#orphanage

crossed defensively over your chest, watching the depressing gray streets of Yokohama blur past the rain-streaked windows. Another Saturday wasted. Another orphanage visit. Another afternoon of feeling guilty about having a home while others didn't.

"Seriously, why do I have to keep coming to these charity visits?" you demanded for what felt like the hundredth time. "You do your saint routine, I stand around feeling uncomfortable and useless, we leave. It's a perfectly functional system that doesn't require my presence."

"Because," Oda said with that infuriating patience that made him such a good person and such an annoying brother, "I want you to meet someone. His name is Dazai Osamu. He's turning seventeen next month—your age. Very intelligent, very talented, and very alone."

Something in his tone—something heavy and sad—made you actually look over at him. "What happened to him?"

Oda's hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles going briefly white. "I knew his parents. Before they abandoned him at that orphanage when he was seven years old."

Your stomach dropped unpleasantly. "Jesus Christ, Oda. That's completely fucked up."

"Yes. It is." His voice was quiet. Weighted. "Which is why I'd very much like you to try being his friend. He needs someone who sees him as a person, not a charity case or a tragic story."

The orphanage loomed ahead like a monument to institutional sadness. Gray concrete walls, small barred windows, the kind of building that seemed specifically designed to crush hope and spirit. It looked like Soviet architecture had fucked a prison and this was their depressing offspring.

Inside was exactly as soul-crushing as you'd expected. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry insects. Walls painted that specific shade of beige that somehow managed to suck the life out of anyone who looked at it too long. The smell of industrial cleaner trying desperately to mask something sadder underneath—sweat and tears and resignation.

Director Yamamoto greeted Oda with warm familiarity, immediately pulling him aside to discuss paperwork and donations.

"Feel free to look around," Oda told you with an encouraging smile. "I'll just be a few minutes with the administrative stuff."

Great. Wonderful. Just what you wanted to do with your Saturday afternoon.

You shoved your hands deep in your jacket pockets and started wandering the empty hallways aimlessly, past closed classroom doors and a cafeteria that smelled like boiled sadness. Most of the kids seemed to be outside or in common rooms somewhere, their voices echoing hollowly through the corridors.

Then you heard it—piano music. Someone playing Chopin with startling skill and emotion.

Curious despite your general desire to be literally anywhere else, you followed the sound down a hallway. It led you to a half-open door. Inside, a boy sat at an old, slightly out-of-tune upright piano, dark hair falling into his eyes as his fingers moved across the yellowed keys with practiced, almost unconscious grace.

He played like he was having a conversation with the instrument. Like music was the only language he truly spoke.

You must have made some sound—a breath, a shuffle of your feet—because he stopped abruptly mid-phrase and turned around.

Oh.

He was beautiful in that devastating, dangerous way. Empty eyes—dark and fathomless as deep water—that looked at you like you were simultaneously the most interesting thing he'd seen all week and completely inconsequential. But then something shifted, smoothed over, and he smiled.

And god, what a smile.

Warm. Charming. Devastating.

"Well, hello there," he said, voice smooth as expensive whiskey. "I didn't realize I had an audience. Though if I'd known, I would have played something more impressive."

"Sorry," you managed, suddenly feeling awkward and intrusive. "I heard the music. Didn't mean to interrupt."

"Oh, you're not interrupting at all. In fact, you're the most interesting interruption I've had in... well, ever, actually." He stood with fluid grace, and you noticed he was tall—maybe five-ten or so. Thin but not frail. He moved toward you with casual confidence that made your breath catch. "I'm Dazai. Dazai Osamu."

"Y/N."

"Y/N," he repeated slowly, deliberately, like he was tasting your name. Testing how it felt in his mouth. "What a lovely name. Though I have to say, it's not nearly as lovely as the person wearing it."

Heat crept up your neck to your face. "I—that's—"

"Too much?" His smile turned playful, teasing, eyes glinting with amusement at your flustered reaction. "I've been told I come on a bit strong. Can't help it when I meet someone genuinely interesting. It's a rare occurrence in this place."

Despite yourself—despite the awkwardness—you laughed. "Is that a line?"

"Absolutely." He leaned against the piano frame, looking you up and down in a way that should have been offensive but somehow wasn't. Somehow felt more like appreciation than objectification. "Is it working?"

"Maybe."

His grin widened, delighted. "Then I'll absolutely take that as encouragement. So tell me, Y/N—what brings you to this wonderfully depressing establishment? Visiting someone? Lost? Running from the law?"

"My brother's here doing donation stuff with the director."

"Ah, how charitable of him." Dazai tilted his head, studying you with those unsettling, intelligent eyes. "And he dragged you along for moral support?"

"Something like that."

