Chapter Text
11:07.
29th April.
“Fuck.”
All Chuuya can feel is the burning. Hot, fiery acid right under his skin.
He’s sprinting through the hallways faster than he’s ever ran track. Pushing his body to its very limit; a rather high limit, mind you, what with his decent (a modest adjective) athleticism.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck.”
It surely isn’t his first time running through these hallways. Chasing friends, being chased, etcetera, etcetera.
He half-expects a teacher to come paddling out of a classroom, ruler high in the air, threatening to shove him into detention if he doesn’t stop running through the goddamn hallways.
For the first time, he wishes for it.
But—
“Mizuki-san!” Chuuya yells, using his momentum tactfully to slide across the floor on his knees towards his English teacher. Miss Mizuki lies on her back on the floor, eyes blinking rapidly, tears pooling out in clumps. But she can’t squeak a sound, let alone utter a fucking word. The boy cradles her head, holds her close. He didn’t know what to do. But he has to do something.
She turns her eyes an inch to meet Chuuya’s. Her mouth falls open.
Then her jaw does.
Cleanly, her face splits in two.
Chuuya drops her head out of shock. It thumps on the ground, but the sound is snuffed out quickly by the ferocity of school kids screaming in the background.
When he turns to see the other side of her face, he realises that the corner of her left jaw is gone. Bitten off. Eaten. He can see her goddamn molars.
His hands are shaking.
Feeling helpless is not his fucking thing — but he doesn’t know what to do.
She’s dead. He has to accept that right now, or he’ll die too.
Chuuya is moving before he can form another thought. Sliding away from Miss Mizuki’s corpse, he stands and spins around, only to come face-to-face with another corpse.
This one, however, is alive.
Or as alive as a corpse can be.
Corpse but moving. Corpse but mouth fallen open, eyes wide and bloodshot, blood splattered and right arm missing. With its left arm it reaches out and grabs Chuuya by the bicep. He watches, horrified.
It’s dressed in their school uniform. It’s someone he must have known, but can’t recognise with their already rotting face. Melting cheeks and pale, blue-tinted skin.
Chuuya grabs it by the chin as it chomps at air, trying to get to him. “What are you?!” he demands, his fury and fear bubbling all at once. “What the hell are you?!”
Suddenly, the corpse is impaled through the head.
Chuuya gasps and lets go of the body, watching it go limp and fall to the floor.
He feels a pinch on his sleeve. “Come on,” he hears, a calm and collected voice.
He recognises that grating voice, but he listens anyway. It feels so out of place that Chuuya wants to follow. Calm and collected amidst this chaos? Even for the weird bastard it’s strange.
Dead bodies scattered everywhere. Blood, guts, gore. The sound of bones being crunched, of flesh being chewed; screaming, crying, hollering of the dying and the witnesses.
The funniest thing is that it isn’t even the oddest part of the day.
The oddest part is Dazai Osamu saving his fucking ass.
08.01.
28th April.
Nakahara Chuuya does not dream.
He doesn’t know why. It was a long road to just accepting the fact. One time his Baba even took him to the doctors to get him checked out, but their tests ran empty and their results were inconclusive. “No irregularities,” they said, “not in his brain or hormones.” And upon further examinations, no disturbances to his heart either. So, naturally, left with no choice, Chuuya simply learnt to live with it.
But sometimes...
“Soon, Chuuya...”
Sometimes... he hears a voice when he sleeps.
“...Soon, you are going to change the entire world.”
It comes rarely. Very rarely. He could count on one hand the number of times it’s come to him in his life, and it’s always that same damn voice, but always a different phrase. A man’s voice. One that haunts him. Each time he’s heard it, it sounds so incredibly nearby and real, as if he’s stood right next to Chuuya, or right over him, whispering it only an inch from his face. So unbearably close that the redhead can almost feel the phantom touch of his breath.
He doesn’t count it as a dream. If anything, it’d be a nightmare, but that doesn’t feel accurate to him either.
