation. How could Chuuya love someone so fundamentally broken? How long before he realized his mistake?

Dazai turned his phone face down and curled up on his bed, still wearing his clothes, his body aching in places that would be purple by morning. The house settled around him in its familiar, oppressive silence, and he tried to convince himself that this—this isolation, this pain—was what he deserved.

At least when he was alone, he couldn't disappoint anyone else.

The days that followed blurred together in a haze of gray winter light and crushing silence. Dazai found himself unable to sleep, lying in bed for hours staring at the ceiling while his mind replayed Mori's words on an endless loop. Your neediness, your constant problems, your inability to handle normal stress.

His medication sat untouched on his nightstand. What was the point? He felt like the pills weren't helping anymore. Nothing helped when the problem was fundamental—when you were fundamentally too much, too broken, too exhausting to love. When the problem was your sole existence.

He stopped taking care of himself. Stopped eating proper meals, surviving on water and willpower, only ever leaving his room when he was sure that Mori wasn't around. His clothes hung looser on his frame, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

The house felt like it was getting smaller each day, pressing in on him from all sides. The times he did get out of his room were to accomplish the tasks Mori had given him. He always tried to work in silence, even when he was alone at home because maybe if he just stayed very quiet, very still, he could disappear entirely. Escape.

The only interruptions, the only noise came from his phone buzzing constantly—Chuuya trying to reach him, asking what was wrong, why he was slowly pulling away. But each message felt like evidence of the burden he was becoming. How long before Chuuya got tired of this? How long before the novelty of caring wore off and he realized what exhausting work it was?

So Dazai started pulling back, giving shorter and shorter responses until eventually he was barely responding at all. The withdrawal felt like slowly suffocating, but it also felt like mercy—for both of them.

Chuuya's POV:

December 29th:

Chuuya: saw a cat outside that had your exact bedhead hair lol 🐱

Dazai: ok

Chuuya: ...thats it?? no sarcastic comeback about ur perfect hair??

Chuuya: how did the cleaning go today?

Dazai: fine. made progress.

Chuuya: dude whats going on?? youre being weird

*Missed call from Chuuya*

Dazai: sry was busy cleaning

Chuuya: No call today?

Dazai: tired gonna go to bed

Chuuya: Oh, okay. Sweet dreams <3

December 30th:

Chuuya: how r u feeling today?? 🥺

Dazai: fine

Chuuya: what did u have for lunch??

Dazai: food

Chuuya: very descriptive. m getting a clear mental picture 🙄

Chuuya: seriously tho r u ok?? youve been acting strange since our last call

Dazai: sorry. just tired.

Chuuya: me and kouyou made cookies today!! wish u were here so we could share them 💙

Dazai: 👍

Missed call from Chuuya

Chuuya: osamu? scaring me a little

Missed call from Chuuya

Dazai: nothings wrong. just busy, didnt see u called sry

Missed call from Chuuya

December 31th:

Chuuya: Any plans since its nye? 🎇

Chuuya: call me tonight?? i miss ur voice 🫶

Dazai: cant. mori wants to spend time together

Chuuya: family time??

Chuuya: sorry didnt mean it like that

Dazai: its ok.

Chuuya: let me know how it goes?? and text me if u change ur mind about calling

Dazai: ok

Chuuya let out an exaggerated sigh, dropped his phone on the empty couch space next to him and let his head fall back against the cushions. The living room felt too quiet, too empty, despite Kouyou's presence across from him. He stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the growing knot of anxiety in his chest.

What the hell was going on?

A few days ago, Dazai had been his usual dramatic self—complaining about cleaning, making terrible jokes. Now it was like texting a stranger. A very distant, not even polite stranger who seemed to be slowly fading away.

Kouyou, who had been sitting in the plush armchair opposite him reading some thick French novel, lifted her gaze when his sigh turned into a frustrated groan. She marked her page with a silk bookmark, studying her younger brother's slumped posture with the calculating look that meant she was about to say something he probably didn't want to hear.

"Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?" she murmured, closing the book and setting it aside.

"Nothing's wrong," Chuuya replied automatically, not moving from his defeated sprawl.

"Menteur." She crossed her legs elegantly, fixing him with that piercing stare that had been getting him to confess his problems since he was five years old. "Come on, Chuu, don't be like that. Trouble in paradise?"

"Putain, Kou, can you not—" He sat up, running both hands through his hair in frustration.

"Eh! Don't you dare curse at me in French, Chuuya Nakahara. Mum didn't raise you to be rude to your sister." Her voice carried that particular mix of authority and affection that only came from years of being the responsible older sibling. "Now tell me what's wrong before I have to guess, and you know how much you hate my guesses."

Chuuya's shoulders sagged in defeat. "It's just... I don't know what to do."

"Tell me."

"It's Dazai."

"Obviously." Kouyou's tone was dry but not unkind. "What about your dramatic boyfriend this time?"

"That's just it—he's not being dramatic. At all. And that's... wrong. Everything about this is wrong." Chuuya picked up his phone again, scrolling through their recent conversations with growing unease. "Look at this shit. A few days ago he was sending me five-minute voice messages about how his father's cleaning standards are 'architecturally impossible' and 'a crime against dust particles everywhere.' Now I can barely get him to use complete sentences."

Kouyou held out her hand expectantly. "Show me."

Chuuya hesitated for a moment—their messages felt private, intimate, like sharing them was betraying something sacred. But this was Kouyou. She'd been fielding his relationship crises since middle school, and despite her sometimes brutal honesty, she genuinely wanted the best for him.

He unlocked his phone and tossed it over to her, watching as her perfectly manicured fingers scrolled through days of increasingly one-sided conversations.

"Oh boy," she murmured after a few minutes, her expression growing more serious. "This is... weird."

"Right? It's like he's disappearing right in front of me, and I don't know why." Chuuya leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. "He won't answer my calls, barely responds to texts, and when he does it's like... like he's talking to a stranger. Not someone he's supposedly dating."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Since our last phone call a few days ago. We were talking, everything seemed normal, maybe a little stressed because of the cleaning thing, but then suddenly he just... hung up. Said his father was calling him. And since then it's been like this."

Kouyou continued scrolling, her frown deepening. "And before that? How were things between you two?"

"Good." Chuuya's voice softened involuntarily. "I mean, you know how he is—dramatic, self-deprecating, way too smart for his own good. But he seemed... happy? Like, genuinely happy. We'd stay up talking until stupid hours about everything and nothing. He'd call just to hear my voice because it helped him fall asleep."

"And now?"

"Now I'm lucky if I get a thumbs-up emoji." Chuuya's voice cracked slightly. "It's like I'm watching him slip away in real-time, and I don't understand what I did wrong."

