Chapter Text
Chuuya Nakahara is a whirlwind of a human being.
Well, at least that’s what Dazai has heard people say about him in school. Now, seeing the apparent dwarf standing in front of him, in the flesh, whirlwind is not the word that comes to mind.
Dazai knows it’s him from his hair alone, despite never having met him. The shit that is said about the short ginger posing as a volleyball winged spiker is enough to fill a proper book.
“Can I sit?” Chuuya asks, pointing at the empty chair next to Dazai.
Double-seated desks have always been a plague to humanity as far as Dazai is concerned but he scoots over anyway and lets Chuuya settle beside him.
The boy’s chains hanging from his trousers jingle, quite annoyingly.
The way Dazai stares at him must be quite rude if Chuuya’s repeated side-glances are anything to go by. He breaks after the fourth time.
“Something in my hair?” he asks.
No doubt his tone was meant to make Dazai uncomfortable. Embarrassed, even. It does not.
“You play volleyball, right?” he replies instead.
“I do,” Chuuya says carefully. He’s either surprised Dazai already knows him, or he's expecting a backhanded comment about his statue.
It's probably the latter. He can’t be that surprised about Dazai knowing him. Pretty much everyone in this school knows of him. His reputation on the varsity team makes it hard not to.
Severe anger issues is a phrase that often accompanies his name.
“I always thought there were height restrictions in volleyball.”
Chuuya’s eyes narrow into slits, even though he expected the blow. It's surprisingly entertaining. Dazai wonders what he finds more annoying. The cheery tone he used, or the comment itself?
“There are. But they can be overcome if you’re good enough.”
Dazai feels his lips pull to a smile
“And you are? Good enough, that is.”
“So I’ve been told.” Gritting silence. “And who are you?”
“This class’ worst nightmare,” Dazai says, smile growing.
Chuuya does not appear entertained.
“Can’t imagine why.”
“Of course you can’t. This is probably the first time you’ve set foot in a literature class.”
At this point, professor Fukuzawa has walked in, but Dazai can’t be bothered with his presence. Not when Chuuya Nakahara has whipped his whole body in his direction, an offended look spoiling his features.
“ Excuse you?”
“Am I wrong?” Dazai inquires. “They say you’ve broken the record of lowest attendance three years in a row now. I take most of the extracurricular classes in this school and we’ve never been classmates. So the only logical conclusion is that you are a habitual ditcher. ”
“You don’t know anything about me,” Chuuya bites, his volume a tad bit too loud for a classroom. It makes a few heads turn.
“I know everything I need to know.”
“Such as?” Chuuya scoffs.
“That you’re most likely a spoiled athlete that thinks he’s above everyone because he can jump and smack a ball at the same time.”
The screeching sound of Chuuya’s chair cuts through any talking in the room. He’s suddenly on his feet, towering over Dazai. Perhaps the only instance where he gets to do so.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?”
“Mister Nakahara,” Fukuzawa’s command is the equivalent of an unexpected snowfall. Everything falls quiet in its wake.
“Congratulations, your witty language just won you an hour of detention.”
“Oh dear,” Dazai chuckles at a low volume upon seeing the blush of embarrassment creeping on Chuuya’s cheeks. It matches his hair.
Fukuzawa’s focus shifts on him, razor-sharp.
“As for you Mr. Dazai, what did you just say to Mr. Nakahara?”
Dazai stands up to his full height, pleased to see Chuuya’s head turn upward to follow. He clears his throat.
“I just called Mr. Nakahara a spoiled athlete with a superiority complex.”
A few gasps echo around the room. Typical. One of Fukuzawa’s eyebrows raises. Not so typical. Dazai didn't think this man was capable of experiencing surprise.
“That so? Well, I suppose one hour in detention with Mr. Nakahara might give you a different outlook. Congrats to you too, it's your first detention of the year.”
“Hurray.”
Chuuya’s eyes bulge, the prospect of spending more time with Dazai obviously terrifying.
