#fluffuary2026

"Can't you see I'm the one who understands you?"

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It’s obvious that you stare at him; he can feel your eyes on the back of his head, the intensity both awestriking and brutal, creating a heavy weight in his chest he wasn’t used to. He’ll pretend, for a short period of time, as if he had no clue, his head resting in his folded arms as he stares out of the window near his desk – he’d pretend until he couldn’t anymore. His eyes would travel, slowly trailing across the room from the backs of heads of his fellow classmates, to the chalkboard, to the teacher, over a few more heads, until he could see you beside him, staring. The moment it registers to you that he is staring back, you smile, small and shy, but never embarrassed, and he’ll watch your cheeks stain a pink shade he didn’t know was humanly possible, his eyes accidentally wide opened as he gazes at those unusually sparkling irises that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. He doesn’t think he’ll get used to you willingly sitting next to him, when it seems everyone else steers clear of him where at all possible. She doesn’t even act like she was just staring out the window.

The school year had begun, three months deep, quizzes and tests already being handed out, graded, then sent back, when there was an announcement to his entire class that someone new had transferred in from another country; it wasn’t necessarily abnormal to have foreigners come in, but it’s usually better recommended to happen at the start of the year where there would be better accommodations and an easier time finding someone to be at their side for assistance, because they also hardly ever know enough Japanese to get by.

Dazai didn’t pay much attention, which is also not unusual, a book he had been enjoying in his free time slid inside his textbook that he was flipping through, not even bothering to spare a glance up when footsteps filled the classroom.

“Everyone, this is our new student,” the teacher explained, gesturing for you to come closer, be more centered, and you awkwardly shuffled your way in with hands tightly clasped together. “Go on ahead and introduce yourself.” He encouraged, standard, his hand waving out across the space. You stood there, stock still, eyes wide with terror to have far too many on you, nervous to mess up introducing yourself to everyone.

“Uhm,” you squeaked, immediately clearing your throat, frantically looking toward the teacher, who just smiled and nodded for you to continue. The room was silent, something you weren’t really used to back home. You stumbled through introducing yourself, a reminder in the back of your head last name first, then first name. Dazai’s ears perked at the sound of perfect Japanese, his brows scrunching together as his head raised, and he could see from where he sat in the back of the room that you were visibly shaking. “I was actually born here in Japan but ended up leaving with my family when I was young, just for a change of pace, I guess. Then my brother decided I should… should try out living here again.” You rushed through the last bit of your speech, fingers quickly hiding pieces of hair repeatedly behind your ear before gripping it with the other hand to stop the excessive movements. You had lowered your head at some point, to avoid the multitude of stares, feeling incredibly out of place and worried that everyone was secretly judging you in their minds. Move back, huh? Dazai’s brow raised at that, eyeing you from across the room, over the other heads, and could confirm you were, in fact, Japanese. She doesn’t stick out, at least.

“Thank you, why don’t you go take a seat back there behind Nakahara? The boy with red hair,” the teacher pointed, and the boy with red hair waved his hand to help you find him. You nodded once before rushing down the aisle, trying to compress yourself as much as you could into your own body, and plopping in the new seat with your bag slipping off of your shoulder. Your head stayed lowered, hands folded in front of you as the knuckles turned white, and Dazai stared at the side of your face with big eyes of his own. His lips parted, gearing up to try speaking, when he saw Nakahara twist around in his seat, that cool and effortless smile already across his lips as he gently tapped your hand.

“Hey,” he whispered. “You can just call me Chuuya.” You peeked through your hair up at him, chewing harshly on your lip before offering another nod. “Transfer student, huh?” You blinked at him then shrugged, relinquishing your grip to allow one hand to come up and brush some hair from your face.

“I mean, yeah, guess so,” you shrugged, slightly embarrassed at the comment, thinking that was a lame thing to say to this guy, a total cutie with his freckles and different colored eyes, and of course that hair. Brown eyes flickered beside you two before downcasting, going back to reading the book he had hidden, but not without keeping a watchful ear for anything that you potentially whispered about.

“No one would be able to tell, least not too much,” Chuuya grinned, ducking his head a bit to try to catch your eye. “I can show ya around here afterward. Show you all the cool spots to hang out.” Dazai’s eyes rolled at that, knowing fully well these spots aren’t “cool”, they’re just where Chuuya liked to spend his free time with his friends. A dumb attempt to get the new girl’s attention that unfortunately might work. However, before you could give him an answer, the teacher cleared his throat.

“Nakahara, you can get to know our new student later. Please face forward,” he instructed, a textbook opened in his hand that he flipped through, not even glancing away from it. Chuuya shot you a sly wink before turning back around, your cheeks burning at the gesture, and something made you feel like you had also gotten in trouble.

You sat back in the seat, trying to focus on the lecture, but you didn’t know where you needed to be. You didn’t have a textbook of your own yet, and everyone else you glanced at, including Chuuya, was buried in their work with pencils and pens scribbling along in notebooks beside them. You weren’t comfortable with the idea of reaching down to rummage in your bag for something to write with and paper to take notes, afraid you’d cause disruption, and you silently cursed your family for making you come here wildly unprepared. You sighed inwardly, eyes falling down to your desk to see a pen with a few sheets of paper magically on the surface, head whipping in the direction you assumed it came from, and your breath caught. You hadn’t really glanced off toward the window, doing what you could to appear diligent to the lesson, so it didn’t dawn on you that someone would be sitting there.

You sat there in silence, holding your breath, heart barely pumping blood to get to your brain, staring at the side of Dazai’s face. He was writing some stuff down in his notebook, not paying you any mind, his other hand propping up his cheek while he momentarily glanced up toward the front then back at his work, the textbook dangerously hanging off the edge, opened to the page you needed to be on with everyone else. You didn’t mean to; you didn’t want to become enraptured at the first person you saw; you told yourself that there wouldn’t be anyone here for you anyway, that might understand you, but you accidentally looked at him. How did he know I wanted to take notes?

His eyes flitted in your direction, your gawking searing right through to his skin, and his writing faltered. The ballpoint was firm against the surface, ink spilling out slowly, reaching every crevice of the paper it could to cover in its blue hue, and he swallowed. As you stared at one another, you couldn’t stop from thinking only one thing:

Those eyes.

Your hand carefully came up to point at the stuff he left, then to yourself, the question clearly written across your features: For me? He stalled, entranced, a spell he didn’t mean to fall under, one you hadn’t realized had been casted, before giving some version of a nod, and pulled the book up more so that you could try to read it.

“Dazai, I just remembered, she doesn’t have a textbook yet,” the teacher’s voice caused you both to jump, dragging your heads forward. “Why don’t you two sit together so you can share yours? Just for today.” A few heads turned at that order, some snickered while others appeared to give sympathetic looks toward the new girl, unaware of who you were sitting beside. He did what he could to ignore others’ reactions, the room quiet so you could scoot the desks together, and he laid the textbook between them so you could follow along. He’s a damn mind reader for sure, he thought to himself, noting that the teacher never bothered turning around from his chalkboard that he wrote out scientific equations with his sloppy handwriting.