Kouyou was quiet for a long moment, still reading through their messages. When she finally looked up, her expression was calculating, almost predatory—the look she got when she was about to say something that would hurt but that she believed needed to be said.

"Can't say I'm surprised," she said with a slight shrug.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Chuuya's voice was sharp, defensive.

"I mean, mon petit, that I had a feeling something like this would happen. From the moment you started talking about this boy and his... intensity." Kouyou's tone was measured, clinical. "People like that are always trouble."

"People like what?"

"Unstable. The type who cling to you desperately until they get bored and move on to the next person who'll give them the validation they crave." She gestured at the phone. "This behavior? The sudden withdrawal after intense attachment? C'est classique. Textbook, really."

Chuuya felt his jaw tighten. "You sound just like our parents."

"Maybe because they have a point—"

"No." Chuuya's voice was firm now, defensive anger flaring. "You don't know him, Kou. None of you do. You've met him once, and you're already writing him off because he's having a hard time."

"A hard time?" Kouyou's eyebrow arched. "Chuu, look at yourself. You're tied up in knots over someone who can't even be bothered to send you a proper text message. This isn't having a hard time—this is him playing games."

"He's not playing games," Chuuya said fiercely. "He's going through something difficult with his father, and instead of being supportive, you guys want me to what—abandon him? Write him off like he's disposable?"

"I want you to protect yourself! Jesus, Chuuya, you're so in love with this boy that you can't even see how much this is destroying you."

"I'm not being destroyed—"

"Aren't you? When's the last time you didn't check your phone every five minutes hoping for a message from him? Let me guess, him not answering your calls in the evening is keeping you up at night?" Kouyou's voice was getting sharper, more frustrated. "You're disappearing into this relationship, and he's not even participating anymore!"

Chuuya opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Because she wasn't entirely wrong about the phone checking. Or the sleep.

"That doesn't mean he's manipulating me," he said finally. "Maybe he just needs space to deal with whatever's happening at home."

"Space is one thing. Radio silence is another." Kouyou leaned forward, her expression serious. "You know what I think you should do? Give him a taste of his own medicine. Stop texting first. Stop reaching out. Show him the same cold shoulder he's showing you."

"Kou—"

"No, listen to me. If he starts texting again, reaches out, shows you he actually misses you? Then fine. Maybe you were right, and he just needed space. But if he doesn't..." She shrugged. "Then you have your answer about how much you actually mean to him."

Chuuya stared at her, conflict written across his face. "That's not—that's playing games. I don't want to play games with him."

"It's not playing games, it's having self-respect. There's a difference between supporting someone through a difficult time and letting them treat you like you don't matter." Kouyou's voice softened slightly, but remained firm. "You deserve someone who communicates with you, even when things are hard. Especially when things are hard."

"He does communicate—"

"One-word responses are not communication, Chuuya. They're barely acknowledgment."

Chuuya fell silent, turning his phone over in his hands. Dazai's last message—that simple "ok"—seemed to mock him from the screen.

"I just... I care about him," he said quietly. "More than I've cared about anyone in a long time. What if something's really wrong and I abandon him when he needs me most?"

"And what if nothing's wrong and you're just the only one fighting for this relationship?" Kouyou countered. "What if you're so busy worrying about abandoning him that you're abandoning yourself?"

They sat in silence for a while, the weight of unspoken possibilities hanging heavy in the air between them.

"Think about it, Chuu," Kouyou said finally, her voice gentler now. "When someone wants to be in your life, they make an effort. They don't leave you guessing, don't make you chase them. If he wanted to talk to you, he would. The question is: are you going to keep accepting crumbs, or are you going to demand the whole meal?"

Dazai's POV:

Two days later, the messages slowly stopped coming. No more good morning texts, no more "how did you sleep" or "sweet dreams" messages. No more calls Dazai would have to stare at and wait until they went to voicemail, only to text Chuuya hours later and apologize for missing them.

He should have felt relieved—creating this distance had been what he wanted, right? Yet it hurt. Because there it was, the thing Mori had predicted: the beginning of the end, when caring about someone became more work than it was worth.

But Dazai knew he wouldn't change his mind. Couldn't. This was better for everyone. Better for Chuuya, he told himself as he stared at his silent phone. He deserves someone who isn't broken. Someone who isn't too much work.

So instead of second guessing his decisions, he spent his time systematically cleaning the house as instructed. Keeping himself busy. Kitchen, living room, bathrooms—all scrubbed to Mori's exacting standards. He'd saved the basement for last, knowing it would be the worst. Mori used it for storage, and it had always been a chaotic maze of boxes and forgotten belongings.

It was January 2nd when had no other tasks left to keep himself from avoiding going down the concrete steps. The flashlight in his hand an aid to get him down safely because Mori had never bothered to fix the overhead light of the staircase.

He'd been at it for four hours, sorting through boxes—old school supplies, Mori's notes from his medical school days, Christmas decorations, children's books he vaguely remembered from his early childhood—when he noticed something that made him pause.

In the far corner, partially hidden behind stacks of medical journals, was a box he'd never seen before.

It was an old shoebox, weathered and worn, with a faded label from women's shoes that was only partially readable after years of storage. Nothing was special about it, nothing except for what was written in all-too-familiar doctor's scrawl across the side: "Osamu - Age 7."

Age 7. What had happened when he was seven? It hadn't been when he'd started school, not that Mori would have been sentimental about such milestones in the first place. So what could that age signify? He had been seven when his mother had disappeared. But could this unremarkable box really carry answers to all those questions Mori had never answered? All those times he'd asked where she'd gone, why she'd left, whether she'd ever loved him at all?

His heart started beating faster as he moved the journals aside and lifted the box. It was lighter than expected, and when he opened it, his breath caught in his throat.

Photographs. Dozens of them, scattered among other small mementos. And there, staring back at him from frozen moments in time, was his mother.

She had kind brown eyes and dark hair like his own. There were pictures of her as a young woman, radiant and laughing; pregnant and showing off her belly proudly to whoever was behind the camera; holding a tiny baby—me, he realized—with such tenderness it looked like she was holding the most precious thing in the world.

In one photo, she was kneeling beside him in a garden, both of them dirty from planting flowers. He looked maybe five years old, grinning at the camera with dirt on his nose and pure joy in his expression, and she was looking at him—not at the camera, but at him—with such obvious, overwhelming love that it made his chest ache.

She had loved him. Whatever else had happened, she had loved him.