“That’s not necessary, sir, I-“
“Are you two done interrupting my lecture or shall we make it two hours?”
That man’s tone could freeze hell over. He’s one of the only adults that Dazai moderately respects, and it's partially because of that very tone. Not harsh, not loud. Just stone-cold frightening.
Chuuya seems to understand, since he sits down pliantly, but not before casting Dazai a glare of nigh identical intensity as Fukuzawa’s.
**
Dazai must have been grazing his plate with his fork for over five minutes. That’s usually how long it takes for his father to notice his mind is drifting somewhere else.
“Osamu?” He tilts his head forward, trying to meet his eyes.
“I’ll finish it, I promise,” he replies immediately. Habit.
“If you don’t want the potatoes, hand them over- ow!” his brother yelps, clasping the hand that Dazai just slapped away from his plate.
“Hey! Kei, leave Osamu’s plate alone. Osamu, cut out the slapping.”
Both Kei and Osamu settle down, if only after Kei kicks Osamu’s shin under the table. Osamu steps on his socked foot. The two years of maturity that he holds over his little brother can evaporate within seconds when they petty fight.
“What’s on your mind?” their father turns to Dazai, opting to ignore their secret brawling.
Dazai has long discovered that sometimes, the truth is not only unavoidable but also necessary. His father will learn about the detention one way or another, therefore it’s better to hear it from Dazai himself. It builds trust, and it makes Dazai seems responsible.
He’s far from trustworthy or responsible, but his father doesn’t need to know that. At least not so openly.
“I got detention at school,” he sighs, trying to at least sound remorseful. “I won’t be back for lunch tomorrow until late.”
His father sets his utensils down. Kei is barely keeping a laugh from spilling out. Little shit.
“What was it this time?” his father asks. “Drawing on bathroom stalls? Making a caricature of the principal? Writing with a permanent marker on a sleeping student’s cheek?”
“It wounds me that you think I would repeat any of my past numbers. I'm nothing if not original.”
Kei appreciates the joke. His father not so much.
Dazai’s shoulders slump in disappointment. Tough crowd.
“Got into a verbal fight with someone in class.”
“That’s new. At least you talked to someone,” Kei snorts. Their father shoots him a glare that renders him silent.
“Care to elaborate?”
“I might have made some unsolicited criticism about him. But I was only teasing, it wasn’t that serious!”
This time both his father and his brother look at him with deadpan looks. He swears he sometimes feels outnumbered in his own house.
“Alright, perhaps I was a tad bit rude.”
“That’s more like it.”
“ But -“ Dazai warns. He's been interrupted enough. “He completely blew it out of proportion. Fully flipped his fight mode on and cursed at me loudly in the middle of the lecture.”
He thinks back to Chuuya hunched over him, eyes blazing with a mix of intense offense and rage.
“Believe it or not, some people don’t match your tolerance for harsh criticism Osamu,” his father takes a sip of water, tone leveled. “Sounds to me like you owe this young man an apology.”
Dazai rears back before he could level his reaction.
“What for ?”
“For being a dickhead,” Kei supplies and gets a light smack in the back of his head by their father.
“You weren’t even there! You don’t know what I said to him.”
“Don’t need to. I know you enough to guess it was uncalled for.”
Well. It might have been. But then again, almost everything that comes out of Dazai’s mouth is uncalled for. He likes it that way. Keeps things interesting.
Besides, he doesn’t need to know Chuuya to know the likes of him. There’s not much space for originality within the realms of sports teams. At the end of the day, they all fuss with round objects, yell, cheer, and act like they’ve been appointed emperors of the student body.
It also doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the overwhelming majority of students in a private school come from money. Enough money to spoil the manners out of someone. Then there are the ones in possession of a scholarship, like Dazai. In fact, the only student with a scholarship in his year. And that’s a very closely guarded secret.
“I still stand by it,” he mumbles and takes the first bite of food in over fifteen minutes. It has gone cold.