It’s more so... well, a memory.
That’s the furthest he’s gotten to figuring it out. He’s almost certain that whoever that man whispering to him in his sleep is, he’s the one that screwed him over so badly that he can’t dream, that he can’t even fucking recall the first seven years of his life.
And, of course, because of his memory-nightmare, Chuuya wakes up in a cold sweat, just like the previous few times it’s happened.
He stares at the ceiling for a few moments after he wakes, pondering.
Not his favourite way to start his day, that’s for sure.
But whatever. Letting it ruin his mood isn’t helpful, so he huffs in slight irritation but rolls right out of bed, yawning into his palm. After sliding his feet into his bedside slippers, he paddles over to the curtains and pulls them open. The near-summer sky lands on his face. Birds are tweeting, cars are rolling down his street, and everything is as it always is.
“...Soon, you are going to change the entire world.”
Chuuya grits his teeth together, scrunching the maroon curtains into his fists.
“What the hell do you mean, you bastard?” he whispers under his breath.
He almost expects a response.
Of course, he gets none.
Angrily, he shuts his curtains again, grabs his school uniform, and disappears into the bathroom to shower and get rid of the sweat.
But even whilst he showers,
whilst the cold droplets roll down his skin, and his grey eyes remain fixated on the shower head, trying to ignore the deep feeling of dread in his bones,
He can’t get the voice out of his head.
“Soon, Chuuya, you are going to change the entire world.”
“That friend of yours is already waitin’ for you outside.”
“I know, Baba,” Chuuya says, slurping down the miso soup as quickly as he can. His grandmother stands by the stove, a hand on her hip, lips twisted to one side of her face like she does when she’s either concerned or disappointed with her grandson. “We’re gettin’ late to school.”
“You’re getting him late.”
Chuuya shoots her a smirk. “It’s nothin’ to be proud of, boy!” she scolds, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, what’s the matter with you kids these days? In my days—”
“Yeah, yeah, in your days, they whooped your ass.”
His Baba raises an eyebrow, looking the redhead up and down. “They sure did. I can show you just how well,” she warns, though her eyes are crinkled and warm.
After a second, her joking demeanour fades away, and she closes the distance between them with a few limped steps. She lifts her hand, brushes a stray hair away from Chuuya’s face. “What happened?” she asks softly.
Chuuya pauses. Then he sighs and shrugs with one shoulder, only now noticing how he didn’t iron his uniform. “I heard him again,” he responds.
Baba’s face melts even more. “That horrid man... what’d he say this time?”
“It was stupid,” Chuuya says, moving away from her touch to grab his school bag and fling it over his shoulder. “I’ll tell ya later, maybe. I really have to get going now.”
She hesitates. “Okay. Promise me you’ll take care?”
Chuuya hates concerning her for this exact reason. Having to leave her alone when her eyebrows are furrowed, when he knows she’ll be thinking of his wellbeing until he’s back home. He wants to assure her that he’s fine, that he’ll handle it, but he promised not to lie. “Of course, Baba.”
“And do arrange yourself a birthday party, won’t you?”
Chuuya laughs as he leaves through the kitchen door. “I’m turning eighteen, not ten.”
“Birthday parties are still chic!” he hears his grandma calling out to him as he walks away.
The redhead rolls his eyes affectionately and then jogs the rest of the way down the driveway. The motorcycle Albatross rides isn’t a difficult one to spot – parked right in front of his house, a dashing hot pink, big and bold and so fucking fast. His friend is sat in the front seat, elbow on the handlebar and chin in palm.
“You took your time, didn’t you?” Albatross teases, kickstarting the engine already. He’s dressed a little wacky as usual, adhering to the school colours but wearing a spotted tie, some weird dinosaur-shaped hair clips holding back his blond hair, and a mountain of bracelets on each wrist.
“Sorry, man,” Chuuya says, easily climbing onto the back seat. “Had to shower quickly.”