He dug deeper through the collection, his hands trembling. There were dozens more: Pictures of the three of them together when he was very young—before everything went wrong. But as he continued through the chronological progression, a pattern emerged that made his stomach twist. With each picture, the people got older and the woman's smile grew smaller, more forced. She started looking tired but was still trying to smile—really trying, like happiness was something she had to work for. The light in her eyes dimmed gradually, her posture became more hunched, her face gaunt and hollow. In the final photographs, she sported dark under-eye circles and a haunted expression while a small Dazai—oblivious to his mother's pain—blew out candles on what must have been his seventh birthday cake.

That was the last picture.

Beneath the photographs were more documents. Documents that made the world tilt sideways.

A death certificate. Official, stamped, undeniable. His mother's name printed in neat typeface, with a date from eleven years ago and a cause of death that made his hands shake so badly he nearly dropped it:

Cause of death: Suicide by hanging.

She hadn't left. She had killed herself. The thought hit him like a physical blow. No, no, no...

All these years, Mori had let him believe she had abandoned them, had chosen to walk away from her difficult son and unhappy marriage. But she had been sick, just like him. She had fought the same darkness he struggled with every day, and she had lost.

The photos scattered from his trembling hands as panic began to set in. His breathing became shallow and rapid, the basement walls seeming to close in around him. She had been there, loving him, fighting her own demons, and then she was gone. Not because she didn't want him, but because the pain had become too much to bear.

The room felt like it was spinning, and he pressed his fingernails into his wrists, leaving crescent-shaped marks in his skin, trying to ground himself in something real, something immediate. The sharp pain cut through the panic, giving him something to focus on besides the crushing weight of this revelation.

She loved me. She loved me. She loved me and she still...

His first instinct was to call Chuuya. To hear his voice, to feel less alone in this devastating discovery. But then Mori's voice echoed in his mind: Your constant need for attention, your inability to handle normal stress. How could he burden Chuuya with this? How could he prove Mori right by falling apart the moment something difficult happened?

Besides, the cruel voice in his head whispered, you've probably already lost him anyway. After days of pushing him away, what makes you think he'd even answer?

He sat on the cold basement floor, surrounded by evidence of a love he'd thought never existed, and wept for the mother who had died trying to escape the same pain that lived inside him now. The photos showed it so clearly—how she had slowly lost her spark, how the depression had eaten away at her until there was nothing left but obligation and exhaustion.

Mori, a doctor, a medical professional, should have been able to recognize the signs. He couldn't have been that blind to his own wife's suffering. Unless... unless he had simply chosen to ignore it. Maybe he'd known exactly what was happening and done nothing to stop it.

Just like he's doing with me now.

Dazai spent what felt like hours on that cold basement floor, frozen in grief and shock. Only the slam of the front door—the signal that Mori was back home—made him finally move.

He climbed the basement stairs on unsteady legs, the death certificate clutched in his trembling hand. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears, but underneath the terror was something else: anger. For the first time in years, he was genuinely, righteously angry at his father.

She was dead. She'd been dead for eleven years, and he let me think she'd abandoned me.

When he finally made it back to the ground level, Mori had already sequestered himself in his study, lost in patient files with a glass of whiskey beside him. The scene was so perfectly normal, so utterly unchanged from every other evening, that it made Dazai's revelation feel surreal.

He knocked on the doorframe, though his knuckles barely made a sound against the wood.

"What?" Mori didn't look up from his papers, pen continuing to move across whatever form he was completing.

"I found something in the basement." Dazai's voice came out smaller than he'd intended, but there was a tremor of anger underneath the fear.

"If it's junk, throw it away. I don't have time for—"

"It's about Mom." The words came out sharper than before, cutting through Mori's dismissive tone like a blade.

That got his attention. His pen stopped moving mid-sentence, and those pale, calculating eyes flicked up with something that might have been annoyance or might have been panic—though the emotion was gone too quickly for Dazai to be sure.

"What about her?" The question was carefully neutral, but Dazai could see the tension in his father's shoulders.

With hands that wouldn't stop shaking, Dazai held up the death certificate. "She didn't leave. You lied to me for eleven years. She killed herself."

The silence that followed was deafening. Mori's expression went through several changes—surprise that was almost convincing, calculation as he assessed the situation, and finally settling on that cold fury that Dazai knew meant he was in real trouble.

"Where did you find that?" The question was quiet, dangerous.

"In a box. With pictures and letters and—" Dazai's voice was getting stronger, fueled by years of suppressed anger and fresh grief. "Why didn't you tell me? All these years, you let me think my own mother didn't want me. That I was so awful she chose to leave rather than deal with me."

Mori stood up slowly, moving around the desk with that predatory grace that had terrified Dazai as a child. But this time, instead of shrinking back, Dazai held his ground.

"You want to know the truth?" Mori's voice was silky, dangerous. "Fine. If you think about it, she still left because you weren't good enough of a reason to make her stay."

The words were meant to hurt and indeed hit their target, yet Dazai pushed forward. "You let me think I was so awful that my own mother abandoned me!"

"And what would have been better?" Mori's voice was rising now, that carefully controlled facade beginning to crack. "Telling a seven-year-old that his mother was so weak, so pathetic, that she chose death over raising her own child? That she was so selfish she couldn't handle the responsibility of being a mother?"

"She was sick—" Dazai started, but Mori cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"She was weak," he snarled, stepping closer. "Just like you. I've watched you spiral for months, Osamu. The self-harm, the hospital visits, the pathetic attention-seeking behavior. You're following in her footsteps perfectly."

Dazai instinctively pulled his sleeves down, covering the bandages that hid the scars on his arm, but Mori noticed the gesture and his lip curled in disgust.

"Are you still cutting yourself? Even after I had to spend that night in the OR fixing you up?" Mori's voice dripped with contempt. "Really making a point of testing my patience even further."

"I haven't cut in weeks," Dazai said quietly, his earlier anger deflating under the clinical assessment.

"Then why the bandages? You can't be stupid enough to think I haven't noticed them under your sleeves."

"I just... I don't like seeing them." The admission felt pathetic even as he said it.

"How pathetic—not even standing by what you did. Just like everything else in your miserable life, you can't follow through on anything." Mori's eyes glittered with cruel satisfaction. "Even your attempts at self-destruction are half-hearted."

"I was in pain—"

"You were weak," Mori snarled, and before Dazai could react, his father's hand cracked across his face with enough force to make his ears ring and his vision blur.

Dazai stumbled backward, his cheek burning, tears springing to his eyes from the impact and the humiliation. "Don't—"

"Don't what? Tell you the truth?" Mori grabbed a fistful of Dazai's shirt, pulling him closer with casual violence. "You're exactly like her. The self-pity, the inability to handle normal stress, the constant need for attention. You make everything about your suffering, just like she did."

"That's not true—" Dazai's voice cracked, and he hated how young, how broken he sounded.