"Poor thing. Forced into charity work on a perfectly good Saturday." He moved closer—not threateningly, just... closer. "Tell you what—since you're stuck here anyway and I'm desperately bored, want to hear me play something else? I take requests. Especially from beautiful people."

You tried very hard to ignore how your traitorous heart skipped at the compliment. "I don't really know much about classical music."

"Then I'll play you something fun. Something that won't make you want to throw yourself off a bridge." He patted the piano bench beside him invitingly. "Come sit. Keep me company."

You found yourself sitting next to him before you'd consciously decided to move, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body, to smell whatever cheap soap the orphanage provided mixed with something uniquely him.

He launched into something playful and upbeat—ragtime, you thought. His fingers flew across the keys with impressive dexterity, pulling out a jaunty melody that made you smile despite yourself.

"You're really talented," you said when he finished with a flourish.

"Years of practice and having literally nothing else to do in this place." He turned to face you fully, and you were suddenly intensely aware of how close you were. How his eyes seemed to see right through you. "So, Y/N. Will I see you again? Or is this a one-time audience?"

"I... maybe? My brother comes here pretty regularly for his charity work."

"Then I very much hope you'll accompany him again." He took your hand—bold, forward, confident—and pressed a lingering kiss to your knuckles. His eyes never left yours. "I'd very much like to see you again. Get to know you better. Perhaps scandalize you with more inappropriate compliments."

Your face was absolutely on fire. "I should... I should probably go find my brother."

"Of course." But he didn't let go of your hand immediately, thumb brushing across your knuckles. "Same time next week, perhaps?"

"Maybe."

"I'll take that as a definite yes." He finally released you, smiling that devastating smile. "Until then, Y/N. Dream of me."

You practically fled the room, heart racing, face burning hot enough to fry an egg on.

What the actual hell just happened?

That evening, after all the visitors had left and dinner had been served, Director Yamamoto called Dazai to her office for what he assumed would be another tedious discussion about behavior or grades.

"Dazai-kun, I wanted to speak with you about today's visitor," she said, shuffling through papers on her cluttered desk.

He smiled pleasantly, still riding the pleasant high from meeting you. "Y/N? She was lovely. Genuinely lovely."

"Yes! I'm so glad you two seemed to get along well. You see, she's Odasaku Sakunosuke's younger sister—"

Everything inside Dazai went ice cold.

The pleasant warmth evaporated instantly, replaced by something frozen and sharp.

"—and Odasaku-san knew your parents quite well before the... before the unfortunate situation occurred. He's been incredibly generous with his donations over the years, and he specifically mentioned wanting to help you personally. Isn't that wonderful? He thinks you two could become friends—"

Dazai stopped hearing anything else.

Static filled his ears. His vision narrowed.

Odasaku knew his parents.

That girl—that beautiful, interesting, charming girl he'd flirted with—she was the sister of someone directly connected to the people who'd abandoned him like garbage. Who'd decided he wasn't worth the effort of keeping.

They'd used her. Sent her to charm him, to soften him up, to make him vulnerable and grateful. All part of some guilt-driven charity mission to make Odasaku feel better about doing nothing when Dazai had needed someone most.

Everything inside him turned to ice and rage and betrayal so sharp it physically hurt.

"Dazai-kun? Are you alright? You look pale—"

"I'm fine," he said, voice completely dead. Emotionless. "Perfectly fine. Thank you for telling me."

But he wasn't fine.

He was absolutely FURIOUS.

Two weeks later, you returned to the orphanage, actually excited to see Dazai again. You'd thought about him more than you wanted to admit over the past fourteen days. His smile. His confidence. The way he'd kissed your hand like something out of a period drama.

You found him in the music room, sitting at the piano but not playing. Just staring at the keys like they'd personally offended him.

"Hey!" you said brightly, unable to keep the smile off your face. "Remember me?"

He turned slowly, and the change was like being doused in ice water.

Gone was the charming, flirty, warm boy from two weeks ago. In his place was something cold. Hostile. Empty in a way that made your stomach drop unpleasantly.

"Oh," he said flatly, voice devoid of any emotion. "You."

You blinked, confused and suddenly uncertain. "Uh... is everything okay? Did something happen?"

"Is everything OKAY?" He laughed—bitter and broken and nothing like the warm sound from before. "Why wouldn't everything be okay? Why would anything possibly be wrong?"

"Dazai, what—"

"Tell me something, Y/N." He stood slowly, approaching with none of his previous casual grace. Now he moved like a predator. "When you came here two weeks ago—when you let me flirt with you, when you sat beside me, when you smiled at me—did you know?"

Your stomach dropped further. "Know what?"