“Stand by it all you want, but if it were unsolicited as you say, you should still apologize. Not everyone has to be subjected to your view of them,” his father says.
Always the peacekeeper, isn’t he? He has this way of saying, and presenting things that makes him sound reasonable. Someone who stands on the moral high ground. Dazai has been trying to figure out the trick for years. Is it the tone? The soft eyes?
He doesn't know. What he has figured out though, is how to translate it.
For example, this sentence really meant;
You were an asshole, as per usual. Now, bow your head to the rich kid, before he makes it bow himself.
Dazai looks away to hide his smirk.
“Maybe they should. I do have some excellent views.”
“Osamu-“
“Alright, alright!” He waves his hand in dismissal. “I’ll apologize.”
Strangely enough, he means it when he says that. Apologizing and equaling the ground between him and Nakahara is a wise move. Especially since Dazai doesn’t want the entirety of the varsity volleyball team to hang him off a flag pole.
That may sound dramatic, and perhaps it would be if Dazai hasn’t seen them do it with his own eyes. Athletes are a bit like a pack, in the worst way possible.
Hurt one, the rest tear you apart.
Even if it's the chihuahua of the pack.
**
Within the span of a minute, Dazai has managed to learn two new things about Chuuya.
One ; He has a habit of being late. Even in detention.
Two ; Even though he’s late, he walks in as if everyone else is just early. How he manages to have a tall presence without the body to match it, Dazai will never know.
One of the great mysteries of the universe, if you ask him.
It's more irritating than it is impressive.
Dazai makes sure to throw the spare cleaning cloth right at Chuuyas face. Said face contorts in anger the second it makes contact with the fabric.
“What-“
“You’re late, I’ve already started cleaning this side. Chop, chop, you have to keep up if you want to leave this place while the sun is still up.”
He turns around to resume cleaning, but somehow he can still feel Chuuya seething in fury. It's in the hair of his neck, the chill down his spine. He just knows the ginger has his fists balled at his side and is currently taking shaky breaths to avoid hitting Dazai with something much heftier than a cloth.
Alright, he can hear the breaths too, not just feel them.
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’ve already made yourself at home here? You’re obviously familiar with detention activities.”
It's true, Dazai has cleaned his fair share of classrooms in his student years. But the only way for Chuuya to know so is if he’d thought to ask around. Done research.
The thought that he has, pleases Dazai, for some reason. Usually, when Dazai pokes a bear, the bear roars back and then leaves him alone. Or in this case, the dog.
This time, the bear/dog does not limit itself to that. No, Chuuya Nakahara has come prepared to tear Dazai to shreds.
How exciting.
“I am, indeed!” Dazai beams. “No harm in it, though. It has made me into an impeccable cleaner.”
Chuuya shakes his head.
“I can’t believe I’m missing practice for this…”
“This being?”
“Cleaning desks along with a world-class asshole like yourself.”
Dazai snickers. At least he's world-class at something.
Chuuya has begrudgingly begun to wipe the desks on his side. While he’s at it, Dazai takes a black marker out of his uniform’s pocket and uncaps it with his teeth. At the popping sound, Chuuya raises his head.
“What are you doing?” He asks, even though it’s perfectly clear that what Dazai is doing, is drawing on the inside of the classroom's closet.
“Taggin’” he replies anyway, the cup still in his mouth.
“I'm pretty sure that’s against school regulations.”
Dazai smiles around the cup, baring his teeth.
“So is clipping safety pins and chains to the school uniform.”
In a fit of self-consciousness, Chuuya looks downward at his clothes.
“Yeah, well-“ he stammers. “I get shit for it at least once a week.”
And yet he still wears them. Dazai supposes chihuahuas are known to be defiant.
“What? Are you jealous of my lack of consequences? I can write your name too if you wan-“
“No don’t!-“
Within seconds Chuuya crossed the room and grabbed Dazai’s hand by the wrist while he was mid-way into drawing an artistic “y”.
