redapple_cat

you stare hard at the wall behind your professor's chair to try to find something unusual or out of place which will tell you this current situation is a bad dream and not the reality you will be forced to accept.

"are you listening to me?" your professor doesn't raise her voice and there's certainly no bitterness present. rather, it carries deep commiseration for you.

but her voice just sounds like nails scratching on a blackboard. it's a screeching sound which is piercing your ears.

her fake consideration makes your fingers twitch but you tightly grip them, hands hiding behind your back as you grasp how ephemeral respect is, especially towards those who are knees deep in the corrupted lake already.

she knows this is unfair, doesn't she? then why is she still going ahead with it? why doesn't she try to fight back against this system? would she be able to sleep knowing she crushed someone's opportunities just to keep her job?

"let me get this straight," you say before she could give you false comfort and hope by forcing you to see the insignificant 'good' this situation has to offer. many preach about 'to not achieve your goal is a test to see if the hardships are enough to shake your resolve or will you come back stronger than ever' but this situation is anything but that.

"you are telling me my internship application was rejected by the head of the department because i have a not so impressive resume?" your voice is calm, not raising or decreasing in octaves as you finally rest your eyes on her, pinning her in place with an apathetic stare.

she nods, clasping her fingers together before leaning her chin on it, "precisely. good portfolio if i say so myself but not up to the standards of the dean."

"did anyone meet his expectations?" is your next question which will tell you if professor is being genuine or making up excuses to hide their cowardice because if there is something you take great pride in, it's your impressive academic record.

you have polished your mind for years since you could reach the tap in the bathroom sink on your own or without standing on the tip of your toes.

"many did and didn't. try again later —"

"including yuto, i assume?" you press on, not satisfied with her vague answers. it's just pissing you off to see how flippant she is while you feel like the ground will crack beneath your feet any second and swallow you. "he's one of the ones whose application got approved?"

"why is a specific student being mentioned?" she sits straight at the mention of him, understanding that you've caught on. you have always been observant. "i know it's not a good news to receive just after your exams ended but you need to be mature and accept it. there's nothing you or me could do. you know the rules — the resumes and portfolios go through the dean who sees if they are up to par with where a student wants to apply for."

"you wanted to apply to a well known agency. one which is perhaps the backbone of our country's news channels but you aren't quite ready for it yet. but instead of accepting your flaws and trying to get better, you are snooping around asking for other student's results?" professor sounds annoyed yet her voice is wavering which tells you it's just a front she's putting up to shake you up and make you take a step back.

if indignation towards this situation didn't fill up your body, you would've gotten cold feet at trying to insinuate what you just did. perhaps you would've tergiversated and accepted you are at fault.

if only yuto hadn't tested the limits already by sending you that picture of your friends over the weekend, maybe you would have let this one pass just like you do with all his other actions.

professor is at fault too, you think. had she not reacted so strongly to yuto being mentioned like a fool, you would've given benefit to the doubt and dropped this.

"you cannot —" you pause to grit your teeth because your voice is raising in volume despite you not wanting it to. you don't want her or anyone to know how much everything affects you. no one deserves to see your actual emotions.

not fair, not fair, not fair. this is all unfair. not fair, not fair, not FAIR, NOT FAIR. THIS IS ALL UNFAIR.

focusing on the pain from your nails digging into your palms helps to distract you from your justified ire at how impotent you are and this is exactly what you need.

you take a moment to gather the mess of your thoughts and ignore the continuous chants of how unfair it all is.

"you cannot claim i am being unreasonable here when you know i am not. my anger is justified and so is my skepticism. forgive me if i sound too arrogant but —" you can't help the trembling chuckle you release when making your claim, "you and i both know i am one of the most brilliant minds in our department. no, let me speak —"

you interject when you see professor part her lips as if she's come up with some sort of argument to go against your words.

shaking your head, you continue while narrowing your eyes, "if it was anything else, i would've accepted it without putting up much of a fight like i am right now. but not for this. no, i know my capabilities and i am very confident my resume and portfolios are one of the most impressive ones you or the dean has seen in my batch. you have praised me many times yourself but suddenly you stopped because you got too busy with your schedules? you used to go out of your way to give me personalized advice and criticism, that must've been because you saw some potential in me, right?"

professor's hands slam down against the table but the loud smack it produces does little to make an impression or intimidate you. it's hard to view her as an authoritative figure now or have some respect for her based on her abilities because you see the bigger picture. she isn't immune to the nakayama influence.

"do not use that accusatory tone with me. i give advice to every student who shows room for growth. arrogance is the murderer of growth. you are arrogant — too arrogant and are throwing a temper tantrum instead of accepting your reality and shortcomings!" her voice is loud and cuts through everything in this room, including you, with the overwhelming finality one has when they have decided already that this conversation will end here.

professor might be offended but she made this decision to cut down any chances you might have at getting a read on her demeanor and seeing how powerless she is in front of the mention of the power which leads the entire country.

george orwell was absolutely correct when he wrote his novel, 1984. he had written it to warn the future generation how easy it is for oppression to become normalized and something which the public would grow to love if one just pretends it's for the public's best interest. once they begin to see oppression less as a violation to free will and more as something meant to protect them, people will be eager to get on the good books of those who stand on the tall building of oppression.

this must be the case with professor too. either that or it's her greed to get to a better position then her current one — whatever it is, who cares? you just want to know why you are the sacrifice for all this?

not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair,not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair,not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair, NOT FAIR.

"your arrogance is the reason both of us are having this conversation in the first place." she goes back on her decision because there is some more stuff she would like to add to try to break you and your defiance, "you have really disappointed me. to think i thought you would have taken this well and tried to see where your flaws lie instead of shifting the blame on the rest of us — if you can't accept this, how will you be able to accept far greater losses in life?"

hot anger akin to molten lava rushes up and down your body at a rapid pace which makes the blood circulation to slow down, afraid that if both of them rush at the same time, one or more veins would end up popping.

you try to soften your eyes or look away but you can't do either. you can't stop staring at professor with disdainful eyes. can't bring yourself to apologise or say words which will try to make things less tense either.

you don't want her to dismiss you like you are some ill-tempered child but if that's how she's going to see you, then there's a small voice inside your head which is trying to lure you into showing her just how ill-tempered you can get.

professor is treating your pain as if it's something insignificant and as if you are wrong despite both of you knowing deep down that you aren't.

curling your toes because the wrath is too powerful for your hands alone to try to distract you from, you come to a realisation which you had a hint of since a long time ago but didn't want to accept : professor is looking down on you, everyone is.

they think they can push you around as much as they want, take whatever they want from you and shatter every last thing you try to hold on to tightly.

they don't think of you as a human being like them. they think you are something less. something they can put through whatever they wish to without suffering from consequences.

"i think we are done here, aren't we?" professor coldly raises her eyebrows as if asking you why you are still standing here.

you clench your jaw to stop the flurry of questions you still want to ask.

they are all wrong. consequences do exist, you'll make sure they do and if they really don't, then you'll become consequences personified.

your teeth are aching from how hard you clenched your jaw so you relax it, forcing yourself to take deep breaths.

in and out. in and out.

just focus on breathing and not on how unfair everything is. that's all you can do.

"i apologise for my outburst." your words sound like ash on your tongue while your tone is calm, void of emotions because words which you do not mean do not deserve any. no one, not even your own words deserve any emotion other than anger and if you can't be angry, you'll be emotionless.

your eyes fall on the floor to put on a show in front of professor, to fool her into thinking you are ashamed and guilty, "your words make so much sense as i consider them now. i hope you'll be able to look past my disrespectful explosion and forgive me."

you make sure to chew on your bottom lip while speaking to make sure she sees you are reluctant but slowly accepting the lies she presented as facts.

you hear professor sigh. of course, she can't stay angry at you for too long. you were once the student she had a lot of expectation from, "it's . . fine. just don't let your arrogance get to your head."

you nod, bowing before you turn on your feet to walk towards the door which will let you leave this suffocating room.

you feel most close to father at times where you pretend to be weak and defenseless to lure someone into your trap. it feels good to see people physically lowering their defences and walls if you just present yourself in a way which soothes the small, malicious superiority which exists in almost everyone. but it feels better to realise you are acting in a way father would because this is all you wanted ever since you were old enough to know father is your father.

you feel closest to father at times where you see others as toys to be played with, not humans.

your steps are heavy and require a lot of energy but giggles are erupting in your chest, making a smile appear on your lips. you want to laugh, you want to cry — but most importantly, you might grow addicted to this conflicting battle between emotions.

you aren't leaning too much towards one side but are in the middle and it feels so euphoric. your eyes nearly roll back and you feel like you could begin foaming at the mouth any second now. it’s like taking the highest dose of an addicting drug without knowing how dangerous it could be, only to find it won't kill you but won't leave you the same as before as well.

you like how you don't get time to process one before the next one comes rushing in, eager for your attention or how you don't get enough time to appreciate one emotion completely and find its root cause inside you before another pushes the former away and, along with it, your process too.

slowly, the anger begins to diminish as a twisted gratitude takes over. you secretly feel grateful that yuto is putting you through such stimulating situations and you nearly consider going back on your plan because if you get rid of yuto, won't it mean you will never get to experience a situation like this again?

you aren't sure if you want to bid farewell to it so soon.

your shoulders sag like heavy bags of sand the moment the door closes behind you. the words you declare to yourself in anger about consequences and so on ; you aren't sure if you are capable of staying true to and acting on them, of making them a reality.

moreover, even if somehow you are able to do so with the help of dazai (since alone, you are too incompetent), will it even mean anything at this point?

the grief is too big to be filled with the satisfaction of seeing yuto at your feet. you have been a constant customer to misery these past few months, what tells you it will let go of you so easily?

your wounds are too deep to be healed at this point. perhaps you should just slit your wrist as soon as you reach your flat?

"oh, what a sight for sore eyes."

you could recognise the imperious tone anywhere, sadly. it's one you had spent having various conversations with, exchanging blows with and teaming up to tease shuji with.

snapping your head up to meet the eyes hiding behind the glasses, a good friend of shuji's stands in front of you and he is smirking at you as if nothing has changed between you both.

"talk about yourself." you find yourself muttering as you eye his dyed dark grey hair, being vigilant but there are good reasons for you to be so.

this particular man has never looked eye to eye with you, no, you two have — had, a very obvious distaste towards each other but you two respected each other mutually too.

in fact, he has been one of the people you thought wouldn't avoid you after rumours about you and yuto began circulating.

"is it about my hair?" his eyes narrow in concern, hands shooting up to consciously touch the stands of his hair falling on his forehead.

you offer a nod as your response, not particularly interested in talking to him now like many other people who you wish to avoid now. in your defence, they avoided you first. left you alone like you have mold growing on your skin.

"no. i just find you very handsome to look at." you smile sweetly but seeing the way he rolls his eyes, he caught onto the scorn and derision in your tone. it makes your smile turn sharper and lofty.

"i see you are still a pleasure to be around." he doesn't back down but mimics your smile, "a vexing pleasure. it's hard to find people as refreshing as you nowadays."

"you gotta become friendly enough to ward off parasites, you know?" you chuckle but your eyes are blank as you stare at him, waiting for him to reveal why he's here without you asking him to because no matter what you tell yourself, you are happy he approached and is talking to you and making him realise how stupid this action of his isn't something you can afford to do.

if you try just a bit, you can forget the circumstances and pretend as if he's here to poke you, or talk about the topic he finds interesting and is researching these days, or ask you where shuji is, just like the old days.

something passes over his face. you aren't sure if it's guilt or anything else and aren't too keen on knowing it too. you are happy with whatever you can get your hands on as greed is something you can't afford to feel because once this moment passes, once the day ends and tomorrow arrives with something worse, the greed will turn into childish hope and that hurts so much. it leaves you on the verge of sobbing and shutting down at the same time.

"you . . . i didn't mean to — i am sor — tch, this is so stupid, you know?" he ends up settling on after cutting himself off again and again because he isn't sure if he should talk about that and ruin the temporary harmony between you two. besides, is he really at fault for trying to protect himself by not being seen or associated with you?

"it is." your voice is smaller than you would like it to be. "it's stupid how this is the first time we are having a civil conversation without any ulterior motives, hm?"

to think out of all the people you know or ever knew, it would be him who you would be talking to now is something which would've made you scrunch your face in disbelief before laughing loudly in the past.

"but i do have one." he corrects you and clears his throat, thinking how to formulate the information he came to deliver to you. he doesn't want to get his words jumbled like before and what he is about to reveal isn't something light.

"of course you do." you aren't surprised or upset, rather a small and almost fond smile spreads on your lips at how familiar it feels.

he chews on his inner cheek and pointedly looks away from your reminiscing stare, feeling his skin trying to run away from their current position and latch onto some other part of his body — anywhere away from your eyes. your stare has always been intense and nerve wrecking for him.

"what is it?" your voice remains calm and curious, not like before, as you blink to force the memories out of your vicinity.

when you look at him again, your eyes are clear of all emotions but still intense, as if looking past his body and straight into his soul.

nodding, he begins rather awkwardly as if he's still not sure if this is the right thing to do or not but shuji's face, crestfallen and trembling with the effort to not cry when he was drunk out of his mind flashes in front of his eyes and his voice picks up stability.

"just the other day, me and shuji went out for drinks. you know, exams are over for us too and i was too cooped up in my room or the library for the entirety of it. he probably wanted to give me a break."

you nod as he talks, the ghost of a smile resting on your lips because you can not only picture shuji doing it but relate too since he has done this for you many times too. you just miss him more now.

"we got drunk. i was still somewhat sober but shuji wasn't. he couldn't even tell how many fingers were on his hand even if you showed it to him. he . . ." he pauses again, wondering for the last time if this is really the right thing to do. his eyes falls on you and on the almost there smile on your face and the decision doesn't make him feel as uncertain as before, "shuji was crying. he kept on mentioning you and how he should've been more aware. he thinks he failed you and the guilt of it crushes him every day."

"are you here to blame me?" is all you ask, not letting your mind register his words completely to avoid picturing shuji with red trimmed eyes and lips trembling because of the hiccups leaving them after crying his heart out. you just can't picture it or you'll lose your composure too.

your question is unexpected, you can tell by the way his eyes widen in something close to horror and he's quick to shake his head from one side to another. words do not make their way out because he's just so taken aback that this is the first thing you decided to ask.

"you can, i won't mind. it's my fault anyway." again, your voice comes out small and makes you want to smack the shit out of yourself.

stop acting like some victim. you did this. at least be brave to own it. good for nothing, little bitch.

"it's not —" he pauses again, cursing under his breath before offering you a shaky smirk, "isn't it too arrogant to claim yourself as the only one at fault? why are you trying to be a saint?"

"i am not." you can not even begin to think what it would take to try to be one because you aren't. not a saint, not even a good person. the moment you decided you wanted to be like father, you agreed to shred yourself of your remaining humanity because you cannot toy with someone's feelings with mere words if you still view them as someone like you, if you still hold some respect and kindness for them.

have you ever heard of a scientist not wanting to conduct an experiment because he felt bad for the test subject? it sounds childish because it is. you can't be a good person and someone who others remain cautious of at the same time.

he looks visibly uncomfortable now as he tries again, "look, i am not blaming you or anything and i am finding it surprising that someone like you is doing so. i just wanted to tell you about shuji so you could know he isn't as untouchable as you are making him out to be. reach out with your hand and he will meet you halfway."

you nod but both of you know his words don't really leave an impact on you because while they might be true, it's not like mere reconciliation will be enough to treat and heal the wounds you left on him and the others.

"i appreciate you for trying. thanks." you breath out, eyes feeling too moist and vulnerable which makes you look down to avoid showing him your emotions since no one can see them, not anymore.

"you won't try?" he tries to make you change your mind but it's like slamming his hands on a big rock which won't budge no matter how many times his palms strike down. he only ends up hurting his hands which are cracked from the continuous, blood seeping out of the cuts.

"i don't have that right anymore."

"but . . it's up to you." he admits defeat and turns on his feet but doesn't walk away, not until he gets the final say, "is there any difference between you and a snake swallowing its own tail?"

"no. not really." you answer honestly and he takes it, doesn't argue or stops to think about it.

you don't see his back disappear the more he walks away from you because of the hand that slithers past the back of your waist to settle on your hip. the palm stretched over your hip is wrapped in bandages which makes your pulse quicken.

"hey." he tilts his head down to offer you one of his usual, composed smiles as his eyes drag over you with the laziness of someone who owns time itself. could be. it won't be a drag to say time itself stops to admire him, "you look pretty."

"hey." you greet back, meekly. the two previous interactions dissolve like sugar in water as your mind registers his compliment.

he thinks you are pretty.

your stomach twists in a pleasant way and you don't know if you should smile or thank him so you decide on looking down, holding your tongue back before, 'you really think so or do you just say it to every girl?', could slip out and ruin the thin harmony between you two.

it doesn't last for long as dazai places two fingers under your chin to raise it, turning your face towards his.

he looks good normally but when he doesn't bother to put on any masks to please anyone and just lets the blankness and seriousness be visible to every eye that looks his way, he looks nothing less than majestic. you find yourself being pulled to him during these moments despite your trembling legs and the fear which is on its knees in front of your attraction for him, begging her not to take a step forwards but when has attraction listened to fear, logic or anything else?

"it's not fair, you know?" a petulant pout accompanies his words and makes you furrow your eyebrows as you are totally clueless what you could've done to have these words aimed at you. "you are really unfair."

you don't speak in fear of him pulling his fingers back if you do so, you just raise your eyebrows and he sighs deeply and loudly before elaborating, "i had prepared myself to be angry and sulk in front of you because i have been standing at the side for the past six minutes yet you didn't notice me at all. tell me, were you that enthralled by that guy that you forgot all about your pretty boyfriend who was patiently waiting for you to look his way just once?"

"are you jealous?" you find yourself asking despite everything else, smiling with glee evident. it doesn't take a genius to realise you like the thought of what you are suggesting very much.

"can't i be? i told you, i am a really jealous guy." he plays along but there's diminutive sincerity flashing in the brown of his eyes. perhaps it's his sincerity which has solidified into the light brown specks in the pool of rich brown of his eyes.

you aren't sure if you want to go there because you had spent nights thinking of how he would behave if he got jealous, what expressions he would wear and if there would be any noticeable changes in his voice. at one point these daydreams filled you with solace but soon transitioned into being a secondary source of pain. when imagination alone stopped giving you satisfaction and instead made you crave for physical stimulation, these daydreams made you long for something you know isn't possible.

"dazai —" you call, trying hard to change the subject and not let the what-ifs deter your conviction and beliefs which took a long time to solidify in your mind and not evaporate with every contradicting action of his.

"yeah, call me by my name again and again but this time i will not falter and melt. i have grown immune to your weapons." he cuts you off rather dramatically and begins to lead you ahead, towards the door to leave probably as neither of you have any classes scheduled this hour. you think even if he did, he would end up skipping it, there are enough rumours to back it up.

rumours say dazai osamu attends classes only when he feels like it. he goes from attending every class of the semester to barely coming once a week in the next one.

his hand moves back from your hip to be by his side for perhaps half a minute before he extends it to let the back of his hand touch your's once, twice.

you can feel him looking at you, searching for any refusal on your face and body language but he finds none. so he twists his fingers around your own, letting them fill in the gap between your's. his grip is tight, as if he thinks you might try to pull your hand back once you two leave the campus building and enter the grounds filled with numerous other students.

he isn't wrong. you just might do so after chickening out.

"dazai —" you call again to ignore your heart beat and pulse throbbing in sync.

he will leave once this is over, you try to remind yourself. it doesn't work anymore because your mind is refusing to believe it, there are so many arguments you can think of that will reject this claim and it terrifies you so much.

what if things changed? didn't you two grow closer anyway?

"i lied. i am not immune." he flatly confesses for the sake of dramatics, raising his free hand to cover his eyes and exclaims out loud, "oh, heavens! why am i being tortured in such a pleasant way? i am not sure if i should run away or submit myself to my girl's sweet voice filled with poison."

"dazai —" you don't like how your voice is weaker this time because you know why. his previous words sound so much like his usual antics. it feels like a slap to the face for you, who believed he was being serious for a short moment.

"oh you want to kill me today, no? calling me so prettily again and again." he chuckles somewhat nervously as he isn't sure how long he can continue hearing you call for him without feeling a certain revulsion for his name like he usually does, readjusting his grip on your hand and for some reason it feels too intimate.

a shiver travels down your arms as you look up at him to find him already staring at you. his lips are curved up in a smile but his eyes are soft enough to make up for it. it makes you feel unsettled as every excuse you had ever used to make sure you don't end up falling for his charm and pretty tricks replays in your mind to taunt you, to ask you where's your usual conviction when disregarding the flutters in your heart and stomach.

you can't answer but you can't stay silent. it will be too risky to let the silence let your thoughts spiral and make you anticipate things which seem plausible only now when different hormones are making you lightheaded. if you are unable to respond to the queries of your mind then you will just make it focus on something else.

"dazai! listen to me." you cover his mouth with your palm before he could cut you off for the umpteenth time. bad move, really bad move.

with his lips pressed against your palm, you think you just gave him a clear target to focus hitting his charms on. if it hits, you aren't sure how you'll behave. being hopeful is something you look down on but you are everything you ever looked away from with disgust.

he hums against your palm and you really want to move your palm away and replace it with your lips, telling yourself it will be fine if you only do it once but every addict once started with this same thought.

dazai is the drug you were always interested in but never took because the possibility of getting too dependent on him is too frightening and overpowers the rush of taking risks. the closest you got to is sniffing him and growing dizzy, feeling like the world is constantly moving beneath your feet to justify your clumsy steps and constant stumbling.

there's heat rushing up your arm and towards your shoulder every time his breath hits your skin.

clearing your throat, you try not to stare right into his eyes because it will disarm you and settle on staring at your own palm instead, "the guy i met told me my friend has been crying while drunk and calling himself guilty, thinking he is to blame for everything i did. i feel like most of my friends blame themselves and i want to clarify it's not their fault . ."

you drop your gaze towards his shoulder where the sweater he is wearing keeps on sagging to reveal the white shirt underneath. it's a navy blue colour which is a big contrast to his earthy toned wardrobe but one which suits him anyway. it's a warm sort of shade and it looks cozy on him.

"but i don't completely believe it and i am afraid they might be able to see through it. what do i do, dazai?" you move your hand away from his mouth, grabbing his hand as you continue walking while throwing curious glances his way.

dazai purses his lips while his eyebrows furrow, appearing as if he is really thinking about how to help you. he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip and you wish you didn't focus on it as much as you did.

"i think you should stop thinking about all that and kiss me and then we can go on a cute date later?" he chirps, smiling as if he gave you the solution you want.

dazai knows you are aware of what you should do but there's a deep rooted disrespect for your own self, it came from your self hatred and so, you don't give your own opinions and thoughts as much value as you do with his or anyone you deem worthy of respect. what you want from dazai is the answer which is the most similar to the one you are thinking of, so you would have some excuse to act on it.

"dazai" you whine, "be serious."

his eyes sparkle in a way they do when he figures out a puzzle or mystery. your reaction helped him confirm what you wanted him to say.

"well, you should try to have a conversation with them. don't jump into confrontations the moment you see them but test the waters, see if you feel comfortable around them like before or is guilt the only thing connecting you to them. if you talk to them normally or just sit with them, you guys will regain the lost familiarity. and sooner or later either you or they will end up bringing this topic up. listen to them first and then judge who is to blame," his insights are always so deep and helpful and neutral. he's not blaming you or them but offering you the space to judge it yourself.

this is one of the most charming things about him, he gives you space. he doesn't judge but sits with you while you figure out what you feel and what not and doesn't use your contradicting statements against you later or let them form an impression in his head.

you don't think you can ever be like him in this regard.

"but truly speaking, i think kissing and going out on a date with me is a hundred times better." he adds since he can't end his sentences without a joke to lighten up the situation and soften the admiration you feel the moment he speaks.

"you are begging for one."

"i am and i am not ashamed to admit it. isn't my honesty charming?" a petulant pout returns on his lips as he sees you ignore the way he bats his eyes.