"Did you know that your brother knew my parents?" His voice turned sharp as broken glass, cutting. "Did you know he was acquainted with the people who abandoned me here like I was GARBAGE? Like I was NOTHING?"

"What? No, I didn't—"

"LIAR!" The word cracked through the air like a whip, making you flinch. "You're part of it, aren't you? Part of his fucking charity project. Send the pretty sister to charm the poor orphan boy, make him feel special, make him grateful, make him compliant—"

"That's not—that's not true—"

"Then tell me—was it fun?" His eyes were vicious now, cruel in a way that made your chest hurt. "Playing with me? Letting me flirt with you? Letting me think you might actually care? Did you laugh about it later with your perfect fucking brother? Did you pat yourselves on the back for being such good people?"

"I would NEVER—"

"Then where the fuck was he?!" Dazai was in your face now, close enough that you could see the pain hidden under all that rage. "Where was Odasaku when I was seven fucking years old and my parents were deciding I wasn't worth keeping?! Where was your saint of a brother when I was being LEFT HERE?! When I NEEDED someone—ANYONE—to give a shit whether I lived or died?!"

Tears burned your eyes, hot and humiliating. "I don't know! I don't know what Oda knew or when he knew it—"

"How CONVENIENT." His laugh was ugly. Broken. "He just conveniently had no idea. Just conveniently did nothing while a child was being abandoned. And now—now he sends you. His pretty little sister to make the orphan feel better. To make HIM feel better about his failure. About his cowardice."

"Oda is not a coward—"

"Then what is he? Huh? WHAT THE FUCK IS HE if not a coward who let a child suffer because it was easier than getting involved?!"

"FUCK YOU!" The words exploded out of you, surprising you both. "FUCK YOU, Dazai! You don't know anything about my brother! You don't know what he's been through, what he's sacrificed, what he does for people—"

"I know he did NOTHING for ME!"

"Maybe he didn't know how bad it was! Maybe your parents hid it! Maybe he found out too late to do anything! I don't FUCKING KNOW, but I know—I know—that Oda would never knowingly let a child suffer!"

"And I'm not your charity project!" His voice cracked slightly, revealing the hurt underneath. "I'm not some broken thing for you to fix so you can feel good about yourselves!"

"I never thought you were!" Your voice was shaking now, tears streaming down your face. "I came here because I wanted to! Because I thought you were interesting and talented and I wanted to get to know you! But clearly I was wrong! Clearly you're just a bitter asshole who'd rather hate everyone than let anyone in!"

Something flickered across his expression—hurt, regret, something—but it was gone so fast you might have imagined it.

His face went cold again. Empty. "Get out."

"Fine. FINE." You were ugly-crying now and you hated it, hated him for making you feel this way. "I was stupid to think you were different. That you were worth caring about. But you're just—you're just broken and mean and I'm DONE."

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

You fled, sobbing, heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

But despite everything—despite the hurt and the anger and the cruel words—you came back.

The next week.

Oda had looked at you with surprise and concern when you'd asked to come along on his Saturday visit.

"Are you sure? I thought you and Dazai had a fight."

"We did. But I'm not giving up on him just because he's being an asshole."

Oda's expression had softened with something like pride.

You found Dazai in the library this time, deliberately avoiding the music room. He saw you coming and immediately stood to leave.

"Running away?" you called out.

He froze, back stiff.

"That's what I thought. Coward."

He turned slowly, eyes flashing. "What did you just call me?"

"You heard me. You're a coward, Dazai. You're so terrified of being hurt again that you push everyone away first. You're so scared of caring about anyone that you make them hate you before they can leave you."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough." You moved closer, refusing to be intimidated. "I know you're lonely. I know you're hurt. I know you're angry at the whole fucking world. And I know that underneath all that bitterness and cruelty, you're just scared."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you too. But I'm still coming back next week. And the week after that. And the week after THAT. Because unlike everyone else in your life, I don't give up on people I care about."

"You don't care about me. You don't even know me."

"Then let me know you, asshole. Stop pushing me away and let me in."

He stared at you for a long moment, something complicated and painful warring in his expression.

"Why?" he finally asked, voice quieter. Almost vulnerable. "Why do you keep coming back?"

"Because I'm stubborn as hell. And because I think you're worth it."

"I'm not."

"I'll be the judge of that."

He looked away, jaw tight. "I'm not going to apologize for what I said."

"I'm not asking you to. Not yet anyway."

"I still think your brother is a coward."

"And I still think you're an asshole. Looks like we're at an impasse."

The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. Just for a second. "You're really fucking annoying, you know that?"

"And you're a miserable prick. But I'm still coming back next week."

"Fine."

"Fine."

That was the beginning.

April turned to May, and slowly—so slowly you almost didn't notice at first—things started to change.