“Dazai?” You whispered, and his body stiffened at the sound of his name coming from your lips. You repeated your name, a smile growing on its own. That’s for me? He stared at you, a beat too long, then averted his gaze back to his notes, the blank spot in the corner. He lifted his pen, quickly scribbling in a small note.

I know. Guessing that’s your first name?

You nodded after reading the note, eyes already back on his face, and he wrote some more.

Miss home yet?

You thought to yourself for a moment, fingers reaching out to grab the pen he gave you, and your knuckles brushed as your hand moved to write on his sheet of paper instead of your own.

Not anymore.

He blinked once at the response, slowly leaning back in his seat as he trailed his gaze back to you, those irises consuming as they burned into his soul, that smile reappearing, and his chest hurt.

After class had ended, it droning on excruciatingly longer than what he was used to, Dazai subtly tore the corner of his notes, placing the exchange in his book to use as a marker, listening again as Chuuya spoke with a smooth eloquence to you, occupying you plenty enough for him to slip out undetected. He packed up his things, slung his bag over his shoulder, and was about to get out without further interaction until he heard you speak up.

“Wait, one sec,” you said to Chuuya, your hand suddenly on Dazai’s shoulder, and he peered over it at you. “Dazai, thank you for helping me out.” You held up his pen, offering it back to him. He spared it one look then back to your smiling face, his hands in his pockets, and his stoic features softened. Only a bit.

“No problem,” he muttered, shrugging. “You can keep it. I got plenty.”

“Wanna walk with me and Chuuya?” You quickly asked, stopping him again as he was turning to leave. He had to correct his expression before looking at you again, that eager impression, anticipation and hopefulness in your eyes while your teeth bit down on your bottom lip as a sorry way to hide the growing smile. “He… He’s gonna show me around, and I thought we could talk more while he did that.” Brown eyes darted behind you, meeting disinterested blue and brown, his ginger brow lifting at their sudden contact.

“Uh, no, no I’m good,” he finally responded, your smile deflating in an instant right in front of him. “I just uhm… I got club, or whatever.” He corrected immediately, clearing his throat and veering his eyes elsewhere. “Maybe some other time.” You nodded slightly, working to correct your evident disappointment, reminding yourself that you just plopped down into this classroom and these peoples’ lives; you shouldn’t be expecting them to drop everything they were doing to be at your aid.

“Right, yeah, club,” you repeated. “I–I’ll see you tomorrow!” You forced a bigger grin out, not wanting him to think you’re a buzzkill, but he already knew he had let you down. You’re too sweet, he allowed himself to grant one small smile, something he hoped was enough to ease your clear tension.

“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tossed a half-hearted wave, booking it over the threshold so you could get the hint to not chase him down for more conversation, the unwavering two-toned stare still on his back as he blazed through the hall to meet for his “club”.

“He’s so quiet,” you mumbled, concern evident, and Chuuya walked up beside you, shoulders touching. “Is he always like that?”

“Yeah, I mean, aside from class, you don’t really wanna associate with him,” he shrugged, beginning to lead you out to give a tour of the school. “Others call ‘em a loser, but I think ‘loner’ is more accurate. He’s wicked smart, like in the scariest way possible, and he keeps to himself aside from the two underclassmen in his club that he goes to after class damn near every day.” You listened as he described the quiet boy that sat beside you, that offered some paper and a pen, that shared his textbook and wrote notes to you. Maybe he’s neither, you chewed on the inside of your cheek, unable to stop yourself from skimming the many different heads in hopes that he was a liar, that he wasn’t actually going to club but was hidden amongst the crowd of kids for you to find. Maybe he’s lonely.

“Don’t you think calling him a loser’s a bit harsh?” You asked, sounding distant, not too present with the conversation.

“Please, he’s been called worse,” he rolled his eyes involuntarily, recalling countless times they’ve bumped into one another and received a nasty sneer or semi-evil glare, despite hardly having any real interactions with him. “The most I can add to the conversation when it comes to Dazai is that he’s a mystery since he decides to keep himself so closed-off. It’s clearly his choice, so everyone reacts and functions around him accordingly. You’ll end up learning to do the same.” He sighed, not liking much that you wanted to talk about Dazai. He wouldn’t necessarily say he hated him, but he got the memo loud and clear from the other that he hated Chuuya, making it a little easier to disregard him in return. “C’mon, I can show you ‘round better now that people are starting to leave.” He switched gears, not wanting to discuss the other guy any longer, and began leading you around the building. Even to places you’d have no reason to go just so he could hog a bit more of your time.

⋆⋆⋆

You get acclimated fairly easily and quickly, spending a majority of your free time with Chuuya and his friends that somehow decided to be your friends too. While you didn’t necessarily mind the additional company, you didn’t really feel as if you “belonged”; they talked about things you weren't interested in, usually surrounding yours or Chuuya’s desk to talk and laugh about whatever it was they wanted on different days. Sometimes, if they were all primarily hanging around Chuuya, you’d be able to spare passing glances here and there at Dazai sitting at his desk beside you. You’d be curious of what he was doing, occasionally seeing him with a pen or pencil moving around on the paper in front of him, catching bits here and there of drawings or sketches. Other times he’d pull out a handheld and would be engrossed in whatever game he was playing. Often, though, you would see him holding a book in his hands or having it lying flat on the surface, his eyes scanning every word, every letter, fully captivated by whatever story he had been transported in. Everything he did in those quiet moments when you’d be gazing at him, hoping to not be caught staring, kept him so preoccupied he never once spared you even the tiniest of glances in your direction.

He could see you though, in his peripheral; it was enough for him so he knew you were there. He felt your curiosity from here, but couldn’t bring himself to share with you his drawings since they were small sketches of you, your image committed to memory, only strategically sneaking a quick stare when he knew you weren’t trying to be nosy, to capture a small detail of the day that would better distinguish when he drew them. A hair clip that did little to hold some of those strands back; a rare ponytail; different earrings; or, his favorite, a big bow in the back of your hair. He wasn’t sure if you would find it endearing or creepy, since the last person he showed the slightest bit of romantic interest in, and garnered up as much courage as he could to share these artistic renditions with, did not appreciate the drawings he created by watching them from afar. This incident ended up adding more to the negative way people viewed him, dubbing him a “stalker” and a “creep”, and then going so far as falsely accusing him of peeking in peoples’ windows at night. Kids can be so cruel.

He especially didn’t want you to see them because he’d draw his version of self-portraits beside his perception of you, and it was – for lack of better words – unsettling. One of his friends in his club had seen one, encouraging him to show you since it was ‘so good’, but he just stowed it away amongst his other papers and never brought it up again. She’s too sweet, he thought, curling in on himself at the desk he occupied, grabbing a comic to read instead so his two club members would get the hint to leave him alone. She’d be disturbed.

The two of you exchanged conversation every now and then, you obviously being the one to initiate it while Dazai stares at you in a faux mute state, nervous as to what to say outside of academics. Turned out you weren’t that great with science, asking him if there was any chance he’d help out with your notes or even study together after classes were done, making a small comment about ‘how I heard you are really smart’.