"it does sound fun." you hum to yourself as you consider it, looking at him just as you two step outside the door of the campus building.

students are lounging on the benches or the grass, walking from one building to another with books stacked in their arms or just leaning against the trees to talk. no one is even looking at you but you feel like they secretly are.

nausea begins to attack you from your stomach and makes it harder for you to breathe. all of them must know what happened with professor and they must be secretly making fun of you. yeah, this is why they are all here. to see and make a laughing stock out of you. it's not as if they haven't done similar stuff before.

there's a ringing beside your ears which mutes every other sound. it's growing more and more shrill with every second passing by.

your hand in dazai's grasp shakes slightly while taking one step after another becomes a difficult task because you feel like you could trip any second.

do they think you are less than them? you are better, more refined and more human than anyone else here. they can't look down at you, they don't have the right to.

you raise your free hand to wipe the sweat beads you think you feel on your forehead, only to find there's nothing to wipe. you aren't sweating but you feel like you are. your shoulders stiffen as a thought crosses your mind : can the others see how petrified you are?

"so will you go on one with me?" his voice, light and airy, reaches your ears and engulfs you in a thick barrier, one which nothing can pierce from the outside.

the ringing gets slower before it completely stops and the background had gone mute a long while ago.

raising your head to look at dazai who raises his eyebrows, no lines of stress to be seen anywhere on his face, you feel your own shoulders relaxing.

yeah, you may be incompetent and inadequate on your own but with dazai by your side, nothing can touch you. right?

"will you protect me if i do?" you didn't mean to ask this but at the same time you are desperate for anything that'll tell you there's someone who will walk down this path with you and distract you from the snakes visible in plain sight and those hidden behind bushes, waiting to snap their jaws at you and sink their claws in your skin to inject venom in your blood.

"always." he doesn't tease you or tries to act dramatically but answers sincerely. it's a rare moment of complete honesty which he gives you to try to smother away some of your anxiety.

it works, definitely works but then it fails just as quickly. is it real or just formality?

who cares about any of that?

you force yourself to focus on the weak cold breeze surrounding you both and the way you can occasionally hear birds chirping in the distance, must be perched on the tree branches. can you try to distinguish their calls if you research enough about birds? you think you can. you are thinking about everything you can think of — everything but trying to dig deeper and find the true intent behind his words because you really don't need that right now.

you gulp, looking away from him because you might cry if you don't, might stare too intensely at his eyes to see if they are glazed with a layer of dissimulation, if there is mindless mendacity in his actions.

you have to let people in if you want them to make your house liveable again, you remind yourself for the nth time but it never worked so there's no guarantee it will work against your pessimist mind now.

if it won't do so naturally then you will force it to, will push his words to take a different path then the one everyone else's does where they end up falling down the cliff at the end of it upon realising the path commonly taken is one always fated to end with cruel dismissal.

"fine then. let's go wherever you want to." your lips quirk up just a bit as if your lips are too lazy to move.

but dazai either chooses not to focus much on it or he really doesn't care, for, his lips part to let a bliss filled gasp out and his eyes sparkle as he looks at you, "giving me this much freedom isn't a good thing, you know? who knows where we will end up."

"it's fine. i trust you."

he laughs, "you do?"

"i do. a lot."

his laughter slowly dies down as dazai sets his eyes on you and something makes his chest tighten. your intense stare has disturbed him many times in the past but never have they looked so . . haunting.

it's like he is the deer on the roadside at night, trying to see if there's something worth eating or twigs laying on the concrete road. sensing something, the deer looks up to make eye contact with the wolf which stands on the other side of the road, a glint in its eyes which even the naive deer recognizes ; death is here in the form of the predator and is staring straight at it.

like the deer, dazai's legs tense. he wants to walk away, run away even. far from you.

but dazai osamu isn't the deer for long. he is the other predator in the form of a human driving a car who couldn't stop it in time and ends up hitting the deer. he is the human who steps out of the car in panic to assess the damage he did to the deer and to see if there are any witnesses or if he could walk away from this without suffering consequences.

the deer lays over a pool of its own blood, twitching violently as its soul prepares to leave and just before the light of life leaves his eyes, he sees the wolf again. hidden behind a tree yet still there with its haunting eyes on the deer.

the deer twitches for the last time as if trying to ask the wolf : will you attack him who is far superior to us and can't even be categorized with us?

something warm fills his chest up which has been derived from such feelings and sensation for a long time. familiarity. the possibility of meeting someone who isn't like him but isn't quite far away too, who won't wither under his sorrow, for, you are showered with it and absorb it in your roots to grow instead of water.

his black heart is filled with excitement, beginning to beat painfully in his chest but he takes the pain with gratitude. he was right after all.

you will be his demise wrapped in every pretty earthy desire which he longs for. you will let him taste it but scratch his chest before he could swallow. he would do it anyway but you will push your hands past his muscles to pull his heart out before it could soften with overwhelming feelings for the desires he consumed.

dazai looks away first, not wanting to burn under your fire and ends up spotting his friends sitting on the bench just a bit away from you too.

following his gaze, you recognise a girl and the infamous chuuya nakahara who dazai had mentioned twice or thrice (perhaps more but they weren't direct so you weren't able to catch on to them). you can't take your eyes away from him and maybe you understand why dazai speaks so much of him.

who wouldn't?

you don't know this man personally or even though others but you feel some sort of magnetic force pulling you towards him. like he isn't a human but a being from some other planet, some other universe.

no. he might be from earth itself. he could be the lake water at night which glimmers and reflects the moonlight falling on it, untouched by all but welcoming enough so people would trip over themselves to admire him while he can't give a damn about it.

it's so infuriating.

some people try their entire life to be liked, to be tolerated and some are like him, held in high regard without trying at all.

"well isn't this convenient? wanna meet my friends so we could have more bystanders who would come to our rescue without knowing if someone ever tried to deny the authenticity of our relationship?"

". . . yes."

that short, unimpressive yet pretty guy?

you remember your previous description of him and never did you have such a strong urge to smack the back of your head. if you could go to the past, you'll dig your fingers into your past self's skin, just beneath her eyes to force them to remain open and then you'll direct her face to stare at chuuya nakahara.

he is not unimpressive in any way. why did you even think that?

the closer you two walk towards them, the more you feel an urge to prove he isn't as pulchritudinous as he seems at first glance. you want to stop behaving as if you are star struck by him or something because you aren't.

he is seriously pissing you off because chuuya nakahara might be everything you could've been.

"oh, it's dazai!" one of his friends spots you two and waves, alerting everyone.

the attention shifts from whatever conversation they were having to you two but only chuuya's eyes makes you feel as if something heavy is hovering over your head.

raising your chin up, you stare back into his eyes, as brown as the strongest trunk of a tree which had survived floods and monsoons alike. he tilts his head and oh, isn't it so convenient how a strand of his hair falls between his eyes to make him look just more appealing?

you don't like him, don't like the way he is looking at you either and you really don't like the quiet confidence swimming in his eyes.

your lips automatically curve up as you nod to acknowledge the others but your eyes do not waver from chuuya and dazai sees it too and doesn't know if he hates it or is just tired.

there's a small voice at the back of his head which is waiting to repeat the words it usually does :'i knew this would happen'. once these words were craved out of fleeting complacency but over the maze of time they rotted into repetitive exhaustion.

for all he thought and convinced himself, he knew you would not spare a single glance his way once you spot someone better, someone more fitting to be by your side.

someone like chuuya.

it doesn't hurt because he never had any expectations (despite the words he used to console himself and feel pride over) but he feels disappointed. doesn't show it and continues to smile and smoothly answer his friends queries of where he is and what he does these days.

"i thought you forgot us." the girl you recognise seeing in dazai's instagram story on that night of the party, teases before another one of their friends says something which catches most of their attention.

it makes you realise how dazai spends most of his time with you these days.

looking away from chuuya to look at your favourite star, you feel your breath hitch because dazai's already staring at you. it's as if he has been waiting for you to stop trying to dissect chuuya under your gaze and focus on him instead.

yatho drishti, thatho manah.

where the gaze goes, the mind follows.

you try to play it cool by raising your eyebrows but his expression doesn't change. despite his friends conversing on their own and not paying particular attention to the both of you anymore, you still feel as if they could just drop whatever conversation they found themselves indulging in and look at you two. but he doesn't seem to care.

is the chattering just like the buzzing of a housefly to him? are the faces of his friends blurred? are you the sole person in his orbit currently?

you aren't brave enough to ask these questions and he isn't kind enough to answer them even if you do.

dazai shakes his head and smiles to himself. he was wrong, he will admit it. he underestimated your feelings and the importance he seems to have in your life.

"seriously, is something wrong?" you quietly ask, not being able to brush his behaviour off like he wants you to.

"it just feels good." he whispers. "to be looked at by you."

you tilt your head in confusion because where is this suddenly coming from?

you smile nevertheless, raising your free hand to tap at his nose teasingly —

"so it is true. I did hear rumours you were messing around with someone." chuuya snarls. "when were you going to tell us about this, asshole?"

it shatters. the bubble dazai had trapped you in to protect you the moment you stepped out of the campus building shatters in front of the dismissive tone in chuuya's voice.

something about the way he looks at you for barely a second before focusing his attention on dazai to glare at him doesn't sit right with you.

your smile twitches yet you maintain it on your face, barely able to stop your eyes from rolling.

he is looking down on you, isn't he?

no, don't be quick to judge.

"i didn't know chuuya-kun was so interested in my dating life!" dazai claps his hands, looking at chuuya with faux fondness to irritate him.

it works but you can't bring yourself to relax like his other friends, can't smile at the girl who mouths to you that this is normal for the two guys, can't stop your body from stiffening up.

you clench your jaw to grit your teeth to somehow channel the anger out of your body because you can't take it. you aren't strong enough to ignore wrath which is rushing inside you with such intensity and ferocity that it terrifies you, makes you wonder if it'll burn your organs when it passes by them.

you are the fallen angel and you are the exiled being because every place you thought you belonged to had abandoned you. be it hyun or your professors. be it your social standing or your worth in your own eyes. you fell from grace and landed in murky waters which are thick enough to trap you in it.

"you know why i am interested." chuuya glances at you again while he says so and nobody here is dense enough to not get his implications. it is proven so when they all can't help but to glance at you to see how you'll react.

this attention is getting to your brain and almost ruins your senses. you want to laugh and punch him at the same time, smash your forehead against his again and again till you are both bleeding and barely able to open your eyes and then spit out that you wouldn't be this way if it wasn't for yuto who was dazai's friend before he knew you.

you aren't the bad guy they make you out to be and you definitely aren't below any of them. you are above them.

your heart throbs, they won't believe you when you tell them they got it all wrong and that there's worth in you, won't try to think there must be some truth when you try to explain you didn't want this and are a victim. so let them believe what they want to. in fact, you are above every single person who is here,

you poke your inner cheek with your tongue and nod once, eyebrows raising in amusement even if internally you are anything but. "i don't. why are you interested? mind telling me?"

chuuya looks at you again, caught off guard as if he didn't even realise how wrong his words sounded until you interjected and forced him to remember them. those words taste like ashes on his tongue now.

something akin to compunction passes through his face and he parts his lips to say something, probably to make this situation better but you can't hear him over the lone loud thought in your mind : does dazai secretly think the same? is this why he didn't tell chuuya to shut his mouth as soon as the words left his lips?

you exhale through your nose as your eyes shoot towards dazai in an accusatory fashion. why did he stay quiet? are you not worth fighting for or is there nothing to defend when it comes to you?

yatho manah, thatho bhavah.

where the mind goes, the inner feeling follows.

he isn't as relaxed as he usually is. his jaw is set tight yet there's a forsaken smile on his face like he is holding back something which only he can see and you really want to ask him if he will continue to wear this mask even as he is dying?

come to think of it, what do you know about dazai which isn't something you picked up from the way he behaves or his apartment? has he ever shared his side with you?

your eyes aren't as hard anymore and your jaw relaxes as a numbing sensation travels through your body at the realization that everything is very one sided. the hopes leave your eyes as you are once again thrown at the feet of reality which sneers at you.

you are looking at dazai but you can't see him anymore. he looks like a stranger now.

no, he has always been a stranger who fooled you with his easy smiles the same way he does to countless others.

stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid —

you can't breathe, can't think, can't even stand without having to tense your legs so you don't end up falling on your knees.

anger is the poison that corrupts the mind and blinds rationality. it gives a free way to emotions which rise higher than the mountains and push harder than the stomping of an elephant.

you need to get away from here, away from them. you aren't safe here anymore. you can't look at dazai any more so you avert your gaze away. you try to take a breath, hoping it will calm you down so this insignificant situation doesn't escalate.

but you wanted him to stand by yo — screw all this.

you swiftly turn on your heels and walk away, steps fast and long, body buzzing with barely restricted fury. you aren't sure if dazai's following but you desperately wish he doesn't because the consequences of it will destroy any progress you two made since the night at the party.

you knew this was all pretense yet you let it get to your head. for this you ought to slap yourself again and again till your palm burns and cheek cracks, blood seeping out of them.

you are aware this isn't his fault. it's yours, like usual. he could've defended you later when they are alone and not on the campus (that seems the most likely for dazai) but you wouldn't care then. your mind is conjuring up different reasons to hate him now, for, if you get a whiff of abandonment and withdrawal then you rush to it before they can. you grab the gun to point at their forehead before they could do to you.

you see your friends standing in the distance with the exception of yui and jun (they have classes if you recall their schedule correctly) and you want to run to them. you want to sink against hyun, he would hold you against his reliable shoulders with arms tight around you so abandonment can't even see you past his shoulders. shuji would rub his hand up and down your back and be the one to whisper words of comfort while sharing a look with yuna who would ask if you want her to beat dazai up. it would make you laugh because there's no way she could overpower dazai but you would appreciate it anyway.

you should walk to them. they are just standing by the side, on the grass and you eliminate the distance between you and them with every step you take. they'll help make it better. hyun would later try to make you see dazai's perspective too. everything will be fine. there's still hope left.

you see shuji abruptly stop speaking as he stares at your approaching form which leads the others to follow his line of sight and spot you. hyun straightens up while yuna lifts her hand slightly as if to beckon you over but she quickly lets it drop to her side, pursing her lips as she hopes you'll approach yourself. there's hope glimmering in her eyes, the same which you had in yours before dazai killed it mercilessly.

your step slows down as you nearly stand on the same position as them and if you turn to your right and take just four steps ahead, you'll be able to collapse into their protective circle —

you walk past your friends with your head lowered and gaze trained on the ground because you don't want to see the hope dying from yuna's eyes or how she turns her back to you, unable to look at you being out of reach once again. you are sure shuji would comfort her but what about hyun? he's the reliable support who doesn't talk about himself much and you can make a guess how that toxic habit must've increased after your . . not so official fall out with them.

dazai, who has been quietly following you, slows down to throw them an apologetic look as if he knows how this feels and is offering his condolences before he rushes after you.

he can't let you go far enough but you two can't stay anywhere near the university buildings as there are far too many eyes and ears here. panic bubbles below his chest like hot oil and whenever a drop splatters on it, his heart throbs physically which makes breathing so much harder.

dazai extends his hand to grab your wrist once you two are far away from the university and in front of the alley used for dumping the trash between the two one storey buildings it's surrounded by.

he pulls you inside the alley and doesn't let go of your wrist but it's not like you are going to run away with how motionless you seem. his gaze swiftly flickers from the dark, filthy walls to the garbage can against the wall far away. the stench of mixed trash reaches both of your noses but that's the last thing any of you are concerned about.

"i —" dazai slowly tries to begin but at the sound of his voice, you break apart, looking up with cold vexation inside them and to dazai, it burns through him.

"why was your friend interested in your dating life?" you demand to know, crossing your arms over your chest. "is it because it's me? must be. after all you are dating the ungrateful bitch who left yuto —"

"don't continue." he pleads, closing his eyes. he has heard all sort of rumours about you and nothing enrages him more than these ones which assassinates your character because he knows it's not true. he knows you and the ones spreading the rumours don't, so how dare they speak about you like they personally know you?

"why not? you must've heard them many times for your friends to have such a big impression of what i am like." your chuckle is shaky and wet because you want to stop. you don't want to repeat the assumptions which used to make you tear up as you sat in one of the bathroom stalls, hand covering your mouth and knees pulled up so no one could detect your presence. "do you know there's one which says i sleep with professors for my grades? is this why your friend is interested? because he wants to know how i managed to sleep with so many professors —"

"please stop —"

"or is this about the one which says i was abusive to yuto? your friends afraid or something of me doing the same to you?" you harshly poke your inner cheek with your tongue, eyebrows raised as you violently demand to know why.

dazai's eyes are soft and they seem so innocent since they are submerged in a thin layer of misery. he shakes his head, nearly pleading for you to stop and not continue further. he would prefer if you slap him or curse at him but not this. he doesn't want you to release your anger in this way where it's harming you more than it's doing to him.

"why won't you speak now? are you considering them too? don't worry," you smile mockingly, pretending to comfort him as you tilt your head, "i am not actually a serial cheater or anything. i have my eyes only for you, okay? i won't leave you after taking everything away from you like i did with yuto –"

"don't go on —"

"neither will i rob you." you can't stop yourself from growling at the last two words because they sting your tongue. all of these have.

"come on —"

"and i certainly won't sleep with your friends behind your back — you know why? because i am not the type to do such things!" your voice had raised and you didn't realise it until now as you breathe heavily, staring at dazai whose expression didn't change.

it's pissing you off.

"will you remain silent now too? oh, come on." you run a hand through your hair as you turn around hastily with the intention of walking away to cool down. you can't stand anywhere near dazai since it's clear he has taken on silence or perhaps he doesn't have anything to defend himself for.

this single thought chases the anger away. your body goes lax like a balloon being deflated and you look at him over your shoulders, "why didn't you defend me?"

you detest how small and weak your voice sounds as if the world ended the moment he decided not to take your side. have you gone too soft or grown too dependent on him because in the past you had no one either (and if he and your friends did defend you then you wouldn't know since it never happened in front of you) but she didn't crumble and whine like a child.

"why didn't you defend me?" your voice cracks and dazai's expression falls as he sees the walls fall and reveal the child it protected instead.

"i was going to —"

"i wanted you to defend me now, in front of me so i would know someone really is by my side and isn't afraid to let the world know of it." a distant voice inside your mind points out how childish your words seem accompanied by your wavering voice.

you blink as you begin to feel your eyes stinging but the sensation doesn't stop, rather it multiplies and a layer of tears covers your eyes before you could do anything else to prevent it.

"i couldn't do it now — they wouldn't completely grasp the situation and it's already so vague. somebody else could've heard and used it against us or worse, come to realise everything is an act." he rambles, eyebrows pinched as he becomes aware of your distrust. you don't trust a single word of his.

"everything could fall apart." he whispers.

"it already did." no, you don't mean it but you couldn't stop it from slipping out of your mouth.

"don't say that —"

"you know what i think, dazai-kun?" you pronounce his name in a condescending tone as you offer him a bitter smile, "i think you didn't defend me because you didn't want your friends to know you care for me – you aren't sure yourself if you do or not!"

"i do." he whispers but you shake your head, rejecting this confession.

"you don't want to get close to me because you think you are so much better and above me. a man of your caliber shouldn't be meddling with someone as inferior as me, right? you fear your heart will soften for someone you deem as human garbage." you spit these words out, unaware how twisted they are, how you are making assumptions in the same way everyone does with you.

dazai's shoulders tense up and he slowly shakes his head, heart pounding because he wants to deny these words. yet he can't.

it's going to be fruitless when you are so angry and not ready to hear his side at all.

"you are angry . . and need rest. we will talk later, okay?"

"don't dismiss me, dammit! at least try to deny these words —" you pause to look up at the unsightly clear sky, fighting hard against your tears and the last expectations which curls up on itself in defeat. if he had tried to protest even once, you would've gone on your knees to apologise to him and let him know you didn't mean any of these words.

you regretted them as soon as you spoke but it was too late to take them back and so you only made the situation worse.

your gaze returns to him after a minute or two passes and you whisper, "i will go on my own. you don't need to . . drop me off."

you turn before he could speak, too defeated and disappointed by yourself. your steps feel wrong as if you aren't walking properly like usual and just dragging your feet instead.

dazai watches your retreating figure with longing in his heart and blood. he looks down, wondering if he made the wrong call this time and as your words repeat in his mind, he can't help gritting his teeth.

the words do not stop ringing and he curses under his breathe. he needs to compose himself but how can he when his core feels shaken up?

worse is, he is actually considering your accusations and wondering if they really are true. then what about his dreams, the feelings you evoke and the impulsive actions you make him take?

he punches the wall in anger, confused beyond guidance and he does not like this but he hates the feeling of you slipping out of reach even more.

dazai pulls his bruised and somewhat battered hand to his face and rubs it, taking two deep breaths before he begins to shakily whistle and leave the alley way. it's fine if it's shaky at first because he knows by the time he reaches your friends, he will be too into this role of normalcy.

a frown rests on dazai's lips as he stares down at the series of messages he had sent you twenty minutes ago, wondering if it's too late to delete it and send another one which is more detailed and polite and less erratic.

me : meet me in half an hour. i am at the bus stop.

me : if you don't meet me i will feel guilty and bad the entire night.

me : let me make things right.

me : or at least let me explain myself.

me : don't walk away from me.

but he is doing exactly what oda and ango advised him to do.

("odasaku, i want your opinion on something." dazai tells as soon as he boards the bus because he had gotten the habit from constantly riding in one with you and grown to like these rides, especially during the times when there aren't many people besides him in it.

"go on." oda hums from the other end and dazai can picture the guy whose expression doesn't change, the phone between his ear and shoulder as he works on his job.

"i . . ." dazai hesitates because he's unsure how to begin, taking a seat at the second last row and next to the window. he stares out of it and wonders if you are on your way to your house too.

maybe he should've secretly followed you? but you would've hated it, worst is, you might get too scared and wary around him.

"i had a fight with my girl. difference in prospectives. i thought putting on a show for others in public isn't worth it and was going to defend and clear her name later, forgetting how long she had been enduring this silence when it comes to someone speaking from her side. she wanted me to take her side, even if it was one word . . " dazai pauses to close his eyes, letting his head bump against the window, "what do i do, odasaku? how do i make it up to her?"

oda doesn't reply for a while to really process dazai's words and the silence just makes the younger man keep his eyes screw shut, trying desperately to calm his mind down and not submit to the calm cyclone of thoughts which is destroying his brain floor.

"it's fine to have different opinions which may mess up a situation. everyone can't think the exact same or have a common way of handling situations. first of all, you need to erase any feelings of regret and what-ifs, okay? if you don't then they will hold you back." oda finally begins to guide dazai like he has done so many times in the past. his voice doesn't change but dazai knows oda's words were created in a warm place full of consideration and genuine care for him before they travelled out of his mouth.

"tell me, what do you want to do, dazai?"

"make up with her and have her make up to a person she clearly misses so that when i am not here anymore, she still has someone by her side."

"you won't stay?"

"i don't think i should." dazai bites down on his thumb, eyes opening as he looks out of the window but doesn't see the changing scenery or the many people at the sidewalks who are all trying to survive just like he is, he zones out and imagines you — you who stands all alone with a scowl on your face and envy in your eyes but those soften as you turn to look at him. the scowl gives birth to a soft smile and then envy makes space so hope could reside next to it.

"i wan — i want advice, odasaku." dazai bites down hard on his thumb and knows his teeth marks will remain for some time but it will probably fade away faster than the horror of realising he was going to say i want to stay besides her because he's not only going back on his words and plans but also the habit of abandonment which has shaped him. if he can't let go of you then how will he let go of life itself now?

"do i give her space but won't that just make the situation worse? do i run to her now but what if she's still angry and doesn't want to hear me out? hahhh, what do i do?" this is seriously messing with his head. every option seems correct but behind each stands the consequences and what-ifs which makes this task so daunting, adding to the desperation he has to make things right as soon as he can.

"see, you know her better than me. i can tell you what to do but there will be a part of you which won't agree because you'll think of the what-ifs — let go of them, dazai and then try to think." oda hums to himself and immediately adds, "whatever you do, just remember to be more vocal of your feelings and intentions? i feel like you two pretend to understand each other well but you guys don't even want to tell each other how you feel. if you can't do that then can you really say you know each other's soul?"

"because souls are more connected to emotions and intentions than logic, right?" dazai lets go of his thumb which has his teeth indented on the skin and a shade of red from his blood to surround it in worry.