Dazai stopped immediately leaving rooms when you entered. Started responding to your comments with actual words instead of hostile silence. Even occasionally made sarcastic jokes that were almost funny.

"You're back again," he observed one Saturday afternoon. You'd found him in the music room (he'd stopped avoiding it when you were around).

"Disappointed?"

"Surprised. Most people give up on me much faster."

"I'm not most people."

"I'm starting to notice that."

May brought warmer weather and longer conversations. You learned he read constantly—philosophy mostly, the depressing kind. Dostoevsky. Camus. Osamu Dazai (he'd been named after the author, ironically).

"You're named after a writer who committed suicide," you said. "That's fucked up."

"My parents had a dark sense of humor."

"Your parents were assholes."

He blinked, surprised. Then laughed—actually laughed, genuine and surprised. "Yeah. They really were."

June arrived with oppressive heat and something that might actually be called friendship.

You visited twice a week now, sometimes with Oda, sometimes alone. You'd fallen into an actual routine. You'd bring books or homework. He'd play piano or read. Sometimes you'd talk. Sometimes you'd just exist in comfortable silence.

It was... nice.

"I tried to drown myself in the shower yesterday," Dazai announced casually one sweltering afternoon.

You didn't even look up from your summer reading assignment. "That's genuinely the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my entire life."

"I'm very determined when I set my mind to something."

"You're very STUPID when you set your mind to something. The water spray is like three inches wide. How the actual fuck were you planning to drown in THAT?"

"I was going to lie down in the tub and let the shower run."

"That's just taking a really inefficient bath, not drowning."

He laughed—genuinely laughed—and sprawled dramatically on the floor like a Victorian maiden with vapors. "God, you're mean. I love it."

Your heart did a weird little flip at the word 'love' even though you knew he didn't mean it like that. "Someone has to keep you from doing stupid shit."

"And you've apparently appointed yourself to that position."

"Someone has to. You're clearly not capable of self-preservation."

"True." He was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "You know, I think you might actually be my best friend."

You looked over at him, sprawled on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. Your chest felt warm. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Which is pretty fucking pathetic, considering we've only been actual friends for like two months."

"We're both pathetic then."

"Perfect for each other."

Something about the way he said it made you look away quickly, face warm.

Late June, everything changed.

You'd stayed later than usual, helping Oda organize donation boxes. Most kids were at dinner. The orphanage was eerily quiet.

That's when you heard it—distant piano music, muffled and coming from... above?

Curious, you followed the sound. Found maintenance stairs you'd never noticed before. A door at the top marked "ROOF ACCESS - STAFF ONLY" in faded, peeling letters.

You pushed it open.

And found Dazai sitting on the ledge, legs dangling casually over the edge, four stories up.

Your heart STOPPED.

"DAZAI!" You rushed forward, grabbing his arm hard enough to probably leave bruises. "What the actual FUCK are you doing?!"

He turned, genuinely startled for once. "Whoa, hey, relax—"

"You're sitting on the EDGE OF THE FUCKING ROOF—"

"I'm not going to jump—"

"You're literally DANGLING YOUR LEGS OVER THE EDGE—"

"Y/N, breathe—" He grabbed your other hand, gently but firmly pulling you away from the edge, back to safer ground. "I'm not jumping. I promise. I like the view, that's all."

"You—what?"

"The view." He gestured at the cityscape spread out before you, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. "It's beautiful up here. Peaceful. Especially at sunset."

Your heart was still racing, adrenaline making your hands shake. "You can't just SIT on the edge of roofs like that! You're going to give someone a fucking heart attack!"

"Sorry. I really didn't think anyone would find me up here." He studied your face with concern. "Are you okay? You look pale."

"Am I OKAY? I just found you sitting on the edge of a ROOF—"

"And I explained I wasn't jumping."

"How was I supposed to know that?!"

He had the grace to look sheepish. "Fair point. Come on, sit with me. Away from the edge if it makes you feel better."

You let him pull you down to sit on the rooftop proper, several safe feet from the ledge. Your heart was still pounding.

"How long have you been coming up here?" you demanded.

"Since I was eight." He leaned back on his hands, tilting his face toward the sky. "Found the unlocked door one day when I was looking for somewhere to cry where no one would find me. It's the only place I can actually think clearly. Away from all the noise and the other kids and the constant fucking reminder that I'm stuck here."

"Is it allowed?"

He gave you a look.

"Right. Stupid question." You drew your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. "You could have told me about this place."

"Could have. But then it wouldn't be secret anymore."

"So why are you telling me now?"

He was quiet for a long moment, watching the sun sink lower toward the horizon. The sky was turning pink and gold and orange, absolutely breathtaking.

