#bsdwrite

The key turns in the lock and Akutagawa opens the door, coughing as he walks into his apartment. He sets his bag down and closes the door. A 'welcome home' echoes from the living room, and the boy sighs as he steps into the room.

‘Nakajima, you-’

He freezes at the sight before him. His flatmate is standing in front of him, beaming—but that’s not the case. There’s a ribbon in his hair.

Akutagawa blinks. It’s a hair clip, on top of which rests a small, blue gingham ribbon, which holds back that long strand of his hair, and embellish the gray of it. The ribbon is around three centimeters long, and its ugliness is like no other, but it brings out Atsushi's eyes, and Akutagawa stares. One, two, three seconds. He feels his heart miss a beat.

‘Where… did you get that?’

Atsushi’s smile widens, and the other notices a light blush spread accross his cheeks. ‘Dazai-san gave it to me!’

Akutagawa clenches his jaw. Dazai-san. Of course. The man of one thousand and one schemes.

The raven gives a curt nod, and turns away from his roommate, ignoring the way the other deflates behind his back. No need to stare at the horrid ribbon.

He takes off his coat and heads for the kitchen. 'Have you already eaten?'

Atsushi hums as he follows him, coming to stop in the doorway and standing there to stare at his flatmate. 'I made some rice, there's still some left, if you want.'

Akutagawa gazes at him, and he immediately regrets his decision. The hideous ribbon is still there, and a gentle smile is plastered on his face, like everything is fine. Like he wears pins with bows on them every day. Like it is the most normal thing in the world.

But it isn't, because, for an unknown reason, Akutagawa’s stomach twists every time the he lays eyes on his flatmate, and it is infuriating.

The raven scowls, pulls himself together. He coughs. 'Is it in the oven?'

Atsushi nods, and the lock of his hair shifts. Akutagawa's eyes wander briefly on his face, but the boy turns away and opens the oven's door, mentally rebuking himself as he grabs the plate. He takes a quick look at the dish, nods, then puts it in the microwave, pressing the buttons in order to reheat his diner. He stands there, staring at his diner with intensity, and he feels his body relax at the sound of the other's footsteps, going back to the living room—probably to watch television.

The raven thinks back on the little ribbon, sitting prettily on top of his flatmate's hair, and he glares at his food as his cheeks heat up. He clicks his tongue, and, sighing, rests his forehead on the microwave.

‘What even…’

♤

After eating and showering, Akutagawa decides to study in the living room. Atsushi is curled up on the sofa, watching one of his umpteenth television series, and Akutagawa takes his place at the desk, putting his glasses on after sitting down. He opens his notebook and book, and starts working.

However, thirty minutes pass, and the boy still hasn't finished the second question of the first exercise, and, is instead watching Atsushi. He has a perfect view of his flatmate, peacefully staring at the television, laughing at the jokes the characters make on-screen. The abominable ribbon is still in his hair, mocking the raven, and it frustrates him.

That is when Akutagawa notices something: the hair pin is holding back Atsushi's long lock of hair, thus revealing the rest of his face (Akutagawa would have never thought he would see it one day). His eyes linger on his forehead (smooth), his cheeks (slightly flushed, soft), ignore his lips (pinks, a little chapped, shaped in a huge smile), then follow the contour of his jaw (fine, graceful), examining every little change whenever the boy makes a new expression, and come to a stop  at the sight of his temple. Atsushi has delicate features, the raven notices, eyes still peering at his temple; so delicate that Akutagawa thinks he would break the boy if he were to touch him. And yet, he finds himself dreaming about it, brushing the soft skin with his fingers. He would let his fingers travel across his forehead, brush past his closed eyelids, stroke his nose then his lips,  trace his jaw, and perhaps lose their way in his hair, his neck, on his throat or his nape. He would take off this atrocious ribbon, and hold this stupid strand of hair himself. He would let his lips skim across his temple, then would plant a kiss on it, even two, or three. He would inhale the scent of his hair and probably shut his eyes, then kiss his temple again, once, twice, ten times-

Akutagawa gasps, straightens himself up, and his pencil falls on the floor. He vehemently turns away from Atsushi and starts coughing, one hand gripping his desk while the other's nails are digging into his cheeks.

'Are you alright?' Atsushi asks, and Akutagawa waves—yes.