“No fuss, no fuss! What is a fuss is how you still haven’t bothered telling me what the hell you want for your birthday. Surely there’s something?!”
Chuuya laughs as he slips on the helmet Tross hands over to him. “Oh, there is,” he responds in a lilting tone.
Albatross elbows him lightly. “Shut your trap, man,” he says, chuckling as he revs hard enough for the whole street to hear. “You’re not getting your reckless hands anywhere near my gorgeous baby.” To top off his point, he even stoops down and kisses the magenta-pink fuel tank.
“Then shut the hell up and get going. We’re already runnin’ late.”
“And whose fault is that?!”
“Mine! Now go!”
“So bossy.”
“Shut up.”
First class of the day: Japanese literature.
What a fucking drag.
Actually, really, if Chuuya thinks about it, it’s not even all that bad. His grades are decent, his work ethic is good, the teacher likes him... partially... and he has a handful of friends in the class.
But there’s also one fucking person...
One goddamn human being...
“Chuuya~.”
Who ruins the entire experience for him.
“Hmmmm...” the boy begins, tilting his head at the redhead, who stops right in front of his desk. “Chuuya looks extra dreadful today.”
“I’m also extra motivated to end your life. Get outta my damn seat!”
Dazai grins, brown eyes twinkling. “This isn’t your seat.”
“No? ‘Cause I remember you sitting at the back of the class, far away from me, where you belong,” Chuuya snaps.
“Now, now, pipsqueak—”
“—who do you think you’re calling pipsqueak—”
“—I know you always remember every little detail about me, but—”
“—I remember every little detail about you? What about you writing entire volumes on reasons to—”
“—Those weren’t actual volumes! Honestly! And they were all reasons to hate you—”
“—Oh, because you need a reminder, or something?”
Dazai scoffs at that one, leaning back in his seat. “You existing is enough of a reminder. You’re vile.”
“I could break your face before you even—”
“Alright, kids, that’s enough,” Miss Alcott says, striding into the class and pinning her sharp eyes on the two boys. “I can hear your voices down the hall, for heaven’s sake! Please sit down, and shut up.”
“Dazai’s in my seat,” Chuuya grits through his teeth.
“Oh,” the woman says. “I moved him myself for this semester, Nakahara-kun.”
“Why?!”
“He claimed he couldn’t see the board because he lost his glasses.”
Chuuya is incredulous. “Wha—?!” he starts, his anger swelling. “He can see perfectly fine! He has reading glasses!”
“Aw~,” Dazai begins again, grinning up at the redhead, making a show of annoyingly kicking his legs under the table. “You really do remember everything about me, huh?”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Language!” Miss Alcott snaps. “Stop teasing him, Dazai-kun. Nakahara-kun, please, just take a seat and stop arguing so that I can start the class. Honestly, you two are always holding me up.”
Chuuya tuts under his breath.
He glares harshly at the brunet, but he’s only met with an impish, satisfied smirk in return, which he wants to wipe right off his smug, ugly, stupid, grinning face.
In the end, he opts to sit in the chair right behind Dazai, and spends the entire class kicking the back of his seat. He does that until the brunet whips around to snap at him; by then, Dazai is already on his 3rd talking warning by Miss Alcott, so all Chuuya does, really, is lean into the boy’s disruptive behaviour and get him to kick himself out of class.
It works.
Annoyingly, however—
“Thanks, Chuuya!”
—things usually tend to go according to that bastard’s plans.
Chuuya sits cross-legged on the bench at lunchtime. He’s stuffing down a pork belly panini whilst Higuchi, his blonde-haired sarcasm-less friend, equips a wet wipe to clean up a fresh new cut on the boy’s forehead.
Another day, another time to dispel stupid rumours of course — this time a slightly insulting one that Chuuya would lose his virginity to the first girl to buy him a motorcycle on his birthday.
A few issues with that one.