“I’m smart enough,” he murmured, watching as you scooted your desk to be closer to his, a free hour in class to prepare for an upcoming exam. He had to shuffle around his papers quickly, another sketch he had been working on getting hidden under his coursework. “I wouldn’t say this is my best subject, though.”

“You’re being humble,” you waved him off, flipping open your notebook. “I saw the scoreboard. You were second best.” You flashed him an award-winning beam, your eyes seeming to sparkle under the lights, and he wondered how you could look at him like that. No one else looks at me like that.

“Then you should probably be asking first best to help you,” he muttered, leaning over a bit to review what all you had written down. Everything was neat, color-coded, with diagrams and pictures and the equations all jotted down with particular precision. “You do all that in class?” His finger came out to point at one of the pages, your gaze following.

“Oh, no,” you shook your head, pulling out a separate notebook that you opened and showed off all of the notes you took during class. While the handwriting is still neat, it is rushed and more compact. “My brother said it can help with retaining information if I took the notes in class then rewrote them at home in my studying book. Unfortunately, he’s really smart too and ended up being right.” You sighed, eyeing the less than exceptional handwriting before setting it to the side. He nodded slowly, watching the side of your face as your eye bounced around the page, then you directed your attention back to him. His lips parted, trying to think of what else to say, but everything he thought of sounded lame. However, he forced himself to persist.

“It looks really pretty–”

“Hey, if you want to pass this class, you know you could ask me to help,” it seemed out of nowhere, startling you and him both, Chuuya’s cheery voice with an underlying edge you didn’t pick up on. Dazai did, though. He stood in front of your desk, hand on his hip, and his head cocked as he examined your notes; Dazai sat himself up straighter, his eyes beginning to narrow. “Your handwriting’s pretty.” He complimented, ignoring the other despite feeling his glare on him.

“Thanks, Chuu-chan,” you smiled, not nearly as big as you had before. “I didn’t wanna brother you since you seemed busy with your own notes. I thought I’d ask Dazai…kun? Is that right?” You asked, looking back at him.

“Just Dazai’s fine,” he had to ditch the hateful glare he was giving the other boy quickly, looking to you with a more neutral expression. Chuu-chan, huh?

“I always have time for you, love,” Chuuya gently pressed, an attempt at gaining your attention back, and a bit of a jab at the loser sitting there. Love?! Brown eyes darted back toward the red head, sharpening to a glower, but again he ignored the malicious stares. At least, not without granting him a sly smirk of undeserved triumph, and Dazai couldn’t quite understand what there was to feel victorious over.

“Chuuya, you’re so sweet,” you started, shrinking down in the seat some. “I appreciate that you wanna help me, but I already asked Dazai, and he was generous enough to say yes.” Your eyes flitted to him, a silent plea for help. “Right, Dazai?” You added, a sweet but helpless whisper, and he wasn’t sure if he should choose now to be brave, puff out his chest, and tell Chuuya to beat it or just let him steamroll his confidence like he always did.

“Yeah,” Dazai nodded, keeping his voice down and averting his gaze. “Yeah, I don’t mind helping. You… You can bother me any time.” He added, choosing to be brave with you instead, clearing his throat as his head lowered. You wore a relieved smile then at him picking up your hint, but he wouldn’t look in your direction anymore, his eyes seemingly glued to his notes in front of him, and you could sense he was uncomfortable – you noticed pretty early on that he doesn’t engage in too much conversation, even if you were to ask about him or his hobbies. In an effort to ease the tension, your mouth opened to politely tell Chuuya you would hang out with him later, but his expression changed, making you falter.

“Wow!” He antagonized, not sure what was coming over him to suddenly have this desire to be a jerk. “Look at that, Dazai is trying his hand at making friends! No one saw that coming, honestly, since anyone that even tried you scared away–”

“Nakahara, let’s get back to our work and quit distracting others!” Their teacher called from across the room, not lifting his head from his book in front of him at his desk, then adjusted his glasses at the bridge of his nose. The red head huffed, tongue poking out of his cheek before grumbling to you ‘I’ll catch you later’ as he turned to go back to the small group he was in to study. Dazai didn’t say anything, just biting down on his back teeth to prevent himself from sticking up for himself. Scared them away? You glanced back to your study partner, looking ever the wounded puppy, and your heart broke a bit to see him like that.

“Just ignore him,” you offered, your chair suddenly scooting closer to his, and you carefully pushed your studying notebook more between the desks. “He’s being mean for no reason, like he doesn’t understand I can make other friends.” You huffed, flipping some hair over your shoulder.

“You don’t need to be friends with me out of pity,” he mumbled, genuinely meaning it, truly believing that’s what was happening, and he messed with the sleeve of his uniform under his desk. Your head tilted, wanting to get a better look at him, but his hair curtained his face from view, coming off more pitiful than he was. What an odd thing to say.

“What if I want to be friends with you just ‘cause I wanna?”

“I’d think you’re insane,” he answered honestly, too quickly. You faltered a moment before a small smile pulled at your mouth.

“Lock me away then,” you giggled, crossing your arms over your chest and clutching your shoulders, imitating being in a strait jacket. His ears perked at the sound, turning his head to look over at you as he brushed some hair away from his face, and he couldn’t help staring at you for a long time after that. “Certainly, you wouldn’t leave me in there all alone, right? I don’t do well with solitary confinement.” You whispered, leaning closer so he could better hear. A small upward turn of his lips tugged at the corner, a subtle eye roll following at your joking persistence, and his hand came out to turn your notes toward him. You glanced down, watching his movements, and noticed a few beige Band-Aids wrapped around some of his fingers.

“They have a place reserved for me,” he softly retorted, the joke easily flowing out and rolling off his tongue. “I’m sure I’m allowed to have a roommate.”

That day made you feel as though you had all the permission in the world to stare in Dazai’s direction, gazing at him from afar, watching after him when he bobbed and weaved through bodies of students he never cared to learn their faces, let alone their names. You knew you two shared another class together, advanced literature, but he sat in the back there too, and you were closer to the front since there weren’t any free spots near him. It was harder to try catching a glimpse of him there, but the moment it became partnered work, you were on your feet and making way for him as soon as you could. All too eager, and he didn’t seem to notice.

Oh, but how he noticed. The instant “partner up” rang through that classroom in his favorite subject, one he was so lucky to share with you, his heart went from zero to two hundred, his wandering eyes veering in your direction and trembling hands he had to sit on when he’d see you already up, making like a high speed train toward him. The first time it happened, he thought it was a cruel prank, you immediately plopping down in the desk beside him, connecting it to his with a giant grin on your face, and he couldn’t help the ghost of a smile that appeared.

“Careful, spending too much time around me will only hurt your reputation, fair maiden,” he joked in a quieter tone one day, your fingers tearing open the royal-themed novel and preparing your notebook. You took your time letting those words settle down in your bones, brows briefly scrunching together, then decided to look over at him with a quizzical expression.