"Because I trust you," he said finally, simply. "Because you keep coming back even though I gave you every reason not to. Because you're..." He trailed off.

"I'm what?"

"Important to me." The words came out quiet. Almost shy. "You're important to me, Y/N. And I wanted to share this with you."

Your chest felt impossibly warm. "I'm important to you?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. My ego is already enormous."

He laughed, nudging your shoulder with his. "Brat."

"Asshole."

"We really need better insults for each other."

"Probably."

You sat in comfortable silence, watching the sunset paint the sky in impossible colors. The city stretched out below, lights beginning to twinkle on one by one like stars being born.

"Thank you," Dazai said quietly.

"For what?"

"For not giving up on me. For keeping coming back even when I was being—" He paused. "Even when I was being unforgivably cruel. You didn't deserve that. What I said about you, about your brother—it wasn't fair."

"No. It wasn't."

"I was angry. At your brother, at my parents, at the whole fucking world. And I took it out on you because you were there and you were connected to it and I thought—" His voice caught slightly. "I thought if I hurt you first, it would hurt less when you inevitably left."

"I'm not leaving."

"I'm starting to believe that."

The sky was deepening now, stars beginning to appear in the purple twilight.

"Can I come up here with you again?" you asked. "Or is this a solo brooding spot?"

He turned to look at you, and something in his expression made your breath catch. Something soft. Vulnerable. "I'd really like that, actually. Having you here."

"Even though it's against the rules?"

"Especially because it's against the rules. Makes it more fun. More... ours."

Your heart did that stupid flipping thing again.

"Partners in crime?" you offered.

He held out his pinky, completely serious despite the childishness of the gesture. "Official roof access pact?"

You stared at his offered pinky finger. "Are you actually making me pinky promise right now? What are we, twelve years old?"

"It's binding and sacred. Very serious business."

Rolling your eyes but unable to stop smiling, you linked your pinky with his. "This is so fucking stupid."

"And yet here you are, doing it anyway."

"Yeah. Here I am."

His smile in the growing darkness was beautiful. Genuine. And it made something in your chest feel warm and full and slightly terrifying.

From that day forward, the roof became your place. Your secret.

July hit like a physical assault—oppressively hot and humid, the kind of weather that made you want to melt into a puddle.

School had ended. You'd picked up more hours at your part-time job at a bookstore to save money. Between work and helping Oda and trying to maintain something resembling a social life, your orphanage visits dropped from twice a week to once if you were lucky.

You missed him. Constantly.

Which was... concerning.

One particularly slow afternoon at the bookstore, you found yourself doodling in your work notebook instead of doing inventory. Not homework—school was out. Just... thoughts. Random observations. Things you wanted to tell Dazai about the absolutely batshit customers you'd dealt with that week.

That's when you realized: you were thinking about him constantly. Missing him. Wanting to talk to him.

Oh fuck.

The next time you visited, you brought a notebook—brand new, pages blank and full of possibility.

"What's that?" Dazai asked suspiciously, eyeing it like it might explode.

"A journal. For us."

He raised an eyebrow. "For us?"

"Yeah. I can't visit as often anymore because of work. So I thought..." You felt suddenly, inexplicably nervous. "We could write to each other? In here? Leave it in the music room. You write something, I write back when I visit, and so on. Like letters but slower."

He took the notebook carefully, almost reverently, like it was something precious. Flipped through the blank pages slowly. "Like a conversation, but with more time to overthink every single word?"

"Exactly."

"That's..." He looked up, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. Something soft. "Actually really thoughtful. Thank you, Y/N."

"Don't get all emotional on me. It's just a notebook."

"It's not JUST a notebook." His voice went quiet. Sincere. "It means you're thinking about me even when you're not here. That you want to keep talking to me even when we can't see each other. That means... that means a lot."

Your face felt hot. "Well. Yeah. Obviously. You're my best friend, asshole."

"Best friend." He tested the words, smiling that real smile that made your heart do stupid things. "I really like the sound of that."

That night, he wrote the first entry:

"Dear Y/N,

This is weird as fuck. I don't do journals. I don't do feelings on paper. I don't do anything that involves being vulnerable in a way that leaves EVIDENCE. But you asked, so here I am, writing like some pretentious Victorian letter-writer pining away in a tower.

I played Rachmaninoff today. Prelude in G minor. The really aggressive, angry one. Was thinking about my parents. Wondering if they ever think about me. If they ever regret leaving a seven-year-old kid at an orphanage like he was yesterday's garbage. (They probably don't. Which is fine. I'm fine. Everything is so fine I could be a fucking poster child for fineness.)

You asked me once why I play different music depending on my mood. Here's the truth: music is the only language I'm actually fluent in. Everything else is just me pretending to understand how to be human. Pretending to know what normal people feel and think and want. But music? Music makes sense. When I sit at that piano, I can be honest. Even if it's only for a few minutes. Even if no one's listening.