They both freeze.
Chuuya, because he realizes he’s touching bandages and not bare skin, and Dazai, because someone is touching his bandages.
It is Chuuya that moves first, ripping his hands away. There is something apologetic swimming in his gaze but Dazai can’t be sure. He’s too focused on remaining perfectly still. As if that’s going to erase Chuuya’s touch and the burning sensation that came with it.
Snap out of it, his brain seethes, and God, does he listen.
Dazai laughs and it’s every bit the opposite of genuine. The sound seemingly unsettles Chuuya. Good.
“Wow, Chuuya has a strong grip!”
The overt cheeriness makes the redhead jolt back into reality.
“What do you expect me to do when you’re basically incriminating me!”
“Not a big fan of tagging huh?” Dazai tilts his head. “I guess I’ll find another way to apologize, then.”
“Apologize?”
Chuuya says the word like it’s foreign. Not to him, but Dazai. Ouch .
“Yes. I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I laid it on a bit thick, I think. So, I’m sorry.”
Dazai expects Chuuyas gaze to soften, ever the slightest. Perhaps he expects him to break into a smile, shrug and slap Dazai on the shoulder, saying how it’s all good between them. Isn't that how athletes usually behave?
What he certainly doesn’t expect Chuuyas mouth to twist and then say;
“So you meant what you said, then? You’re just sorry you said it.”
Dazai’s gaze flickers from one end of the room to the other. Perhaps he’s looking for some camera and a director, waiting for them to signal what to do.
No aid comes.
“Er, yes?”
It is seldom that Dazai sounds unsure of the words that come out of him. He doesn’t like it one bit. Chuuya huffs out a laugh and he likes it even less.
"Cool. Apology not accepted."
Dazai is considered to be intelligent. Clever. In fact, he prides himself on being just that. It's the one quality he's a hundred percent confident in.
Needless to say, Dazai feels very stupid right now.
"Huh?" he manages, after a while of just staring.
"You heard me. Your apology- if it can even be called that- is not accepted. Did you really think a half-assed sorry would be enough to turn us into buddies?"
Despite feeling stupid, Dazai somehow does not feel embarrassed about it. Just confused.
"Kind of!" he throws his hands in the air. "What do you want me to do? Bow at your feet, oh your greatness? Maybe lick your shoes clean while I'm at it? "
Much to Dazai's horror, Chuuya looks amused.
"You know, for someone who has the gull to call other people self-absorbed, you're fucking dense ."
"I, wh-" Dazai chokes on thin air. "D ense ?"
"As a brick wall!" Chuuya has begun using his hands now too. "You're like-like...this fucking mosquito , buzzing in people's fucking ears until they snap and want to slap you into oblivion! You, with your fucking judgmental tone, and your assumptions and shitty apologies!"
Chuuya is heaving by the time he's done, as though he just ran a marathon. Dazai has not even blinked.
Oh, that's it. That's the end of the fuse. And Dazai has a fucking long fuse. His chest rises and falls steadily, his mouth hanging agape. When was the last time, he didn't have the words for something? He can't remember.
Get a fucking grip , his brain hisses. He's fucking with you and you just let him.
The realization feels like a slap and Dazai forces himself to relax. He takes a deep shuddering breath and plasters his fakest smile on a face cracked with irritation.
" Alright! " he squeaks. "Here's what we're gonna do. You're going to work on your side, and I on mine, and we're not going to utter another word to each other. Preferably not ever again, but realistically, during this detention. Deal?"
Chuuya looks like a hunting dog whose prey was snatched from between his teeth. Feral.
" Fine ," he mutters.
"Great!"
"Amazing!"
"Fan- fucking -tastic!"
**
A week passes. A very infuriating week.
Dazai is most definitely not trying to burn holes into the back of Chuuya's head by glaring at it. But, say, if he could (make his child-sized skull combust, that is) it would be really convenient.