"that's what i like to think. though i am not sure if it's scientifically or religiously correct."

"thank you, odasaku."

oda doesn't answer for a while which nearly makes dazai blanch and cringe. he wants to take back his words so badly or just laugh it off as a joke but he can't do either.

perhaps it's the ambience from the almost empty bus or it's the setting sun influencing him with its pretty blend of yellow which turns to orange and dances with the pink and blue swirls while the sun itself, during its descent, keeps an eye over them.

"you . . are a good kid, dazai." oda finally says and ends the call after wishing dazai luck, who is so startled by this that he couldn't ask oda what he means by this.

as he pulls his phone away from his ear, an almost amused sigh escapes his lips. maybe it's for the better if he doesn't know what exactly those words mean.)

"i think i was pretty straightforward and desperate to make things right?" dazai tilts his head questioningly as he reads the messages he had sent you. he turns his gaze towards the bouquet of roses which lays by his side on the bench as if they hold the answers to his doubts.

(when dazai steps inside the apartment and is taking off his shoes, he spots ango's and knows the guy either is here on a break or his work ended early, though the latter is hard to believe or even imagine.

he steps into the living room to see ango typing something on his laptop and drinking black coffee, the kind which has no milk or anything and is just coffee powder mixed with water to form liquefied misery. reminds him of you and your father and dazai wants to groan because how is it that he can't stop thinking about you at all today?

he would like to blame it on the argument and emotions it evoked in him but he knows that's not it, especially since he knows the actual reason since a long time ago. he's just stubborn to admit it.

normally, dazai would tease ango.

normally, he wouldn't sit on the couch next to the armchair ango is on and call his name hesitantly.

immediately, ango forgets about his work and looks at dazai, raising his eyebrows. the younger man has few moments where he is this nervous.

dazai's leg bounces up and down as he purses his lips, rubbing his nape with his knuckles.

its not like he doesn't trust odasaku or his advice but more of them would be better right? it will give him a broader perspective to work with.

"are you getting kicked out of uni?"

"no — no, why would you think that?" dazai can't help but frown, feeling offended and he feels so even more when all ango offers is a quiet chuckle.

"i am pulling your leg. is something wrong?"

dazai nods and takes a deep breathe before he narrates the entire situation for the second time today.

he stares quietly as ango furrows his eyebrows, clearly thinking of how he can help the younger man.

hesitantly, ango begins, "see, i am not an expert in romance —"

"i can see." dazai's quip is ignored as if he didn't say it in the first place.

"but i think she had expectations for you. she might have thought you are different from everyone else and with the way you are helping her, she must've thought things would change."

"so she didn't know how to accept a situation where she was forced to realise that things didn't change despite what she strongly hoped for." dazai concludes and nods. he knew this but it feels assuring to have someone else confirm it.

"with what i know about nakayama-kun and her overall situation, i think she really had her hopes betting on you against the odds." ango doesn't help him feel better with how he's opening dazai's eyes to the corners of the situation which he wants to badly look away from. it just confirms he messed up. "you want to make it up to her?"

dazai nods.

"why?"

blinking, dazai lets out a "huh?" but ango doesn't repeat himself. he takes a sip of his coffee and looks at dazai from over the rim of the mug and although he can't see it, dazai's sure ango is smiling.

"i mean . . don't you generally want to make it up to a friend when you mess up?" dazai rubs his nape again as he raises his eyebrows, trying to smile coolly.

"she's at fault too, you know? then why are you the one taking all the blame?"

"because i should've known better." his eyes drop to his lap and voice takes on a heavier tone filled with sorrow. "i have seen her break down, ango-kun. i should've been more mindful."

"is this coming from friendly responsibility and care?"

"yeah — no." dazai breathes out, looking bothered now. "it feels wrong to label it as 'friendly' this or that."

"because your feelings come from a far deeper and fragile place?"

"precisely."

"there you have it." ango smiles as dazai looks at him, perplexed. he points his finger at dazai's face before explaining, "this desperation and solicitude you feel is what you need to show her. if you can't then she won't know how you feel about all this and she will forever label you as dismissive towards her. when you can't show someone the importance they have in your life, not only do you keep them in the dark but you also betray yourself."

". . thanks." dazai whispers, standing up to go to his room when ango's quiet voice reaches his ears.

"don't be so hard on yourself. not everyone will do what you are doing. i think she knows it more then anyone despite what she may say and pretend to believe in herself. it's in her eyes, you know? they shine so much when she talks about you even if her lips are scowling.")

dazai groans quietly, about to tilt his head back and burn holes on the roof of the bus stop but he forgets all about it at the sight of you in front of him. you are walking towards him, not daring to make eye contact and this makes dazai's chest tighten.

he nearly trips on his feet as he jumps to stand up, grabbing the bouquet with twitching fingers.

you stop in front of him but still won't look at him.

his mouth dries up and he's sure you see the crestfallen expression on his face. he can't help it. after being subjected to your intense stares for so long, the sight of you not being able to look at him makes him feel foreign.

he extends the hand holding the bouquet just as you say, "i am sorry — huh?"

"huh?" he repeats, blinking as he tries to figure out why you are apologising.

he's drawn out of his state the moment you look up at him with confusion dancing in your eyes and he knows it's caused by the bouquet. he wants to grimace because do you really think he's such a jerk that he won't even bring something to apologise with?

"for you . . thought you would prefer these over the bandaged one." dazai can't speak like he normally does. his words come out rushed, unsure and quietly.

he sees your lips twitch as if you are trying to figure out if you should smile or not, slowly raising your hands to grab the bouquet. he wants to laugh and kiss your cheeks and tell you these are just flowers and nothing too expensive or honourable for you to accept them with both hands.

"i would – thank you. i appreciate it." you correct yourself, softly staring at the dozen or so red roses. he doesn't say anything and this gives you time to determine that you have to say what you originally were going to. "though i would've preferred your bandaged ones too. you made them after all. why won't i like them?"

the wind which passes by takes dazai's ability to speak away with it and leaves a blushing boy all alone, with no words or witty retorts to protect himself with.

he thinks you look utterly adorable as you play with the petals of the rose, eyes moving from one rose to another as if trying to memorise all of them.

"i . . it wasn't your fault, okay?" you continue, stopping frequently to articulate your thoughts because you do not want to cause even the slightest ache to him. you had done enough already and spent enough time laying with your face pressed against your pillow to come to this decision. "i shouldn't have said what i did. the anger wasn't even justified. i was on edge since earlier. i am sorry for taking it out on you."

you nervously look up and see dazai preparing to say something so you rush to add in, "i don't want to apologise for the sake of being forgiven but because i think this is the least you deserve."

oh. it's his ability to breathe which is stolen this time.

he blinks, trying to figure out how to say what's in his heart but it's hard with his face burning and butterflies buzzing all around him.

"i would always defend you. i didn't want you to think i am just pretending to care for you and what not. i am not that good." his smile is somber but when is it not?

through him you began to find a lonely sort of beauty and charm even in sadness.

"i should've protected you in front of them but i didn't want you to get uncomfortable or feel like i am putting you on the spot by stretching the situation there." dazai raises his hand for the nth time to rub his nape, trying to offer some comfort and support to himself as he looks at your shoulders, knowing his voice will crack and knees will give up on him if he catches the expression on your face.

"but i seriously don't think low of you and have never believed those rumours. i know you better than i know my own habits. i began to like cherries because it reminds me of you, cherry. how can i not think the absolute highest of you?" dazai freezes as soon as he calls you the nickname which he had declared impermissible because for dazai osamu, nicknames are a tool he uses to blur someone's face, their identity and to remind himself that he's not supposed to get close to them.

he remembers the shade you were wearing that night is your first thought. you begin to feel bashful under his scrutinizing eyes and shift your weight from one foot to another, whispering, "cherry?"

you almost smile when you see dazai decide between sighing and closing his eyes. he ends up looking down at the tip of your index finger tracing the edges of the petals instead.

then, a defeated smile spreads on his lips as he realises he can't run away from this daunting fact any longer, can't pretend as if he hadn't lost ages ago to the one emotion which is praised and feared alike by poets and scholars.

"mhm. cherry." he looks up at you to pin you in place with his eyes and to leave you immobilized and addicted beyond help. "wanted to call you this for a while but i wasn't sure if i am allowed to or not since i assume the yuto situation began because of this? i didn't want you to think i am mocking you by constantly reminding you of that wretched night."

"you have it wrong." you shake your head, eyes softening in a way which threatens to melt dazai if he doesn't look away.

he knows this and has known before anyone else about the dangers you possess. he had convinced himself you'll be the reason for his death many times.

and yet, here he is, unable to turn his head away.

his hand twitches by his side because he can't decide if he should stand still or take a step forwards to grab and pull you in his arms.

"i don't regret that night. i cherish it, actually."

he wants to reveal his fears to you, the sharp sting of failure which remained on his tongue even as he went back after your argument to get hyun's number. his tongue felt heavy when he talked to oda and ango and he knew he blinked more then usual to not let his eyes stay moist for long.

moreover, dazai was conflicted if he wanted to really leave your side now. he was scared of seeing you one day and it's not by his side but someone else's.

"i assume you prefer this over cheri?" his voice is distant and light to his ears over the sound of his heart beating. it's not erratic or anything but for some reason, he can't help but focus on it.

"very much." your grin is hesitant but it still makes your face light up like the lone street lamp which illuminates light despite the others flickering.

it's not as if your smile is a surreal sight or as if he hasn't been smiled at before by pretty women. your smile is actually awkward and hesitant as if you aren't sure if you should be smiling. yet, dazai can't look away.

love is not something you can explain if you have felt it because it's too vast, too confusing and too complicated. you may grasp one root but there are hundreds of others spread all over. you may be able to grasp at the root but not the stem and branches it's connected to.

eros, philia, storge, ludus, pragma, philautia, mania, agape.

you love what you fear losing. this specific fear has held dazai back as it had left him hurt and disappointed again and again.

"so, you aren't angry right?" you ask, plucking one rose out of the bouquet as you offer it to him while ignoring how your hand trembles as if you are afraid of him rejecting you, "let this signify how ashamed i really feel. crush this rose and if you are still angry, crush the entire bouquet too."

dazai raises his hand which he notices is shaking slightly as well and rubs it over his face, a stupidly lovesick smile on his lips. despite how it's portrayed in movies and such, this moment doesn't feel dramatic. it feels serene which matches the situation.

after all, dazai osamu isn't ignorant to his heart softening for you.

he extends his hand to grab the rose and brings it towards his lips, kissing it delicately because he knows he won't kiss you yet, he's still scared of what that will make him realise about himself, so the rose will have to work as a substitute.

"is this fine or should i kiss you to prove how sorry i am as well?"

"with how often you offer to do it, i might begin to think you like kissing me." you tease, walking past him to sit down on the bench. the bouquet rests delicately on your lap as if it's coated in a layer of gold or something.

"wasn't that obvious already?" unlike earlier, his act comes naturally now. he spins on his heels to walk and sit down next to you, curiously looking at the bouquet and how you can't stop touching the flowers for some reason.

"we literally kissed once. that's not enough to make you like something."

"says who?" he snorts, leaning against your shoulder as he places his hand above yours and pulls it away from the bouquet, "if you like playing with something when you are nervous, then play with me."

"you did not offer me your body just now, did you?" you dryly ask, amused.

"i meant my hands but that works too —" he snickers on seeing the horror settle on your features and how your head ducks down in embarrassment.

"you worded it like that on purpose!"

"it's not my fault your mind is clouded by lust for me!"

"you are so full of shit." you laugh and shake your head as you begin to ask him about the plans he made and which he doesn't want to share with you because he wants it to be a surprise for you.

The gallery was always vacant come this time of day.

It was the point of the evening where dusk and night collided in a burst of vivid oranges and violet splattered against the sky. People flooded into nearby train stations to commute from a long shift at work, all with their own stories, someone dear waiting for their return.

Perhaps that was why nobody sat on the bench beside the only spectator of this particular piece as he contemplated on its beauty. The pale white wall behind its canvas threw the whole painting into awe-inspiring focus.

THE LAMENT FOR ICARUS Herbert J. Draper Oil on canvas, 1898

"Beautiful piece," His sudden company mused when he took a seat near the edge of the bench. "Isn't it?"

Dazai Osamu didn't take his eyes away from the painting when he answered, voice light, "It is. A heart-breaking story painted so magnificently."

"Perhaps that's why it has a whole wall to itself."

"I wonder . . . "

Dazai turned to regard the stranger at his side. A poor description; no one was really a stranger to him in Yokohama. Except, this immaculate man who wore a suit of white and had hair akin to an ebony waterfall was no man regular to this city.

"You surely have come a long way to admire the artwork." He said to him through a lopsided grin.

The stranger mirrored his smile; a mischievous little upturn of his lips that hid everything he was feeling. "For a masterpiece like this? Why, I'd walk the globe to see it."

"Even for a facsimile? I hear the original is on display in Britain."

"And I heard the exhibition in Yokohama was truly an experience." Was the stranger's enigmatic reply.

"The Lament for Icarus," Dazai began to recount what he knew of the story. "A tale of a captured son and his father. In order to escape, the father came up with the idea to create wings of feathers and wax. Although he warned his son not to fly too close to the sun as they escaped, the son could not help his wonder," A pause. Heavy with thought. "Icarus flew too close to the sun despite his father's warning and suffered the consequences for it. His wings of wax melted into a heap that could no longer hold his weight any more, and he went plummeting to the earth."

"A sad story." His company commented.

"A moral which teaches human beings not to spoil righteousness with what they have, by desiring what they have not."

"Is that what you think?" The man asked him. His eyes were a bottomless colour of deep brown—so deep they almost looked black, when he turned around to Dazai with an urging hum. "I think of it as a love story."

Dazai's eyebrow raised. "Oh?"

"Icarus was so enthralled by the sight of the sun that he ignored his father's warnings and flew too close," The stranger's voice dipped, as if speaking about something grave. "His wings of wax were no match for the heat, but he did so, any way. Pushing closer until it eventually led to his end."

Dazai continued to regard the man by his side. He had an aura of mystery and an accent thick with routes of the west. "A love story doomed to calamity, hmm? How awful it is to be fallen for, then."

A pregnant moment. Then, a spark, an unsheathing of the metaphorical blade.

"I am no man to question another's limits when it comes to following their interests, but the art of Yokohama is not why you came here," The stranger steered his attention away from the art when Dazai said the next words slowly, "Respected Guild Member, Robert Frost."

"Are you always so sure of yourself?" The man; Frost, asked him, but there was a tremor in his voice that spoke of hidden amusement.

"No human is sure of themselves," Dazai mused. "But have the capability to convince themselves that they are."

"You speak as if you are not a human being."

"Now, that is a funny observation."

The painting depicted a grand angel with wings of burnt orange and brown, laying in the arms of those who sung his heart-breaking lament as he was swept away to the underworld. Quiet hung thick in the air; simply two men who didn't have the highest opinion of each other to an innocent by-stander. But the conversation was already taking place. One which used the shattering silence as its catalyst.

"Why [Name]?" Dazai asked him after a long moment. "Surely, the Guild can execute their plan using Atsushi-kun alone. A woman with an uncontrollable ability is bound to be too messy, even for you, to ensue chaos on the city."

"Ah, so that mind of yours is wicked, after all." Frost said through a breath of peculiar awe. "Is it difficult? To be cursed with such knowledge?"

Dazai chuckled at the question, parrying. The twinkle left his eyes, turning them a matte coffee under the sparkling gallery lights. "The mind is a curse. I would have thought the Guild had their fill placing a bounty over the head of Atsushi-kun. And now they wish to take yet another member of the Agency into their ranks. Allure for broken things is not their style," A pause. Realisation suddenly crackled in his mind. "Unless an operative of the Guild is not acting on standard protocol?"

Frost's hands, hidden behind gloves of white, came up in an open gesture of defeat. "You were not the first to break lovely [Name] out of my ability for no reason. Indeed, I sought her out purely on my own accord. The rumours of the lady with a broken ability were just too attractive not to buy into."

"That doesn't seem to be the case," Dazai cut him off with a lazy shrug of his shoulders. "While I do accredit those who would travel the world for something they are interested in, travelling all the way to a foreign land relying on a simple rumour is not a risk the Guild would take." Frost looked to him, and when he did, he noticed that the colour of the Agent's hair was rather similar to those painted on the angel laying dead in the picture. Dazai lifted a hand hidden in bandages and traced something in the air, as if drawing his incomprehensible thoughts into focus. "No. It is not a risk someone attempting to stop the Guild would take."

At that, the pinpoint accuracy he has said those words in, emotion betrayed the cracks of Frost's face. Dark eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Well, you would be no fun trapped in my ability!" He said through a disbelieved scoff. "It would be over before I even blink."

"Are you complimenting me?" Dazai chuckled. His eyes had tugged at the sides when he smiled. An unreadable one that could hold a light to Frost's own.

"You told me that the mind is a curse." Frost pushed.

"It is. And yet, it is that curse which will come together and fight to protect this city. It is also that curse which wonders why you have decided to betray your organisation, and why you believe our [Name] could be the one to stop them."

Frost turned away from Dazai's coy smile to admire the painting, suddenly contemplative under a passive expression.

"The Guild was magnificent, once," He reminisced, his mind drifting to someplace far away. "An organisation that promised of community and prosperity. That was why many of us were attracted to its membership in the first place. And then," Frost paused, eyes fluttering to the top of the staff he carried. "It was cursed. With ideas of greed and calamity. It's magnificence dulled by the want for power, territory and mostly—for prized trinkets."

"Prized trinkets." Dazai repeated, turning back to the painting. "Is Atsushi-kun what they think of as a prized trinket? Miss [Name], too?"

"No, but the city in which they live in is. At least, according to our Leader. And in order to obtain such a trinket, one must eradicate the forces that protect it."

"Ah, so pit the Armed Detective Agency against the Port Mafia in order to remove both organisations from the city?" Dazai's voice had an airy, impressed tone. "It's not bad."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it is what I would have done."

"During your time as a Port Mafia Executive, I'm sure."

Slowly, Dazai turned back to look at the man sitting next to him. The stranger to Yokohama who dropped by uninvited. Frost didn't take his gaze away from the artwork to see the dangerously probing look Dazai had to his eyes. Instead, his lips lifted into a smile.

"My ability, Mountain Interval, shows people the lives that they could have lived. Have you ever heard of the butterfly effect?" Frost didn't give Dazai a breath to answer. "Everyone makes choices. But nobody knows what choices have the capability to change their entire fate. And when somebody is trapped in Mountain Interval, it is as if they are living a completely different life to the life they would have lived if they didn't make that choice. Of course, the only way to break Mountain Interval, is to realise what choice that was."

Quiet. Perilous, teeth-baring. Frost took delight in the way Dazai's body had gone completely still with realisation, and went on.

"Through a probability of fate, lovely [Name] found herself assigned to a board of Port Mafia Executives in the middle of a perilous mission for wealth. It took her quite some time to figure out what choice she had made in order to bring her there. Although," Finally, his attention drifted from the piece to look directly at Dazai. "I'm sure you have already guessed what that choice was within the second I spoke of it. As, at the heart of it all, there seems to be you."

If Dazai did come to guess what choice his subordinate had made trapped in a world that showed her his Port Mafia past, he didn't show it. He didn't show any emotion on his face as he turned to look ahead and went silent. He looked just like he did when Frost approached him before they had this conversation—all the secrets of the world locked up in his head and his emotions so tightly restrained it was inhuman.

Frost wondered, just for a second, as he regarded the enigmatic Agent of the Armed Detective Agency, if there was a person in this world that he would let the reins on those emotions loose for. If the woman he had trapped in his Ability could ever have the possibility to be that important to him.

"Perhaps the leader of the Guild is akin to Icarus," Dazai suddenly said when Frost moved to get up. "Yokohama is the sun he can't have, but he'll attempt to fly towards it, any way. Casting the entire organisation into flames amidst the process."

Frost cocked a brow from where he stood; a step or two away from the bench. "You say humans are never sure of themselves, but you speak as if you are."

"And you say you would like to betray your organisation, but there is a vacant look to your eyes that tell me good is not the only thing you wish to do."

The conversation ended at the final tone in Dazai's voice. Frost closed his eyes and began to walk away—the sound of his shuffling steps and the constant clicking of his walking stick echoing against the walls of the gallery.

"I was pleased to meet you here, Dazai Osamu. Give my respects to lovely [Name]," Then, right before he exited the place through the quiet automatic doors, he promised, "I do hope I meet her again, very soon!"

The sound of his staff reduced to nothing and Dazai Osamu was once again, alone in the gallery. Nothing save for the silence that made his mind all the more deafening and the haunting angel-song of the painting that whispered throughout the air.

If someone were to tell you, days before your world was thrown upside down, that you would be relieved to be in the middle of the mess that was Dazai Osamu’s apartment, you would have laughed straight in their face. But now here you were, admiring the dust against his table-tops, the blinds you took an entire afternoon of your life to put back together and the empty mackerel tins like you had just stepped into a small corner of heaven.

Because you were home. This was your home. Every crack in the floorboards and dirty coffee cups were a reminder of the man that you shared it with.

But after what you had saw—that Ability Guild Member Robert Frost trapped you inside . . .

You grumbled, shutting your eyes as if to dull an ache, and sunk into the hot water a bit more. He had a deep bath in his apartment, which was one of the few things you were grateful for amidst all the clutter. Bunking with your colleague was not easy. Bunking with your colleague who you were unrequitedly in love with was definitely not easy—but there were reprieves. The warm water seeped into your muscles and threatened to send you to sleep as you tilted your head back, thinking.

Dazai should be back soon. He had promised not to leave for too long, heading out to do God knows what on a Sunday afternoon. You were wise not to keep tabs on your superior's endeavours—but the way you reacted when he shrugged on his jacket; the short stab of panic through your chest. You had not expected it, but he had seen it. And the way his eyes twinkled with mirth told you he thought you were finally putting you both out of your misery and inviting him to bed.

If only he knew, what you had saw. What you knew. Taste the panic on your tongue that screamed at you when he wasn’t there; what if he leaves, this Dazai Osamu you were falling so hard for, and you were back in that Ability? That you hadn’t really broken out, after all?

Business with a mysterious individual. I won't be too long, Dazai brushed you off before spinning on his heel and out the door.

A Port Mafia Executive.

Dazai Osamu was a ruthless Port Mafia Executive before he crossed paths with you.

It was the fact that took all of your attention. Of course it did, because it was the most startling. There were a lot of things you thought Dazai worked as before coming to the Agency, but hell—the Agency's enemy never dared to cross your mind. And you hadn't been able to tell him, were afraid. There wasn't really a fitting way that you could drop a bomb like that in the middle of a conversation and not expect it to explode back up in your face. But the more this information sat on your shoulders, the more it threatened to eat you whole with a burning need to know.

You couldn’t even tell him you were in love with him—how the hell were you meant to tell him that?

You placed your arms back into the water with a sigh. What were you meant to do with this? Some of it was so surprising that you weren't aware of how important it could be; Yosano, with a tether to the Port Mafia's Boss; Chuuya, with an ability he couldn't control and the possible key to yours; Dazai, with a life you wanted to believe wasn't a part of him, any more. You were still in the process of digesting it that you hadn't even thought about how to act, let alone who to speak to, first. Or why the city you called home somehow felt foreboding all of a sudden.

As if shadows lurked in the walls and waited to come out. Or, as if an evil bigger than all of you loomed at the horizon and threatened to throw the city into upheaved terror.

You didn't have the chance to be swept up by the sea of your overthinking—a distraction barged into the bathroom, uninvited.

Quite literally.

A startled gasp bubbled from your throat when Dazai closed the door behind him and turned around. You didn’t even hear him come in!—he always did walk with those weightless steps, erasing himself from existence everywhere he went. But now, standing there, he was a calamity. Something was swelling beneath the surface, you could tell, but your shock won out first, quickly chased by hot mortification.

“Oh my God—Dazai!” You shrieked, dipping down into the water so it reached your burning cheeks. “What the fuck!”

He didn't answer you, which gave you immediate warning signals that something was wrong, very wrong. His eyes held you for a moment; flickered to the bath you were attempting to sink into as far as you could with your arms clamped against your chest, thinking.