Anyway. This is getting depressing even by my standards.

How's work? Have you committed murder yet? If yes, I can help hide the body. I know a guy who knows a guy.

(I don't actually know a guy. That was a joke. Unless you genuinely need help hiding a body, in which case I can probably figure something out. I'm resourceful like that.)

Miss you. Don't let it go to your head.

- Dazai

PS: I'm not lonely. YOU'RE lonely. Shut up."

You found it two days later and had to suppress a smile that definitely would have looked suspicious to your coworkers at the bookstore.

"Dear Emo Victorian Maiden Pining Away In His Tower,

First of all: you're not pathetic for wondering about your parents. They're complete assholes of the highest order and you're allowed to have feelings about that. Play all the aggressive Rachmaninoff you want. Scream into a pillow. Whatever helps.

Second: Work is genuinely a NIGHTMARE. Yesterday some entitled prick asked if we had '50 Shades of Grey' but wanted the 'clean version for his church book club.' THE CLEAN VERSION. OF 50 SHADES. I almost had a fucking stroke trying to explain that defeats the ENTIRE PURPOSE. When I said we didn't carry such a thing, he got mad at ME. Like I personally wrote the book to be explicit just to spite him.

Customers are genuinely the worst specimens of humanity.

Third: I miss the roof. And your piano playing. And arguing with you about stupid shit. And your stupid face.

(That came out wrong. Your face isn't stupid. It's actually annoyingly attractive, which is VERY inconvenient for me. FORGET I WROTE THAT. Seriously. We're not discussing it. Moving on.)

Miss you too, you disaster.

- Y/N

PS: What piece do you play when you're thinking about me? Or is that too mortifying to admit?"

The journal became everything that summer.

Back and forth, back and forth, filling pages with thoughts and observations and terrible jokes and slowly, carefully, real feelings.

"I play Debussy when I think about you. Clair de Lune, specifically. It's the only piece I know that sounds like hope instead of resignation. Like maybe things don't have to be shit all the time. - D"

"That's disgustingly poetic and romantic and I hate how much I love it. Also my heart is doing weird things now and it's YOUR fault entirely. - Y/N"

"Good. I meant every word. Your heart can do weird things all it wants. Mine does the same whenever I see you. - D"

"Well now I'M doing weird heart things AND blushing at work. Thanks for that. - Y/N"

"You're blushing? God, I wish I could see that. I bet you look beautiful when you blush. - D"

"DAZAI. We need to talk about BOUNDARIES. - Y/N"

"Do we though? You haven't told me to stop. - D"

"...That's because I don't WANT you to stop. - Y/N"

"Oh. OH. That's... that's really good to know. - D"

And then, slowly, the journal started getting... interesting.

"Fun fact: Did you know that in French, the verb 'venir' means both 'to come' and 'to arrive'? Very efficient language. Very practical. - D"

"Are you seriously making SEX JOKES in our shared journal??? - Y/N"

"I'm making LINGUISTIC observations. If YOUR mind went somewhere inappropriate, that's entirely on you. - D"

"You're the WORST. - Y/N"

"Would you prefer I make sex jokes in person instead? - D"

"...Maybe? - Y/N"

"'Maybe'? That's not a no. Interesting. VERY interesting. - D"

"I'm going to murder you. - Y/N"

"Promises, promises. ;) - D"

"Is that a WINKY FACE?! Who even ARE you??? - Y/N"

"Someone who's apparently very good at flustering you. How's your face right now? Red yet? - D"

"I HATE YOU SO MUCH. - Y/N"

"Liar. You love me. - D"

He was right. You were absolutely lying.

The flirting escalated over the next few weeks.

"You know, some studies suggest that sexual tension can be resolved through direct communication. Or vigorous physical activity. Just scientific facts I'm sharing. For educational purposes. - D"

"DAZAI. - Y/N"

"Yes? Did you have questions about the science? I can provide more details. LOTS of details. - D"

"This journal is going to be EVIDENCE of something. - Y/N"

"Evidence of what? How much we want each other? I'm okay with that. - D"

"You're impossible. - Y/N"

"And you're beautiful. Especially when you get all flustered. Are you flustered right now? - D"

"...Maybe. - Y/N"

"I wish I could see. I wish I could MAKE you flustered in person. Make you make those little sounds. - D"

"What sounds??? - Y/N"

"The ones I imagine you making when someone touches you just right. When someone kisses your neck. When someone makes you feel good. Do you make sounds, Y/N? - D"

"I... I don't know. Maybe? - Y/N"

"I want to find out. I want to learn every sound you make. Every place that makes you gasp. - D"

Your hands were shaking reading that.