The raven stops coughing, and takes off his glasses, rubbing his face. He feels his cheeks burn and his arms shake.

Fuck.

He closes his eyes and exhales deeply, massaging his temples. He focuses on his breath, trying to clear his mind, but the thoughts keep coming back, and he groans.

Fuck.

He looks at his notebook, then his book, tries to ignore the deplorable thoughts that won't stop coming by glaring at his maths exercises.  Focus on your work, he thinks, but he can't, because he keeps thinking about Atsushi's stupid face and his stupid temple, and after reading a problem for the third time and still not understanding it, he gives up.

But there is no way he is staying there and staring at his flatmate until the other goes to sleep, so he decides to just lock himself in his room.

He gazes at the clock and lets out a brief sigh. It's 9:43pm, which means two minutes before the commercial break—also known as Akutagawa's salvation in this very moment. In two minutes, Atsushi will stand up and go the bathroom. In two minutes, Akutagawa will have the opportunity to hide away in his room, and let himself perish in his bed while praying all ribbon disappear of his life.

He observes the clock patiently, focusing on the noises coming from the television, and waits. The characters are talking about some kind of plot Akutagawa doesn't even try to understand, and the boy ventures to gaze at his flatmate. The boy is holding a pillow, and looks amazed by what is happening on-screen, eyes sparkling and mouth slightly agape. The raven contemplates him, eyes scanning over his face, and he frowns.

It's not fair, he thinks, forgetting to focus on the television, and he is about to drown back into the abyss of his thoughts when the commercial break starts.

He immediately straightens himsef up, and watches as Atsushi stands up, jogging out of the room, heading to the bathroom. The boy waits a few seconds, on the lookout for the click of the bolt, then seizes his book and notebook, quickly shoving his pens in his pencil case, almost knocking over his glasses. He stands up, replaces his chair under the desk, and walks out of the room, stepping into the corridor leading to the rooms.

He is only a few meters away from his when the door of the bathroom opens, and Akutagawa almost collides with Atsushi, books falling on the floor as he steps back and bumps into the wall, panicked. The other lets out a 'ah', but then chuckles at the sight of his flatmate, and mutters a quiet 'sorry' as he covers his face with his hand. Akutagawa stares, unsure of what to do but suddenly Atsushi moves, crouching to pick up the book on the floor.

'History of mathematics,' he reads as he stands up. 'Ew.'

He smiles, and hands the other his book. The raven swallows—the dreadful ribbon is still there, in his hair. Atsushi's cheeks are a little red, and his eyes form crescents. Akutagawa suddenly feels the strong urge to touch him, and he clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms, feeling his chest burning—fuck.

'Are you going to bed?' the other asks.

Akutagawa blinks, grabs the book. ‘Yes.’

He turns around, and is about to walk away when Atsushi interrupts him. 'Are you alright?' the boy asks, worried, and his damn lock moves, skims his face.

Akutagawa stares. One, two, three seconds. He feels his heart pounding in his chest. ‘Yes,’ he croaks, then adds after clearing his throat, ‘It is just… It must be the weather.’

Atsushi frowns, but says nothing, and nods. ‘Alright. If you need anything, I’m in the living room.’

He beams, and Akutagawa’s breath gets stuck in his throat. Incapable of speaking, the raven nods and watches as the other walks away, going back to watch his sappy tv series.

It's not fair, he thinks again, and he almost wants to shout it at the top of his lungs. But he doesn't, and instead decides to bring this curse to a halt.

‘Nakajima,’ Akutagawa mutters, so low that it is a surprise when the other stops in his tracks and turns to look at him.

‘Yes?’

The raven opens his mouth, but closes it, distracted by the bright eyes gazing at him, the slightly red cheeks, the pink lips, forming a soft smile, and that damn ribbon. His temple is still visible, still looking kissable, and Akutagawa suppresses the idea of pressing his lips against the soft skin. He frowns.

‘The ribbon…’ he starts, and Atsushi tilts his head, curious. Say it, he thinks, say it's ugly. 'It...' He stares, lock eyes with Atsushi, and forgets his duty. ‘It… fits you.’

The other’s eyes widen in amazement, and then a smile makes its way on his lips. His cheeks redden, and he lets out a chuckle.

‘Thank you, Akutagawa!’

.

"So," Naomi said, swirling her sashimi in the soy sauce. "What's it like being in the student council?"