“Sir Dazai, what makes you think I’m one to care what others think of me and the company I keep?” You asked, keeping your voice as gentle as you could but being the utmost serious, despite the speech of the required reading rubbing off on both of you. He stared for one long moment, the patience evident in your impression, as if actually expecting an answer from him; his lips parted, beginning to speak, when his eyebrows came together. You’re right to question him, why would he think you care about something as stupid as that? Maybe because everyone else seems to.

“Forgive me, you probably think me moronic,” he continued the act, cracking open his own book so his eyes had somewhere else to go.

“I wish you’d think more highly of yourself,” you murmured, propping a cheek on your fist, turning to the page you needed to be on. The comment struck him, not really hearing anything like that before by others, let alone his classmates, and he snuck another glance in your direction: some hair fell in your face, making his bandaged fingers twitch in place at the thought of brushing them back. He opted for adjusting his chair to be closer instead, getting lost in the book with you while you both discussed themes and analyses together.

His heart nearly hurled itself out of his chest when the teacher declared the class was going to be studying his favorite story, the romantic tragedy of suicidal teenage lovers, one he read over and over, countless times, his copy of Romeo & Juliet at home filled to the brim with notes scribbled in the margins or on Post-Its that stick out. The binding broke and so poorly wore down it was coming off of the pages, doodles in the empty spaces of what he imagined things to look like, bloodied roses and small vials of poison. The spine cracked beyond repair, pages hanging on for dear life, his favorite lines highlighted and, if they made an exceptional impact on him, a small heart beside it. He wouldn’t trade that copy in for the world, knowing it word-for-word, and he was more than happy to bring it in for class – taking any opportunity he could to re-read it, as if he needed one. He also had the irrational expectation that you would want to work with him during partnered reading, wanting to show you his annotations, wondering if it would be enough to impress you.

You were elated too, considering it was also a favorite of yours, and that your older brother was actually the director of the newest adaptation.

“You probably couldn’t keep that secret in, huh?” He joked, typing away on his computer to work on some notes and mockups for the movie. You simply rolled your eyes, folding your arms while peering over his shoulder at the screen, the letters flying across the blank white digital document. “You know they wanna cast that one actor you really like? Ah, what’s his name?” His fingers snapped together a few times, trying to recall the name of this supposed favored actor. “Hmm, Milo… something?” He mentioned offhandedly, as if this wasn’t big news.

“Milo Manheim?!” You gasped.

“Yeah, him,” he smiled and took off his computer glasses, getting to his feet and stretching out his limbs.

“Can I star in it?” You started begging, holding your hands in front of your face as you pleaded repeatedly ‘please, please, please!’ until he shook his head while walking out of the room.

“My dear, you can’t act,” he breathed out a laugh, tossing a look over his shoulder before luring you into the spare room as you continued your begging. “Plus, they want Rachel Zegler.”

“She gets everything she wants,” you skipped a bit across the floor to catch up, pouting severely as you were heading toward the stairs to reach the spare room holding mysterious boxes you weren’t expecting. You followed behind, leaning over to take a better look as he pulled the flaps open, then held out something to you. It’s an all-black, leather hardcover with silver detailing, flowers and bullets and a rosary intertwining with the vines as a border, the title written in embossed, chromatic letters, Shakespeare’s authentic and boastfully swirling calligraphy spelling out Romeo & Juliet across the front. You halted, glancing at it then toward your brother, who was wearing a proud beam, waiting for your reaction. “What is this?” Your fingers carefully reached out to trace along the detailing.

“To celebrate the new movie adaptation, Shakespeare’s editor was able to convince him to put out a special edition,” he pushed it more toward you, wanting you to take it. “I got some as gifts for being the director to hand out to the cast and, of course, his biggest fan.” You gingerly took it from him, awestruck completely as you gawked at the gorgeous book, it even having the fancy ribbon bookmark hanging out.

“Dude, this is stunning,” you admired, flipping the pages to see them etched with silver paint. I absolutely have to show Dazai this.

“I knew you’d like it,” he grinned, folding his arms. “Don’t let anyone know where you got it from. They’re a secret.”

The moment the teacher releases the class for pairing up to read together, you all but throw your chair to the side so you can race to Dazai’s side, clutching the special copy to your chest, excited to show him since he mentioned in science the day before how he was looking forward to this story being in the curriculum. You stop, though, when you see him bring out his copy, torn to pieces with nothing but evident love and adoration, him flipping it open with as much care as he probably did the first time – and not just because it is quite literally falling apart.

“You weren’t kidding,” you murmur, slowly sitting down in the chair beside him, abandoned by another student that wanted to work with their friend instead of being near the “loner” that sits in the back.

Something interesting happens in that classroom this day, while you watch his eyes – for what seems like the first time – languidly roam along the page, drinking in every single letter, reviewing his annotations, drawings, notes scattered with the utmost care in his best handwriting, and she spies a few hearts. Pages have bright, colorful Post-Its sticking out, additional notes and doodles, and he admires it all so fondly. The smile he graces you with, one he probably has no clue he is giving, is so soft and gentle, filled with happiness and authenticity. His eyes meet yours, that smile stretching wider to show his teeth, and those usually chocolate irises that appear hidden behind steel shine like beautifully polished amber. Resembling sunsets you have only ever experienced back home. A fire he waited to ignite now blazing, and your heart may have just stopped completely.

“I mean it when I say I have never loved a book more than this,” he whispers. “I love a lot of Shakespeare’s work, but Romeo & Juliet I think is his magnum opus.” You blink, coming back to Earth, and dart your gaze toward his open book.

“May I see?” You point, dying to look over every last detail he added, making you seem like a second-rate fan.

“Yeah, just be careful with it,” he slides it toward you, but instead of taking it, not daring to touch it, you scoot the chair across the floor, sitting as close to him as you can. You invade his space, making him freeze in place, the smell of your shampoo wafting right up into his senses, coconut and honey, and he can instantly feel his face flush.

“Your art is gorgeous,” you mutter, mesmerized by his small sketches, especially by the daggers he chose to cover in vines and roses. You politely request he turn the page for you, his fingers carefully doing so, revealing more highlighted words and small hearts, your eyes softening when they take in the image scratched on the paper of two people kissing, feeling as if you have unlocked a secret about him. I was right, you think to herself, his fingers flipping the page again. He’s lonely. “It’s all so beautiful.” You compliment again, sitting up straighter to face him, and a small tint of pink coming forward on his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he responds, sheepish. His eyes glance in your direction, catching the shining reflection of the silver on your book, and his brows furrow. “Where’d you get that?” You peek down at your book, arms slowly holding it out to him. “How did you get this? I didn’t know there was going to be a new edition put out.” He gingerly holds the book in his hands, more Band-Aids covering his fingers, and proceeds with caution in turning the pages.

“Uhm, my brother has connections,” you attempt with a shrug.

“Yeah, but Shakespeare is huge in the literary world. Trying to get ahold of him is near impossible,” his brows raise, admiring the new font they went with since his is an original copy when it first printed. “Man, your brother’s so cool, and I haven’t even met him.” He says aloud, an inside thought he doesn’t mean to voice. You listen to him describe someone you wish to know, someone whose writings have captured your heart and mind completely, then you realize he said your brother is cool. While his occupation is cool, you wouldn’t say he is.