His thinking stopped when he came to a decision and started shedding his coat off of his shoulders.

"What the fuck are you—?" You watched as he bent to take off his shoes. Anticipation and nerves were a punching force in your throat. "Dazai." No answer as he attacked his other lace. You barked his name, "Osamu!”

He finally looked up to you after throwing his shoes somewhere without a care in the world.

"Hmm? I'm undressing to take a bath." Both hands came to undo his waistcoat when he straightened, his fingers making quick work of the buttons holding it in place. "What do you think I'm doing, love?”

Love. Red washed over your skin at the two ideas attacking your mind right then, all at once. One; seeing Dazai—your superior, your roommate, the man of your most intimate desires—without his clothes on, and two; having you—hopeless romantic, desperately pining—with him in a small bathtub where you also don’t have your clothes on.

Fucking say something!

"N-No," You said, but your voice was a little strained. Dazai locked eyes with you as he undone the first button of his shirt, and you had to fight before the intense deep brown of them drowned you whole. "No, no, no!”

"No?" He opened another button. "Whatever do you mean?"

The part of you that roiled in bed at night, imagining your fluttering fingers on your body as his own was screaming at you. It was begging you to let him join, to see all of that clothed skin you craved so desperately, to explore it wet and bare. But this was so quick, so out of the blue. You had been in love with this man for months; you weren’t ready for something to happen so suddenly. There was something wrong. You knew your superior a lot better than he gave you credit for—and that unhinged emotion in his eyes you couldn’t place, it frightened you. For him.

“What the hell is your problem? You’re not getting into the bath with me!” You protested, but your mouth was dry and it came out a little weaker than you would have liked.

Suddenly, his fingers paused on the third button of his shirt at your denial. "Are you saying that you won't let me bathe with you if I remove all of my clothes?"

Love. Remove all of his clothes. Your heart was slamming against your ribcage. “Yes! Get out!”

Three quick steps that you only had to blink to miss and he was already at the edge of the bath and swinging his leg into the water.

What is he—! You shrieked his name, but he didn't heed. Not until he took both of his legs that still had his pants on, for God's sake, and sat in the water on the other side of the bath. Liquid sloshed over the sides at the added weight. He adjusted himself—legs awkwardly shoved beside your body that you plastered against the bath wall and arms on each ledge.

You were so speechless that it took you a moment to find any coherent words.

And they were;

"Are you nuts?!"

He grinned. It was oddly forced, only you could notice. "Rude. What do you think?"

"You just," Your eyebrows crashed together, eyes flying from his face to his body rapidly. Anger and shock kept ebbing on the surface of your face—neither one staying for long enough. “You just—what the hell, you're still in your clothes."

"You told me that you would not let me in if I had no clothes on," He rested his head against the back of the bath. His neck muscles moved underneath his bandages when he drawled, "But said nothing against me having them on."

You tried to meld yourself against the cold ledge, snarling. Stupid brunet and his talent to reason himself to correction, every single time. You hated him, you loved him; they eddy together into a colour you can’t explain. Part of you wants to give him a kick and scream bloody murder—how dare he invade your privacy so obtusely? But that other part; that damned complicated part, it somehow relaxed at the thought of your superior seeing you this vulnerable. As if the leap in your relationship would open some metaphorical new door.

Stupid girl—what was he even doing, really? Trying to kill you? Is that what he was doing?

"I had an interesting meeting today," He suddenly spoke up, his voice tight and blunt. Less musical than you know him for. "We shared a similar appreciation in art."

"Did you?" You asked him, your own voice so embarrassed it was hoarse. "Did he tell you to try and ruin the bath of the closest woman you could find, too?"

"No, but he did tell me a peculiar story of a woman he trapped in his Ability—of a life she could have possibly lived."

Snared.

Caught.

He knew.

You cleared your throat, taking a moment to form the words, “He didn't happen to have two soul-sucking eyes, a white suit and a bird sitting on top of his head, did he?"

"The suit and eyes? Yes. The bird?" Dazai raised a brow. "Unfortunately, no."

"Damn. The bird was the only redeeming thing about him," You muttered. Then, took a deep breath. "Dazai, I was going to tell you—"

"Were you?" He sang, but it wasn’t playful, it was the start of a lament.

“I just didn't know how—"

"Were you scared?"

It was enough to force your own words back into your mouth, the way he had said such a thing. It was like a whip, quick and impactful.

Were you scared?

Of me?

It suddenly fell into place.

The urgency, the barging in uninvited, the dark storm underneath the surface of his composed expression. He was always the joker—he wore a smile so bright it was too perfect to be real when he teased Atsushi during work hours or flirted with the waitress in the Agency Café. But you could see the fissures, you always picked out the tells he thought no one else could. And this little episode of his, it wasn’t you he should be asking that question to.

It was him.

He was scared—under all that bravado. Your superior was scared of what you had saw in an Ability world which showed you his past. What life would have been in the present if he had stayed with the Port Mafia; how cruel and wicked and empty he would have become, because of it.

It broke you. It emboldened you, all at once.

Slosh, slosh.

Dazai felt the water shift, lapping up against the sides. Rarely did the man not know what he was doing. His mind was honed like a whip, a dangerous blade, once used to destroy and decimate. But you knew— you had been shown who he really was by that Ability. He had never meant to keep his crimes from you—but, perhaps, he had grown comfortable. With the snide comments, the gentle jabs, the drinks you shared from his dirty glasses.

He had grown comfortable to the peace of you—you stilled his mind, you made him forget.

But now, the little charade was up. You had seen how broken and dirty he was. You’d throw him away like everybody else; a filthy, too-used rag.

Slosh, the water moved again, but this time with added weight. Then, a presence, a warmth. Dazai’s eyes flickered open, only to dart to your hands suddenly outstretched—reaching for him. They didn’t stop and he didn’t make any moves to deter them, letting you shift closer until both your hands rested on his damp shoulders.

You were moving towards him in the bath. Overcome with the desire to touch him, to ground him. It was entirely not like you and borderline mad to lift your body out from the water, to show this man your most vulnerable state when you swore you’d always keep this love for him buried, never to be said. And yet, you found yourself willing to do anything to make him smile, to reassure him that he wasn’t the mirage you saw—that you knew he had become a new man, a better man.

You were in too deep, already.

Dazai’s unreadable eyes darted to yours when you moved to straddle him underneath the water; soft skin against his wet clothes. They held questions, so many questions, the light twinkled back into them a little bit more.

You worried your lip between your teeth and his eyes flickered down, fixated there.

Maybe he was in too deep already, too.

“I don’t think,” You whispered, voice low and feathery. Fingers curled into his wet shirt. “I don’t think I could ever be afraid of you, Osamu.”

Osamu. He stared at you, and stared, and stared. As if looking at an art piece from the gallery, as if you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He didn’t let his eyes fall lower to your naked torso, nor did he bring his hands to cradle your hips as you sat in his lap.

He had to know. “What if I said you should be?”

You quirked a small ghostly grin. “. . . Then I’d say, when have I ever taken orders from you, my shitty superior?”

He couldn’t understand you—he never could, right from the day you took your entrance exam. Dazai couldn’t predict how you thought. Perhaps, that’s what made you so exhilarating, like an honest breath of fresh air. He felt the anxiety ease in his chest; the embers stayed, glowing, ready to consume him. But your fingers held onto his shoulders so tightly and your eyes wouldn’t stray from his own no matter how red your cheeks had become.

Right now, he didn’t ask questions.

Slosh. He swayed his body forward, completely on instinct.

And stopped, right before your lips—letting you pull away, asking, begging. Dazai could feel how your breathing hitched so softly, coming out in puffs of air against his mouth.

"You do not want me." He said, and it almost shattered your naked heart. His eyes were hooded and heavy. "Do not be fooled; that person you saw, he is still with me. I am still him. Nothing can erase the stains on my soul."

Your hands moved from his shoulders to fist into the hair on his temples. "You are not that mirage. Your past does not define you, Osamu. I have seen all the good you have done for the Agency—that is not something a person incapable of change would do."

"Tell me to pull away." His lips were so close to yours, you could taste the bite of cigarette smoke. Liar. He told you he would quit. But perhaps addiction was all this was; making your mind eddy of all coherency and rationale.

Kiss me.

Kiss me until I can't breathe.

"Are you sure you want me to?" You challenged, the air charging. Hot. Electrifying. The type of surge you could feel when he caught you staring in the Agency offices, and didn't look away. "You are human, after all. What is that bullshit you always say?" His hands twitched, shoulders wound as tight as a bowstring. When you smiled, it was lopsided—a stupidly lovesick expression. "That humans are never really sure of themselves?"

His ochre eyes flickered across your face. He was trying to read you. You begged him for once, for once, to let you in. To peek through the fissures you could see so expertly and glimpse who he was at the—

Dazai surged forward, crashing his lips onto yours.

It was cataclysmic—he moved like he needed you, the bath water lapping up and over onto the tiles as you joined. His kiss was so sudden that you froze, gasping against his mouth, the air squeezing from your lungs. You felt his hands grasping for you, desperate, almost clawing. They gripped the small of your back just where you straddled him and pulled you so impossibly close.

Holy shit.

This was happening.

The match has been struck—and you both caught flame, burned, like two tragic, collapsing stars.

Dazai must have felt your spine snap taut at the intensity of his pursual. He had rushed you like a starving man, after all, gasping for that tiny morsel of air. He softened around you, letting you go just so, but still keeping you encircled around the waist. He had pinned you down like a hunter would a butterfly by her wings, afraid, terrified you'd flap and fly away.

Parting your mouths. Waiting. Eyes colliding, bodies swaying forward to kiss again. And again. There were so many things you both left unsaid—but that did not matter. Right now, Dazai felt as if he was as close to dying as he would ever feel, that if his lips were off of yours for more than a second, this reality would collapse in and unto itself.

“Miss [Name].” He rasped between breaths. Before completely stepping off the cliff. “Please, tell me to stop.”

You fisted your hand into the back of his hair—pulling so his head would crane to look at you. You were done denying this thing between you, it was too far gone. The both of you were too far gone, and you did not fucking care.

“For once, Osamu, shut your mouth.”

You came crashing down on-top of his infuriating little smirk.

Mouths and teeth clashed together, some parts a snarl, some parts a feral bark of relief. You moaned into the kiss, feeling a pool of heat punching desperately low in your gut. Especially when Dazai tilted his head, slipping his tongue shamelessly between your teeth and invading your mouth so delightfully. He lapped and kissed at you, intent to taste every single inch of you. You felt his hand cradling the back of your neck, rubbing soothing circles, easing the tension from your shoulders and making you melt into him.

Holy God, he was good at this. You didn’t have the time to wonder how many women he had taken to bed to learn all of his tricks—and you did not want to. Not now. Not when your naked core rubbed against his wet pants under the water.

He noticed your hips attempting to move. The water was sloshing and lapping with your ministrations. His hum was like honey across your skin, invading the cavern of your mouth and dancing down your spine. Fuck, you were so, so hot. You did not know if it was from the bath, or the steam, or the way every single nerve fibre ignited like a crackling firework. You were completely at his mercy. It was mortifying, really, how easily you bent your spine into him, how you keened.

Dazai seemed pleased by how soft you had become in his hand. Good girl, you wanted him to praise you, and almost slapped yourself for thinking something so depraved.

But then, he planted a firm grasp on the wet skin of your hip, guiding you to grind down against him. Hard. And all self-bereavement went flying out the window.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, you gasped, maybe you said it. Like your own lament before you sunk into death; yes, Osamu, yes, yes, oh my God—!

Teeth biting. Fingers digging, scratching, pulling each other so achingly close to relieve the months of agony you had put yourself through. You almost cried with pleasure when he raised his hips to meet your intensifying grinding, the stiff seam of his zipper hitting against your clit every single thrust.

“Osamu—fuck . . .” You snarled. There was a dreadfully playful look to his eyes; pupils blown wide as he watched you grind against him. “You—I—!”

“I think I remember you telling me to shut my mouth.” He purred, voice like treacle. He reached around with his other hand to grope at your slick breast—kneading, working you like a divine harp only he could play.

The bandages, the friction.

You were about to loose your fucking mind.

“Now, why would I deny such a pretty lady’s request?”

You hinged your mouth open when the coil in your belly tightened, tightened, pulled so taut you were very sure you were about to implode.

And just when you got there, tittering on the knife’s edge, did he slow his ministrations underneath you.

You could have bitten his gods damned fingers off.

Protests flew to the tip of your tongue—hot and caustic—but the words died when you felt a different kind of pressure there, instead. The hand on your hip has disappeared underneath the water and between your legs—massaging, thrumming, your clit so overly sensitive that you couldn’t really parse what he was doing, but just knew that it felt so damn good.

This man; he was going to be your undoing. You had signed your death warrant now, but you didn’t care.

His lips came to your ear—the air sending shivers down your spine when he whispered, “Tell me what you need, [Name]. My beautiful [Name]."

Oh, he was going to make you beg. You hated him. You would burn everything that attempted to take him away from you.

“I—ah—I need . . . !” He switched his pace, using his thumb to rub circles over your clit while his index slid against you, curling, teasing.

“Hmm?”

“Shit!”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s right.”

“Fuck you, Osamu.” You gasped. He increased the speed of his fingers. “Fuck you! I’ve always fucking needed you! Please, let me—!”

He snapped his fingers up into you, hot and hard. His hips canted, pressing you into all his sturdy lines—your nipples, your skin, all rubbing and grinding and his mouth was on yours again, and—

He bit down hard on your lip, and you saw white.

A spine-shattering orgasm ripped through your body. You bowed forward into him, and he held you close, breathing in all the sighs and shouts that tore from your throat for him. Broken, wounded versions of his name. You were so, so beautiful. He touched you like he would the petal of a flower but with enough force to never let you go. Dazai felt you tighten, fluttering around his long fingers so hard he knew how intense the orgasm had been. Then, you relaxed. Collapsing into him as if someone had cut your strings.

You breathed hot and heavy into your superior's neck. Into the damp bandages and soft curls of mahogany hair. There was foggy bliss for a moment. Nothing existed, nothing else mattered except the pulsing flutters of an orgasm settling all over your sweating skin. You felt like you were glowing with a fine layer of starlight, of pure, smouldering sparks.

A rock hit the bottom of your stomach when you came to—realising what had happened, who had happened. You straightened up to straddle your current superior—fuck, fuck, your mind started reeling, your breasts rising and falling rapidly when you realised you had walked right over the edge. The professional boundary was crossed. You would never go back, never return to just those heated looks across the Agency floor as co-workers, roommates, and nothing more.

You waited for the panic to come. The fumbling of your legs as you jolted out of the bathtub, never looking him in the eye again.

But it didn't.

Sharing a thousand unsaid confessions, you and Dazai stared at each other. It was the most disorientated you had ever seen your superior; his lips a little raw, eyes leaping with an untamed heat that you felt in your stomach. Breaths, in and out, in and out, a shared thing between you both. A secret. Some messy, dangerous formation of a promise.

Air caught in the back of your throat—and suddenly, it was laughter. Fucking hell, you were giggling. Like a damn schoolgirl. And it didn't stop. Tiny hikes and hitches of your laughs filled the bathroom air. You brought a hand up to cover your mouth, abashed.

You did not catch it—how could you, so caught up in what had happened and how mortified you would feel about it—but the sound of your peal of perfect giggles brought mirth to Dazai's dark eyes. You were sunshine, cradled here on his lap, covering your blushing cheeks with ashamed fingers. Always so bright, blinding, something he wanted to pocket in a small jar and keep on his nightstand.

He wanted you all for himself—he would stain you. He would eclipse the radiance that almost made it painful for him to touch you.

What an awful thing he was, then. A true rejection from humankind. He didn't care. Right now, he knew he'd corrupt you, and still, reached out to brush a strand of your wet hair behind an ear.

You peaked up at him, surprised. There was a warm expression softening all the lines of your superiors' face. It reminded you that he was still only a young man.

"You have such a beautiful laugh." Dazai said, his eyes unfocused. Elsewhere. "Have I ever told you about the first time I heard it?"

"No . . . " You answered. Curious as to where he was leading. "Humour me."

He chuckled. "Clever. It was during your first week, when we had all gathered to get to know you better after the Entrance Exam. Kunikida-kun had embarked on a lengthy explanation of what he expected from an ideal wife. All fifty eight points, I believe!" A pause, his lips curving impishly. "I remember how you allowed him to finish, listening with rapt attention—before completely laughing in his face."

The memory was distant now, months and months into the past. You remembered thinking how absurd the Idealist had sounded with his demands of a perfect woman that would have the honour of being his wife. Shock had winded you so bad that you have barked out laughing right in your new colleagues face only on your second day.

Dazai's expression beamed. "It was glorious, Miss [Name], to see how red his face became. I think that could have been the moment where I fell madly in love with you, you know?"

He was teasing you. But the words set off a riot of butterflies in your chest, regardless. A silly part of you wanted to immortalise his voice saying those words and play it over and over again, to listen it so much that the dangerous four letter word made little sense.

You smirked, pushing at him playfully. "Liar. You're just stingy because I never laughed at your stupid jokes."

"You were a serious nut to crack! I honestly thought you would hate me forever, for no reason! Ah, but I sliced through you valiantly, in the end. Who knew you had a soft spot for toilet humour?"

"That's because you made a poop joke while we were in the middle of a critical government meeting and Kunikida-san cracked his pen in two."

"You! Still! Laughed!"

"Whatever, idiot." You scoffed, rolling your eyes. The banter settled, fizzled into something pregnant. Golden and vulnerable.

" . . . Osamu." You corrected, voice so soft it was like the beat of a butterfly wing.

Dazai didn't bother to hide how he reacted to his name shaped from your mouth. It made him rear up with possessive pride. Osamu, spoken like an angel's song. Only for your voice. He had to manufacture up a reaction for how that made him feel, in the future. But right now, it was just you, and him. A man and a woman. A bathtub, suspended in time.

If only you could both stay here, basking in the innocence of this moment, forever.

He had indulged himself, perhaps too much.

It was time to step back into reality. He was good, however, at dressing it up in ribbons and bows.

"What's this?" Dazai looked behind you suddenly with a slack-jaw. He gasped, over-grandiose. "Is that a vessel coming our way? One which could crash into us if we don't dive now!"

Your eyebrows dipped. What—?

He was quick to suddenly grab your ankles and yank! until you were slid onto your back, splashing suds and soap all over the bathroom floor.

"You must go underwater, beautiful siren, or they'll see you!"

"Osamu!" Your arms shot out to brace yourself. You were laughing deeply because of how stupid he was being. "Hey, stop!"

The water sloshed about as he braced himself over you. He brought your faces close, his lashes long at this level and his voice a dark whisper. "I'll protect you, don't worry. They'll never see you~"

You pushed at his chest. "Get off of me, you big moron."

He gasped. "You'd push the man risking his life to save you? How cruel!"

"Not when the man is trying to drown me in his bathtub!"

"I'm doing no such thing!"

"You're so goddamn heavy I think you might!"

His eyes cast up. "Ah, Belladonna. Your beautiful voice has attracted them. Quick! Take me under the water while you dive. I'd gladly die a watery death with you."

You laughed again, high and stomach-aching, when he tried to bring you under the water, once more. Slapping your hands about and catching him in the face at one point. His bathroom surely was soaked by the end of it, and so was he. But you were laughing too hard to care and there was so much bath water in his hair he looked like a soaked puppy.

Perhaps it was a trick of the water when your ears became logged by the end, but you were very sure you heard the deep throng of his laughter, too.

The rare one you didn't hear a lot of the time.

His heart-shatteringly real laughter.

note: it was so fun to revisit this fic. it was a canon-divergent fic where reader became an armed detective agent and ended up living with dazai (because fuck company policy, i guess LMAO). jk atsushi took the last dorm so she was housing with her superior for a little while. i am a big fan of robert frost and his poetry, he became a character in part two of this fic series, but ofc he was a real author as is the bsd characters and his ability mountain interval is based on his collection of poems published in 1916. as described, he trapped the reader in a divergent life she could have lived if she didn't make that choice which changed the entire trajectory of her life (and Dazai's!). lmk if you guys would like to see more of this fic series or snippets of it. its v fun to see how much your writing evolves over the years and breathing life back into something u love so much !!

"Atsushi, what is this?" Between long fingers with elongated nails, more attuned to claws, dangles a simple treat. A crab rangoon, homemade, an offering left behind for the kitsune, the great Inari, revered in your town as the almighty, worshipped by almost everyone. And his offering for the day is a common appetizer. His shrine keeper, Atsushi, steps closer, broom in hand, as he examines the fried wonton wrapper, recognizing the shape, and points.

"That is a crab rangoon, Dazai-sama," he states plainly before turning around to go back to his cleaning of the shrine. It's chilly, deep into Japanese autumn, and he's already having to wear a jacket around to keep warm.

Dazai, the great Inari loved by many and feared by all, stares at the snack, then the back of his shrine keeper's head, then back again. "A crab rangoon?" He repeats, skeptical, in disbelief, and a little appalled. "This does not look anything like a crab, and I cannot begin to fathom what a rangoon could possibly be." He cautiously brings it toward his nose, taking a few sniffs, and his fox ears fall backward at his disappointment that there is not crab anywhere to be found in the treat.

"It's simply what it's called, Dazai-sama," he sighs, peering at him over his shoulder with a small puff of air escaping. "Give it a try, you might like it. It's got crab."

"No, it does not," Dazai grumbles, beginning to break it open to peek inside, to see the contents, and sniff it more. "What is this pink stuff inside? Crab is not pink, Atsushi. I do not understand." His shrine keeper sighs again, heavy this go around, before walking over once more to look inside.

"It's imitation, it's made correctly," Atsushi helps himself to one of the halves the deity broke, chewing slowly, allowing the filling to melt on his tongue, and he nods. Pleased. "It's actually really good. Take a bite, you'll love it." He insists, as if speaking to a child instead of a divine fox spirit, and he watches as those big, pointed ears stay fallen back. His multiple fluffy tails twitch behind his kimono-clad body, and he grimaces. "One bite. If you hate it, I'll take them off your hands."

"Why is there imitation crab? What is so wrong with the real thing?" Dazai continues to question, delaying putting something like this in his mouth.

"Not all of us mortals have the kind of money or influence to obtain real crab, especially for an ungrateful deity unwilling to try it," the boy rolls his eyes before going back to his work, the brief discussion of money reminding him he needs to fish out the monetary offerings that were received throughout the day. Not that there is a popularity contest amongst the other deities and yokais, but it is pretty clear that Dazai — “Inari-sama” as worshippers call him — is the favorite amongst those following religion. Anything offered is enough to maintain the shrine as well as keep Atsushi well-paid for essentially being his "shrine maiden".

Dazai sighs inwardly, the other half sitting in his palm, still warm and steaming, then sticks his tongue out to give it a little lick. His tails flick, ear perking up in curiosity, before popping it in his mouth. His hand digs around in the neatly packaged, beautifully decorated bag, finding there are multiple inside, and his tails begin to wag with delight. He tucks himself comfortably away in the corner of his couch he demanded to be placed in the shrine, and indulges himself in eating all of them.

"Atsushi!" He snaps rapidly, mouth half-full, and other hand still roaming around for more. "Atsushi! Quickly, bring me the maker of these rangoons. I must meet the human behind such a delicacy." He has crumbs not only around his mouth but down his kimono, and his fingers and nails are covered in crumbs and filling — that he shamelessly laps up. "I need these to be available at all times!" His shrine keeper stops what he's doing — his job — to see the deity scrounging around for more of the snacks, something he previously detested with disgust.

"Dazai-sama, I thought you couldn't bear the thought of imitation crab?" He jokes, folding his arms.

"Never mind that," Dazai waves him off, sticking his face in the bag to sniff around, committing all scents attached to memory. "Did they leave behind any prayers? Any wishes? Desires? Vengeance requests? Tell me immediately." He motions for the other to speak, voice muffled by the bag, and a light brow raises at the behavior.

"Your great divinity, you're already behind on so many other prayer requests, it would be better if I keep you on track to fulfilling them in order of received," Atsushi attempts. "At the very least in order of importance."