Chuuya may be a virgin per se, but he certainly isn’t inexperienced as the rumour implies (due to the underlying desperation of it); neither does he want just any motorcycle, he wants Tross’; and he definitely does not have a motorcycle license as of yet. His plan, since three weeks ago, has been to get his license by twenty years of age, wait for Tross to get bored of his beast (as he always gets bored of things far too quickly, no matter how impressive), and then, like a decent friend, buy it off him (at a discounted price for being the greatest friend who ever lived, of course).
To dispel this rumour has saved Chuuya a couple heartbroken girls, himself the future of a prostitute, some thousand grands on wasted motorcycles and his own humiliation. All it took was—
—“Why did you have to punch him five times, Chuuya?” Higuchi enquires.
Chuuya shrugs, chugging down some strawberry milk. “Once for every lie he yapped about me,” he grumbles, not even wincing when Higuchi digs the wipe into his cut to clean out some gravel.
Higuchi pauses, squints, then continues sweeping up; “Didn’t he tell only three lies though?”
“Two extra punches were for punching me back once.”
“Such a thug,” Tross laughs, playing COD Mobile from where he’s sat next to Chuuya on the bench. “Watch out Higuchi — Next thing y’know, he’ll be a Shelby.”
“I don’t know what a ‘Shelby’ is,” she responded, unamused.
Chuuya and Tross giggled. Guessing it was at her expense, Higuchi pressed down harder on the next dig of the wipe on Chuuya’s wound, ushering his first wince from him. She smiled slyly and the redhead mocked uppercutting her in response.
It made her smile. Her smile made him smile.
Chuuya loved his friends. Too dearly to fathom. In a world where he began with absolutely nothing, they made it so easy to live and love.
“I’ve got a little gift for you, by the way,” Higuchi says, bunching up her used wipes to throw away. “Will you be here tomorrow?”
The redhead sighs. “Yeah. Look, you really don’t gotta—”
“Shush. We know that,” Tross says, patting the boy’s shoulder. “But we’re your friends. More than you, it makes us happy, y’know, to give you something – or something cringe like that.”
Higuchi laughs a little. “Yeah, something cringe like that,” she parrots.
“Whatever,” Chuuya says, “Let’s just get to class.”
“If the poor guy you beat up isn’t a tattletale and has you suspended,” the girl adds.
“And if you think you can put up with another hour with your beloved Dazai Osamu,” Tross pipes in.
Chuuya makes a complaining ‘cha’ sound, swatting his best friend away from him. “You know I fucking hate it when you say that,” he grumbles. “It was a stupid dare. One time.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Albatross mumbles, kickstarting a series of events that go from Chuuya pulling his hair to Albatross elbowing him in the stomach to Higuchi trying to deescalate and ending, ultimately, with his two friends in a headlock from each of his arms.
“What I want for my birthday is for both of you to stop being pricks,” Chuuya says.
But he’s grinning. They all are.
He won’t say so, but who needs stupid materialistic gifts when you have this?
(He’d still like the Ducatti though. Screw Tross and his rich ass family.)
11.09.
29th April.
“Show me that.”
Uncharacteristically obediently, Dazai Osamu hands over the broom without so much as a sly look. Chuuya grips the broom, lifts his knee, and slams it down the middle, splitting it jaggedly into two.
A self-made splintering wooden spear, if you will.
Dazai is staring at him. He can feel it. Brown, boring eyes scanning his face for whatever he might be feeling, scanning the splatters of blood from his face to his white polo shirt to his fresh new trainers that Baba had gifted him just this morning.
Stuck in a broom closet, I guess they don’t have much to do but to stare at each other anyway. Chuuya can’t find it in him to be angry right now. Not until the idiot inevitably opens his mouth to say:
“So, where amongst your birthdays does today rank?”
The only reason Chuuya doesn’t stab him through the chest is because, unlike him, he has his priorities straight right now. “If you die,” he says, “then first. Best day of my fucking life.”
“Somehow I really doubt that.”