"Umm... I don't really know," admitted Atsushi as he stared at his half-eaten bowl of chazuke. "I'm still wondering how I got in there in the first place."

"Isn't it because the Dazai-senpai randomly singled you out back at the school ceremony?" Tanizaki helpfully pointed out. "I won't forget that, because he was talking about how leadership wasn't about being skilled or accomplished but about staying motivated to reach your goal."

Atsushi thought of the number of times he caught the president slacking off on his duties and subsequently made a face.

"Ah, as usual, niisama has good memory!" Naomi cried out before Atsushi offer his opinion on Dazai. "Now open your mouth. Ahhh~~"

"N-N-Not here, Naomi!"

.

"Then it's decided."

"What exactly is decided, Dazai-san?"

"That we'll convince that Fitzgerald guy to sponsor our school festival!"

"Wait a moment... Ehhh???"

.

Awaiting the first year representative were not the ordinary, peaceful days he had been looking forward to, but rather an extension of the busy, lively days that had begun prior to the school festival.

But what a blunder he made today. He had to tell Yosano-sensei and Mori-sensei that there was a mix-up and he switched their two deliveries. He quickly walked down the platinus tree pathway after scurrying under the main gate, ignoring the other students milling about. Just when he was about to round the corner, he caught sight of a familiar-looking girl standing near the staircase. As if sensing eyes on her, she automatically looked up.

"Um, eto... Kyouka-chan, right?" A nod. "What are you doing here?"

The girl named Kyouka presented a bento, catching Atsushi off-guard. Seeing this reaction, the girl took a step forward and extended her arms further.

"...I don't think I deserve this."

"This is to show my gratitude for the help last time," Kyouka clarified.

Izumi Kyouka was a middle schooler who got lost and was almost kidnapped by a local gang. Thanks to Atsushi and Kunikida-sensei, not only was that plan thwarted, they even managed to locate and report the gang's headquarters and arrest their leader.

He didn’t know he could become useful like that.

"Don't you like it?"

Kyouka snapped Atsushi out of his stupor, and judging from the tone in her voice, she must've thought he was disappointed. But it was the opposite. For you see...

"You know, this is the first time someone made a bento for me." He gave Kyouka a warm smile. "So thank you, Kyouka-chan!"

.

Atsushi steeled himself, forcing his muscles into action. The gangster roared out in frustration, swinging a heavy fist towards Atsushi. The bloodied and beaten-up freshman dodged to his right, pushed the gangster's punching arm downwards, and aimed a kick at the guy's cranium. The gangster fell to the ground, bleeding in the head, unconscious.

"You shitface!" One of them cried out from behind.

Atsushi was saved by Akutagawa swooping in to deliver a solid roundhouse kick to the attacker. He then landed on all fours, coughing violently.

"Akutagawa!" Atsushi yelled, rushing to his side. His eyes widened when he saw blood. "You can’t go on anymore! Let me handle this!"

The gangsters regained their confidence when they realized their opponents' handicap. They've meant to ambush a bunch of Yokohama Gakuen kids as retaliation for what happened last month, but they didn't expect these two scrawny kids to give them this much trouble. It was nice playing around, but it was time they get serious. Swinging metal baseball bats and broken bottles, they surrounded the highschoolers, making sure they would have no route for escape. It’s all one-sided now, Atsushi grimly concluded. Even so, he placed himself in front of Akutagawa, not wanting to put the boy in any more danger.

A horrible high-pitched scream pierced the air all of a sudden.

The thick tension in the air rose. Atsushi could hear the beating of his own heart in his ears. He forced himself to continue staying alert, even when he was as distracted as the rest of the gangsters.

"Kimura!" One gangster ran as if his life depended on it, his eyes bloodshot. "Let’s bolt! They're here!"

"The police?"

"N-N-N-No..." There was such a deep-seated fear in his eyes that even Atsushi, watching the exchange from a few meters away, couldn't help but be equally terrified. "It's them.” His lips trembled as he spoke his next words.

“The double black."

.

Dazai-san had more secrets than they thought, Atsushi mused as he blankly stared at his hospital room’s ceiling.

.

"Join the basketball match this Friday?!"

"Maa maa Atsushi-kun, there's no need for you to be loud. I understand you're excited and all, but keep that energy until you get to the courts."