"Isn't it? When's the last time anyone genuinely wanted to be around you? That red-haired boy you're so obsessed with—how long do you think he'll stick around when he sees who you really are?" Mori's grip tightened, shaking Dazai like he weighed nothing. "How long before he gets tired of your neediness and constant problems?"

Chuuya. The name hit like another slap, because hadn't Dazai been thinking the same thing? Hadn't he been pulling away for exactly this reason?

"Chuuya is—" Another slap, harder this time. Dazai tasted blood, felt his lip split.

He's already gone, Dazai thought desperately.

"I don't want to hear that boy's name out of your mouth," Mori hissed. "And don't you ever bring up your mother again. She couldn't handle being a mother, and you can't handle being a son. At least she had the decency to remove herself from the equation instead of being a constant burden."

The words were designed to cut, and they did. Each one found its mark with surgical precision.

"She loved me," Dazai whispered through the blood running down his chin, clinging to the one truth he'd discovered. "I saw the pictures—"

"She killed herself rather than deal with one more day of you," Mori said with clinical detachment, as if he were discussing a patient's symptoms rather than destroying his son's world. 

The words hit like physical blows. Dazai felt his knees go weak, his vision blurring at the edges. He wanted to fight back, to defend himself and his mother's memory, but Mori's presence was overwhelming, suffocating, and the worst part was that everything he was saying felt true.

"Clean up this mess," Mori said, shoving him away with enough force to send him sprawling. He gestured dismissively at the death certificate that had fallen to the floor during the assault. "And don't bring this up again. I don't have time for your dramatics."

Mori returned to his desk as if nothing had happened, picking up his pen and returning to his paperwork with the casual indifference of someone who had just swatted a particularly annoying fly. The dismissal was complete, thorough, as if Dazai had never existed at all.

Dazai left the study on unsteady legs, his cheek swelling, the taste of copper thick in his mouth. As he climbed the stairs back to his room, each step felt like it was taking him further away from any possibility of light or warmth or hope.

In the bathroom mirror, his reflection looked like a stranger—hollow-eyed, bruised, utterly defeated. He touched his swollen cheek gently and wondered if this was how his mother had looked in her final days. If this empty, hopeless feeling was the last thing she'd experienced before she gave up entirely.

She loved me, he thought, staring at his broken reflection. She loved me and it still wasn't enough. The pain was still too much.

Now he understood why she had done it. The only mystery was why it had taken him so long to reach the same conclusion.

Chuuya's POV:

The first day Chuuya hadn't texted had felt wrong in every possible way. He'd picked up his phone at least a dozen times, typed out messages he never sent, deleted conversations he immediately wanted to start again. It hurt, this deliberate silence, but what hurt even more was the lack of response. The confirmation that Dazai really wasn't going to reach out first.

The second day felt marginally easier. He managed to go whole hours without checking his phone, threw himself into family time with more enthusiasm than he'd felt in days. But every notification still made his heart jump, every ping carrying the possibility that maybe—maybe—it would finally be Dazai. It never was.

By the third day, he'd almost convinced himself he was getting used to it. Almost.

It all came crashing down on the evening of January 3rd, when his phone buzzed at 11:07PM.

Dazai: hope you had a good start to the new year. sweet dreams

Chuuya stared at the message for a full minute, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was seconds away from calling, from demanding answers—why now? why start texting again after days of silence? was this guilt? damage control? just making things less awkward before they saw each other on the 6th?

But calling would be too much. Too desperate. And ignoring the message completely would feel wrong, even if part of him wanted to give Dazai a taste of how the silence had felt.

The ball was in Dazai's court now. If he wanted to actually talk, he could put in the effort.

Chuuya: Yeah was good, gn

Not too much. No questions back. If Dazai wanted to tell him something, he should just do it. And yeah, his days hadn't been good—too much worrying, too much wondering—but he wasn't going to put that on display.

A few minutes later, another message appeared.

Dazai: glad to hear :)

Chuuya sighed, rolled his eyes, and put the phone on his nightstand face-down. If this was Dazai's idea of communication, they really did need to have that conversation in person.

Dazai's POV:

Texting Chuuya had happened in a moment of weakness. One of many lately, if he was being honest. He'd been sitting in his too-quiet room, staring at the ceiling, and the need to reach out had been overwhelming. Not because he expected anything—not really—but because he needed to know if Chuuya would even respond. If there was still something there to burn down properly.

It was part of a bigger plan he'd been forming. The letter he needed to write, the explanations he owed.

The response came quick but cold.

Chuuya: Yeah was good, gn

No questions, no warmth, none of the easy affection that used to color their conversations. Good. That made this easier, somehow.

On the evening of January 4th, Dazai sat at his desk with an envelope and several sheets of paper he'd quietly borrowed from Mori's office printer. His decision was made, had been made for days now, but the execution felt impossible. What did you say to someone when you were essentially writing your own obituary? How did you explain without making it sound like blame?

He wasn't even sure Chuuya would care about the letter. Maybe he'd be relieved—one less complication, one less person making his life difficult. But Dazai still felt like he owed him an explanation. After the ghosting, after the worry he might have caused during Chuuya's family time, after everything.

It took him multiple attempts to find words that didn't sound completely wrong.

First Draft:

Chuuya,

I'm tired of pretending this is going to get better. You probably already figured out something was wrong when I stopped talking to you properly. Sorry about that, I know it was shitty timing with your family visit.

I can't do this anymore. Living here, dealing with Mori, being reminded every day that I'm just like my mother—who killed herself, by the way. Found that out recently. Turns out she didn't abandon me, she just couldn't handle being alive either.

I know you'll probably blame yourself but don't. This isn't about you or anything you did wrong. You were actually the only good part of this whole mess. But even good parts can't fix someone who's fundamentally broken.

Sorry for wasting your time.

—Osamu

He read it over once, then crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. Too bitter. Too angry. Like he was trying to hurt Chuuya on his way out.

Second Draft:

Dear Chuuya,

By the time you read this, I'll be gone. I want you to know that this decision has nothing to do with you. I analyzed my situation over the winter break and came to the conclusion that this would be for the best.

The past weeks at home have clarified some things for me. About who I really am versus who I was pretending to be. About my mother and what really happened to her. About the fact that some people just aren't built for this.

You made me happy for a while, which is more than most people manage. I'm grateful for that time, even if it couldn't last.

Please don't blame yourself. This was always going to happen.

—Osamu

Too clinical. Too detached. Like he was writing a case study instead of talking to someone who'd become important to him.

Third Draft:

Chuuya,

I'm sorry for how I've been acting lately. Going silent on you, especially during your time with family, was unfair. You deserved better communication, and I couldn't give it to you.