“Would you like to keep it?” You blurt without thinking, caught up in the way he admires the book with the same cadence as his personal copy. “I can just as easily get a second one.” His head whips in your direction, brows briefly knitting together, then side-eyeing the hardcover in his hands.

“Who did you say your brother was again?” He asks, nonchalant, directing his attention back to the book, knowing fully well you never mentioned who he is once – avoiding the topic completely most days. You falter, eyes wide while your teeth sink down in your bottom lip, and his eyes flicker to catch that reaction just in enough time before you boil it down to a wary smile.

“Oh, he’s just, you know, my older brother,” you shrug. “No one special. People always make that joke, ‘I know a guy’. Whenever I say that, I’m talking about him.” The lie is terrible, proving his point you truly are bad at acting. Rachel, treat Milo right for this movie since I will not be getting the nepotism treatment.

“You know a guy, and it’s your brother?” Dazai raises his eyebrow, cocking his head, before a slight smirk pulls up at his lips. “You make him sound like a fixer.” Your shoulders relax, grateful he bought it enough to joke with you.

“Maybe he is,” you reply with a wink in your tone, and he eyes you with an underlying suspicion. “Anyway, I guess we should start doing some actual reading.” You clear your throat, resituating yourself in your spot and straightening up your back, immediately jumping into the passage being required to discuss. He nods once, slowly, opening the new book as carefully as he can, the cracking of its new spine filling his ears, and the first thing he sees is the dedication page stating that the edition is for the new movie adaptation, being directed by someone with your same last name. You still never said who your brother is.

⋆⋆⋆

Months are flying by in flashes right before all of the students’ very eyes, catching them off guard when it was time to move to winter uniforms and indoor gym class, seeing what additional outerwear they can get away with including in their dress code, and hoping to beat the snowflakes in a one-sided race to get in the building before they fall to the ground.

The coldest season has arrived while you and Dazai still have gotten nowhere.

If you two aren’t buddied up on group work or assisted studying, you rarely talk, him rushing off to his club after class as you are torn away by Chuuya to hang out with him and his friends. His drawings moved from scraps of paper or loose sheets from his notebook to filling sketchbooks, almost every page shrouded in the divinity he views you as while he places his “disturbing” visage beside you, having to proceed with caution on pulling it out in class and saving it for when he is in the safety of his club or home.

“Dazai, I really think you should show her these,” his friend and underclassmen, Atsushi, peers over his shoulder, admiring the sketches scratched into the sheet while Dazai’s pencil moves along. “Maybe she’ll surprise you and love them.” He attempts, noticing as well that every single page in that spiral binding is filled with your image Dazai had burned in his brain so he could continue drawing without you being near him. He has resorted to carrying around colored pencils just for your dazzling eyes.

“No,” Dazai mutters into his palm that propped up his head. “She’ll be freaked out.”

“Then quit drawing her,” the only other member speaks up, his eyes not leaving the screen as his thumbs move along the controller. Brown eyes roll at the other underclassman, Akutagawa, as he ignores his suggestion, and the sound of lead inching around fills the room. “Have you worked up the courage to hang out with her outside of class yet?” His tone is bored, growing sick of hearing about his upperclassman’s trivial woes over something as mundane as a crush, something that can be easily resolved.

“No,” Dazai repeats. “I told you, she hangs out with Chuuya and the rest of ‘em.” He sneers a bit at his antagonizer’s name, eyebrows knitting together. “I’m not the type of person she would like or want to be with, anyhow. She shouldn’t be bothered with hanging around some ‘loser’ or whatever.” His fingers, a couple more Band-Aids wrapped a few, rake through his hair before coming back down to push the bridge of his glasses up his nose. His eye had been acting up, not able to see nearly as well the past few days, and he had to bring them out so he could function – of course, except for science and literature, where you wouldn’t see him come off as more of a dork. Though, he struggled, and you were kind enough to help him with copying your notes, since you may or may not have picked up on the fact he couldn’t see.

“I’ve never seen you this down about something before,” Atsushi leans against the desk beside Dazai’s, folding his arms over his chest as he continues watching the other’s hand move around on the page, setting his sketching pencil down to grab a colored pencil, the bright lead bringing to life the eyes of a girl he has never seen in person.

“I fear I must admit even I have grown tired of your pity parties,” Akutagawa sighs after the NPC defeats him in a match, beginning a new one. “I appreciate the invitation, but they aren’t fun anymore.”

“Aku, please have more sympathy,” Atsushi sighs heavily, his hands dropping down to the edge of the surface, but even he has to silently agree with his friend. “She gave you that copy of the story you like so much. That has to mean something.” Dazai stops for a brief second, his mind flitting off to the black hardcover you gifted him, how he is keeping it in pristine condition, despite wanting to fill it too with his annotations and scribbles. The only thing he has done so far, like an absolute lovesick idiot, was draw a small heart near the last name that’s listed on the dedication page, hoping it truly is yours. It was a gift from her; I don’t want to ruin it, he lightly shakes his head at his own thoughts, a small huff following after at their words. He doesn’t mean to drone on about you so much, about how much he likes you and wants to have an actual conversation with you, about how he wants to spend time with you not in a classroom, about how he hates you hang out with Chuuya, and about how he wants you to call him some dumb nickname too.

“I’m fine, it’s fine,” Dazai insists, going back to his artwork he has no intention of showing you. “I’ll drop it.” He adds, fisting the sleeve of the sweater he brought to wear instead, choosing then he doesn’t want to talk anymore.

“Well, you don’t have to drop it…” Atsushi trails off, ending his thought there when he watches the other hunch over his book more, noticing he is being tuned out, and he doesn’t really understand what is going on with his friend. He can’t stop himself from wondering if it’s because of the last time he liked someone, how it ended horribly, making Dazai disappear for a week since the torment got so intense. It’s hard to see him like this, especially since Atsushi thinks he’s the coolest person he knows.

“Atsushi, play,” Akutagawa demands without tearing away his gaze, an attempt to get him away from the moping upperclassman, to give him some space, and he honestly just didn’t care to listen to Atsushi try a hand at consoling Dazai again. “Quickly, or I’m heading home.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” the other sighs, gearing up to turn on his heel, when he glances once more at Dazai and his artwork, his solemn expression, then has to force himself to walk away or he’d never leave him alone.

More days go by, but they seem to crawl, as if trying to buy more time, neither of you able to pick up on that being a possibility. The stolen stares are leaking into longing, your wandering eyes searching for him in every room, every crowd, and every conversation; Dazai’s sneaking glances are starting to linger, his quiet brown taking in every aspect of you, to hold onto forever. It has gotten to a point that you barely catch each other anymore, your self-planted doubt that he never really noticed you or your terrible shots of pursuing him, that his not caring about you staring at him wasn’t because he was unbothered or didn’t mind, but because he just didn’t care. Meanwhile, he has led himself to believe he never locks eyes with you anymore is due to you finally realizing you didn’t need to be involved with him. That you have finally acknowledged he is this loser everyone else constantly made him out to be, that you have been listening to Chuuya more and would rather enjoy his upbeat, charismatic company versus Dazai’s melancholy.