What's his issue anyway? Dazai has been nothing but nice to him...starting from right after their first meeting and onward. Taking their first interaction into consideration would be an unfair judgment of Dazai's character. He's a changed man now, and Chuuya Nakahara should hurry up and realize this.
More often than not, Dazai doesn't care if people like him. It may even seem like he goes out of his way to make people dis like him. Which he does, no shame in that. But there has not been a single instance in Dazai's sixteen years of life where he has tried to be liked and failed. Miserably.
What can he say? He's an incredible actor. An entertainer, if you will. As long as he makes people laugh it doesn't matter who he is, and how he acts. People like him, even for the few seconds that it takes for their laugh to die down. It's charisma, of some sort. A natural charm.
Chuuya Nakahara very persistently refuses to be victimized by Dazai's charm.
And it perplexes Dazai. To no end.
He's not sure what glaring at the other boy's head is going to achieve, but at least his unique hair color makes it less of a tedious pass time.
"Mr. Doppo," Fukuzawa casts a glance at the front desk and the blonde in question raises to his feet. "Please give us a summary of last week's reading material, so that we can begin."
Kunikida- ever the obedient pupil- clears his throat.
"Last week's reading assignment was The Portrait of Dorian Grey, by Oscar Wilde. It follows a corrupt young man trying to preserve his youthful beauty through a sort of magical painting that ends up revealing his inner horrors to all. T-"
An interruptive scoff is heard from the back of the room.
"You forgot about the implicit homosexuality that ends up in brutal murder."
Dazai's interest is piqued. He slowly closes the sketchbook laid on his desk.
Kunikida shuts his mouth, but not for lack of things to say. On the contrary, it's because he has quite a lot to say, half of which will land him in detention if they're spoken in a classroom. A few other students perk their ears up. Nothing is received better in a classroom than some good old banter.
If Dazai didn't know any better, he'd swear there was a smirk playing on the corner of Fukuzawa's lips.
"Do speak up, Daisuke. I'm sure the class will benefit from a proper debate."
Daisuke's eyes avert sideways. Hints of nervousness. Despite this, he mans up and stands to his feet, like Kunikida.
"I was just thinking, what was the point of having Basil's obsession with Dorian have romantic accents? The story would have worked fine- perhaps even better- if Basil's succumbing to Dorian during his confession was omitted entirely. Wilde just wanted to be provocative."
For reasons he can't bring himself to dissect, Dazai looks over to Chuuya as Daisuke finishes spewing shit. If discomfort had a face, it would look like Chuuya this very instant.
Dazai, much like the entirety of the school, (and even other schools) knows Chuuya is queer. No one knows the specifics (because it's not their damn business) but it's a widely known fact that Nakahara himself has confirmed on multiple occasions. Like the time he responded to a homophobic comment made by an opponent mid-game, by yelling that he fucked the guy's dad. Not very subtle, but worked wonders. Dazai was unfortunately not present, but he saw various videos catching the moment from different angles, circulating on the school's Facebook page.
This previous block of text has nothing to do with the fact that Dazai's legs obtained a mind of their own, making him stand up in class. No, nothing at all.
"I beg to differ," he says, lips pressed into a thin smile.
It seems his mouth has a mind of its own now, too.
Fukuzawa leans back in his chair, motioning at Dazai to elaborate, with a wave of his hand.
Dazai feels like loading a gun. An automatic rifle, specifically.
"For one, Basil’s love for Dorian is by necessity romantic, since it creates an intimate link between the characters and implicitly gives Dorian power over Basil. Sybil may be Dorian's love interest on paper, but she's a symbolic character. A martyr. She embodies the artistic ideal. But Basil is the artist . His and Dorian's relationship and the progression of it from friendship to a manipulative, one-sided romance is the centerpiece of the story."
Fukuzawa inclines his head. A sign of approval, Dazai has come to learn. He reloads his imaginary rifle, then looks straight at Daisuke, taking aim.