I've been trying to figure out how to tell you that I'm leaving, and there's no good way to do it. By leaving, I mean permanently. I'm done with therapy and medication and good intentions. Those aren't going to make me into someone worth keeping around.

You were the best thing that happened to me in those past few months. Maybe the best thing that's ever happened to me. Those weeks when we were figuring out what we could be, I've never felt more alive or more like myself.

But being home has reminded me that temporary happiness doesn't erase a lifetime of being unwanted. I thought maybe I could build something real with you, but I can't drag you into this mess indefinitely.

I hope you're not too angry with me. Actually, I hope you are angry—it'll make this easier for you.

Thank you for everything.

—Osamu

Still wrong. Too focused on what Chuuya might feel, not enough explanation of the why.

Final Letter:

Chuuya,

I've been staring at blank paper for hours trying to figure out how to explain this properly. There's no good way to tell someone you care about that you're choosing to leave, so I'm just going to try to be honest.

First, I need to apologize for how I've been acting—the sudden distance, barely responding to your messages, going silent when you were trying to enjoy time with your family. That was unfair to you, and I'm sorry. You didn't deserve to spend your winter break worrying about someone who couldn't even explain what was wrong.

Being home has stripped away all the progress I thought I was making. This house, living with Mori again, being reminded daily of who I really am underneath all the temporary improvements—it's made some things very clear. I've been fooling myself thinking I could build a real life, thinking the depression and self-hatred were things I could overcome with enough effort.

I found out about my mother this week. She didn't abandon us like Mori let me believe for eleven years. She killed herself. And the worst part is, I understand why. I understand her in a way that feels like looking into a mirror.

I need you to know that these past few months with you—as roommates, as friends, as whatever we were becoming—were the best part of my year. Maybe the best part of my life. You made me laugh when I'd forgotten how. You made me feel wanted in a way I'd never experienced before. When you said you'd been hoping something would happen between us, when you kissed me back that night—those moments felt more real than anything else I've ever experienced.

If it hadn't been for you, I probably wouldn't have stayed this long. You gave me reasons to get up in the morning, to stay present in conversations, to imagine a future that didn't feel like a prison sentence. That's not something I take lightly.

But I can't keep letting you invest in someone who was always going to end up here. I can't keep pretending that a few months of happiness can undo being the kind of person who makes everyone's life harder just by existing.

I hope you can be angry at me—hate me, trash my side of the dorm, do whatever helps you process this. I won't be there to complain, and I'd understand completely. You have every right to be furious with me for this. Maybe someday you can forgive me for the ghosting, for making you worry, for timing this so poorly with your family visit. I hope I didn't ruin everything for you. Maybe someday you can forgive me for leaving you to deal with the aftermath of caring about me. But if you can't, that's okay too.

I know I'm not in any position to make demands, but please—don't blame yourself. This isn't about you failing me or not being enough. You were more than enough. You were everything good I didn't know I needed. Most of all, I hope you won't let this stop you from caring about people. You have so much warmth to offer—don't let my inability to receive it properly make you think it isn't valuable.

I'm writing this not to make you feel guilty, but to make sure you understand that this isn't your fault. Nothing you could have said or done differently would have changed this outcome. This is about me and the things that were broken in me long before we met.

Thank you for every movie night, every conversation, every moment you made me feel like I might actually be worth something. Thank you for seeing something in me that I never learned to see in myself.

I hope you have a good life. I hope you find someone who can love you back the way you deserve.

I know you have good people around you—your family, your friends. They love you properly, the way you deserve to be loved. Don't let this make you doubt that or doubt yourself.

—Osamu

He read through it twice, made a few small corrections, then folded it carefully and slipped it into the envelope. His handwriting was steady, matter-of-fact. No tear stains this time, no dramatic flourishes. Just the truth, laid out as clearly as he could manage.

January 5th arrived gray and cold, with snow falling steadily outside his window. Mori had left for the hospital that morning with barely a grunt of acknowledgment, and Dazai knew he wouldn't be back until late.

Perfect timing.

He had his whole day planned out, starting with a walk to the post office that had felt like moving through a dream. Dazai had taken his time, savoring the bite of cold air on his face, the way his breath formed small clouds in the winter air, the way snowflakes got caught in his lashes. The letter to Chuuya was sealed in an envelope, addressed carefully to their dorm room.

The post office was warm and bright, a stark contrast to the gray morning outside. The postal worker behind the counter was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a genuine smile, the kind of person who probably had grandchildren and a garden she worried about in winter.

"Just this one?" she asked, taking the envelope from his hands.

"Yes, just the one." His voice sounded normal, even to his own ears. Polite. Steady.

She weighed it, applied the stamp with practiced efficiency. "Should get there by tomorrow, the day after at the latest. Weather might slow things down a bit."

"That's fine. Thank you."

"You have a good day now, stay warm out there."

"You too."

The letter disappeared into the outgoing mail slot with a soft thud that seemed to echo in his chest. Final. Irreversible. No taking it back now, no changing his mind and trying to intercept it before it reached Chuuya's hands.

His next stop was the liquor store on his route home. It took him a moment to gather the courage to enter the shop. The big signs stating "no kids allowed" were more intimidating than he had anticipated, even though he was legally allowed to go in. Rows and rows of bottles, each promising different kinds of oblivion. He'd stood there for nearly twenty minutes, paralyzed by choice, reading labels and alcohol percentages like he was studying for an exam.

The whiskey he finally selected was mid-shelf—not the cheapest, but nothing fancy either. He'd reasoned, with the kind of dark logic that felt increasingly natural, that it didn't matter much either way. The clerk was a bored-looking guy about his own age, more interested in his phone than checking IDs.

"This all for you today?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"Twenty-eight fifty."

Paying for the bottle with the same casual efficiency as purchasing textbooks or groceries felt surreal—after all he was buying the instrument to hopefully seal his own death. The bottle fit neatly into his backpack, hidden behind his winter coat, just another item to carry home.

Walking the rest of the way, everything looked different. More vivid, somehow. The snow-covered trees lining the residential streets seemed to glow against the overcast sky. Houses with warm yellow lights already flickering in windows, people living lives that would continue long after he was gone. A woman walking her dog waved at him as he passed, and he found himself waving back automatically.

The normalcy of it all was strangely comforting.

Before heading upstairs to lock himself in his room, he stopped in the kitchen one more time. Always the obedient son, he cleaned up the cup and plate Mori had left from his hurried breakfast, loaded them into the dishwasher, wiped down the counters until they gleamed. The kitchen spotless, everything in its place, exactly how Mori liked it.