Tensions only seem to ease when you work together in class or have gym together. You don’t really do much participating, whatever would be considered enough, and find yourself always drawn toward wherever he is hiding out. Although, it has been revealed recently that dodgeball season is fast approaching, and while Chuuya is stoked beyond belief, you are internally screaming, and Dazai is already trying to come up with excuses he can forge to get out of attending.

“I’ve been looking forward to this all year,” Chuuya declares while he walks down the hall with you, hands in his pockets and a little extra skip in his step as you approach the gym. “Don’t worry though, love, I’ll pick you first to be on my team. Hate for you to be an opponent.” He grants you a big smile. Your smile is a bit wary, nodding along to what he’s saying, not really that big of a fan, but appreciative of him wanting to keep you out of sight of his infamous “Headache Inducer”. You look forward, eyes searching as always, when you spy the shaggy head of your classmate hesitating near the gym entrance. Your mood lifts, worried he really was successful in coming up with a way to bail, now dissolved as you call out to him.

“Dazai!” Your voice rings out from the walls and right into both Dazai’s and Chuuya’s ears, the red head’s mood deflating slightly due to confusion, and the brunette turning to face you with wide eyes behind his lenses. You giggle, rushing up to his side, leaving Chuuya behind as you clutch your hands behind your back in a white-knuckled grip to control yourself. You look up at his face, noting the glasses, and your head cocks. “I didn’t know you needed those.” You nod in their direction. His fingers come up to mess with the frames, about to remove them when your smile grows, and Chuuya catches up to your side. “They look good on you.”

“They… They do?” His gaze downcasts, wanting to ignore the other boy, turn and run away, but you have him cornered, back against the wall.

“Yeah, I like them. They suit you,” you go on with the compliments, causing his cheeks to flush while blue and brown roll.

“C’mon, we’ll be late,” Chuuya gently pushes, guiding you through the doors.

“C’mon, Dazai!” You grin, fingers just barely missing his sleeve, wanting to urge him to follow you. He sighs inwardly, shoving his hands in his pockets as he follows a fairly decent amount of distance behind, trudging off in the direction of the locker room with low expectations about getting through this unscathed.

As he predicted, Chuuya is captain for one team while one of his friends is captain for the other, the red head immediately picking you, who quietly stands behind him. “Why don’t we put Dazai on our team?” You whisper after a few back-and-forths of picking people, Dazai still standing there amongst the small handful that’s left with his arms folded and head down. “If he can’t see very well, it would help if he’s on our team so we can protect him, since you’re so good.” You add on, the last bit something of an afterthought to coax him into agreeing. However, Chuuya simply ignores it, choosing someone else completely.

A few more people are picked, leaving some random kid and Dazai, for Chuuya to choose from. “Chuu-chan.” You mutter, tone more stern. “You’re being rude.”

“I’m not being rude! We don’t get along, alright?” He huffs, tossing you an irritated look over his shoulder. “I ain’t puttin’ him on my team just so we can lose.”

“It’s high school dodgeball, it isn’t that serious!” You argue, folding your arms. “Why don’t you try being nicer and maybe you two will get along!”

“You gonna pick or what?” The opposing captain calls out toward them, thumb tossed in the others’ direction.

“Yeah, I’m pickin’!” Chuuya waves him off, taking a brief moment to look between the two. I don’t know what she sees in him. “Uh, Nozaki, come on.” He gestures the taller kid over, who quickly jogs up to the rest of the team, standing toward the back. Dazai’s feet already had him halfway toward the opposition before Chuuya even made a decision.

“You’re mean,” you state flatly, under your breath so no one else can hear, since it’s meant only for Chuuya. “You’re being a bully for no reason.”

“You sound like a child,” he retorts, but he isn’t confident in saying that to you, avoiding eye contact and heading over to their side of the court. Your cheeks puff out at his statement in clear aggravation, stomping your foot loudly against the linoleum flooring before storming up to the gym teacher, causing a good chunk of people, along with Dazai, to watch.

“I’d like to switch teams,” you request, definitively. The teacher glances down at you, eyebrow raised, before glancing off in the direction of Chuuya and his team, where the red head is watching quietly, uncertain what you could be saying, then veers off in the direction of the other team.

“Anyone willing to change sides?” He calls out in his booming voice, gesturing toward you. There’s a silent hesitance before a brave participant raises his hand, immediately being met with the teacher’s hand of approval waving them over and gently pushing you to take his place.

“What the hell?!” Chuuya calls out, absolutely incredulous at your strutting away.

“Nakahara, watch your language!” The teacher reprimands.

“You’re a dick!” You respond, emphasizing biting your thumb at him, but that only makes him more confused. And annoyed.

“Hey! Both of you, knock it off or I’m sending you to the head teacher’s office!” You glare at the red head, dramatically and pointedly flipping your hair over your shoulder with a quiet ‘hmph!’ as you walk over to stand beside Dazai, who had been gawking at the entire display.

“Did you… literally bite your thumb at him?” Dazai asks, eyeing you up and down before adjusting his glasses. You side-eye him, slightly embarrassed as your cheeks tint.

“My brother says giving people the finger is impolite,” you mutter. “He said I can still get my point across by biting my thumb like they do in Shakespeare. Plus, it has an added effect of stunning them into silence from how weird it is.” You shrug then, trying to sound more confident and matter of fact, but you’re well aware that anyone who saw that whole thing most likely now thinks you’re a friggin’ weirdo. However, a giant grin cracks along his lips, followed by a bout of laughter you have never heard from him before. A small giggle erupts from you after the initial shock, trying to shield your smile with your hand. “Don’t make me bite my thumb at you, sir.”

“No, I’m not laughing at you,” he dies down to a chuckle, a red flash of a dodgeball flying past the back of his head, but he doesn’t seem phased in the slightest, your eyes wide at seeing it rush by while he wears an almost too-big-for-him grin. His tongue pokes out between his teeth, eyes shining behind his glasses. “I thought it was cute.” He admits, not even thinking, another dodgeball zooming between both of your faces, causing you to jump in your spot but it isn’t enough for you to tear your gaze away.

Though, you should have.

A loud gasp rips from your throat, eyes rattling around in your sockets as they roll in place, and teeth clanking together, almost biting down on your tongue. The side of your head, right in the temple, stings and pulses, and your sterling-coated left ear begins to burn. Your body starts teetering and going a little lopsided, unable to keep balance and tripping over your feet, but thankfully a set of hands grapple for your shoulders to keep you upright. “O-Owh.” You whimper, tears springing to your lash lines while your fingers inch up to the tip of your burning ear.