"But Dazai-san, I don't know how to play basketball!"

"Don't be so negative~ You have an entire week to train, after all!"

"It's the regional finals!"

"You'll be just fine~♪"

"Dazai-san!"

"Anyway, since it's Akutagawa-kun's fault too why our players won’t be able to play, it's only fair he comes with you, right?"

There was a loud thud! heard in the office.

It was the sound of Akutagawa's body hitting the waxed floor.

.

The wind was blowing.

As boys and girls gathered to attend their respective after-school clubs, a lone student trudged through the hallway, balancing a tall stack of papers. His expression brightened when he reached the door of the room farthest to the west building's staircase.

"Jinko."

It was his fellow student council member, Akutagawa Ryunosuke. Atsushi was slightly startled, but he recovered long enough to avoid dropping the papers he carried with him. It was always like this, Atsushi thought in resignation.  At least Akutagawa wasn't snarling or comparing him to rotten broad beans or mandarin oranges. Maybe this was a good sign? Hope rose in Atsushi's heart when Akutagawa turned the knob and wordlessly entered the room.

"Thank y--"

Chuuya climbed the stairs, his bag hitting his hip at regular intervals. He glanced at the number on the paper in his hand, then at the wooden doors in front of him. There was a wooden slab above, on which the number '100' was carved. Chuuya walked the last steps, then pushed the right door, walking into what seemed to be the middle of an endless corridor. He turned his head to the left, the right, then his paper, and started walking towards the right. The sound of his steps echoed in the empty hallway, and the redhead felt a shiver running down his spine.

The new school term had begun two weeks ago and Chuuya, upon the countless requests of his aunt, had decided to join a club in his new high school (a fresh new start after moving in, she had said, to which the redhead had pulled a face and rolled his eyes). Easy to say, but much harder to do, Chuuya had learned after quitting four clubs in one week. Until his first music class.

The music teacher, an old bearded man, had slobbered over his voice (even though Chuuya was merely humming some song), and the following class, he had offered him a place in what he called 'the school's orchestra'; after passing a test, of course. Chuuya had agreed, and the teacher had shoved a piece of paper in his hands (lyrics), the number of the classroom scribbled in red next to the title of the song.

Chuuya bit his bottom lip, staring at the doors as he passed them. 105, 107, 109. The redhead sighed: they were all the same, except for the numbers on the doors. He was about to let out a grunt when he heard it.

A piano melody was coming from the class at the end of the corridor, and Chuuya strolled towards it. The tune was lively, but it also felt melancholic, and the redhead had no trouble matching his pace to it, swaying his hips a little and playing on a  fictitious keyboard with his left hand, a thin smile on his lips.

The boy stopped in front of the glazed doors, wondering if he should wait for the person to finish, or if they wouldn't mind being interrupted. He swept the room with his eyes, trying to discern where the other was. He had no problem finding the piano—it was a sumptuous one, made of dark wood, placed in front of a window. It was however impossible to see the person who was playing, and Chuuya cursed under his breath. He glanced at his watch, and clicked his tongue, nervous. He was supposed to meet with the teacher in two minutes.

The redhead considered his options: being late would give him a bad reputation, but interrupting the person who was playing would be impolite. Especially when the rendition was that divine, the redhead thought, listening to the notes interlace, flowing like gracious droplets of water. The piece—probably a waltz—was captivating and relaxing, and, had he heard it at another moment, he would have gladly let himself be lulled by it. The young man gazed through the glass of the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of the pianist, but it was of no avail, and he sighed, upset.

An idea suddenly came to him, and the redhead looked behind him, checking his theory. The hallway was as empty and as quiet as before, except from the piano melody. He scanned the room, making sure there was only one person inside, and grinned succinctly.

The stranger playing was most likely the music teacher himself: he had probably arrived before Chuuya and had decided to kill time. The student nodded: that was it! The teacher would have never given the keys to a mere high schooler. There were close to zero chances that he would be angry at Chuuya if the boy came in: he was the one who had, after all, offered to meet at this time. Yes, that was obvious.

The redhead took a deep breath, grabbed the door handle and opened the door, silently stepping into the room.

It was hexagonal shaped, and the ceiling was some kind of peak, peak formed by each wall. The floor was covered with black carpeting. Chairs and music stands were gathered in a semi-circle at the left of the room, while piles of other chairs were stocked near the doors. There were windows on three walls, but only two of them were letting light in, the blind of the one at the left of the doors closed.