"Dazai, I'm at WORK. - Y/N"

"Even better. Are you thinking about it now? About my hands? My mouth? - D"

"...Yes. - Y/N"

"Good. Think about it more. Think about where you want them. - D"

"Everywhere. I want them everywhere. This is SO inappropriate. - Y/N"

"But you're not telling me to stop. - D"

"No. I'm not. - Y/N"

"Tell me what you think about. When you're alone. Do you think about me? - D"

"...Sometimes. - Y/N"

"What do you think about? Give me details. Please. - D"

"Your hands. Your voice. What it would feel like if you touched me. Kissed me. More than that. - Y/N"

"Fuck. FUCK. I think about that too. Constantly. What you'd taste like. What you'd feel like. How you'd sound saying my name. - D"

"I think about saying your name. In ways that would make you lose your mind. - Y/N"

"You're going to be the death of me. - D"

"Good. We can die together. Very romantic. - Y/N"

"I'd rather LIVE together. Do very NOT-dead things together. - D"

"Like what? - Y/N"

"Like kissing you until neither of us can breathe. Like touching you until you forget your own name. Like making you come so hard you see stars. Should I continue? - D"

"...Please. - Y/N"

Late August, things got even MORE explicit.

"I had a very vivid dream last night. Want me to tell you about it? - D"

"Yes. - Y/N"

"We were on the roof. Watching stars. And you looked at me with those eyes and I just... couldn't NOT kiss you anymore. So I did. And you kissed me back. And then your hands were in my hair and my hands were under your shirt and we couldn't get close enough. - D"

"And then what? - Y/N"

"And then I woke up alone in my shitty orphanage bed feeling VERY frustrated. In multiple ways. - D"

"Frustrated how? Be specific. - Y/N"

"You want details? Fine. I was hard. Aching. Couldn't stop thinking about the dream. About you. So I... took care of it. While thinking about you the entire time. - D"

"DAZAI. - Y/N"

"You ASKED for specifics. - D"

"I... I don't know what to do with this information. - Y/N"

"You could tell me if you ever do the same? Fair's fair. - D"

"...Maybe I have. - Y/N"

"MAYBE? Elaborate. Please. I'm BEGGING. - D"

"Maybe I think about you when I'm alone in my room at night. Maybe I touch myself and imagine it's you. Maybe I bite my pillow so I don't say your name out loud. - Y/N"

"Holy FUCK. I'm... I need a minute. Several minutes. A cold shower. - D"

"You asked. - Y/N"

"I did. And now I'm suffering. Beautiful, exquisite suffering. Do you... do you really think about me like that? - D"

"All the time. Is that weird? - Y/N"

"If it's weird then we're both weird because I think about you like that CONSTANTLY. It's actually a problem. I can barely function. - D"

"What do you think about? Specifically? - Y/N"

"Everything. I think about kissing you. Touching you. Your skin under my hands. Your body against mine. Inside you. Making you moan my name. Making you come. EVERYTHING. - D"

"I want that. All of it. Soon. - Y/N"

"Soon. I promise. - D"

Friday came.

Except it didn't.

Because Friday, you had the WORST day at work. A customer complained about something completely unreasonable, your manager blamed YOU for it, and you ended up working a surprise double shift that left you exhausted and furious.

By the time you got home, it was 10 PM. You were tired and pissed and—

The journal.

You'd promised Dazai you'd visit Friday. You'd been writing increasingly explicit things back and forth all week, the tension building to an almost unbearable level.

It was technically still Friday.

Barely.

"Fuck it," you muttered, grabbing your jacket.

Your bedroom was on the first floor. The window opened easily. The orphanage was a fifteen-minute walk through quiet streets.

Breaking and entering. Definitely one of your BEST life choices.

(It was absolutely a terrible life choice but you didn't CARE.)

The orphanage looked different at night—more ominous, all dark windows and looming walls. You circled to the back where you knew there was a low wall and a window that didn't lock properly.

Climbing the wall was harder than expected. You definitely scraped your knee and possibly twisted your ankle slightly. But you made it.

The window protested but opened. You slipped inside, landing awkwardly in what looked like a supply closet.

The building was dark. Silent. Empty feeling.

You'd memorized the route to the music room weeks ago. Down this hallway, left at the cafeteria, past the common room, right turn—

Someone grabbed you.

A hand clamped over your mouth from behind. You were YANKED backward into a dark room with shocking force, the door clicking shut.

Your back SLAMMED against the wall. Hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

And then—

Oh FUCK.

Dazai's body pressed against yours. Completely. Fully. EVERYWHERE.