It wasn't just habit that drove him to clean—it was strategy. What if Mori came home early and found the kitchen messy? What if that anger drove him to check on Dazai, to knock on his door, to demand an explanation for the unusual disorder? He honestly had no idea what Mori would do if he found him in the middle of...

Better to eliminate any reason for interruption. Maintaining the facade of normalcy right until the end.

After he'd finished his work, he went to his room and locked the door with careful precision, testing the handle twice to make sure it caught properly. Everything felt hyper-real now—the texture of the brass doorknob under his fingers, the soft click of the lock engaging, the sound of his own breathing suddenly loud in the quiet space.

From his backpack, he retrieved the bottle of whiskey, setting it on his desk next to his laptop. The amber liquid caught the weak afternoon light filtering through his window, looking almost warm and inviting.

From his desk drawer came the pills—sixty-eight of them, carefully collected over the past week. His prescribed antidepressants, some of Mori's sleeping medication the man took for long flights, and pain relievers he'd found in the master bathroom medicine cabinet, taken in small quantities so their absence wouldn't be noticed. The irony that the pills that were supposed to make him feel better were going to be his end wasn't lost on him. Ranpo's prescription refill right before winter break, an unasked-for stroke of luck now guaranteeing that he had a reliable dose.

Mixed with alcohol, they should work quietly and efficiently. He'd researched it thoroughly—consulted his pharmacology textbooks. The combination should depress his central nervous system, slow his breathing and heart rate until they simply... stopped. Much more reliable than the paracetamol overdoses he'd read about. A led to slow, agonizing liver failure over days or weeks? No thank you. This should be peaceful, relatively quick, and most importantly, final.

The first sip of whiskey at precisely 4 PM burned going down, making him cough so hard his eyes watered. He'd never drunk alcohol before—Mori's lectures about self-destruction had been thorough, if hypocritical. The sharp taste was nothing like he'd expected, harsh and medicinal rather than the smooth warmth movies had suggested.

The second sip was just as harsh. The third barely better. It took nearly fifteen minutes and at least ten careful sips before he felt anything beyond the burning sensation in his throat and chest. But gradually, slowly, his body began to adjust. A spreading warmth started in his stomach, radiating outward. The sharp edges of his anxiety beginning to blur just slightly.

By the time he'd been drinking for half an hour, having consumed maybe a quater of the bottle in small, steady sips, the world had taken on a softer quality. Colors seemed more saturated, sounds more distant. Even his own thoughts felt cushioned, wrapped in cotton.

He reached for the first handful of pills—about fifteen of them. They were harder to swallow than he'd anticipated—his body instinctively trying to reject them, his throat constricting with each attempt. The first few went down with a large gulp of whiskey, the alcohol helping them slide past his gag reflex. The next handful was more difficult, several pills sticking to his tongue, requiring multiple attempts and more whiskey to force them down.

He needed to pace himself. Too much too fast and he'd just throw everything up, ruining the entire plan. He stood up from his desk chair, the movement making his head swim slightly. The alcohol was definitely working now.

Moving to his bed felt like the right choice—more comfortable, better view of the window. He settled against his pillows, taking another long drink from the bottle. The whiskey was going down easier now, almost smooth compared to those first few sips.

Outside, the late afternoon sun was beginning to break through the overcast clouds, painting everything in shades of gold and orange. It was breathtaking. The kind of sunset that made people stop on the street and pull out their phones, trying to capture something uncapturable. The snow-covered trees looked like they'd been dipped in honey.

He'd always loved winter sunsets. The fact that he was seeing such beauty on this day felt like a gift.

Another handful of pills. They went down easier from the bed, his body more relaxed, the alcohol doing most of the work.

Twenty minutes later, he realized he needed the bathroom. Strange—he hadn't drunk that much liquid, had he? Maybe half the bottle over the course of an hour? But the urge was undeniable.

On the way to the bathroom his medical training kicked in even through the growing haze. ADH suppression. Antidiuretic hormone secretion decreased under alcohol consumption. Increased diuresis.

Of course. 

When he returned to his room, he double-checked the door lock, though his fingers felt clumsy against the metal. The last thing he needed was Mori walking in on... this.

Back on his bed, he took another long drink from the bottle—nearly two-thirds empty now—and reached for more pills. This batch was harder to count, his vision starting to blur at the edges, but it felt like the right amount. Maybe fifteen more.

The sunset was reaching its peak now, painting his room in warm oranges and reds. Like Chuuya's hair. Even through his increasing lethargy, he could appreciate the beauty of it. The way the light caught the falling snow, turning each flake into a tiny crystal. The way the bare branches of the oak tree outside his window seemed to glow against the colorful sky.

Another drink. More pills—the last handful, though his counting was getting fuzzy. His hands were shaking now, whether from the alcohol or the medication or simple nerves, and several pills scattered across his comforter when his coordination failed him. He didn't bother gathering them up. He'd taken enough.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand—probably just a university email, maybe some automated reminder. But part of him wondered if it could be Chuuya. One last message, one final connection to the person who had made him feel most human.

He tried to reach for it, his arm feeling impossibly heavy, but the movement sent the phone tumbling off the nightstand and onto the floor with a soft thud. Too far away now, and his limbs felt like they were made of lead.

His breathing was slowing, becoming deeper and more spaced out. His heart rate was dropping too—he could feel it in his chest, the rhythm of his pulse growing irregular and distant, almost dreamlike.

Memories flickered through his mind like scenes from someone else's life: Fighting with Chuuya about desk lamps and sleep schedules in those first awkward weeks of roommate life. The way they'd gradually learned to navigate each other's sharp edges, to find comfort in each other's presence. Chuuya's patient voice during Dazai's dark periods, refusing to let him disappear completely into his own head.

Hours spent in the hospital, Chuuya doing homework in the uncomfortable chair beside his bed, pretending it was no big deal. Movie nights in their tiny dorm, arguing about everything and nothing. Their first kiss, full of possibility and hope and all the things Dazai had convinced himself he'd never deserve.

Dazai smiled. 

Then other memories intruded, darker ones that felt more familiar: Mori's cold voice explaining that weakness was hereditary, that some people were simply built wrong. Years of dismissive looks, of being treated like a failed experiment rather than a son. The tears of a seven-year-old who couldn't understand why his mother had left—except she hadn't left, had she? She'd just found the same solution he was finding now.

His mother's face from the old photographs, young and tired and trying so hard to love him despite the darkness growing inside her. Maybe she was waiting for him somewhere beyond all this pain.

He managed to pull his comforter up to his chin, though even that simple movement felt like crossing a vast distance. The room was spinning gently, everything soft and indistinct around the edges. The sunset outside his window was fading into twilight, deep purples and blues replacing the warm golds and oranges. Snow was still falling, heavier now, muffling all sound and creating a perfect cocoon of silence around the house.