"Nothing could be more important than the prayers of the one who has made these rangoons for me," he yanks his face away, continuing to aggressively sniff the sack, trying to capture the smell of the human he is after. "I want them here at the quickest convenience." The shrine keeper stares at him in awe — while he has not been working for the Inari too long, he has never seen him react quite like this over an offering. They usually pile up in the storage room of the shrine, get donated, or he takes whatever food home that Dazai won't eat. He's never been so captivated by something of as little importance as an appetizer not even of Japanese origin. A mere snack created elsewhere from what he assumes was experimentation that is now a favorite across the globe.

He wants to actually answer prayers.

"Yeah, alright, I'll snoop around tomorrow."

♡

You hum to yourself, stopping by the Inari shrine as you always do after work, carrying a newly decorated bag packed to perfection, steaming from the offering you have to present, and the wind blows gently as dropped leaves whisp along the sidewalk. It's been a long day, but you have been looking forward to visiting the Inari-sama — the deity somehow brings you peace in your daily life, and you feel strongly that this offering is something He would really enjoy.

However, just as you reach the bottom steps of the shrine, a guy is walking up to you: he has white hair and a heavy zip-up jacket over his shoulders. You recognize him, thinking you've seen him roaming around with a broom or working up at the front selling omamoris or other spiritual ornaments and trinkets. What kind of shrine maiden isn't in appropriate attire? Your head cocks when he steps in front of your path, staring up at him silently, and his strangely colored eyes flicker down to your hands. The guy smiles, then bows respectfully.

"Hi, I'm sorry to trouble you, but the great Inari-sama has shown immense interest and gratitude to your recent offering, and He would like to speak with you," he says, and you raise a brow.

"What?" Is all that comes out.

"Your offering, the crab rangoons?" He stands straight, pointing to the bag, and you glance at it before meeting his gaze again.

"How'd you know that's in here?"

"That's the same bag as yesterday. Plus, He recognizes your scent," he explains further, but you're more baffled at the concept of some sort of being actually located in the building is in search of you. Your eyes flit behind him to the shrine, door cracked, light shining through, then slowly take a small step backward. "Please, don't go! He really did enjoy them, and He wants to meet you! Any prayer you have, He said He will see to fulfilling it personally." You blink once, skeptical, before eyeing him up and down.

"The Inari-sama... is actually real?" You ask, words coming out slow — you never doubted your faith, believing in the great kitsune, but you weren't expecting a physical form. More or less, you expected to speak to the air around you while a giant booming voice yelled back at you. "Like, a... a person?" You clarify, seeing a puzzled expression on the shrine keeper's face.

"Well... Sort of?" He gives an awkward chuckle before guiding you up to the stairs to the shrine, opening the door, and gesturing you in. You stand there, silent, unmoving on the other side, the dim glow of the shrine seeping out, and you glance sidelong at the shrine keeper. “It’s alright, I promise. Go on ahead in.” He insists, carefully nudging you along so he can get the door shut quickly before anyone else tries to peek in.

At the sound of the heavy locks clinking behind you, you merely stare at the body sprawled out on the couch: a weirdly faint, pale blue-colored kimono wrapping around it; giant fluffy white tails gently swaying along the back cushion; matching pointed but furry white ears stand straight up out of a mop of shaggy brown hair; and the only other thing you can see are glowing, piercing amber eyes that gaze at you from over an opened traditional folding fan. The color matches the person’s attire, and the longer you stare ahead, the more constricted the pupils get in the floating eyes.

“Is this the maker of the… rangoons?” A surprisingly soft voice flows out into the room, slightly muffled behind the fan, and you notice then there are well-manicured, dark claws pushing out of his fingers.

“Yes, your great divinity,” the guy behind you lightly sighed, gingerly pushing you forward again. “The bag matches the one from yesterday.” You haven’t spoken, voice lost at the sight of someone actually living in this shrine, on quite the lavish couch, you might add. The room has a gentle scent of incense, the trail burning its way through the room from the corner where it was left, and there are a multitude of plump throw pillows cast around on the ground. It’s quiet, you’re shaking a little, and the eyes of a god are watching you closely.

“Come,” a finger urges you forward, the sleeve drooping to reveal standard bandages wrapped around the skin, and you crane your neck to the side to the white-haired guy with eyes that may also belong to a god — given the circumstance, anything could be possible. He offers you a sincere smile, nodding in the god’s direction, and you slowly look ahead once more, then take a cautious step forward. The ears on his head twitch, eyes darting to your hands before quickly locking back with yours.

When you’re in front of him, his arm extends out, palm up, but the fan does not remove. You look between the striking color then his open hand a few times, lowering the decorated bag on it, then take a small step backward. “F-For you, Inari-sama.” You bow, eyes perpendicular to the floor, and wait.

“Please, do not call me that,” he lightly scoffs, then directs his attention to the guy behind you. “Atsushi, open.” He holds the bag up, growing impatient.

“You could always put the fan down,” Atsushi grumbles, walking over to pull the drawstring apart, and the smell of fresh crab rangoons waft up behind the fan and under his nose, tails beginning to wag more intensely at the scent. “There.”

“So, mortal, tell me, what is your biggest desire?” The Inari digs his hand in the bag feeling many more than the night before in there, and is immediately pleased. He plucks one out to stuff in his mouth, continuing to shield it behind the fan. You gradually stand upward, seeing his hand disappear then reappear, shoveling in each snack one after the other, and you blink. “Come along, tell me what it is you want. I am apparently a very busy deity and do not have all day to wait around for your wish.”

“I… I don’t have anything I desire, really,” you mutter, watching as he continues to eat, still only able to see his eyes, and one of his dark brows raise in puzzlement. Disbelief, more to say.

“You do not desire anything? Then why make an offering if there is nothing you are after?” He questions, that tone continuing with softness and a bit soothing to your ears, but you can tell he is skeptical of you. You think for a moment before shrugging, folding your hands in front of you.

“Just… thanking you, I suppose. For bringing me peace and serenity,” you explain, causing Atsushi to give you an incredulous look that you can’t see, and the kitsune stops mid-bite to stare at you. “I learned recently that you seem to respond well to crab, that it’s your current offering of choice, so I thought you’d like to try those.” You point to the bag that his hand is buried in, a small, hesitant smile forming on your lips as you bow your head. “I’m so happy you like them.” The other two share a glance, Atsushi in sheer bewilderment considering prayers haven’t been answered in who knows how long because the Inari is lazy beyond belief, and this powerful fox is just surprised to hear no one wants anything from him.

“You desire nothing?” He repeats, propping himself up straighter as he peers over the fan at you, hand gradually withdrawing from the bag, and Atsushi is already pulling out a handkerchief to wipe off the crumbs and filling. “That is not possible. Even my shrine maiden has desires and prayers he wants answered that he knows I will ignore.”

“Please stop calling me a shrine maiden,” he mutters, finishing cleaning his hand, you watching quietly, a bit taken aback by his words, and just stay put under his gaze. His eyes are stunning, mesmerizing, but it’s hard to hold contact, especially when they glow so intensely. “I’d have to be an actual maiden to be one.”

“Yes, you never follow proper shrine maiden etiquette and attire, I am not sure why you were hired to begin with,” the Inari waves his hand, shooing Atsushi away, then leaning back in his seat, leg over the other, and you note his kimono is loose — his getas seem to be old, worn, visible passages of time withering the wood. Bandages wrap around his ankles. His fan has yet to reveal what he looks like, and those luscious tails are elegantly placed off to the side, quite the handful dangling from the armrest. He is breathtaking as is, but your curiosity is burning to see his entire face.

“I’m the only one that was willing to work for you, Dazai-sama,” he sighs, turning to face you, then bows. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I have the shrine to attend to for the evening, then I’ll be back to get you after you two have talked.” Atsushi gives you one final bow as he exits, the doors clanking shut again behind you, eyes trained on them, when a soft clearing of a throat catches your attention.

“Do you prefer Dazai-sama?” You ask, a bit out of nowhere. His eyes narrow before correcting themselves, an ear flickering then stranding back up straight. He nods once. “Is that your human name?”

“It is the name of the man I possessed, yes,” Dazai switches hands, allowing the other to rest, and holds up the bag that dangles from his finger. “You may have no desires, but I do.” You look at him, wide-eyed and expectant, but he doesn’t speak further.

“Anything for you, Dazai-sama,” you bow, at the waist, and he huffs under his breath before waving you to stand back up.

"I desire these rangoons until I tire of them," he states simply, to the point, and you glance at the bag for a brief moment before looking at him once again, and you don't know what to say. You're in the presence of a divine being that outwardly admitted he possessed the body he's in with animal ears and multiple tails, telling you that he wants you to make crab rangoons until he gets sick of them. You blink once, staring at him in stunned silence. "Is there an issue? You dare deny me?" He asks with a sudden tonal flip, and his brows furrow.

"No, no, of course I would never deny you," you quickly defend, shaking your hands in front of you. "I just... wanted to make sure that's what you are asking."

"I do not believe I stuttered," his presence isn't necessarily daunting, but it is overpowering now, and it's a reminder he is in fact a god.

"No, your great divinity, you didn't," you bow once more, honestly just so you don't have to look into those piercing and striking glowing eyes, lightly chewing on the inside of your cheek as you try to come up with a plan to make the snack daily and drop them off.

"You already have devoted yourself to me, is that correct? Or are there other gods I should worry about sharing your worship with?" Your brows knit together at that comment, keeping your head down, not wanting him to see your reaction. Gods can get jealous...? Your family had always been devoted to the Inari-sama, asking to worship anything else was morally absurd, divine treason, heavenly betrayal. Dazai is a deity, one that has been around for thousands and thousands of years, surely he has answered prayers or wishes from your family at some point — even if he were in a different person's body at the time. I don't think I ever gave Him my name.

"I have only ever worshipped the Inari, as you have brought abundance and peace to my family for decades. You have my undivided attention."

"Good. I need a new shrine maiden around here as is, what with Atsushi being far too slow for my liking," Dazai rolls his eyes, beginning to gently fan himself. "He lectures me far too often, and it has grown annoying. Tiring. You can begin tomorrow, do not bother arguing with me or telling me no, as I will not entertain it." You gradually stand up straighter, staring at him unblinking, mouth closed tight to avoid saying anything out of turn or disrespectful. However, if you heard him correctly, he is asking you to quit your actual job to become a shrine keeper full time because his current one... demands he do his godly duties? "Away with you. I grow tired, and you look exhausted as well. You will need to be fully rested to begin your work here." He shoos you off, his ears falling into more of a resting position, and his tails seem to have stilled completely. He mutters something about 'Atsushi will see you out', going back to stretching out elegantly on the couch, the fan never moving to reveal his face, and he sighs deeply as his eyes close.

... What?

♡

"Dazai-sama, they don't have any prayers," Atsushi shakes his head, rummaging through the different pieces of paper and scrolls sitting in the box amongst the piles of wishes and grievances others have bestowed on Dazai. All waiting to be answered — some dating back decades ago. "You seriously need to focus on the ones you have now instead of trying to answer ones that don't exist!" He groans under his breath, getting overwhelmed at the sheer amount that the other has ignored, unbelievable that a god could be so lazy. Dazai rolls his eyes, laying down on the couch again, his kimono loose to his body, getas tossed haphazardly elsewhere, and his mind has wandered to another plane while he is being berated.

You are off in a different area of the shrine grounds, admiring the nature and care surrounding it, parts you had never gotten to go before since they were closed off to civilians. As a shrine keeper, you get to see the history of the shrine changing with time, how well-maintained it was, obvious love and care put into keeping it in top shape. It also allowed for you to be alone with your thoughts for some time, since Atsushi mentioned needing to go see Dazai after training you.

It was brought to your attention that you live far away from the shrine, more than a standard walk along the sidewalk — a bus and train ride away. There is an offer for you to take the house just down the hill, one Atsushi had turned down because he needs 'as much space between Dazai-sama and I as possible', something about being around him too much that living near him would 'drive me bonkers'. Apparently, the personality of the man possessed, the true Dazai, shines through frequently; he is an incredibly lazy young man, avoiding work of any kind at all costs, one who plays pranks and makes lots of jokes, and a dangerous flirt. The Inari has a handle on it "for the most part", but you suppose it can be exhausting having to possess a body that He allows Dazai to take over his own mind again so He can rest.

So far, the only thing shining through is his allergy to work.

You visited the house earlier, Atsushi showing you around, and it had also been consistently remodeled with the passage of time, to keep up with modernity. Complete indoor plumbing, fully functional kitchen, already furnished, and brand-new tatami mats have been laid down recently in the past year or two — untouched since no one has lived there for quite some time. The only real work that would need to be put into it is dusting. You were assured rent wouldn't be necessary since it's paid for, the concern would merely be utilities.

You hadn't decided though on if you were going to do exactly what was requested. While the other shrine keeper discussed wages and the money made from worshippers, it didn't sound sustainable. Stable. People change their faith consistently; it would only be a matter of time before they move on from the Inari-sama to a new deity. It all is treated like some strange fad.

His full face continues to be a mystery for whatever reason. The only thing he allows you to see are the bright amber eyes that watch you intently from over the folding fan with constricted, thin pupils.

"How could they not want anything?" Dazai whispers, sighing heavily as he stares at the ceiling.

"Some people don't need much," Atsushi replies, seeing a few papers with your same last name, sorting through them. "They have family in here with requests, prayers, desires, and grievances." He pauses, flipping the pages, and his shoulders slump. "Some from as late as thirty years ago."

"Oh, those are still good," the god sighs, dismissing the concern in the shrine keeper's voice. "I will get to them later."

"Why don't you use the energy and motivation you got now to answer important ones that have been needing your divine hand for countless years?" A few scrolls and papers drop down suddenly on Dazai's stomach, making him grunt on impact, and his nose wrinkles.

"Because I do not care for anyone else at this moment. My power is reserved," his nose turns up, facing away from the other, who sighs again. "Unless they have offered me such delicious treats, they can wait."

"You have been offered money, priceless heirlooms, and peoples' own lives. If I knew crab would have gotten your ass in gear, I would have put a sign out ages ago to not bother with anything else," Atsushi huffs, pointing to the pile. "Get to work. This is getting old."

"How dare you speak to a god that way!" Dazai sneers, sitting up to look at him head on, and he merely glares at him back.

"You're a lazy god!"

"I am not!" Dazai counters, his fangs accidentally coming out as he talks back. "I am trying to fulfill a prayer now but there are not any available!"

"You are wanting them from one person who doesn't have a single thing in the world they could want at this moment. Move on to the ones you have!" The Inari shrine keeper has clearly had enough, grabbing the papers and scrolls he dropped earlier to storm across the room to the desk, plopping down and beginning to sort through them to see about having them fulfilled himself. "You will lose faith and worshippers if you keep this up. You like being popular, do what makes you the favored in the first place." Just as he finishes his sentence, you slip in through the front door, causing both him and Dazai to whip their heads in your direction, catching the deity off guard that there isn't enough time for him to shield his face with his fan. You're ashamed to admit it, but you are accidentally gawking as you stare at him, seeing his entire face now, and you're rendered speechless.

Is it the divine powers that make him look that way, or is he really that handsome?

"What is it that you need?" Dazai clears his throat, situating himself in a more polite manner on the couch, and withdraws his fan anyway to splay out covering his nose and mouth. However, it's too late, you have already seen his features, absolutely captivated and awestruck by his appearance, and trail your gaze down to see that his kimono is more or less disheveled to reveal more gauze wrapping around his neck and chest. "Please speak instead of ogling." He instructs, words bouncing back from behind the fan, and your eyes snap back to meet his — those alluring irises that you had dreamt about the night before from how intense they are whenever gazing back at you.

"I'm... Forgive me," you bow, hands tucked into the sleeves of the kimono Atsushi let you borrow — per the request of the Inari. "I finished my tour of the shrine grounds and decided to come see what I could do for work."

"I have no duties for you. Although, I am hungry," he tells you, leg crossing over the other, arm crossed over his chest, and his tails wave slowly behind him. "Could you provide more of those rangoons?" Your eyes grow wide, scoping out the room for the bag you had given him this morning, to find it torn to pieces as if an animal had gotten to it — all the contents gone.

"Dazai-sama, why don't you eat something else? The poor thing is probably tired of making them for you already," Atsushi comes to your rescue, but you would never want to deny the kitsune you have idolized your whole life. If the Inari-sama desires crab rangoons, then so be it.

"It's fine, honestly," you interrupt, diverting the harsh glare Dazai is shooting his shrine keeper to rather look at you. "I will just have to... leave." You swallow, feeling as though you are not making a good fellow shrine keeper, let alone a standard worshipper. Leave?

"I thought you would be taking the house?" His ears droop some, but his brows are deeply furrowed, the wrinkles prominent to show his confusion. "You work here now. Is that not what we discussed yesterday?"

"Th-The offer you made is so generous, but even if I were to take the house, Atsushi-kun said nothing is turned on. I'd have to call someone to turn on the utilities, and I don't know if I can give up my current job—" You stop yourself as his arm gradually lowers, the fan revealing the displeased frown that matches his fallen ears and wrinkled brow. His eyes are bright, on fire, and you don't know what else to say. It's true, it would take the same amount of time, if not longer, to call and wait for someone to come out to turn the electric and water on than it would take for you to head back home to make the snacks. You said you would do anything for him, as a sign of gratitude for the life he has blessed you with, but you're overwhelmed already. "D-Dazai-sama, I'm not denying you, I just—"

"I do not like excuses," he states, blunt, the fan snapping shut with a wild echo in the room, almost strong enough to put out the incense burning on the other side near Atsushi. Who is stunned in place by the behavior of the deity he has been tending to for a handful of years. What the hell is his damage? "I stated my intentions with you, offer you a place to live that is closer, a rather labor-less but fulfilling job as my second shrine maiden, in exchange for your continued cooperation of making me those rangoons. I am even willing to answer any prayer, desire, or grievance you may have or will ever have, just for a delicacy. And you dare to upset me with excuses?" His eyes, inflamed with blatant anger, narrow, and he gets to his feet for the first time since meeting him. He doesn't seem to care that his clothes are not appropriately tight to his body as they should be, but none of his skin is visible anyhow, and a shiver runs down your spine for the thought of how — even in the deepest depths of his fury — he is still so breathtaking. It's almost like a sweet sedative to endure the raging storm.

You stare up at him, timid, biting down harshly on your cheek, and the scraping of chair legs creeks along the floor. "You cannot force them to uproot their life like you did me. It isn't fair." Atsushi defends, coming to your side, even carefully shuffling you behind him. "I only did it because Dazai is my friend, and I wanted to make sure you didn't do anything to him. They don't know him, and you can't take advantage of their love and devotion for you just because they gave you an offering you actually liked for once. Humans are not to be treated like this; I thought I taught you this?" You're taken aback by how he is speaking to the Inari, not ever expecting to hear anyone talk back to the revered fox spirit. Dazai's head raises, glowering down at the boy trying his best to protect you; his tails fwhip behind his body, irritated, and ears are standing straight up once again, flickering at the octave of the lecture he received. His lips part, gearing up to say something in return, and you catch the hint of fangs hanging down. You mildly cower, unsure of how this is going to pan out, and tempted to call someone to turn on the utilities as soon as they possibly can to prevent further angering a god.

Mortals are so aggravating, what with their free will and entitlement. We used to strike down anyone who spoke to us the way this impudent boy is now.

Amber irises, calming down to their normal glow, glide in your direction, pupils elongated and constricted still, and a shadow momentarily casts over his face. He inhales deep, lids dropping, and jaw flexes once before relaxing completely. When he opens his eyes again, he seems normal, human-esque, and his voice lowers to the soft tone you heard yesterday: "Do you wish to accept the house down the hill? It would... please me if you did, as well as work here fully. However, I... understand if you do not want to. I will n-not f...force you." He struggles to get the words out, and you can't help your gaze darting to the back of Atsushi's head before meeting Dazai's. He stares at you, eyebrows still knit together, a scowl etched into his features, and his tails occasionally flit around.

You clear your throat, gaze downcast, and you shrug. "I... I don't know."

"You don't know—!"

"Great Inari-sama, don't," Atsushi scolds, causing the other to bite his tongue, lips pursing, then turning his head away. "This is a big change for them. They are allowed time to think about it."

"What if he can convince them?"

"Don't you dare!"

You continue staring down at the floor, not understanding what either of them are talking about, who they are talking about, but you're uncomfortable. You should be flattered by the deity wanting you here, that He is specifically requesting you to be at his side, but something feels... off. While he is saying to give you a choice, you don't actually believe it is going to end in you doing what you want. You're fairly certain you will be living in the house down the hill and being a shrine keeper full-time by tomorrow.

They bicker in the background of your thoughts, going back and forth of how "immoral" it would be to use someone against you, when you remember that Atsushi had mentioned to you prior that while shrine duties are always caught up, the Inari's are on an almost eternal backlog that He refuses to complete. You wonder, for a fleeting moment, if you can get away with such a bargain.

"Dazai-sama, I do have a request for you," you murmur, it enough to cause the fighting to stop. He looks to you, a bit too eager, and waits. You glance up, both of them staring at you, and Atsushi has a puzzled brow lifted as he waits as well.

"Out with it," Dazai urges, his tails beginning to wag, displaying his anticipation to finally fulfill a wish you have for him.

You inhale, raising your head, to seem more dignified and less intimidated, and straighten your back, squaring your shoulders so he knows you mean business. Professional. Not at all worried this is a terrible decision. "I will accept the house down the hill, and work for you full time, if you could please fulfill your existing prayers and grievances." The room goes still after that, his tails no longer showing his previous elation, ears perked, and lips in a line. You can see in the corner of your eye that Atsushi is fighting a grin, covering his mouth with the back of his hand and diverting his attention elsewhere to prevent bursting into laughter. Dazai looks at you, eyes wide and unblinking, and his kimono slips some from his shoulder. Your fingers lightly tremble in the confines of your sleeves, but your expression is otherwise steady.

"I do not wish to fulfill such selfish desires of otherwise undeserving mortals," he whispers. Meaning every word. "They ask for material trinkets, or for the impossible. Everything they want is in their interest only. Why would I appease them?" Well, I can't necessarily argue with that. You nod once, slowly, understanding, before sighing through your nose.

"Because you wouldn't have the power to without their prayers and devotion in the first place," you begin, maintaining a steady but gentle voice, not wanting to come off as weak but definitely not wanting to make things worse. A dark brow twitches, but he doesn't give a response. "They pray to you and seek your guidance because you haven't steered them wrong yet. Even if you answer a prayer that is thirty years old, or maybe older than that, they will still praise you, revere you, hold you to the highest pedestal because they love you, devoted their entire lives to you. Their wishes may be selfish, but they would continue to be grateful to you." You tell him, as if he should know this, but he doesn't. He is a god, a deity, a divine spirit that has to borrow a human body to roam the Earth alongside mankind. He is used to receiving offerings, presents, gifts, bribes in order for wishes to be granted.

It's why he doesn't understand how you are capable of giving him such a delicious gift with no expectation in return. Humans almost always want something, especially from him, or other fellow gods. Sure, the faith continuously restored to allow his power to flow helps, but they still hold him to high regard without answering anything in years — merely because they all asked for the same things: money, power, love. What good are those things when there is always the possibility of dying tomorrow? Mortals are so fragile, these two before me could be gone the moment they leave this shrine. The thought makes his tails droop slightly, hand on his hip, tight grip on the closed fan, and you two have been having a staring contest due to him trying to comprehend how there is the existence of such selflessness, to a point that you would essentially uproot your entire life, set aside precious time to make endless batches of crab rangoons at his request, and all you ask for in return is that he answers others' wishes.

"How many a day will be considered satisfactory to you?" Dazai begrudgingly asks, words jagged by gritted teeth with visible fangs. Atsushi has to hold back his surprise, still facing away from him, and the smile he had previously tried hiding drops behind his hand.

"No less than five," you spout off politely. His nose scrunches up in response. "I think that is plenty. Enough to count on one single hand. And if you do more, you'd be overachieving." You add with a genuine smile, tilting your head.

"Fine," he agrees, a little too immediately. "However, the moment you have an actual prayer, I will put it at the front of the queue." Your smile grows bigger at such a ridiculous comment, but you can't help the small giggle that follows, and his ears tingle at the sound, one folding down, and his tails sway.