The teacher was still playing piano, and Chuuya felt the hairs on his neck stand up. The melody was even more captivating inside, the notes bouncing on the walls, amplified by the ceiling. Each note was played with exactitude and finesse, like the man had spent years—or centuries—playing the piano, like he was born for it. From there, the redhead still couldn't see him, and he decided to get closer, trying to move as quietly as possible (interrupting the old man definitely wasn't a good idea).

He was thinking about what the teacher might say when he saw him, when he was close enough to the piano. He was thinking about it, when he realised the person playing wasn't the music teacher, and he stopped dead in his tracks, speechless.

It was a boy of approximatively the same age as him, with mildly short and wavy brown hair. The white shirt of his school uniform was too big for him, making the boy seem much skinnier than he actually was. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms wrapped up in bandages. His black trousers hugged lightly his legs, and he was wearing equally black canvas shoes. His fingers were roaming on the keyboard, executing each note with vigour, but also grace, and a grin was stretched on his lips.

However, the boy must have felt the gaze on him, because he suddenly stopped playing, and turned to look at Chuuya. The redhead felt his cheeks heat up, and he took a step back, like the mere act of interrupting the boy had burned him.

‘Sorry,’ he stuttered—feeling like an absolute moron.

The brunet's hands left the keyboard, and he used one of them to brush the apology off, shaking his head. ‘Ah, no problem.’

Chuuya nodded, and swallowed a lump down his throat: his voice was charming, pleasing to the ear, and the redhead briefly wondered if the other was as gifted in singing as he was at playing the piano. He mentally slapped himself for this thought, and gestured towards the piano, deciding to ignore the tiny racing of his heart.

‘What was that?’

The brunet stood up, and leaned his arms on the top of the piano. He seemed taller than Chuuya, although slimmer, and the redhead caught a glimpse of bandages around his neck when the boy rested his chin on top of his arms.

‘Shostakovich.’

Chuuya arched an eyebrow, gazing at the black and white keys, before letting out a  ‘never heard of him’.

The brunet chuckled, revealing a row of white, perfectly aligned teeth. Chuuya felt his heart quiver, and he repressed a smile.

‘It's lovely,’ he said.

‘Isn't it,’ the brunet whispered, locking eyes with the redhead.

There was a mischievous glint in his them, and Chuuya lost himself in his irises, drowning in their chocolate. They were warm, welcoming, but also captivating, like a black hole, sucking you in and holding you captive. A comforting black hole, drawing you in with gentleness and tenderness.

A loud laugh echoed in the corridor, and Chuuya had to go back to reality. He glanced at the doors, trying to calm his racing heart—when had it started beating so loudly?—then at the brunet, bewildered.

The pianist was still smiling, tender eyes gazing at him, and the redhead felt himself waver. He  swallowed and looked away, slightly pursing his lips.

Good Lord, get a hold of yourself, Nakahara Chuuya.

The young man took a look at the clock on the wall in front of him in hope to think about something else, and he suddenly remembered why he was there. He cleared his throat, and gestured at the space around him.

‘The music teacher isn't here, is he?’ he said, voice low.

‘No,’ the brunet replied, and his smile widened. Chuuya felt his heart miss/skip a beat, but the redhead ignored it, too preoccupied by the other's answer.

‘He's not here?’ he repeated.

The brunet shook his head, grin still on his lips, and the other frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.

The teacher wasn't here? Had Chuuya read the date wrong? The boy glanced at his paper, biting his lower lip at the sight of the ‘Tuesday, 12:30, room 117′ written in the right corner.

‘But,’ he started, looking away from the lyrics to lock eyes with the other, ‘he told me to meet him here today. He was looking for a singer, and gave me this piece. He told me I'd have sing it today.’

The brunet brusquely tensed, a curious look making its way on his face. ‘Which one?’

Chuuya handed him the paper he was holding, and the boy left the piano, strolling to him. He grabbed the piece of paper, and a grin made its way on his pink lips at the sight of the song.

‘Rolling In The Deep, Adele,’ the young man read, and he looked at Chuuya. ‘The teacher is probably late.’

The redhead rolled his eyes, arms still crossed, and turned towards the doors. ‘What kind of teacher is late,’ he muttered, irritated.