“Shut up.” Chuuya hands him the spear he just made. Quizzically, Dazai takes it. Then the redhead grabs another broom and repeats his motion, keeping his new spear for himself. It’s a bit blunter than the one he gave Dazai, but he doesn’t tell the boy that; as of now, he has a much higher chance of survival than this suicidal lanky bandage-boy.
“We can’t stay here,” the redhead says. “We could get cornered if they notice us and break down the door. We gotta keep moving.”
Dazai’s infuriatingly blank face doesn’t twitch a single nanoparticle. “Yes,” he agrees.
Chuuya watches him. Their eyes meet, and something shifts; such life-and-death situations tend to do that, to strip away any casual barriers and leave behind ugly truths.
“Tell me,” Chuuya says, his voice low as he steps closer. “Are you gonna slow me down? ‘Cause if you wanna kill yourself, do it now — I’m not gonna spend my energy saving someone who doesn’t wanna be saved and will stop me from helping others that actually fucking want it.”
Dazai sneers. “If I wanted to be dead, would I not already be? I’ve had five different opportunities these past fifteen minutes. But this is an embarrassing and painful way to go; I’d really rather not.”
Chuuya nods. He doesn’t have time to argue with him any longer. After grabbing the handle of the broom closet, he takes a deep breath and turns to face Dazai, who remains impassively faced.
“Okay. I’ll open it on the count of three,” the redhead says.
“One….”
“Two…”
“Three!”
07.55
29th April
All night, Chuuya has not slept.
Anxiety isn’t something that comes easy to him. He may not be a bright-eyed optimist but he tends to believe in things working out in the end. This last night, however, he has not slept a single fucking wink.
It feels like a truck is parked on his chest. He can barely breathe, can barely move; the anxiety of no obvious fucking cause is consuming him. His skin feels hot, his eyelids are sore, and his limbs are trembling.
He would tell Baba if he didn’t know that she’d be calling the ambulance in two seconds flat. He definitely does not need that right now.
“Hold still, Chuuya. Hold still, or this will hurt a lot more than it should.”
Ugh.
The redhead rests a palm on his face, sighing.
That shithead again.
Two consecutive days, huh. New record.
“Chuuya! Are you awake?!”
Chuuya huffs and slips out of bed. He needs to shower and change his bedsheets again. They’re damp with sweat.
“Yes!” he yells back. “Coming!”
After stripping down the bed, the redhead splashes his face with cold water and makes his way downstairs. Baba is at the dining table, leaning against it, a wrapped gift in her hands. On the table is an assortment of food for breakfast fit for a king: French toast, grilled fish, fried eggs, sandwiches, natto with rice, seaweed broth. The boy slumps, weak of the heart to tell his grandma that he doesn’t have an ounce of appetite.
“The food’s warm. Get eating,” she says, a deep, warm smile on her face as the approached the redhead. “But first – this is for you, my love. Happy birthday.”
Chuuya smiles. “Thank you,” he mumbles, softly taking the gift from her.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. What is this?”
“Open it and see.”
He can tell she doesn’t buy his lie, but luckily for him, it’s his ‘happy’ day, so she doesn’t push the matter. She watches as the boy rips off the wrapping paper and opens the shoe box to find—
“The Tihuan 500s!” he gasps, staring at the silver and red shoes in front of him. “Baba! What the hell!”
A proud grin is on his grandmother’s face as she scolds him for his language. He barely hears her, barely remembers his own restless night as he slips the shoes on.
A perfect fit.
“These are like 200,000 yen!”
“I know.” Baba winks at him. “Don’t worry – I have my connections. I take it you like them?”
“I’m never taking ‘em off! Yes, I fucking like them!”
The happiness those stupid shoes brought him made him forget about his own anxiousness. He suddenly felt stupid for having felt so down; he laughed with his Baba, ate some food, showered and got dressed for school.
It’s just another morning. Another day.
What could go wrong?