"In conclusion, Daisuke here either read the book with his eyes closed, or he's rather uncomfortable with the mental image of one man kissing another."
It's a bold statement, but then again, Dazai always talks in bold. He sees Kunikida covering a snicker with a fake cough, and that puts a lopsided smile on his face. Other varying reactions can be heard as well, and Dazai finds himself wishing he could see Chuuya's face. Was he laughing? Chuckling, at the very least? Or was he maintaining that sower expression of his that makes him look like he bit on a lemon?
Dazai doesn't risk turning his head to find out. His eyes are trained on Daisuke and his cheap, scandalized expression.
Somehow, he sounds genuinely shocked when he says;
"Are you seriously calling me a bigot? What, because I examined the material differently?"
Dazai has a very strong urge to tell Daisuke exactly what he should examine next but suppresses it.
He purses his lips.
"No, that would imply you'd have enough critical thinking skills to dislike the book based on your bigotry. I'm just calling you stupid."
Daisuke opens his mouth, no doubt with an insult brewing at the edge of his lips, before Fukuzawa's chair screeches against the floor. It might be the first time Dazai truly notices the man's height.
"That's quite enough." He pronounces each word thoroughly, letting their gravity be felt. The two boys snap their mouths shut. "Dazai, thank you for your typically controversial analysis. As for the rest of your speech-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know," he says, taking a dramatic seat. "Detention for an hour."
"Two for interrupting me."
There's still the tiniest of mirths left on the edge of Fukuzawa's mouth. One that does not match the heat of his words.
As Dazai smirks back he feels a pair of eyes trying to burn holes through the side of his skull. Or at least he hopes they are.
**
Dazai deemed that the wordy massacre of Daisuke was deserving of a celebratory smoke behind the school’s bleachers.
That’s today’s excuse for smoking on school grounds again. Tomorrow, who knows?
They say that once you try your hand at cigarettes you can’t stop, but that does not apply to Dazai. He can stop whenever he pleases, but he consciously chooses not to. This cancerous habit is purely for aesthetic reasons, and to romanticize the eternal (30-minute) break between his classes. The cafeteria is not an option, since he doesn’t tolerate anyone near enough to eat with them, and if he smokes in plain site, detention will be the least of his problems.
So he settles here. Behind the bleachers. With his peace, and quiet, and-
“Hey.”
Dazai jolts in place. His knee-jerk reaction is to snap his sketchbook shut and spit out his cigarette, crushing it with his converse. He turns in the direction of the newcomer with what he hopes to be an innocent smile.
Chuuya Nakahara stares right back.
Dazai’s smile drops.
“Jesus, you scared the piss out of me,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was halfway into finding an excuse for the smoke.”
Chuuya wholly steps behind the bleachers, disappearing from other people’s view. He stands over Dazai, hands in his varsity jacket’s pockets. The position should inspire intimidation, and Dazai will admit, that he does feel something in his stomach.
"Won't snitch on me, will you?" he feels the need to ask.
"For hanging behind the bleachers or for smoking?"
"Both."
Chuuya's eyebrow quirks.
"Do I look like a rat to you?"
Oh, now that's just unfair. He can't expect to hand Dazai an opportunity for a joke like that and expect him not to take it.
"Dunno. You certainly got the size down-"
"Does anything other than childish insults and banal jokes come out of your mouth?" he says, volume raising.
Alright, fair enough. Dazai is being difficult. Again.
"What are you here for, Chuuya?"
The redhead visibly relaxes. Not in a mood to fight today, is he?
“I saw what you did in class,” he starts.
Oh . That's what this is about then. Of course. What else would it be?
“Well, yes, you were there,” Dazai drawls. “Would be hard not to witness.”
To his credit, Chuuya breathes through the irony thrown at him and maintains the level of dignity that Dazai so hard tries to drop.
“I wanted to say it was half-admirable.”
“Admirable?” Dazai repeats as if feeling the word around his mouth.