The combination of alcohol and pills was doing exactly what he'd calculated it would do—his central nervous system shutting down gradually, peacefully. His body was finally letting go of the exhausting effort of staying alive, of fighting a battle he'd never been equipped to win.

There was a strange peace in it. Like finally being allowed to rest after running a marathon with broken legs, like finally being permitted to stop pretending he was strong enough for this life.

In the distance, he could hear a car driving past—someone heading home from work, picking up groceries, living their normal life. The sound faded quickly, absorbed by the growing darkness, leaving only the whisper of flakes against glass.

His last coherent thought was of Chuuya's voice saying "sweet dreams" the way he used to during their late-night phone calls, when Dazai couldn't sleep and needed the sound of someone who cared about him to quiet his racing mind.

Like a prayer. Like a promise of better things waiting somewhere beyond the pain.

Like forgiveness.

Chuuya's POV: January 6th, 11:30 AM

Dr. Mori arrived home from his shift at the hospital at 6 PM to find his quiet street filled with emergency vehicles and neighbors gathering on their porches like vultures. Red and blue lights painted the snow-covered lawns in garish colors, and the broken front door of his house stood open like a wound.

A police officer intercepted him at the end of his driveway, expression carefully neutral in the way that delivered life-changing news.

"Dr. Mori? I'm Officer Kamei."

Mori looked past him at the chaos surrounding his home—crime scene tape fluttering in the cold wind. What inconvenience was this? He had paperwork waiting, patients to review.

"What's the situation? Did someone break in?" His voice carried irritation rather than concern.

Officer Kamei's expression softened slightly. "Sir, this is about your son. Perhaps we should go somewhere private to discuss this."

"Just tell me what happened." Whatever drama Osamu had created now, he didn't have time for it.

"We received a call from the sister of a friend of your son's. They were concerned about Osamu's welfare, thought he might be in danger of harming himself." The officer paused, watching Mori's face carefully. "When we arrived and no one answered our knocking, we had to break down the door."

So no break-in. Osamu had probably been out or listening to music too loud. The boy would have to work to repay the damage at the front door.

"The house seemed empty, but we searched all rooms..."

Great. They'd made a mess, tracked dirt everywhere. More cleaning to do.

"We found your son in his bedroom. He's... I'm sorry to inform you that he passed away. We believe he took his own life approximately 18 hours ago."

The words hung in the cold air like visible breath. Mori stared at the broken door, the paramedic equipment still leaning against the frame, blinking slowly as he tried to process the information with the same methodical precision he applied to medical cases in clinic.

"How?" The question came out flat.

"It appears to be an intentional overdose. We found various pills on the floor of his room and a bottle of alcohol... We are so sorry for your loss. The coroner will need to perform an autopsy to determine the exact cause—with cases like this, I hope you understand—but..."

Officer Kamei trailed off, studying Mori's remarkably composed expression.

"I see." Mori looked up at his house—at the broken door, at the two windows on the right side of the first floor, at the silence that would now be permanent rather than merely preferred.

"We'll need to ask you some questions about his mental state, any medications he had access to, his behavior recently—"

"He was depressed," Mori said, not looking the officer in the face. "Had been for years. Runs in the family. His mother took her life too, many years ago."

"When did you last see him?"

"Yesterday morning, when I left for work. He seemed fine. Quiet, but that is normal for him." Mori paused, something almost like confusion crossing his features. "Was."

Officer Kamei made notes in his small pad. "Has he ever—"

"Listen, officer, I understand those kinds of questions are necessary, but could we—" Mori's voice trailed off. "—could we maybe not do this right now? I think I..."

"Of course. Is there someone we can call for you? Family, friends? You shouldn't be alone right now."

Mori looked around at the neighbors watching from their porches, at the emergency vehicles beginning to pack up and leave, at the pristine snow that would soon be trampled into dirty slush by investigators and cleanup crews.

"No," he said quietly. "There's no one to call."

Chuuya's POV

The university was understanding about everything—the emergency trip home, his delayed restart to the semester, the request for a room transfer. But understanding couldn't fill the hole that had opened up in Chuuya's chest, couldn't stop the constant replay of those last few days where he should have noticed something was wrong. Should have noticed what Dazai's true plan had been.

His new room was in a different building entirely, as far from their old shared space as possible. But distance didn't help. Everything reminded him of Dazai—the way morning light slanted through dorm windows, the sound of textbook pages turning, the particular quality of silence that came with deep concentration.

His new roommate, Poe, a third-semester English literature student, was quiet and studious, exactly the kind of person who would have been easy to live with. Chuuya hated him on principle.

Not personally—Poe hadn't done anything wrong except exist in the space that should have been filled with arguments mixed with cozy movie nights. Except be normal and uncomplicated, never requiring the careful navigation of moods and triggers that had become second nature with Dazai.

"You don't have to stay on my account," Chuuya told him one evening after catching himself snapping over something trivial. "I know I'm not exactly ideal company."

Poe looked up from his book, expression thoughtful. "A good friend of mine died two years ago," he said quietly. "I understand what you're going through."

The casual admission hit Chuuya like a punch to the chest. "I'm sorry, I didn't know—"

"It's fine. But therefore I get why you're angry all the time, why everything feels wrong. How you probably blame yourself for not seeing it coming." Poe's voice was matter-of-fact. "It gets better, eventually. Not good, but better."

Chuuya found himself crying without warning, the careful composure he'd maintained for day finally cracking. Poe didn't try to comfort him or offer empty reassurances, just continued reading while Chuuya sobbed into his pillow.

It was exactly what he needed—someone who understood that some grief was too big for words, too complex for comfort.

There was no funeral.

Mori arranged for a private cremation, citing his need for privacy during this difficult time. The truth was simpler and more cruel—there was no one to invite. No family members who would mourn, no childhood friends who would remember good times, no community that would gather to celebrate a life cut short.

Just Mori, the crematorium staff, and the weight of choices that had led to this sterile, lonely ending.

Chuuya heard about the cremation after it had already happened through Detective Minoura, the man who had contacted him to let him know what had happened to Dazai. The detective had found it only fair for the kid who called them in the first place to find out.

The news hit him like a physical blow—the idea that Dazai had been reduced to ashes without ceremony, without anyone who loved him present to say goodbye.

He drove to the cemetery where the ashes had been interred, a pristine memorial park with geometric rows of identical headstones. Dazai's marker was small and plain, bearing only his name and dates. No loving epitaph, no mention of son or student or friend. Just bureaucratic acknowledgment that someone named Osamu Dazai had existed and now didn't.

Chuuya sat in the grass beside the marker for hours, talking to the stone as if Dazai could hear him. Apologizing for not pushing harder, for not seeing the signs, for letting him die alone and unloved in that cold house.