"I promise, the first time I actually need something, I will let you know firsthand," you assure, the interaction making Atsushi look between you two, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"So be it," Dazai agrees once again, having no choice but to believe you. "Atsushi, please call whoever it is that will turn on the amenities for them while they are away making the rangoons I need." He turns, almost elegantly, on his heel to saunter back to the couch, sitting down to stretch himself out and fanning the comedown from the rising blood pressure with eyes closed. Preparing to rest. You sigh inwardly, mentally prepping yourself to have to wear a kimono and getas on the subway to get home to make more of the treat for the lazy deity.

"Sure," he shrugs, but not before walking over and rummaging through the papers on the desk, searching for what he thinks are the most important. He picks up five exactly, all from your family lineage, then plops them on Dazai's stomach. "Go ahead and get started."

"I will smite you where you stand if you think I am going to do absolutely any work before a nap."

used my silent hill f brain rot for this.

- ghxst

dazai masterlist

tag list//: @dazaisfavoritemistake @luanniidae @grubluunch

See, your moms are best friends. They grew up together, living only a few houses away from each other. They got married around the same time, too. The double pregnancy was unplanned but the icing on the cake, according to them. 

Mrs. Miya had her twins, while you were born a whole two months after them. And though your mothers had both moved out of their childhood houses, the homes they built for their fledgling families were a mere few streets away from each other. 

Rarely did a day go by when you didn’t see the Miyas. Diaper changes were done side by side and you had more than your fair share of baths as infants with the boys. They took their first steps in your living room, too. (Atsumu tripped and fell on top of you, who had been sitting and minding your own business on the carpet nearby. According to your mother, you retaliated with swift and immediate justice in the form of a babydoll swung at his head. Osamu, apparently, refused to attempt walking for another week after witnessing your brutality.)

You went to the same kindergarten as the twins, too. Whenever they’d try and trick the teacher by swapping places, you’d correct them. And tell their mother later that same day. Atsumu pulled your pigtails more than he should’ve gotten away with and Osamu helped himself to half your lunch nearly every day. They were nuisances, no doubt about it, but you were always there. Matching their attitudes, chasing after them on bikes halfway through elementary school, knocking them on the back of their heads whenever they tried to hide their homework from their mother. 

There was no escaping the Miya twins. And they couldn’t get rid of you, either. They were your best friends. 

Until you had to move away right before middle school started.

“Just tell yer dad ya don’t wanna go!” Twelve year old Atsumu announces, spinning a volleyball on one finger. It’s a trick you know he’s only picked up recently, and you also know he’s been doing it nonstop since Michiko told him it made him look really athletic. 

“Stay with yer mom, or somethin’.” Osamu agrees with his brother. He’s laying across the park bench, sprawled on his back. You’d asked them to meet you at the same playground you’ve been going to since before you could talk. It’s wedged between your two houses, and made for an easy halfway meeting point growing up. 

“Apparently, the judge says I have to go with my dad.” It’s pitiful, the way you sniffle and close in on yourself. Since Osamu is taking up the whole bench, you’ve been forced to sit on the edge of the playset, on the lowest level, maybe half a dozen feet from where he lays. Atsumu is standing to your left, making a triangle out of the three of you while you break the news about your impending departure. “Something about him bein’ more capable of caring for me, or whatever.” 

You’d overheard your mom talking to Mrs. Miya on the phone a few nights earlier. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but there was a waver in your mother’s voice that cracked something deep in your chest and kept you frozen around the corner from the kitchen, out of sight but well within earshot. 

The divorce was messy. You knew that much without needing to hear it from your mother. Your final year of elementary school was disrupted by innumerable court hearings to arrange custody and division of property. The house was inherited from a relative on your mother’s side, so it was hers to keep. Which suited your father fine—considering he wanted to move to Tokyo for his new promotion. 

You’d been crying while you listened to your mom talk about how primary custody was given to your father. Something about him having a stable job while she was only a housewife. Something about her not being able to provide necessary funds to support you. 

As if she wasn’t your mother and your whole life hadn’t been lived in Hyogo. 

“Well, that’s stupid.” Atsumu huffed, dropping the volleyball into the palm of his hand. You glared at him for his unimaginative response. He tossed the ball into the air once before lobbing it in Osamu’s direction. It caught his twin by surprise, landing with a decent amount of force on his stomach and folding him in half. 

“‘Tsumu, you jerk!” Osamu shouted, rolling off the bench and winding his arm back with the volleyball clutched in his hand, fully intending to retaliate. Atsumu braced for impact, twisted his body away from his brother while you watched on boredly, neither impressed nor surprised. 

“Ya gotta say somethin’ ‘t her, too!” Atsumu defended his actions, jumping slightly as the volleyball slammed into his back with a heavy thud. 

“Guys!” You yelled to get their attention. Atsumu froze from where he was scrambling to get the ball to return fire that he himself had started. Osamu sat back down on the bench, eyes slightly wide as he watched the way you chewed on your lip and toyed with your fingers. Rarely, did you ever yell at them. Call them names, or pinch their arms, or threaten to tell their mother—those were your go to moves to get them in line. 

Yelling meant something different. Something bigger. 

“I’m leaving in a week.” You confess, voice quieter now that the twins weren’t on the verge of derailing the conversation with a fight you’d inevitably have to break up. “Dad wants me to have a few days to settle before middle school starts.” 

They’re silent for maybe three seconds. Four, tops. 

And then they’re talking over each other. Scrambling to come up with excuses for why you can’t leave them. 

“Who’s supposed ‘t tell me when I got food on my face?” Osamu questions like his messy eating is a life or death scenario. 

“Or when I forget my homework, who am I supposed ‘t ask for help!” Atsumu has his hands on his hips, a distraught expression on his face as he paces the distance between your perch on the playground and Osamu’s bench. “‘Samu don’t let me copy!”

“Doesn’t let you,” You correct his grammar. You do it mindlessly, voice quiet and weak as you struggle to keep back your tears. You’ve always corrected him, like a habit you stubbornly refuse to break. Except now, you’re lacking your usual air of smug authority. There’s not one part of you that wants to leave the twins, or your mother, or even Hyogo as a whole. 

“Or that! Who’s gonna tell me when I’m speakin’ wrong!” 

“You could just l-learn on your own,” You suggest, trying for a joke that comes out way more pitiful than intended when you break up your sentence with a voice crack and punctuate it with a sniffle. Your eyes are starting to burn with unshed tears, and your nailbeds you’d been picking at nervously suddenly go blurry. 

Osamu calls your name, but it sounds distant. You don’t remember him standing from the bench, but between one complaint from Atsumu at the next, he’s in front of you and pulling you to your feet. He’s crushing you in a hug before you know it, and it’s seconds before his twin joins in. You’re in the middle of a Miya hug-sandwich, and there’s at least six dozen photos in your mother’s photo albums of the three of you in that exact pose. 

“Promise you’ll come back when ya can?” Atsumu whispers into your hair. You do him a favor and don’t point out the fact that his voice is painfully tight and you think he’s about to join you in crying. 

You know you have no control of when you’ll come back. From what you can tell, your dad seems pretty much ready to go scorched earth on Hyogo. Part of you already resents him for taking you to the city, and you haven’t even left yet.

But you can’t exactly imagine a life where the Miyas aren’t in your life, headache that they might be. 

“Swear it.” 

You squeeze them a little tighter. 

You spend four years in Tokyo. 

You don’t hate all of it, even if you tell your father that you do. 

Your middle school isn’t awful and the people in it can actually be kinda nice. You’re teased by the boys about your Kansai dialect, the slow drawl that drags out more syllables than probably necessary. By your final year of middle school, you’re able to hide your accent decently well, unless you’re tired or worked up. 

You don’t go back to Hyogo. Mom comes to visit in the city. Once a month, she takes time off work—from the job she got at the local bakery in town you’re only a little bitter she didn’t have before custody arrangements were decided—and stays in Tokyo. You show her around the city and she shares tidbits about the life you left behind. 

The twins are still playing volleyball. Their mother sent them to camp. Everyone from the neighborhood misses you.

You cling to the stories she shares, even if they sting a little. 

Tokyo isn’t all bad. 

But it’s not Hyogo. 

You start high school in Tokyo, too. You can’t say anything horrible about that, either. But you’ve all but stopped talking to your father. Most conversations end in him badmouthing your mother, or Hyogo, or complaining about how you seem so ungrateful for the opportunities available to you in the city.  

He’s changed since you were little. You think he wishes you were still a toddler that blindly believed whatever he told you. You’ve started to hate him, even though you still love him. 

It’s when your first year of high school draws to a close that things finally come to a head. 

Your mom had just left after visiting for a week straight. What started as a comment from him about how much happier you seem with her than with him exploded into an argument about dragging you away from your life, your friends. You’d stormed off to your room and sobbed into your pillow. 

An hour later, your father was at your door, quietly suggesting you live with your mother for the remainder of high school. 

It wasn’t like he was giving up on you. More so giving in to what you had wanted all along. 

Lawyers were involved soon after. Custody agreements were changed, school transfer papers were submitted, boxes were packed. With the new school term starting so soon, it was a whirlwind of upending your life for a second time. 

Only, now you were moving back home instead of away. 

Your first night back with your mother is a celebration. 

You’re far from surprised when the Miyas are on your doorstep for dinner. Mrs. Miya sweeps you up into a hug before the door is even all the way open, and you feel your heart bursting at the seams with how much you’ve missed her and the way she dotes on you. 

The closest thing I’ll get to a daughter, she always called you. 

“Yer so big!” She gasps, holding you at arms length in the entryway. A smile threatens to crack her face in two as she inspects you, chatting away with your mom about how well you’ve grown into yourself since the last time she’d seen you. 

It takes a moment, but she finally pulls away from you to venture further into the house. The way she trails after your mother, talking about dinner, is so familiar your head almost spins. Behind her, her sons step into the house the same way they have a million times before. 

Except, you haven’t seen them in four years. 

You’ve grown up in your time away. The last time you’d seen the twins, you’d been twelve and still letting your mother choose your haircut. 

They’d clearly grown up, too. You’ve seen pictures, but nothing could compare to how they looked standing in front of you. What you remember being skinny not-quite middle schoolers are now two broad shouldered, taller than you’d have guessed, men. 

“God, you two have gotten big.” You grin, standing on the top of the genkan step. But even with the higher ground, they’re still taller than you. “Why aren’t you still twelve and measuring your height against mine every weekend?”

“Yer talkin’ all weird.” Atsumu accuses, waving his fingers in your face as if he could summon your guilt to the surface. His hair is blond now. You had thought you’d hate it when your mother had told you, but he surprisingly wears it well. It fits him, you think. Osamu’s hair is dyed, too, a lighter brown than what his natural color is. “What, a few years in the city and suddenly it’s like ya never grew up here?”

“Couldn’t ya have waited five minutes before ya started insultin’ her?” Osamu digs an elbow into his brother’s ribs, and you know what’s going to happen next. You’ve seen it played out countless times growing up. 

Osamu tossed the first elbow, so Atsumu retaliated with a harsh shove that would’ve sent his brother crashing sideways into the shoe rack, if he hadn’t anticipated the blow. They’re snapping insults like they wouldn’t kill for the other, and you can’t help the grin that twists your lips at the familiar sight. 

Atsumu’s reaching to grab Osamu by the collar of his shirt when you launch yourself at them, flying from the top step of the genkan to wrap an arm around each of their shoulders for a three-way hug. 

“You morons haven’t changed at all, have you?” You ask, a warmth in your chest burning so bright you might get sick on it. You’ve waited so long to be able to come back here, to be with your twins again, and it feels like the same as always. Like four years and countless miles haven’t separated you. 

“Ya expected this idiot t’ grow up any?” Osamu asks, gesturing towards his brother with one hand while the other returns your hug. Atsumu is stiffer, slower to react to the embrace. You hope it’s just because he doesn’t want to be so close to his brother he was actively trying to strangle ten seconds earlier and has nothing to do with you. 

He does react, soon enough. Squeezing you so tight he lifts your feet off the ground, too. It’s the same hug he’d give you when you were children and he was extra excited about something. Usually, it’d come out when you’d agree to toss him volleyballs to set to Osamu or promise not to tell his mother about the newest stupid thing he did. 

When you’re finally set back on the ground, you waste no time by slipping further into the house. You trust them to follow you, because how many times have they trailed after you in this exact same way? 

You throw a smile over your shoulder as you walk, not surprised in the slightest when you see them only a handful of paces behind you. 

You’re practically drunk off the feeling of everything sliding into place the way it had been before you left. 

“C’mon, I need you two to carry the heavy boxes up to my room before dinner’s ready.”

Atsumu Miya is irrevocably, irreversibly, undeniably screwed. 

You’re so stupidly pretty. 

And as much as Osamu claims, he’s not a total moron. He’d expected you to look different than you had when you were twelve. What he hadn’t expected was just how stunning four years and time away in Tokyo had made you look. 

He’d seen pictures from your mom over the years. He’d known you’d grown up, grown prettier. Part of him thinks he was just wishing it was really good lighting. Now that he knows that you naturally look that good, all the time, he thinks he might turn to mush. 

No way that Osamu doesn’t catch on within three days. Three hours, if he’s lucky. 

His mind had melted the moment he saw you standing on the top step of the genkan at your mother’s house, like you’d never left. Thankfully, his mom had you occupied long enough to let him pull himself together. It also helped that Osamu picked a fight after one sentence left his mouth. 

But then you had smiled and hugged him and his mind was scattered once more.

He’s starting to think he might’ve had a crush on you before you left. He hadn’t thought he did, back then, but it did take him weeks longer than Osamu to adjust to your absence. He never really quite accepted the fact you were living in Tokyo. 

And now you’re back. And he’s really starting to hate the idea of you attending his school in a few days. 

What if you think Suna’s cuter than he is?

It’s not a thought that had bothered him until approximately thirty minutes ago. The moment your front door swung open and you chastised him for growing up, the same way you always told him off for improper grammar or being a dick to your classmates, Atsumu realized you were going to be trouble.

It doesn’t help that he’s sitting stiffly on the edge of your bed, Osamu having disappeared back downstairs to help your mothers with the cooking. 

“I can’t believe this room is exactly the same as I remember.” You flash him a smile over your shoulder while you put clothes away. Atsumu feels his heart squeeze in his chest in a way he doesn’t like at how happy you look. 

“Yeah, ya still got all yer weird shit,” He nods, because that comment falls past his lips way easier than anything that he really wants to say, like ‘can’t even tell ya how much I missed ya’ or ‘please don’t tell me ya got a fancy Tokyo boyfriend waitin’ on ya’. 

“You’ll never catch me saying this, ever again, but I’ve seriously missed even your dumb comments.” You smile at him again and Atsumu thinks he might have to leave the country. You’re so pretty that it hurts. It makes his brain fuzzy and awkward and he hates the feeling so much. 

“Seriously, why are ya talkin’ like that?” He doesn’t hate it, the way your words sound different. But it’s not the you he remembers, and he thinks if he’s going to cling to his sanity he needs to think of you like the twelve year old dork you were the last time he saw you in person. 

“I don’t know.” You shrug, and instantly there’s a shift in your voice so obvious even he can pick up on. You’re quieter now, more melancholic, with a frown weighing on your pretty lips. It has him listening just that much closer to your every word, like he’s some lovesick fool. “Made it easier to fit in, I guess. And then before I realized how different I sounded from when I lived here, it already was just a habit.”

And that makes him pause. He thinks about you for a moment, all alone at some fancy school your father picked out for you. Thinks about how you probably nervously introduced yourself, always trying to make the best out of any situation. He thinks about how someone probably made fun of the way you spoke, and suddenly there’s a tight knot of anger working its way up his throat. 

He needs to swallow once, twice, before he’s able to talk without cursing out people he doesn’t even know actually exist. 

“Well, I ain’t stoppin’ my friends from teasin’ ya for soundin’ all fancy and shit.”

“Ain’t isn’t a word.” You correct, like you always did. Like no time had passed, and you’re still the same annoying brat that thought you could beat proper grammar into his thick skull. Your easy grin is back, and he thinks being told he’s wrong is a small price to pay for you to stop thinking about Tokyo jerks. “And I grew up with you and ‘Samu. A little teasing won’t scare me away.”

You smile at him a little too knowingly and Atsumu feels the fear of god in a way that he hasn’t since he broke Osamu’s science fair project the night before it was due and you were just mad enough at him to tattle. 

“Ya gotta promise me ya won’t date any of my friends.” Atsumu blurts without thinking. It’s how he does most of his talking, anyways, but he’s particularly embarrassed about this instance, because now he’s floundering for a response while you’re looking at him curiously. “They’re dumb. And idiots.”

“Those mean the same thing,” You snort, returning to folding your laundry with practised ease. He can’t help but watch you closely, hands clenched in fists in his lap, like he’s never once sprawled across that very same bed and demanded that you let him talk about volleyball practice for hours. “And don’t worry about me. If they’re anything like you and ‘Samu, I’ll pass.” 

You poke your tongue out at him, teasing. His heart stops in his chest instantly. He knows he definitely shouldn’t feel this type of way about you, especially considering you’ve been gone for four years and now you’re back and treating him the same way you had when he was twelve. 

This is bad. Horrible. You’ve been back in his life for less than an hour and he’s already imagining having to fight half his team if they try anything with you. 

“Promise me.” He’s demanding without thinking, which is bad, because if you’re anything like you were before you left, you’ll see right through him. You’ll see that he’s practically vibrating out of his skin, alone in your bedroom with you. You’ll see that he’s just itching to get ahead of the curve and tell every lowlife, grubby, moron at Inarizaki High that you’re too good for them and he’s known you since you were in diapers. Before you were even born, actually. 

“What?” You ask, head tilted to the side in an adorable way that makes him consider jumping out the window to escape the feeling building in his chest. He’s a coward, fine. 

“Pinky promise me ya won’t. Even if they try to be charmin’, yeah?” He backs up his words, mentally begging that you won’t call him on his possessiveness. He doesn’t think it’s too far from what he was like before you left, though. He remembers the stories his mom used to tell him about how he and Osamu would fight over who got to fill the role of prince when you were all toddlers and playing ‘save the princess from the dragon’. (It got to the point that your mothers had to get involved, keeping a running list of who’s turn it was to be the prince and who had to be the dragon. You, always, were the princess.)

He’s pushing his luck, he knows, but he lifts his hand and extends a pinky in your direction, like you’re five again. He thinks you’re probably going to call him an idiot, but you don’t. Instead, you set the sweatshirt you’d been folding down and move to stand in front of him. 

“Fine.” You hum, voice gentle in a way he never realized he’s missed so much. When you wrap your pinky around his, he has to make a conscious effort to not blush like a fool. 

It’s at this very unfortunate moment that Osamu makes his return, flinging open the door and strolling through it like he’s never stopped coming in. Atsumu swears his brother can see right through him. 

“What’re you two doin’?” Osamu, the jackass, questions in a tone that couldn’t be mistaken for anything beyond the smug teasing it is. Astumu has half a mind to put him in a headlock for being so obvious, but that would mean fully outing himself to you. 

“‘Tsumu’s making me promise I won’t flirt with your friends.” You still have your pinky wrapped around his, and Atsumu will be the last one to remind you of the fact. You’re half turned to look at Osamu, and he feels like he’s ten years old again and jealous every time you’d watch someone else at his volleyball matches. Despite all the changes, one thing has apparently stayed the same. 

Atsumu needs you looking at him, all the time.

“Let her meet Sunarin before ya make her agree to that.” Osamu is grinning so smugly Atsumu swears his brother must already know what he’s thinking and how he’s absolutely obsessed with you already. 

He feels his soul leave his body when you look at him again, curious grin on your perfect lips, head tilted adorably to the side, and pinky still wrapped tight around his. He’s not going to make it to dinner.

“Sunarin?” You ask, and the sound of his friend’s name on your tongue is like one of Atsumu’s recently realized worst nightmare. Part of him thinks you’re doing it all on purpose. 

“No! Ya already pinky promised me.” Atsumu can’t help the way he practically shouts in your face. For added measure, he waves your conjoined hands in the air to remind you of the commitment you just made. “‘Samu’s just an extra. Don’t gotta worry ‘bout him. Or Suna.” 

You roll your eyes at him and he practically preens, because you at least decided to lay some of your attention on him, even if it’s in the form of utter annoyance. And he’s starting to realize that he wants you to keep looking at him, always, even if it makes him seem a little pathetic. 

Despite the way Atsumu’s plotting to keep you close forever, you drop his hand and retreat back a step, leaning against your bed a foot away from where he’s sitting. He frowns at the distance like it personally offends him, which in his lovesick mind, it does. 

God, he’s already admitting to be lovesick. 

“Moron.” Osamu coughs into his fist like he’s actually hiding anything, and Atsumu contemplates murder. You must have some special Miya twin sense, an innate quality, because you glare at him the same way you always do when you realize a fight’s about to break out between the brothers. Astumu holds his hands up like he’s ever been innocent a day in his life. 

“He’s startin’ with me, ain’t ya hear him?” He defends, gesturing wildly between himself and Osamu, who’s leaning against your doorframe and looking rather unimpressed. 

“Ain’t isn’t a word, ‘Tsumu.” 

Atsumu beams, royally screwed and eternally grateful that he got to hear you call him by his nickname. 

Osamu, of course, has to ruin it. 

“Dinner’s ready. Ma told me to come get you both.”

“Can’t ya, I dunno, fix yer skirt or somethin’?”

“What’s wrong with my skirt?” 

“I can see yer legs.” 

You stare blankly at Atsumu, blinking, trying to figure out what exactly the problem is. Osamu is looking at his brother, too, and you share a glance that proves neither of you understand what’s happening. 

“Uh,” You look at your skirt, again, and decide that you’re not the crazy one in the situation. “That’s what happens when you wear skirts, ‘Tsumu.” 

Osamu snorts, leaving his brother behind as he trails ahead of the two of you down the street. Like the routine had never changed, the twins had come to your house to walk you to school. With the first day of your second year—and your first day ever at Inarizaki—you were glad they had shown up without any begging on your part.

“Besides,” You turn away from Atsumu to follow after the other Miya, leaving the three of you to walk in a line until Osamu takes pity on you and lets you catch up. “The skirt on my old uniform was shorter.”

Atsumu makes a noise like he’s choking, and you twist around to find him trailing after you with his palms covering his face and head tilted towards the sky. You shoot him a curious look, but he doesn’t see, so you direct your attention to Osamu. The more reasonable Miya had stopped walking, turning around on the sidewalk to wait for you. 

“Get a fuckin’ grip, ya moron.” Osamu directs at his brother. Neither one of them is actually looking at you, steadfastly refusing to clue you in to what they could possibly be talking about. 

“You’re both so annoying,” You roll your eyes and catch up to Osamu, falling in step beside him and leaving Atsumu to be the odd one out and third person on a sidewalk. He’s still making incomprehensible noises as he walks, but you’re tuning him out as you chat with Osamu about your plan for the day. 

You have to go to the front office as soon as you get to the school in order to pick up your schedule and student ID. From there, they’ll walk you to your class and try to introduce you to someone they know, if you’re not in their homeroom. You’ll all meet up for lunch, obviously, and after school you’ll stay to watch their practice and meet the team. 

The moment the office clerk hands you a paper copy of your schedule, Atsumu snatches it out of your grasp. You barely had enough time to even read your own name at the top of the paper, let alone your homeroom teacher. 

Atsumu keeps the paper closer as he reads it, a furrow between his dark brows. You frown, deciding just to wait out his nonsense. Osamu, predictably, is far less patient. Instead of letting his brother just read out what’s written, he starts shoving at his arm to get your schedule for himself. 

Typical. You decide you’re absolutely not going to break up any fights between them if they’re just going to be ridiculous. 

“Ha!” Atsumu shouts, grinning so wide you already know you should be prepared for trouble. “I win! Yer in my homeroom.” 

“That’s a win only for you.” Osamu yanks your schedule out of his twin’s hand so he could better see it. Atsumu must be satisfied with what he’s already seen, because he lets the paper go without any fuss. And by the smug look on his face, you know Osamu is right. This is a win only for Atsumu. “Actually, might be yer loss, too. Ain’t Suna in yer homeroom?”

“Oh, the mysterious Sunarin I’ve been forbidden from talking to?” You grin, teasingly, and sidle up to Osamu to peer at your own schedule for the first time. Atsumu makes a sound like he’s choking, again, the high energy he’d been riding since figuring out you were in his class evaporating from his twin’s observation and your comment. 