Chuuya rolls his eyes. That gesture called Dazai slow, all on its own.
“I know you said all that shit for the sake of someone else. It’s painfully obvious.”
An alarm goes off in Dazai’s head and the distinct feeling of panic settles in his chest.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit, he noticed me looking at him-
“You saw Kunikida being uncomfortable as fuck and you came to his defense. Like I said, half-admirable,” Chuuya finishes with a shrug.
Kunikida?
Kunikida.
Doppo fucking Kunikida.
Of course.
And Chuuya had the nerve to call Dazai dense.
Dazai could laugh. For real this time. He doesn’t, though.
“As sorry as I am to demolish the knightly image you’ve created for me in your head,” Dazai pauses, drawing a new cigarette from the packet. “I didn’t stand up to Daisuke because of Kunikida.”
“You did not?”
“No.” He puts the cigarette between his lips and lights it. By now he has learned to inhale without coughing. “One thing to know about me is that calling out stupidity is my favorite hobby. What I did in class, I did for my own personal entertainment. For myself, and no one else.”
There’s a pregnant pause that Chuuya utilizes to simply look at Dazai. Nothing in the redhead's expression changes. Nothing is given away. Yet somehow something about his gaze seems stiffer. Heavier.
The next words that leave Chuuya, come out of nowhere.
“You should come to our match on Friday.”
Dazai doesn’t know what he finds more hilarious. The invitation itself, or the fact that Chuuya looks as if he didn’t mean to speak it out loud.
“Ohh,” Dazai exhales a cloud of smoke causing Chuuya to wave it away in disgust. “A date! Haven’t been in one of those in a while. I'm flattered, truly.”
Of course, Dazai is being the furthest thing from serious, but Chuuya’s eyes are still blown wide. It could be the noon sun playing tricks, but Dazais sees the faintest hint of crimson ride the boy's cheeks.
“It’s not a date proposal, dickhead! It’s an olive branch!”
Dazai pouts mockingly.
“I much prefer roses, if I’m honest.”
Chuuya opens his mouth and makes a gawking sound that might have been destined to be a sentence. They’ll never know. He settles for a frustrated grown, accompanied by a harsh rub of his hand over his eyes.
It’s then that Dazai realizes how truly fun it is to mess with Chuuya. As far as dogs go, he’s the easiest one to poke.
“I don’t know why I bother with you-“
“I’ll be there.”
It’s a split-second decision that Dazai doesn’t let himself regret. Not when Chuuya’s features visibly soften at the confirmation, if only for a moment.
“Doing us favors now, are you?”
“Yes, I think it might be a great opportunity to reevaluate my thesis on how all athletes are pricks. Extra homework from Fukuzawa, if you will.”
A scowl takes over Chuuya’s expression. Sometimes it seems to Dazai that this is its default setting. It’s a shame, really. Chuuya’s face is comprised of individually beautiful (albeit miniature) features. See, Dazai is allowed to say that because he takes up drawing, and can appreciate a conventionally, and objectively pretty face.
It’s of no consequence anyway, since Chuuya chooses to permanently crease this gift with wrinkles of annoyance.
Vexing. It makes Dazai want to smoothen the space between Chuuya’s eyebrows with his finger. Or with a chair, depending on the day.
“Whatever,” he grunts after what seems like a lifetime. “The game starts at eight. Do yourself a favor and don’t be late. The good seats are taken up quickly.”
“I must arrive early then!” Dazai smiles, all teeth. “Anything beyond the second row of seats and you’ll become the equivalent of a black dot on the court!”
Chuuya doesn’t dignify that with a response. At least not a verbal one. He instead kicks a bit of dust in Dazai’s direction, which not only messes up his uniform but also puts out his cigarette.
Okay, maybe he deserved that.
Dazai coughs, and by the time he's done rubbing his eyes, Chuuya is long gone.
Whirlwind , the thinks. Yes, he’s beginning to get why.