"I should have made you come with me over winter break," he said to the unresponsive granite. "Should have hidden you in my luggage, should have refused to let you go home. You hated it there, I knew you hated it, but I let you go anyway."

The wind rustled through the memorial garden's carefully maintained trees, carrying the scent of fresh flowers from other graves where people had left tokens of love and remembrance.

"Your father didn't even put flowers on your grave. What kind of person doesn't put flowers on their own son's grave?" Chuuya continued, his voice breaking. "You thought you were a burden, but you weren't. Not to any of us."

The words felt hollow, meaningless against the finality of carved stone and buried ashes. But he said them anyway, because someone needed to speak love over Dazai's remains. Someone needed to acknowledge that he had mattered, even if he'd never believed it himself.

Nine months later

Chuuya's third semester began with a hollow normalcy that felt like mockery. Classes resumed, assignments were distributed, life continued with mechanical precision. Chuuya went through the motions—attending lectures, taking notes, completing homework—but everything felt muted, like watching the world through frosted glass.

His grades suffered. Not catastrophically, but enough that professors began expressing concern. Professor Fukuzawa, who taught their sports psychology course, kept him after class one day in late September.

"I know you've lost a person close to you," the older man said gently. "If you need additional support, academic accommodations, anything to help you through this difficult time..."

"I'm fine," Chuuya said automatically.

"Are you? Because your performance suggests otherwise. And that's understandable—grief affects concentration, memory, motivation. There's no shame in needing help."

Chuuya stared at his hands, noting absently that his cuticles were torn from nervous picking. Another habit he'd developed since January. "His father forced him into medicine," he said suddenly. "Did you know that? It wasn't his own choice, but he was brilliant at it. Better than any of his classmates."

The professor waited patiently for him to continue.

"He hated it, though. Said he felt like he was preparing for a life that belonged to someone else. I kept telling him he could change majors, could find something he actually cared about. He liked classic literature, but he never believed he had choices."

"And now you're doubting your own choices?"

"Shouldn't I? Isn't that what people do—honor the dead by fulfilling their unrealized dreams?"

"Sometimes. But living someone else's life isn't really living at all, is it? It's just another form of dying."

The words hit harder than intended. Chuuya felt tears prick his eyes, the grief that was always just beneath the surface threatening to overflow again.

"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "It's been nine months and I don't know how to keep going when he couldn't. It feels wrong to be okay when he was so not okay."

"Survivor's guilt," Professor Fukuzawa observed quietly. "Very common, very painful, and ultimately counterproductive. Your friend didn't die because you lived. His pain wasn't caused by your joy. Continuing to exist, to find meaning and happiness, doesn't diminish his memory."

"Then why does it feel like betrayal?"

"Because grief is complicated, and guilt is easier than helplessness. If you can blame yourself, you maintain the illusion that you had control over the outcome. It's psychologically more comfortable than accepting that some tragedies are simply beyond our power to prevent."

Chuuya wiped his eyes with his sleeve, grateful that the classroom was empty except for the two of them. "So what am I supposed to do? Just... get over it?"

"Not get over it—learn to carry it. The grief, the love, the regret, the good memories. They all become part of who you are now. The goal isn't to stop missing him, it's to build a life that can hold both the missing and everything else."

Sixteen Months later

January 5th fell on a Monday, the anniversary of the day Dazai had died. Chuuya had been dreading the date for weeks, unsure how to mark it or whether marking it at all would be helpful or harmful.

In the end, he did what felt right: he drove back to the memorial garden where Dazai's ashes were buried, carrying fresh flowers and a letter he'd never send.

The cemetery looked different in winter sunlight than it had during his first visit. Less stark, somehow. More peaceful. Other graves bore fresh flowers, evidence of ongoing love and remembrance.

Chuuya sat beside Dazai's headstone and pulled out the letter he'd written.

"I know you can't read this," he said to the stone, feeling only slightly ridiculous. "But I needed to write it anyway."

Dear Osamu,

It's been two years. seven hundred and thirty days of waking up and remembering all over again that you're not coming back. I thought it would get easier by now, but some days it still feels like someone punched a hole through my chest.

I'm angry at you. I need you to know that. I'm fucking furious that you left without giving me a chance to help. That you made the decision for both of us. That you believed your father's lies over everything I tried to show you about your worth.

But I'm also sorry. Sorry I played games with texting instead of just telling you I was worried. Sorry I let my own hurt feelings matter more than your pain. Sorry I didn't fight harder to keep you.

I started seeing someone. His name is Lippmann, and he's nothing like you—gentle where you were sharp, steady where you were storm. I felt guilty about it at first, like I was betraying your memory. But I think you'd like him. And I think you'd want me to be happy, even if you couldn't figure out how to be happy yourself.

I'm in my last semester of sports science and I'm thinking of applying for a master in psychology afterwards. Maybe not for the real hard cases but even in sport many people struggle mentally when a particular nasty injury took something from them.

I come and visit you here every month, and I bring flowers, and I tell you about my life. Because you mattered. Because the love was real, even if it wasn't enough.

I miss fighting with you about stupid things. I miss the way you'd scrunch your nose when you were concentrating. I miss your terrible jokes and your midnight study sessions and the way you'd steal fall asleep on my shoulder when we watched stupid movies.

I miss the future we were supposed to have.

He paused, watching clouds move across the winter sky.

I'm not okay without you. I don't think I ever will be, completely. But I'm learning to be okay anyway, if that makes sense. To build a life that has room for missing you without being defined by it.

I miss you. 

 

Chuuya

 

A groundskeeper was working several rows away, tending to the landscaping with quiet efficiency. Normal life continuing its patterns around the edges of grief.

"I have to go," he told the stone. "But I'll come back. Not as often as I did this year, probably, but regularly. I need you to know that you mattered. That you're remembered. That the love was real, even if it wasn't enough."

He stood up, brushing dirt from his knees, and took one last look at the small, plain marker that held all that remained of Osamu Dazai.

"Sweet dreams," he said softly, using the words he had said to or texted Dazai every night during those precious few weeks when everything had seemed possible.

Then he walked away, carrying his grief and his love and his hard-won understanding that sometimes the most important thing you can do for someone is simply witness that they existed. Bear testimony to their pain and their joy, their failures and their small victories.

Remember them as fully human, even when they couldn't see their own humanity clearly enough to choose to keep it.

The snow began falling as he reached his car, thick flakes that would cover the cemetery in clean white silence. But the flowers would remain, bright against the stone, proof that love persisted even in the deepest winter.

Evidence that some things were stronger than death, even when they weren't strong enough to prevent it.