“Are you okay?!” Dazai’s terrified voice bounces around in your brain, eyes big and frantic, darting around the side of your head that is bright red from affliction. “Who the hell did that–”

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry!” Chuuya appears beside you two, the game halted while the teacher rushes up to the small huddle. “I didn’t mean–” He cuts himself off when he sees your fingers come down with a few specks of blood on the skin. “Fuck, I wasn’t aiming for…” He doesn’t think finishing the sentence is going to make this any better, especially with the way Dazai is staring at him with large, nearing wild eyes, and his mouth agape.

In that brief moment, a very fleeting thought entered that quiet boy’s head where he hesitated from jumping on Chuuya completely was solely due to the fact he needed to keep you standing. Otherwise…

“We need to get her to the nurse’s office,” the teacher sighs, shooting a small glare at the belligerent red head.

“I’ll take her,” Dazai declares, his hands now keeping an iron grip on your shoulders since your body continues to sway a bit in his grasp. “Hey, you think you can walk?” He leans down a bit, to try to catch your eye, but he can tell you can’t focus that well.

“Fine,” you swallow, a slow blink before raising your head. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t… Don’t call my brother.” You are able to mumble out in a full sentence, the pain a thunderous pounding all on one side of your head now, and the few tears you tried holding back slip down your face – a natural response to getting absolutely walloped by Chuuya’s full strength in a compact dodgeball.

“I won’t let ‘em,” Dazai assures, carefully turning you around to face the exit, his arm around your body on instinct to prevent you from toppling over as he guides you down the hallway for the short walk to the school’s infirmary. “Luckily, they were smart enough on the layout to have the gym closer to the nurse’s office.” He attempts with his small joke, but it’s hard to see you like this, especially since the color is slowly draining from your face.

He sighs a little when he slides the door open, eyes roaming to see the room is empty, and another small sigh escapes at him realizing he has to be the one to take care of you until someone gets back. He leads you to one of the beds, instructing to lay down, but you aren’t really all that present with him; his hands proceed with caution as he starts maneuvering your body to sit on the edge, gingerly grabbing your ankles to drape over the length of the shotty mattress, then pulls the thin cover up to your chin. “Wait here, I’ll get some stuff for your head.” He says that as if you have the ability to wander off without assistance. He spares one more concerned glance at you, your lids heavy and hooded as you stare up at the ceiling, and you let out a small huff from the pain, before turning around on his heel to rummage for an ice pack and maybe some pain relief.

“It’s kind of you to help me out,” you say, trying to be loud enough for him to hear. “Kinda glad it was me and not you.” You add as an afterthought, not really paying attention to much of the words coming out of your mouth. “I would have gone ballistic. You’re nicer than me.” You sigh heavily, feeling a small trickle of blood on your ear, irritated that you may have to get those redone.

“Fair maiden, I fear you think far too highly of me,” he chuckles, slightly bitter, coming back with an ice pack that he gingerly places on your head, alongside a bottle of aspirin and some basic first aid. “The only reason I didn’t tackle him to the ground is ‘cause I was too worried about you.” His mouth hangs open after that, the words falling out without him realizing, hands freezing near your ear as his fingers hold tightly to the cotton swab he doused with antiseptic. Your mouth curls upward slightly before dropping, closing your eyes and pressing the pack more into the temple that is still raging with immense pain, and the worst headache you have ever experienced is beginning to form behind your eye. Ah, the Headache Inducer.

“Sir Dazai–”

“You can call me Osamu,” he interrupts, careful to swipe away at your wounds around the earrings, leaning closer to thoroughly examine the damage. Minimal, but she might need to take them out for a bit. He kneels down on one knee, to be level, grabbing a fresh swab to clean up as gingerly as he can without further inflictions.

“Is that your first name?” You finally ask after the long, stunned silence, your tone dropping down to a small whisper. “I-I’m allowed to call you by that?” Your heart abruptly picks up into a rough skipped beat, almost launching into your throat, and the heat in your cheeks is similar to the pain on your ear.

“Of course,” he responds, taking one last look at his handiwork before getting to his feet, moving toward the garbage can. “I meant to tell you a long time ago, but I just… never got around to it.” He clears his throat, tossing the trash away then adjusting his glasses again.

“So…” You prop yourself up on your elbow, peeking in his direction, scanning over his back covered by his gym t-shirt. “We’re friends, then?” He falters for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck as he peers over his shoulder at you, seeing you’re sitting up and a strange instinct inside him forces his feet to pad back over to your side, hands gently grasping your shoulders to guide your body to lay back down. He readjusts the ice pack and pulls the sheet up to your chin again. Your brows furrow briefly while he does this, feeling the Band-Aids on his fingers through the material of your shirt, and catch the red stain on his cheeks that he is hoping you wouldn’t see. However, a warm smile betrays him, reaching for the bottle of aspirin, the pills rattling around with his movements, and he tosses a couple in his palm.

“Yeah, we’re friends.”

⋆⋆⋆

The air is cold, bitter, chilling, and snowflakes are raining down sideways like bullets instead of its usual welcoming gentle dusting. You curse under your breath, wishing you had listened to your brother about bringing an umbrella while you were out as you book it toward the park entrance, hands stuffed in the pockets of your heavy coat and a scarf wrapped around the bottom half of your face to protect your nose. Every piece of fabric feels heavy, the gradual snowfall’s melted flakes adding to the weight as they keep landing on your body one after the other.

Dazai sits quietly under the gazebo, shielded by the dangerous snowflakes but not the brutal winter winds, adjusting his beanie to be more secure on his head while he continues scratching along his sketchbook, a Pocky stick between his teeth as he is lost in his artwork, trying to distract himself from the fact you aren’t there yet. It is coming down, maybe she decided to stay home, he sighs, a thick puff of air billowing out from his nose, and he roots around in his pocket for a colored pencil.

“There you are!” You greet, his head jerking up to see you pulling the scarf down some, and your nose is bright pink. You gift him a bright smile, teeth chattering from the brittle weather, before sitting down beside him. “Hi, Osa-chan.”

“Hi there,” he smiles, shy, the tips of his ears burning under his beanie at the nickname. He munches a bit on his snack, pulling the box out to offer you one. You peer down in it, glancing up at him then hesitantly grabbing one for yourself, examining it. “It’s basically a chocolate covered cookie.” He chuckles at your apprehension, though confused you haven’t heard of it before. “Did you not see these back at home?”

“Well, I might have, but I don’t really eat sweets very often,” you bring it up between your teeth and bite down, letting it sit on your tongue so you can let the taste settle. Your eyes catch the sketchbook you have seen him with countless times, something about the drawing recognizable that makes you lean over to get a better look.

“Y-You don’t gotta–”

“Is that me?” You ask, finger coming out to point to one of the many headshot portraits scribbled on the page. Your eyes follow along the sketched lines, noting the only color being your eyes, which he matched perfectly. His fingers shake while he holds it, thankful he can use the cold as an excuse, but he wants to hide it. Close the book in your face, stow it away, pretend you never saw it.