He heard a chuckle behind him, and span round, feeling something twist his stomach in a kind of nice way at the sigh of the smile on the other's face. He suppressed a smile and sighed softly.

‘You wanna practice?’ the brunet offered, handing Chuuya his paper. 'Until the teacher comes.'

The redhead peered at the other, then glanced at the piece, pensive. He had already warmed up before coming here, but a single rehearsal wouldn't hurt.

He shrugged. ‘If you know the piece... if you can play it… yeah, why not.’

The brunet grinned and sat back down, placing his hands on the keyboard. ‘I can.’

‘Perfect, then.’ Chuuya smirked. He put his bag against a pile of chairs, removing his jacket in the process, then proceeded to roll up his sleeves.

‘Need to warm up?’ the brunet asked as Chuuya was now folding his jacket.

The redhead shook his head. ‘Already done.’

He caught the ghost of a smile on the other's lips, but said nothing, and placed himself near the piano, his arms resting at his sides. The brunet straightened himself up, curving his hands, and eyed him. Chuuya immediately understood the gesture, and nodded in reply. He heard the other count—‘3, 4′—then notes started to resonate in the room, bouncing on the walls and the ceiling, and the redhead felt a sudden rush of adrenalin. He took a deep breath, started singing, and the world seemed to freeze.

Chuuya could feel every note of the piano vibrate under his skin, shivers running down his spine, and he did his best to return the favour, pouring his everything into each word, eyes closed in order to focus on not hitting any wrong note. It felt kind of magical, like diving into water, unknown territory; and fireworks, bursting in Chuuya's chest and radiating from him. He didn't let out a single wrong note, hitting perfectly each of them, and the brunet played flawlessly, which got a smile out of the redhead—he truly could play it. The performance was a pure success, and, when Chuuya opened his eyes, he was greeted by a wide smile, and he smirked, feeling slightly euphoric himself.

‘Not bad,’ he said, catching his breath.

The brunet let out a chuckle, and bowed his head in thanks—he seemed unable to stop smiling . ‘Likewise.’

They stared at each other for a while, beaming like children, and, after some time, the brunet gestured towards the piano.

‘Wanna try again?’

Chuuya gazed at the clock on the wall in front of him, then at the doors. The corridor was empty, and there was no sign of the music teacher being nearby.

‘Why not?’ he chuckled, his stomach twisting his excitement.

The brunet grinned, and straightened himself up for a second time. He waited for Chuuya to be ready, glancing at him, whispered '3, 4' right after the redhead nodded, and started playing once again, this time with more vigour. Chuuya stared at the other's hands for a while, watching as they roamed swiftly, but softly, on the keyboard, then closed his eyes after singing the first chorus, letting the song soothe him.

The performance was excellent, if not better than the first one, and Chuuya had to suppress a smile more than once. The brunet was terribly skilled, and he made a wonderful pianist. Singing at his side felt like child's plays: the redhead felt at ease with him, like they had been rehearsing together for years. The atmosphere was soothing—a combination of passion and calm—and everything just seemed so easy with the brunet, that Chuuya couldn't say no when the other asked if he wanted to try again. Not this time, not the one that came after, and all the following ones.

There was nothing to improve, but they kept on practising. The ‘wanna start again?’ of the brunet turned into a brief glance, to which Chuuya nodded—‘yes’—and the redhead found himself admiring the hands that were playing, along with the smile resting on the brunet's lips.

They were about to rehearse yet another time when the bell rang, and Chuuya glanced at the clock. He furrowed his eyebrows. Already 1pm? He felt like he had just entered the room.

He gazed at the brunet, and blinked when he noticed the other hadn't moved an inch, his chocolate eyes peering at him. Chuuya nibbled on his bottom lip, and cleared his throat.

‘Well, seems like I have to go,’ he finally said, and he strolled to the pile of chairs where his stuff was.

He grabbed his bag—and shoved his piece of paper inside—and his jacket, not even bothering to put it on, draping it around his shoulders. He then faced the brunet, ignoring the mad acceleration of his heart rate at the sight of the brown irises staring at him.

‘Thanks,’ he whispered, letting a small smile make its way on his lips.

The brunet grinned, revealing once again a row of perfectly aligned teeth, and Chuuya felt oddly weak in the knees.