“Shit.” Atsumu groans, defeated for just a moment before grabbing you by the shoulders so you’re forced to face him. Osamu’s warning for him to be careful with you goes ignored and Atsumu tugs you close, his face inches from yours with wide eyes seemingly staring into your soul. You falter, just for a moment, at the sudden proximity. “Remember yer promise, alright? Ain’t no flirtin’ with Suna’s grimy ass.” 

“You callin’ other people grimy is just wrong.” Osamu mutters, still studying your schedule. Beyond his initial warning to his twin, he seems wholly uninterested in the interaction playing out before him. 

“Would you relax, ‘Tsumu?” You huff, prying his hands from your shoulders. The distance you force between the two of you feels like miles, despite only being a handful of inches. You breathe a little easier, though it makes your stomach twist and you’re suddenly unable to look at the blond without flushing. “I won’t hit on him. Swear it. Now, can I go to class?” 

Osamu flicks his attention to you, finally, at your tight tone. You almost sound irritated, and he’s clocked it immediately. Great. Now you can’t look at either twin without feeling like you’re revealing something you didn’t know you were hiding. 

“Leave ‘er alone, dumbass.” Osamu cuts in, folding your schedule and finally handing it over to you. Atsumu goes to argue against his brother’s name calling, but you stride off without bothering to stick around and hear despite not having a clue of where to go. 

You hear a quick argument, a bit of a scuffle, both boys launching a ‘great, look what you did!’ at each other before they catch up. They’re still shoving at each other, being obnoxious and taking up too much space in the hallway, so you suck it up and level both of them with the same glare you’d been giving them since you were children and they were embarrassing you in public. 

They fall in line relatively quickly. 

As you walk, Atsumu and Osamu give you a quick tour of the school. They point out places you needed to know—where you can find the bathrooms, cafeteria, and Osamu’s homeroom—but also random corners with sweet memories such as this is where I put ‘Samu in a headlock and that’s where ‘Tsumu got horribly rejected by this girl he liked last year. 

By the time you reach your homeroom, you don’t think you actually remember where the cafeteria is after all the other information they overloaded you with. 

“And you can sit next to me!” Atsumu beams, flinging open the door to your shared homeroom after effectively shooing Osamu off down the hallway. 

“What, giving away my seat now, Atsumu?” 

There’s a new voice in the conversation, a lazy deep drawl that catches your attention immediately—espeically with the way Atsumu groans like he just got told he can’t open his christmas presents yet. 

“Suna! Ya don’t own the seat.” Atsumu stomps further into the room, and you try to stifle the giggle at how much he looks like a tantruming toddler. But despite how he’s embarrassing, you roll your eyes and follow him in. Some things never change.

“Neither do you,” The boy, Suna, counters. He’s leaning back into the chair you’re certain that Atsumu just tried to offer up to you. He’s lazily scrolling through his phone, dark eyes not even lifting from the device as Atsumu slaps his hands on the desk and leans forward. 

“It’s the first day,” Atsumu is whining, and you might’ve found it more irritating than it was if he wasn’t your irritating mess. But affection has built up over time and now you find yourself not even blinking at how Atsumu, volleyball prodigy and bulk of a man, has himself draped over someone else’s desk while he begs. “That seat ain’t assigned to you!”

“Ain’t isn’t a word, dummy.” You correct, taunting, and enjoying Atsumu’s sharp inhale without even looking at you.

“Sunarin.” Atsumu hisses through clenched teeth, his gaze darting to you briefly before pinning on his friend. You raise a brow, mildly entertained by how Atsumu is being completely iced out. “Bro. I need this seat. Ya can, I dunno, can’t ya sit in front of me?” 

“Don’t bother.” Suna finally lifts his attention to Atsumu, a smug grin on his face. “‘Samu already texted me.”

You don’t know what that means, but Atsumu apparently does. You watch on silently as his face pales, your own expression twisting in confusion. Atsumu raises a hand, finger pointed threateningly at Suna, but all weight of the action is lost by his fish out of water gaping. 

“I’ll sit in front of you, ‘Tsumu.” You roll your eyes, dropping your bag on the hook of the desk diagonally in front of Suna’s. By the time you settle into your seat and twist sideways to face the boys, they’re locked in the middle of a heated, silent conversation. 

Well, Atsumu’s look is heated. Suna’s grin is still plastered across his face. You turn back around, absolutely not wanting to get involved in whatever they have going on. 

“And if you try and bother me,” You toss casually over your shoulder towards Atsumu, who’s defeatedly slumping into the desk directly behind you. “I’ll move halfway across the room. Don’t try to argue, either, because you know I will. Remember fourth grade?”

Atsumu had opened his mouth to protest, but snapped his jaw shut at the reminder that you are a woman of your word. He’d pouted for a month when you had moved away from his desk—for only one day, mind you—back in elementary school. In your defense, he had it coming. After three paper airplanes tossed at you and a vicious tug to your ponytail, you’d made the mature decision to abandon him instead of doing what you really wanted—sock him on the mouth.

Instead of arguing, Atsumu turns his glare on Suna, who already has gone back to playing on his phone. 

“Yer ruinin’ my plans, ya jerk.” Atsumu mumbles, and you can hear the pout in his words even while you have your back to him. Without knowing, the corners of your lips curve upwards, no permission granted or asked for. 

“You don’t even have plans.” Suna fires back, words dripping with amusement at his friend’s sour mood. You snort, and immediately feel Atsumu’s stare pinned to the back of your head. 

Sighing, you relent and turn to face him once more. Your earlier assessment of his pout was more than correct; the drama queen has even gone so far as to slump deep in his chair, body folded over the top of his desk. He looks pathetic and you realize you think it’s rather adorable. 

At that jarring thought, you slide your attention over to Suna before your cheeks have the chance to darken with color. He’s hunched over his phone, still smirking at his prior teasing. He’s cute enough, you think. Dark hair to match his narrow eyes, a decent build from playing volleyball. Tall, too. Enough that you can tell even while he’s sitting down. 

You kind of get why Osamu told you to wait until you saw him to promise that you won’t flirt with him. 

Atsumu’s head connects with the desk with a concerningly loud thud. 

“Playing it cool, I see.” Suna teases. And while you don’t get what he means, your attention is back on Atsumu. His earlier excitement at having you in his homeroom has all but disappeared now that you’re actually there. 

“Shuddup, Suna!” He shoots up in his seat, straightening. You raise a brow in question, but when all he does is fight Suna’s smug grin with a glare of his own, you roll your eyes and move the conversation along. 

“Hey, ‘Tsumu,” Your gentle voice snatches his attention immediately. It’s almost comical how fast he snaps his head in your direction, wide brown eyes looking at you expectantly. Suna certainly thinks it’s funny, chuckling while typing on his phone, mumbling something that sounds like ‘I’m texting ‘Samu about this’ under his breath. You ignore him, giving Atsumu your focus like a puppy needing attention. “I’ll keep my promise.”

You extend your pinky towards him, one corner of your mouth curved skyward. Atsumu leans closer, eyes going wider, somehow, as your words hit him. 

“Thank god.” He whispers, more to himself than anything as he wraps his pinky around yours. A repeat performance of the promise you made that you wouldn’t flirt with his friends. And now you’ve met Sunarin, so you know what you’re promising to leave alone. 

You like blonds better, anyways. 

Just like in elementary school, you’re once more forced to attend the twins’ volleyball practices. 

Except now, the rule isn’t imposed by your parents. Now, you’re old enough to walk home on your own. Now, you have free will to leave school without a lecture from your mother. 

But now? Now Atsumu is the one forcing you to stay for practice. 

“C’mon! Just meet the team.” Atsumu has both hands on your shoulders from behind, gently nudging—read: pushing—you in the direction of the volleyball gym. You’ve long since given up on arguing with him about it, but you do get a bit of a kick letting him work himself up like this. “Ya ain’t gotta be so annoyin’ ‘bout it.”

“Ain’t isn’t a word, ‘Tsumu.” You correct, like typical. Twisting out of his hold, you turn to face him with your arms crossed, an unimpressed look from you halting him in his tracks. “And you calling me annoying is just crazy. I already said I’d go, and you’re the one herding me like a dog.” 

It’s at this moment, when Atsumu is still gaping at you for calling him out, that Suna comes up behind him. You watch, finally unable to keep your smile at bay, as Suna claps him on the shoulder hard enough that he rocks forward with the movement, almost stumbling into you. 

“Heard that, ‘Samu?” Suna calls out, and you glance over your shoulder to see Osamu snickering in the open doorway of the gym. You can hear the sound of sneakers squeaking inside; clearly, there’s more of the team already in there practicing. “‘Tsumu’s like a dog.” 

“D’ya bark, too?” Osamu asks, smug as ever. There’s no part of you that’s surprised when Atsumu storms past you and towards his brother, shouting expletives and crude names as he goes. The impending brawl spills into the gym, and you share an amused look with Suna before the two of you trail after him. 

The chaos is still happening by the time you cross into the gym. They’ve earned a hefty crowd—most of the team, you think. They’re rolling on the ground, grappling and trying to get the other into a headlock or some other body hold so they can claim victory. 

Honestly, they’ve been doing this since they learned to walk. It’s far from a new sight to you. 

“Can I have that ball, please?” You ask one of the other team members sweetly. Your tone is at complete odds to the insults the twins are lobbing at one another, and the boy you’re talking to—a first year, maybe—only blinks at you for a moment before tossing over the volleyball in his arms, a pink flush burning the tips of his ears. “Thank you.”

You pass the ball between your hands. Once, twice. Just to get a feel of the weight of it. Honestly, you haven’t touched a volleyball since you left. Then, you toss it into the air, only a few feet above your head. 

Just to spike it directly into the twins. 

You think you hit Atsumu, but you can’t be sure. As the ball goes ricocheting across the gym, silence reigns. The twins freeze mid-brawl. Half the team sucks in a breath, and you think they probably assume the twins will turn their ridiculous bickering on you. Suna pulls his phone from his pocket, lifting it, and you realize a beat later that he’s recording. 

“Knock it off!” You hiss to the boys, ignoring the audience. This is nothing new, and honestly rather tame compared to some of the arguments you’ve been forced to break apart throughout your friendship with them. You just hadn’t been expecting to have to do it on your first day at Inarizaki. “You’re both embarrassing me. You two look so stupid right now.”

“He started it!” Atsumu argues, gesturing broadly towards his brother while the other hand rubs awkwardly at his side where the ball connected. He looks a little ridiculous—they both do—what with the way they’re still crouched on the ground but no longer wrestling. 

“Ya were bein’ lame!” Osamu narrows his eyes at his twin, which is just ammunition 

“Miya.” It doesn’t matter which one he’s talking to, because they both respond to the call of their surname. “Is this the mysterious childhood friend we’ve been hearing about?”

Osamu supplies your name, which is helpful, as he and his twin push themselves to stand. Atsumu glares at him, and you can’t possibly guess what about that pisses him off besides the fact that Atsumu wanted to be the one to introduce you, not his brother. 

“Oh! I remember ya’, actually.” The third year you vaguely remember to be Aran snaps his fingers in recognition. “You’d come to our practices in elementary school, right?” 

“My mom didn’t want me to walk home alone.” You fill in the blanks, feeling only slightly out of place with everyone’s attention on you. It’s more awkward than you anticipated, meeting an entire volleyball team of guys and knowing they’ve all heard of you. Still, you offer a smile. “I remember the twins annoying the hell out of you.” 

“True.” Aran laughs, deep and in good natures. Atsumu whips his head to stare at him like something about his senior making conversation with you offended him. “My condolences for having to put up with them all the time. I couldn’t imagine.” 

“Hey!” Atsumu huffs, maintaining his loud and obnoxious demeanor. It makes a smile crack on your lips, though you try to hide it with an eye roll. 

“Wow, Aran.” Osamu shakes his head, hands on his hips like he’s disappointed. These are the Miya twins you remembered, ones who would argue and fight and then in the next breath team up to torment someone else. The fact that it’s Aran of all people is just a nice nostalgic touch.

“We ain’t bring her ‘round just you ya could flirt.” Waving a careless arm in your direction, Atsumu talks like you aren’t there. It’s enough to irritate you in the same endearing way as always, and something burns just beneath the skin of your cheeks.

“Ain’t isn’t a word, ‘Tsumu.” You correct out of nature, rolling your eyes at his blatant possessiveness. It’s all a distraction from the warmth bubbling up in you, though you’re the only one that needs distracting and you’re not falling for it.  “I’m going to work on my homework over there. Come get me when you’re done, alright?”

You’re half a step in the direction of the bleachers when Atsumu gasps as if he’s scandalized. 

“Ya ain’t gonna watch me?” He exclaims, dramatic and whiny and why are you forcing a grin from your lips. 

“Still not a word!” You toss over your shoulder, not giving into his antics. Sometimes, you feel like a parent dishing out tough love—he needs to suffer so that he’ll learn. Even though you know Atsumu will never learn.

“Ya don’t want her t’watch yer ass play.” Osamu comforts his twins, and you know even with your back to him that he’s going to do nothing but rile Atsumu up. “Ya’d just embarrass yerself.”

“You jerk—!”

“Miya!”

Weeks pass, and Atsumu doesn’t get any less horribly down bad. 

Which is crazy, because there’s no way you haven’t noticed.  

He’s desperate for any glimmer of attention from you. He carries your bag and tugs on your hair in class. He walks you to and from school and trips you when you walk across his living room. 

Atsumu doesn’t know how to like you without being obnoxious. 

He hates it. He feels like he’s twelve again, and Osamu is eating him alive for it. The longer this goes on, this one sided affection where he worships the ground you walk on and you still only see him as the same snot nosed brat that cried when you threatened to tell his mom on him, his frustration grows. 

He’s struggling in practice, when you’re across the gym barely even paying attention to him. He’s zoning out in class, when you’re sitting in front of him with a pen cap caught between your teeth. He’s arguing with Osamu and Suna more, when their comments about how in love with you he is get too frequent and annoying. 

He doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t want to, but he’s close to snapping. 

And Atsumu Miya is very good at putting his foot in his mouth. 

Weeks pass, and you start to see Atsumu more… softly. 

Which is crazy, because you once punched him in the face in elementary school when he chased you around his backyard with a worm. 

You still see that side of Atsumu, and honestly you would be worried if you didn’t. You missed that annoying boy when you were away in Tokyo and you’re glad you still get to see him now. It sounds unlikely, but you do like his childish side. 

But now Atsumu has grown up, and the way he teases you for taking so long to get ready in the morning has something unfamiliar stirring in your chest.

There’s no grand moment when you realize you like him more than a friend. Maybe it was one of the times he grabbed your bag from your shoulder and slung it over his own to carry it for you. Or when he called your name obnoxiously across the gym during practice to get you to watch one of hundreds of identical sets you’ve seen him perform. 

You don’t know, but suddenly one day, you do.

Suddenly, it’s hard to focus in class with the heavy weight of his attention on the back of your head. You can’t get any homework done during practice when you have the opportunity to freely steal glances at his athletic form from he trains. You can’t fight the giggles of amusement when he says something ridiculous just to spite his brother.

You realize that you really, really like Atsumu. 

And you don’t exactly know what to do with those feelings.

It happens on a Friday.

The Inarizaki boys volleyball practice has just ended, and you realized you left a book you needed for your homework in your classroom. You made Atsumu promise to wait for you to walk home, since Osamu said he was going to Suna’s after practice instead.

You hear it when you make it back to the gym to meet back up with Atsumu.

When you hear your name, your footsteps falter but don’t freeze. The few boys that still remain inside the gym are talking about you—and Atsumu is one of them. 

“You got a crush on her or somethin’?” One of the boys asks. Over the sound of your heart swelling with hope for Atsumu’s answer, you don’t recognize the owner of the voice, but you think it might be one of the first years you don’t know very well. 

Either way, it doesn’t matter when you hear Atsumu’s response, his voice unmistakable.

“No! She’s so annoyin’! Always bossin’ me around and correctin’ my grammar. I hate it. She’s the last person on Earth I’d have a crush on. Rather have extra homework and never play volleyball again than kiss her. Ain’t no chance.” 

And maybe if you didn’t feel like you were doused in an ice bath at his harsh words, you would have recognized he was a little too defensive.

You stutter to a halt in the doorway to the gym, eyes wide in shock and already watery. You didn’t care that he didn’t return your feelings, but you had never expected him to be so mean towards you. 

One of the first years he’s gossiping with sees you first, and he goes so pale it’s like you’re a ghost.

It’s then that Atsumu turns, rotating in place with dread already lumped in the pit of his stomach. He knows his luck, how terrible it is, and how this is exactly something that would happen to you. 

He’s not prepared for the sight of you standing there, already crying.

“I—” You stammer, and the single syllable is like a punch to his gut. “I’m sorry.”

You turn and leave, then, with shaky hands and tears streaming. At first, Atsumu doesn’t move. Fear and regret have him rooted to his place. He can’t believe he was so stupid to say what he did. Complete and utter bullshit, he knows. Nothing that spilled from his mouth was even close to the truth.

He’s made you cry before, sure, but it was always from childhood taunts or roughhousing that he took too far when you were both younger. This is different. It feels almost intentional, even though he didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it in the slightest, but his teammates were teasing him about how he acts around you, and he just wanted to shut them up. 

He didn’t mean it, but he still said it.

You have a minute-long headstart on Atsumu by the time he finally gets over his shock at his own stupidity and chases after you. 

He’s running, gym and school bags crashing awkwardly against him with his brash movements. None of it matters, though, because he needs to get to you. He doesn’t know what he’ll say, if you’ll even let him say anything, but he promised your mom he’d always make sure you got home from school safely and he’s not about to break her trust, too. 

When he gets within six feet, you acknowledge his presence with one harsh word bitten through the air that has him freezing up. Again. 

“Don’t.” You order, and for once, Atsumu listens. 

Maybe it’s the way he can tell you’re still crying. Maybe it’s the shock that he actually hurt your feelings by lying about how much you mean to him. Maybe it’s because self sabotage seemed easier than admitting you made him weak.

He doesn’t know which of those reasons stall his approach, but he slows down. Like a coward, he walks behind you without saying a word. 

It’s awkward as hell. You’re ten feet in front of Atsumu, refusing to look at him, denying him the chance to walk with you, trying your absolute hardest to keep him from hearing your shaky inhales. 

He still hears them, and each one is like a knife to his lungs.

“Don’t worry about coming over this weekend, Atsumu.” 

You called him Atsumu. He’s so fucked. 

It’s a miracle Osamu isn’t there, because his brother would kick his ass. And Atsumu would let him, honestly. He would deserve it, would deserve worse for the crime of making you cry. He ran his mouth to try and save face in front of first years he doesn’t actually care about. He can’t justify what he did, and he can’t even find the words to tell you that he actually loves you.

He doesn’t know how to fix this, and he can’t think of someone who would help him after the way he ran his mouth about you. 

So he walks home, silently behind you.

You don’t look back once.

The silence that grows between you and Atsumu feels like a living, breathing thing. 

You don’t know how to live in Hyogo and not spend time with him. He’s always been a part of your life, whether you wanted him there or not, but now he’s gone. 

You don’t answer his texts. You move seats in homeroom. You don’t go to his house for weekly dinner, and you hide in your room like a coward when he delivers something to yours from his mother. 

He hurt you, and you’ve decided that the easiest route out is utter silence. It puts a strain on your friendships with Osamu and Suna, but they both assure you that they know Atsumu is in the wrong. You still love him, so you make them promise not to cut him out because of you.

You don’t stop thinking about what he said about you, though. 

She’s so annoyin’! Always bossin’ me around and correctin’ my grammar. I hate it. She’s the last person on Earth I’d have a crush on. Rather have extra homework and never play volleyball again than kiss her. Ain’t no chance.

You think about it too much, probably. Turning his words over in your mind late at night, thinking over every interaction since you’ve been back. You try to remember if you ever saw him annoyed with you, and when you come up empty you worry that everything you do annoys him. 

You’re embarrassed, really. 

Try as you might to keep it from happening, your sadness leaks into your everyday life. You know you’re moping around, but you can’t help it. You’re miserable and overthinking everything, so you decide to go into self imposed isolation.  

You spend all your lunches in the library, and don’t let Osamu join you. It’s the cowardly way out, you know, but that beats having to see Atsumu and pretend like you don’t still hear him calling you annoying. 

“Is this seat taken?”

You’re snapped from your spiralling thoughts by the unfamiliar voice approaching you. You think you might recognize the boy smiling at you, might recall that he’s someone from Osamu’s homeroom, you don’t know. All you can process is that he seems nice, and cute, and he’s not connected to the Miyas’ inner circle or the Inarizaki volleyball team. 

Which is really the only requirement you need, lately.

“No,” You shake your head, sitting up a little straighter. The library table you’ve claimed is small, so it’s clear that he came over to talk to you. Honestly, it makes you a little nervous. “You’re welcome to sit there.”

“I’m Kimura,” He introduces himself, flashing a boyish grin as he settles into the chair opposite you. There’s no skip of your heart when he smiles at you, and you hate that fact. If you had it your way, you’d be moving on from Atsumu. And yet. “But you can call me Koji, if you want.” 

“Alright, Koji.” You try a smile of your own, hoping it doesn’t look too forced. You offer him your name, and he shakes his head and chuckles lowly.

“Trust me, I know who you are.” He tells you, pulling his own lunch box from his bag with smooth movements. His eyes move over you assessingly, lips pulled up in the corner with a grin that borders on flirty. “No way I’m gonna miss when a pretty girl transfers in from Tokyo.” 

You flush at outwardly being complimented. You don’t think it’s him that’s making you flustered more than the context of the situation, but you try and convince yourself that you are. 

“Did you need something?” You wince at your own words and how awkward they feel on your tongue. You’re usually not so quiet, but the mess with Atsumu has thrown you off so deeply you struggle to remember what normal looks like for you.

“I’d like to get to know you better.” Koji gets straight to the point, an attractive smile pinning you to your place. You almost choke on a bite of your lunch, but manage to swallow quickly and avoid further embarrassment. 

“Me?” You’re confused, and it’s obvious. You’ve talked to him before, and save for the handful of times you’ve visited Osamu’s homeroom to bother him, you don’t typically see him around, either. 

Or maybe he was looking at you, but you were too busy chasing after Atsumu to notice. 

“Yes, you.” He laughs. You only blink at him, still trying to piece together how the conversation got here so fast. He must notice the look on your face, because he elaborates in a more serious voice. “I’ve seen you around. You’re always with the Miya twins, right?”

“Right.” Your lunch turns to ash on your tongue at the mention of the boys you never thought you’d be able to escape. And even while not talking to one half of the inseparable duo, you can’t get away from the belief that you could not exist without them, and them without you. “We grew up together. They… they were my best friends.”

Your gaze drops to the library table. Saying it out loud stings a lot more than you had expected it to. 

“Were?” Kimura picks up on your word choice. Panic fills you at the implication that you’ll never be as close with the Miyas again because you can’t get over the feelings you harbor for Atsumu. You’ve already run out of excuses to give your mother about why you don’t want to spend any time with the twins like you used to. 

“It’s complicated right now.” You settle on the diplomatic answer. The easy one. And maybe the cowardly response, but you can’t dissect the complicated knot of emotions wrapped around Atsumu while Kimura is sitting across from you and… flirting? Is that what he’s doing? “But it’ll be fine.”

“Well, while they’re out of the picture,” Kimura says quickly enough that you can’t fully wrap your head around how much you dislike his word choice. He’s pairing it with his charming smile, and you’re too distracted to notice. “You and I can get to know each other more.”

“That’s…” Your brows knit together, sorting through the thoughts swirling around you. It almost makes you feel dizzy, and part of you just wants to step back and regroup. But you can’t do that. You can’t spend the rest of your life moping over Atsumu when he made it incredibly clear that he wanted nothing to do with you. “Yeah, alright.”

“Perfect.”

Atsumu Miya is already having a shit day when stumbles into a conversation he was never meant to hear. 

If he’s honest with himself, every day since you started ignoring him has been shit. A few weeks have already gone by and he hates himself a little bit more each day. It didn’t help any when rumors started flying about you spending time with that slime bag Koji Kimura. 