“Uhm,” he clears his throat, hands moving quickly to start closing it, when your frigid fingers stop him, taking in all of his artwork. “Yeah, yeah, I have… I’ve been drawing you… for a while.” He prepares himself for verbal lashings, for cruel words, a smack across the face, for you to abandon him, but none of that ever comes. Instead, your finger inches toward one of his self-portraits, eyebrows coming together at the depiction: his eyes are missing, replaced with almost scribbled black holes, no mouth, but his hair looks the same. Some have his glasses on, and some even have hearts in his black holes, created with an eraser. You glance back to the drawings of you, a few having literal halos above your head, then slide your gaze to another one of his portraits – a few have sets of horns peeking out from the hair.

“Is this you?” You sit up enough to look in his eyes, able to tell something’s wrong in his scared expression and downcast gaze. He nods. You look back down at it, a shaky hand accidentally resting on his arm, and his teeth start to chatter in his mouth. “You… You made me look so pretty. Is that really how you see me?”

“Yeah,” his voice is meek, caught between being happy you haven’t taken off in the other direction and mortified you saw in the first place. “You’re just so sweet.” He adds, finally looking in your direction, and your big eyes stare at him, hand absentmindedly holding tight to his arm.

“Is that how you see yourself?” You ask then, vaguely pointing in the direction of his art. He hesitates, looking at one of his disturbing sketches, how big of a contrast there is between you and him on the page, almost as if he didn’t bother trying when it came to drawing himself. He simply nods again. “I don’t see you that way.” You tell him, seeing one of his pencils sticking out of his pocket that you carefully slip out. “Can I?” You nod toward it.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he passes it to you, which you graciously take, before you start doodling down at the bottom of the page.

“I’m not nearly as good as you,” you grin, sparing him a glance, to get his image memorized, and continuing with your small work of art. “I can only draw those… What are they called? Chibis?” You giggle, making some finishing touches, and he watches the side of your face intently. She didn’t run away. “Here. How’d I do?” You hold it up, pointing to the bottom where you made your small picture, depicting him with his glasses and a smile, you beside him, and your finger moves to point between them. He peeks down to see the chibis are holding hands.

“You made me look cute,” he states, dazed by what this could mean, not wanting to read too much into it – but it feels like the writing’s literally on the wall. Your cheeks deepen, surpassing the previous pink from winter’s flush to a more saturated red, and you push some hair from your eyes that you keep averted.

“It’s ‘cause you are cute, Osamu,” you blurt, becoming bashful at saying that out loud, something you’ve been wanting to tell him since you first laid eyes on him. “And you have the prettiest brown eyes I’ve ever seen.” He blinks, staring at you, sitting stock-still in his spot, and his heart is racing in his chest. Am I dreaming?

“‘O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a wingèd messenger of heaven unto the white upturnèd wond'ring eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy puffing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air,’” he recites Romeo’s part in the balcony scene without meaning to, apparently the only way he knows how to compliment you, and you stare at him. The silence is peaceful, the two of you sitting together in the middle of the park, the previously harsh snowfall now eased to a twinkle of dust, the sun making your surroundings all the more bright with everything being completely coated in flakes of all sizes.

“‘Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek for that which thou hast heard me speak tonight,’” you decide to humor him, reciting a portion of the same scene, and he can’t stop the smile that grows at your words. You giggle, cautiously setting his book back down in his lap, and your blush worsens while the burn from his ears have stretched across his cheeks to a deep maroon that protects him from the cold. His hand moves to his other pocket, fingers brushing the box he stuffed in there and had forgotten, until he gets an idea. A bit of a risky one that he isn’t sure how it will end for him.

“Uhm, do you… Would you wanna play a game with me?” He asks, pulling the box out and flipping it open. Your teeth begin to chatter while you watch, brow raising when you look back to the side of his incredibly red face. The snow came out of nowhere, seeming to foil your intended plans of walking around and talking amongst each other, but now you just want to go inside to get warm.

“What game?” He pauses for a moment at your question, pulling out one of the thin, chocolate-coated sticks and offers it to you. When your hand comes up to take it, he carefully pulls it out of reach, and your eyes lock for a beat too long – you curious, him abashed that he is actually doing this.

“It’s called the Pocky Game,” he is mustering up all the courage he can possibly have now, trying to sound confident, not seem at all suspicious.

“Pocky… Game?” You echo, tilting your head, kind of like a puppy that may have heard words it recognizes but isn’t sure.

“Yeah, you just…” He stops himself, biting down on his bottom lip before starting to explain. “You put one end in your mouth, I put the other in mine, and whoever gets to the middle first wins. Or whoever pulls away first loses.” He adds on, watching closely for a reaction, but something is obvious in your eyes you aren’t gathering the premise of this “game”. Your eyes are big with wonder, dropping down to the Pocky stick then back to his suddenly bright amber irises, before you nod once.

“Okay, sure. Whoever gets to the middle first, or whoever doesn’t pull away wins?” You repeat the conditions, and he nods, his fingers shaking again as he holds the chocolate end out to you that you gingerly take between your teeth, then he follows suit with the other end. People by now would have stopped participating, he blinks, your faces already so close together just at this distance.

“Ready?” He initiates, trembling voice hidden by the muffle from his teeth holding onto the stick.

“Ready,” you give a muffled response, but you aren’t really paying attention to anything. All you heard was “game” and “get to the middle first”.

“Go,” he instructs, and you both take bites out of the Pocky stick, you much faster than him, eyes lowered and focused on if you reached the middle or not yet, since it wasn’t terribly long to begin with. What you aren’t expecting is when you do get to the middle, you don’t have much of a chance to cheer for victory when something warm is pressed to your lips, and the coldest touch you have ever felt is resting gently on your cheek.

Your eyes widen, bigger than the moon, and cheeks flare up instantly as the realization dawns on you what he is doing. What you both are doing, frozen in place under the gazebo, no one around to witness his sweet trick, and the chocolate is melting on your shocked tongue. A small squeak comes from the back of your throat, caused by your heart making an attempt to leave the confines of your ribcage by shooting itself up, and these short three seconds feel as though they are lasting a lifetime.

His heart is pounding, relentless, not allowing him a moment’s peace while he feels your chapped and split lips on his, your soft skin on his fingertips, and he hasn’t been breathing since the game started. The tips of his ears are on fire, and he can’t believe he was able to do that without chickening out. He slowly pulls away, looking down at you, scanning your features for a reaction, but you are just… sitting there extremely quiet.

“Was that–”

“C-Can we play again?” You squeak out, clearing your throat immediately after as you grow more embarrassed from the request.

“You wanna play again?” He asks, to make sure he heard correctly, and you nod. He pauses, continuing to gaze down in those pretty eyes he can’t ever get out of his mind, that are there behind his lids when he sleeps, following him in his daydreams, and gazes back up at him right now in the silence after a snowstorm.

“Yeah, yeah, I wasn’t, uhm, I wasn’t ready,” you make up an excuse, any old thing you can think of all because you are too shy to ask him to give you a normal kiss and even more so to kiss him yourself. His eyes soften, a sweet and endearing smile spreading across his face as his fingers pull out another one, holding it up between you.

“Open.”

✯

"I can't help thinking this is how it ought to be."

fluffuary 2026 | masterlist | full ao3 oc vers., ch. 15 | requests: closed

dividers by saradika-graphics here on tumblr