‘It was my pleasure,’ the pianist replied, his eyes shining.

Chuuya bowed his head lightly, then turned around, walking towards the doors. He was a few meters away from them when the brunet started playing again, a fast and joyful piece this time, and the redhead smirked as he walked out of the room, humming to the melody that was ringing in the corridor.

♡

10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. 0.

The bell rang, and Chuuya sprung from his seat, shoving his textbooks in his bag and storming out of the room after waving the literature teacher goodbye.

He zigzagged through the sea of students that started to form, and hurtled down the stairs. He glanced out of the window, and frowned at the sight of the droplets falling from the sky, mentally cursing the school and its idiotic rules—he was going to be soaked to the bone. He rushed into the hall, paying no heed to the hubbub proper to the (now free) students, and quickened his pace.

He was thinking about a way to take his hat with him to school without having to put it in his bag when he noticed the music teacher, only a few meters away, and he slowed down. He had planned to call him to account on his next lesson, but now seemed like a good time.

Chuuya glanced at his watch. 5:01pm. He still had five minutes before taking his bus—more than enough for a simple question.

The redhead walked towards the old man, a polite smile plastered on his face, and stopped in front of the other.

‘Sir,’ he said, briefly waving a hand.

‘Oh, Nakahara-san,' the man smiled, 'are you alright?’

Chuuya nodded and licked his lips, swapping his polite smile for an embarassed air.

‘Yes, thank you. I would like to know when I'm supposed to pass the test for the orchestra, since you didn't come to the appointment at noon.’

‘The appointment?’ the old man furrowed his eyebrows, and Chuuya felt anger bubbling up in his chest—wasn't he at least a bit ashamed? Good heavens. Yet he remained calm, once again smiling politely.

‘Yes, sir. The one at 12:30.’

The teacher stared at him for while, confused, then let out an 'oh'. Chuuya arched an eyebrow, feeling less and less patient—what kind of teacher would forget an appointment?

‘Dazai-san didn't tell you?’ the old man finally said, seeming oddly surprised.

Chuuya frowned. Dazai...?

‘What?’

The teacher waved his hand, dismissing Chuuya's question. 'Dazai-san. Our pianist with countless bandages. He was the one looking for a singer. He heard me praising you, and asked me if he could have an appointment with you. He didn't tell you?'

Chuuya shook his head, more confused than ever.

Dazai.

‘He told me you were perfect,’ the old man chuckled, ignoring his student's disarray. ‘Exactly what he was looking for. He wants to have a duet with you.’

Chuuya stared at the other, muddled, trying to figure out what the man was saying. And slowly, his brain started to put the puzzle together.

Dazai. Our pianist with countless bandages.

The redhead thought back on the events of the midday, the conversation he had had with the brunet. It was true that the young man had smiled when Chuuya had asked where the teacher was, it was true that he had seemed a bit too cheerful when he had said that no, the teacher wasn't there, yes.

Chuuya mentally smacked himself, then gritted his teeth, furious.

Dazai.

‘Congratulations, Nakahara-san.’ The teacher smiled and patted his shoulder, completely missing the wrathful look on the young man's face. He smiled, then murmured something about 'having some work to do, see you', and left.

Chuuya remained there, standing, trying to process the whole thing. The brunet—Dazai—had been jerking him around, pretending he was an innocent bystander who merely wanted to help a neighbour, when he was actually the reason why the redhead was here.

The young man cursed and spun round, scanning the crowd of students in hope to find the brunet, ready to fix his little red wagon. However (sadly, Chuuya thought), it seemed that the young man's classes didn't end at that hour, and the redhead cursed again, giving up.

He started walking towards the gates, livid, glaring daggers at anyone who made the mistake of looking at him. He made a face when he stepped outside, the rain immediately wetting him, dripping down his hair and soaking his clothes. The young man was about to swear when he saw his bus at the stop, and he started running.

Unfortunately, he didn't manage to reach it on time, and he ended up in front of the zebra crossing, sadly gazing at it as he waited for the traffic lights to turn green. He grunted.

Damn Dazai.

Chuuya was watching the vehicles passing, thinking about a way to take revenge on the brunet, when a car drove too close to the pavement (and in a gigantic puddle), and drenched the young man from head to bottom. The redhead blinked, digesting what had just happened, then clenched his fists. He howled, and kicked a nearby trashcan.