Osamu told him deserved to suffer for his stupid comments, and Atsumu didn’t even have it in him to argue. 

Classes have just ended, and Atsumu has some time to kill before practice. He doesn’t want to search out Suna or his brother, but he does anyway because his alternative is to mope alone in an empty classroom. 

And maybe he should’ve chosen the classroom. 

He’s coming up the stairs when he hears a pair of voices talking. He doesn’t stop to listen, but his attention latches onto them without meaning to when it’s the only sound drifting down the staircase. 

“Y’know that girl Atsumu was all over?” One of the voices asks, and Atsumu himself stalls on the steps. It’s a miracle he didn’t trip, really, when it’s so obvious the voices are talking about him. And more importantly, talking about you. “The one from Tokyo?”

“What about her?” A second voice responds. Something about them is familiar to Atsumu, and as he grips the railing in a fist so tight his knuckles turn white he tries to attach names to the jerks he’s eavesdropping on. 

“I’m gettin’ her to fall in love with me.” Koji Kimura. There’s no way it’s anyone else besides that bastard, and Atsumu feels both dread and anger boil up inside him. He doesn’t like Kimura on the principle that Kimura is getting close with you, but now he’s starting to hate him for the way he’s talking about you. “That asshole Atsumu Miya doesn’t get to have everything.”

Atsumu doesn’t give a shit about what Kinura has to say about him. But his skin crawls with the realization that you’re being used because of him. 

“Do you even like her, man?” The second voice asks, and Atsumu finds himself holding his breath for the response. He tells himself he’ll back off if Kimura actually has feelings for you, that he’ll cut his losses and mourn forever how badly he fucked up by hurting you.

But that’s not what happens. 

“Nah,” Kimura replies, laughing. He sounds like a dick, and Atsumu has reached the limit on his control. Taking the steps two at a time, he stomps onto the landing where the two are loitering, though Kimura is still talking. “But she’s not bad to look at, so maybe I’ll—”

“Shut yer fuckin’ mouth, or else I’ll close it for ya.” Atsumu takes pride in the way both boys jump at the sound of his voice. He doesn’t really know who the guy next to Kimura is, but he thinks he’s another jerk from Osamu’s homeroom. Atsumu doesn’t really care, either, because he’s a few snapped threads of control away from launching himself at Kimura. 

“Atsumu,” Kimura glances at his friend, anxious. But he clears his throat and offers Atsumu a look that he thinks is supposed to mean he’s invited into their conspiring. It’s only working to piss him off more, really. “Relax, buddy. We were just talkin’!”

“You don’t get t’talk ‘bout her.” Atsumu feels his anger mounting, manifesting itself in the way his hands clench into fists and his jaw clenches so tight he’s practically hissing through his teeth. He’s thinking of you, and how much he loves you, and how you don’t deserve any more hurt after the bullshit he pulled. 

“Look,” Kimura sighs, almost like he’s bored by the fact that Atsumu isn’t falling for his schtick. Atsumu is starting to realize he really hates this guy. “She doesn’t want anything to do with ya. Snooze ya lose, or whatever. But I’ll make sure to give her your regards when I go to her house—”

Atsumu doesn’t wait for him to finish his thought before his fist connects with Kimura’s jaw, erasing his smug grin in seconds. 

What ensues is less of a fight more of a beating, because Atsumu lands hit after hit while Kimura flails his arms in uselessly wide arcs and struggles to keep his footing. But Atsumu doesn’t care that it’s an uneven fight, because he’s not about to stand there and let anyone talk shit about you. 

And maybe that makes him a hypocrite, but doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, and he’s going to prove to you that he fucked up once and won’t make the same mistake twice. 

Right after he lays Kimura out flat. 

“Ain’t no chance I’ll let ya go near her!” 

Atsumu knows, in some distant part of his mind, that he sounds like some shitty boyfriend in those dumb shojo mangas you enjoy so much, but he doesn’t care. He gets in a few more punches before he’s pried off of Kimura, a hissed ‘are you fucking stupid?’ ringing in his ear. Atsumu has enough sense to look over his shoulder to see who’s tugging him back from the fight he wants to continue before biting back with his own sharp words. 

It’s Aran. And he’s not surprised to see Kita just behind him. 

Suddenly, the anger deflates from Atsumu. He’s conscious of the crowd that gathered, of how Kimura actually managed a few hits. There’s no way his eye doesn’t darken with a bruise and he can taste the blood from his split lip. Not to mention the torn skin on his knuckles from his own thrown punches. 

Kimura looks worse, though. And that’s enough for him. 

He’s still pissed about what Kimura said. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it, really, because he’s been defending your honor since some kid took your favorite stuffed animal at the playground when you were three and he stomped over, pushed the kid, and got the plush back. 

But he lets Aran drag him away from the crowd. He passes by Suna and his brother, and Atsumu can’t get himself to look at either one of them. They can see right through him anyways, he knows. 

“You need to fix this.” Aran drops his arm and wheels around on him, all imposing senior and firm glares. Atsumu nods, hard stare fixed on a scuff mark beneath their feet. He doesn’t ask what Aran means, because the root of all this has one name. Yours. “And I think you know what you need to do.”

He does, and he nods again. 

Kita steps forward, and Atsumu tenses when his shoes come into his avoidant line of sight. He’s not afraid of Kita, but he respects him too much to bear the disappointment. And Atsumu knows that his actions, the brutish fighting, have earned Kita’s ire. 

“Go home, Atsumu.” Kita’s voice is softer than he expected, but he’s not stupid enough to miss the edge of discipline in his tone. 

He drags the broken skin of his knuckles across the blood from his split lip while following his captain’s orders. 

He doesn’t make it far before he’s intercepted by the disciplinary committee.

It’s hard to ignore Atsumu Miya when he’s sitting on your front porch. 

It’s even harder to ignore him when your mother is knocking on your doorframe, letting you know he’s there and she wants you to talk to him. She won’t listen to any arguments against it, because Atsumu has been a son she never had since the day he was born. 

So you find yourself stepping onto the porch, the front door closing softly behind you to offer some illusion of privacy from your mother’s inevitable eavesdropping. Honestly, she’s probably already on the phone with Mrs. Miya.

Atsumu looks like shit, but you’re not surprised. Osamu and Suna had both texted you warnings, filling you in with what they knew about what happened. He’s sitting on the top step of the porch, face held in his hands. He doesn’t even turn to look at you, and you thought you’d be annoyed by that but somehow it’s making it easier for you to keep your breathing even. 

“How long have you been waiting here?” You ask, trying to keep your voice devoid of any of the emotion you’ve been drowning in lately. You stay standing by the front door, like if you keep the distance between the two of you it’ll keep you from getting hurt again. 

“Dunno.” Atsumu shrugs, lifting his head but still not turning around. You want to see his face, want to see the extent of the damage Suna already told you about, but that would make everything too real. “Ten minutes, maybe?” 

You sigh, gaze cutting to the side. With arms crossed tightly as if to protect yourself, you take a step towards him. 

“You could have knocked.” It’s like you’re chastising him, and honestly? He deserves it. You hate the way he was talking about you, and now you hate the way he’s getting in trouble because of you.

“I was goin’ to. Once I figured out what I wanted to say.” He sounds so pathetic, you feel like you have to hear him out. Not that you weren’t going to already, but you’re not looking at the same overly confident Atsumu Miya that you grew up with. He’s not the one you feel in love with without even realizing. 

“And?” You lower yourself down onto the step next to him. He glances at you, then, and you see the bruise on his eye, the cut lip. He’s gotten worse injuries from fighting with Osamu, honestly, but you hate it so much more because he got them because of you. 

“And yer ma saw me before I decided.”

You snort, unable to hold the response back. It doesn’t make you smile, though, and you prop your chin in your palm, elbow resting on your knee. You don’t look at Atsumu because it’s easier to tell that way, and you hate that there’s any discomfort between the two of you. 

It was always supposed to be you and Atsumu and Osamu against the world. Now your stomach is in knots just sitting next to him and you don’t know what he’s thinking anymore. 

But maybe after what you overheard him saying about you, you never really did know what he was thinking. 

“What are you doing here, Atsumu? Don’t you have practice?” You sigh, watching as a handful of elementary students race past your house on bikes. The sight twinges on your nostalgia, and you feel the corners of your lips curve up with a smile for the briefest of seconds. 

“Got suspended.” 

“For the fight?” The question draws a huff of amusement from Atsumu, and from the corner of your eye you watch as he drags his hands down his face. The action gives you a glimpse of his knuckles, and the split skin across them is glaringly obvious. 

“Ya heard about that already?” He asks, glancing at you quickly. 

“Suna texted. Said you were protecting my honor. I told him I couldn’t think of a reason why you’d defend me after the way you talked about me.” The words roll off your tongue, pointed and poisoned to jab at the raw wound Atsumu opened between the two of you. You see him wince and a bolt of satisfaction runs through despite the ache. 

“Don’t talk ‘bout yerself like that.” He chastises, like he has any right to do so. 

“Should I leave it to you?” You’re getting bitter, and it’s obvious. A humorless huff leaves him, shaking his shoulders in one movement. He’s quiet, at first, and you know this is all serious because Atsumu Miya is never quiet. It softens something in, even if you don’t want it to. 

“‘Samu told me I was bein’ a dickhead. Kita said I disappointed him. Somehow, that hurt worse.” He explains. You know how much his captain means to him, even if he doesn’t act like it. You’ve known him long enough to recognize when he secretly respects someone and still acts like a defiant brat around them. “Not as much as it hurt seein’ ya cry and knowin’ it’s my fault, though. I deserved that. And probably a lot more.”

“Probably.” You agree. You’re not going to baby him. Not once did you ever do so while growing up, and now is certainly not the time to start. You lean back, pressing your palms to the wood of the porch behind you, giving yourself the chance to study his profile without letting him look at you. Not unless he turns around and makes the effort, and you don’t think he’s pulled himself together enough to do so yet. “Why’d you come here, Atsumu? Afraid of what your ma’ll do when she sees the state of you?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head, voice casual. You know it’s probably not the truth, that he probably is worried about how his mother is going to tear him a new one for fighting at school and getting suspended, but you don’t call him on it just yet. “She’ll just try and get me to say I regret it and apologize t’ the slimy bastard. That ain’t gonna happen.”

“Ain’t isn’t a—sorry.” You cut yourself off, biting your tongue. You never really had realized how often you corrected his grammar until you heard him call it annoying. Call you annoying. 

“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for. You’re right. And for all the shit I gave you, I like you bein’ right.” He confesses, sitting up a little taller. 

“Sure could’ve fooled me.” You mimic his position, sitting tall against him. He nods, agreeing with you, and you blink at his easy agreement. You don’t like this version of Atsumu, quiet and meek. Even if you’re upset with him. 

“I’m really sorry, ya know. I was a jerk and outta line. I think I was just overcompensatin’ when the guys asked me if I liked ya.” He still can’t look at you, and you would worry that it means he’s not being honest if it was anyone but Atsumu. You know what he looks like when he’s lying to your face. He can’t do it, not even when you were kids. He fidgets and squirms, sweats and turns red. The Atsumu sitting beside you is still and steady; honest. “Like if I convinced them that I didn’t like ya that way I could convince myself that I wasn’t head over fuckin’ heels for ya. I shouldn’t have said shit, ‘cause it was nothin’ but lies. I really, really do like ya.”

There’s a moment or three that pass in silence, save for the birds chirping and children playing nearby. You’re staring at the side of his face, heart hammering in your chest. This isn’t how you thought your day would go when you woke up this morning, with some declaration of love from Atsumu Miya on your front porch, fresh from fighting a guy you don’t even really care about just because he overheard him talking poorly about you. 

He’s ridiculous. You wouldn’t want him to be any different.

“You’re a hypocrite.” You sigh, keeping the expression on your face as neutral as possible. 

“I know.”

“And a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah,”

“And you really hurt me.” When you turn to face him, he finally turns, too. Neither one of you talks for a moment, too busy scanning each other’s faces for the answer both of you already know lives there. 

“I thought the world was endin’ when I realized ya were cryin’ and it was my fault.” His voice is quiet, just barely cracking above a whisper. 

“It was your fault.” You won’t go easy on him. Never have before and certainly won’t know. 

“Ya don’t have t’forgive me.” He looks away again, but you don’t. “I just wanted t’see ya. I’ve missed ya. And I want ya back, even if we’re just friends.” 

Just friends is funny, considering he just confessed the feelings he held for you. 

“You’re the worst.” You sigh, propping an elbow on your knee and pressing your chin in your palm, turned to face him. “But I think I love you, too.”

Atsumu freezes. You don’t even think he’s breathing at the moment. It makes a grin crack through the frown you’ve been wearing since the start of the conversation. 

“Yer lyin’.” He shakes his head, refusing to look at you. It makes you roll your eyes, but you see the flush starting to burn up his neck and threaten to eat him alive. Really, it’s the only thing keeping you from losing your mind on him entirely. “Did ‘Samu tell ya to say that?”

“No,” You snort, leaning closer towards him. “Honestly, he’d probably tell me never to admit it and let you suffer.”

“Probably.”

“Is that all you have to say?” You’re teasing him how, and you think he’s starting to understand when his ears turn red, too. Part of you wants to see how long you could drag this out, just to mess with him, but you’d only be prolonging your own misery, too.  

“No. But I’m freakin’ out and I don’t really know what t’say.” He shakes his head, sitting up straight. His hands are curled in fists in his lap, like you could see the stings that are barely holding him together. You roll your eyes, reaching out to set one hand over his with a smile curving your lips. 

“You could start by looking at me?” You tease, careful of the broken skin on his knuckles while you slip your hand into his, palms brushing and fingers interlacing. Atsumu shakes his head, almost comically fast. 

“I think I’ll try t’kiss ya.”

“Try.” You knock your shoulder against his. There’s a grin on your lips that only stretches when you see how wide his eyes get, head finally whipping sideways to face you. 

“Fuck, okay.” He nods, blushing. 

His hand that isn’t holding yours finds home on your jaw, tugging you towards him while leaning forward himself, like he can’t possibly wait any longer. His lips are warm against yours, if not a bit hesitant. But they barely brush yours before you jerk back, eyes wide in worry. 

“Wait, ‘Tsumu,” You hiss, your own free hand cupping his cheek to brush your thumb over the swollen split in his lip from his fight with Kimura. It looks sensitive, and you don’t want to hurt him by kissing over his injury. “Doesn’t your lip hurt?”

“Worth it.” He drops his forehead against yours, fingertips digging in tighter against your jaw. Not enough to hurt, but just the right amount of pressure to remind you of their placement and what his heart is racing to do. “Ain’t let that bastard keep me from kissin’ ya any longer.” 

“Ain’t isn’t a word.” 

“Jus’ c’mere,” He groans, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m dyin’, can’t ya see?”

You take pity and close the distance between the two of you. The kiss lights you up and burns through every nerve ending throughout your body. You can’t believe this is your first time kissing him with how right it feels, like you’ve been with him forever. And you have, in a way,  but now it’s something more and you think he could eat you alive and you’d thank him for it. 

But you do remember you’re on your front porch and that your mother is just inside, probably watching through the window while on the phone gossiping with Mrs. Miya. 

You part first, giggling when Atsumu chases your lips like he’s desperate. And you’ve always entertained his nonsense, so you let him have one, two, four more pecks before you set a hand on his chest and push him back. 

But you’re both smiling so wide it’s impossible to ruin the moment. 

“For the record,” He pants, like he’s incapable of catching his breath after that kiss despite being an incredible athlete. Honestly, it’s a relief to know you’re not the only one completely laid flat by his touch. “I know I love ya.”

You roll your eyes. He’s still as competitive and obnoxious, even in this moment. You love it.

“Shut up, ‘Tsumu.”  

bonus scene 

Spring Nationals did not go the way Inarizaki had hoped. 

It was a good match with even better effort from every player, no matter the team. You had sat in the stands, pretending you didn’t know Atsumu when he shushed the audience and screamed his name when he made a set. Osamu has already accused you of having favorites earlier in the tournament, and Atsumu didn’t even give you time to respond before arguing with his twin that of course he was your favorite. He was your boyfriend. 

You couldn’t have been more proud of how he, and his teammates, played. But in the end, Karasuno High pulled out the win. 

It was a slow process to accept the loss. But, as the matches continued, the mood of the team improved. They started interacting with the other teams, started enjoying the matches that were still playing. 

It was how you ended up talking with some of the Karasuno boys. 

“This is my adorable little fan, Kageyama, from the Youth Intensives.” Atsumu introduced you to one of Karasuno’s first years. If you remember correctly from the match, he was the setter—the one with the insane quick attack that you couldn’t even follow from the stands. “He really looks up to me.”

Kageyama blinked at you, then at Atsumu, like he wasn’t quite sure what was going on. 

“The first time you spoke to me, you called me a goody-two shoes.” Kageyama said, his tone utterly confused. He wasn’t accusing, exactly, but you could tell he was trying to remind your boyfriend that looking up to wasn’t the relationship they had.

“You did not.” You hiss at Atsumu, digging an elbow into Atsumu’s side. He winces, but rolls his eyes at the boy from Karasuno like he’s the one inconvenienced and not the one going around being annoying by calling others stupid names.  

“Great, Kageyama. Beat my team at Nationals and get me in trouble with the missus.” Atsumu huffs, dramatic as always. He swings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close, and you roll your eyes at his posturing. 

Kageyama, apparently, misreads the situation. 

“You’re married?!” He exclaims, eyes going wide. A few of the other Karasuno players start snickering at their setter’s reaction, which leads you to believe that this kind of obliviousness is typical of him. 

“No, we’re not.” You hurry to clear up any misunderstanding. Despite the ridiculousness of it all, you feel your face start to flush at the implication, the idea, of marrying Atsumu. You don’t think it sounds so bad, honestly.

“Not yet.” Atsumu corrects, adding on that one word that makes your flush burn out of your control. “Her ma says I gotta wait ‘til we graduate.”

“Wait, you’ve talked to my mom about marrying me?” Your mind gets stuck on that detail, admittedly, twisting out from under his arm to face him. You want to see if he’s being serious, and you’re not as surprised as you thought you would be to find that he is.

“Course I did. She’d kill me if I proposed without askin’.” He’s grinning, which makes your stomach fill with butterflies. But you’re saved from stumbling out a response when Suna lifts his head up from his phone, smug grin turning his lips up.

“Was this before or after she stopped talking to you for three months because you loudly said you thought she was annoying?”

“Thank ya for bringin’ that up, Suna.” Atsumu says through gritted teeth. It’s been long enough that you’ve found humor in how badly he self-destructed when faced with his feelings for you, but clearly Atsumu doesn’t feel the same way. Especially when he’s at the end of the joke. “I’ll kick yer ass later for it.”

“No, you won’t.” You tell him, rolling your eyes. 

“Might.” He counters, and you pin him with a glare. He holds up against you for a few seconds, but he quickly crumbles. You knew he would. “Ugh. Fine. Won’t.”

“You’re so whipped.” Osamu snorts. Some things will never change, you think, and most importantly one of those things will be how much the twins like to antagonize each other. 

“Shut up, jackass!” Atsumu huffs, drawing the attention of more of both Inarizaki and Karasuno players. You catch Kita’s eye, and he gives you a gentle smile before closing the distance between himself to the twins to straighten them out. 

“You two’ll never grow up, huh?” You sigh, watching the impending argument build.

"I understand you perfectly." You answered, getting closer in order to reach the shelf next to him. "Thats the problem."

He smiled, and finally decided to get up. In truth, you could've left him to deal with the repercussions of his antics by himself, but it was your idea to tease Kunikida just a bit more than usual today, I guess you felt a little guilty. Dazai kept observing you quietly for a bit, the way you barely reacted to his gaze, having grown accustomed to it already, how no matter how close he got, you still felt comfortable. When it was just you two, everything seemed simpler, and three times more dangerous at the same time, and for some reason, Dazai didn't feel the need to overanalyze it anymore.

As much as you wished to just play into his game and pretend work didn't exist, the stuffiness in the room started to annoy you, all you wanted was to be done and never go back to the file room ever again.

"You look tired." He observed, and before you could try and act offended, he continued. "Staying up late?" It could almost be an act of caring, if it wasn't for his tone of voice. "I can help with that..." By the time you reached for the next folder, he'd drifted over without you noticing. Close enough that if you turned your head, you would've bumped into his shoulder.

"Sure you can, you're so helpful after all." You continued to not look at him, checking your work again in order to make sure you wouldn't have to redo it.

"I can be." He smiled. "If im persuaded to." Instead of picking up any of the folders waiting for him, he plucked the one from your hands, turning it over as if he had every intention of helping.

"Kunikida's screams not enough for ya?" You checked the labels one last time before finally looking over at him.

"I'd much rather hear something else." Sometimes his sincerity came in a very obvious way, and for some reason, it was more unsettling than his lies.

"Dazai."

"Hm?"

You held out your hand without a word.

Dazai smiled to himself before starting to slowly lower the folder towards your waiting hand. Just as your fingers closed around it, he decided not to let go. It would've been easy to tug it from his grasp, or tell him to stop being difficult. Instead, you simply looked up, and for a second, neither one of you moved. Just then, you heard the doorknob rattle.

"...I need the Yamada file." Kunikida's voice, tired and careful, made his presence known before he finished fully opening the door.

As he finally looked forward, he froze in the doorway, papers in hand, the fluorescent light behind him making him look even more like a man who had physically willed himself into the wrong room. For a second, nobody said anything. Dazai still hadn't let go of the folder.

"You have excellent timing, Kunikida-kun." Dazai said cheerfully, finally releasing the folder into your hand as though nothing at all had been happening. "We were just discussing the importance of teamwork."

"That is not—" Kunikida's glasses caught the light as he took a step in, and you watched something in him visibly snap into place. "THIS IS A FILE ROOM, NOT A—A—" He seemed to lack a word extreme enough for what he'd apparently interrupted, settling instead for gesturing violently between the two of you. "THIS IS NOT APPROPRIATE! WE HAVE STANDARDS! THIS AGENCY HAS A REPUTATION TO—"

"Kunikida-kun, your blood pressure." Dazai said, pressing a hand to his own chest in mock concern. "Should I fetch you some water?"

"DON'T CHANGE THE SUBJECT."

You, for your part, had already turned back to the shelf, sliding the folder into its place like the previous thirty seconds hadn't happened. "We were organizing files, Kunikida-san. Which is what you told us to do." You held up a folder as evidence, mostly for your own sanity. "This is a filing cabinet, not a crime scene."

"He was holding your hand."

"He was being difficult, which means he's in a good mood." You slowly started to move towards the files with the letter Y, looking for what Kunikida had asked. "I however, am not."

Dazai gasped, delighted. "She defends me and insults me in the same breath. Truly, this is what devotion looks like."

"That is not what I said."

"It's what I heard."

Kunikida looked, briefly, like a man recalculating his entire understanding of the universe. You spotted the right sequence of files and started to sort through it, finding the blue folder with the name Yamada with ease.

"Here you go." You pulled it and held it out to him without ceremony.

He took it without ceremony. He did not leave immediately. He stood there another second, glasses flashing, opened his mouth as if to deliver one final warning about the sanctity of the workplace, thought better of it, and instead settled for, "This conversation is not over," before turning on his heel and marching out, though not without shooting one last look at Dazai that promised several future paragraphs of a strongly worded memo.

The door shut. The silence that followed had a different texture than the one before.

"Well." Dazai said, watching you with an expression that was somehow both amused and unreadable. "That'll be around the office by lunch."

You didn't answer, deciding to busy your hands with the shelf instead, feeling, for reasons you didn't want to examine too closely, suddenly very aware of how small the room was, how it was just the two of you again, how five minutes ago that fact hadn't bothered you at all and now it sat strangely in your chest.

"We should just finish the files." You said quietly.

Something shifted in his expression, not the exaggerated hurt from earlier, not the practiced smile. After a brief silence, Dazai watched you for a second longer than necessary before picking up a folder of his own, for the first time all afternoon.

"For the record," he said, "I don't actually mind being on file with you." He held up the folder in his hands like evidence, entirely too pleased with himself. "Very official. Very permanent. They'll have to store us somewhere after this."

You paused, folder still in hand, and looked at him with the specific unimpressed expression reserved only for him. "That was terrible."

"You're smiling."