His hand still covered your mouth. His other arm was braced beside your head, caging you in. His chest pressed against yours—you could feel his heartbeat, rapid and hard. His hips—

Oh GOD.

You could feel EVERYTHING. His warmth. His breathing. And lower, pressed firmly against your stomach—you could feel HIM. Already half-hard and getting harder by the second.

"What the FUCK are you doing here?" he hissed directly in your ear, voice low and dangerous.

His breath on your neck made you shiver violently. He felt it—pressed even closer, if that was possible. One of his legs shifted, moving between yours slightly, and you had to bite back a sound against his palm.

"It's almost MIDNIGHT," he continued, lips brushing your ear. "Do you have ANY idea what could happen if you got caught breaking in here?"

You tried to speak but his hand covered your mouth firmly. His body had you completely pinned—trapped between him and the wall with nowhere to go. The position was intimate. Compromising. You could feel every inch of him pressed against you.

He was getting harder. You could feel it happening in real-time, his body responding to the proximity, to having you trapped beneath him.

"Fuck," he breathed, and you felt him twitch against you.

Slowly—SO slowly it was almost torture—he removed his hand from your mouth.

"Dazai—" Your voice came out breathy. Shaky.

"Shhh." His lips were right by your ear, close enough to feel. "Someone might hear us."

"Then maybe you should stop pressing your entire body against mine like you're trying to become one person."

"Do you WANT me to move?" His voice dropped even lower. Rougher.

Did you?

Your brain was screaming YES for propriety's sake.

Your body was screaming NO.

"...No," you whispered.

His breath hitched. You felt him get impossibly harder against you. "Y/N—"

"I missed you. I couldn't wait until tomorrow. I needed to see you."

"So you broke into an orphanage." His voice was soft now. Wondering. "You committed an actual CRIME. For me."

"For you."

"You're absolutely insane."

"And you're still hard."

He made a strangled, desperate sound. "You can't just SAY things like that—"

"Why not? I can FEEL it. You're not exactly subtle."

"Fuck." His forehead pressed against your temple. "You're going to kill me."

"Not before you make me come at least twice, remember? You promised in the journal."

He GROANED, hips pressing forward involuntarily. "You read that entry."

"I read EVERY entry. Every single filthy thing you wrote. And I thought about it. A lot."

"Fuck fuck FUCK—"

"Dazai?"

"Yeah?" His voice was wrecked.

"Kiss me."

He pulled back just enough to look at you. Even in the darkness, you could see his eyes—dark and desperate and full of want.

"If I start," he said quietly, "I don't know if I can stop."

"Then don't stop."

"Y/N—"

"Kiss me. Please."

He did.

And everything EXPLODED.

His mouth crashed against yours—desperate, hungry, MONTHS of tension detonating all at once. Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands and pulling. His hands gripped your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. Like you were the only real thing in his world. His tongue slid against yours and you MOANED into his mouth, unable to stop yourself.

He swallowed the sound, kissing you harder. Deeper. One hand slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your shirt, and you gasped.

"Is this okay?" he panted against your lips.

"More than okay. Don't you DARE stop."

"Wasn't planning to."

His mouth moved to your neck, kissing and biting and sucking in ways that made your knees weak. You tilted your head back, giving him better access, and he made a pleased sound against your skin.

"We need to move," he gasped between kisses. "If someone hears—if we get caught—"

"The roof?"

"The roof."

He grabbed your hand, pulling you through the dark building. Up maintenance stairs, through the forbidden door.

Cool night air hit your overheated skin. Stars overhead. City lights below.

Dazai already had supplies up here—blankets, candles in protected holders. He lit them quickly with shaking hands.

Then he turned to you, and the look in his eyes made your breath stop.

"Come here," he said, voice rough with want.

You went to him.

And he kissed you again—slower this time but no less intense. Walking you backward until you were on the blanket, him following, covering your body with his.

The weight of him felt perfect. Right.

His hands slid under your shirt—warm, calloused from piano keys. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulled him closer, closer, never close enough.

"I've wanted this for so long," he gasped against your neck.

"Me too. God, me too."

He kissed down your throat, across your collarbone. His hands explored, learning you, making you gasp and arch into his touch.

But he didn't push further. Didn't try to remove clothes or go past touching over fabric.

Just kissed you breathless. Touched you until you were shaking. Made you feel wanted and desired and LOVED.

When you finally broke apart, you were both panting. Flushed. Grinning like idiots.

"That was—" you started.

"Really fucking good."

"Yeah."

He rolled onto his back, pulling you against his side. You curled into him, head on his chest, listening to his racing heartbeat.

"I'm in love with you," he said suddenly. Quietly.

Your breath caught. "What?"

"I'm in love with you." He said it stronger now, more certain. "Completely. Terrifyingly. Helplessly in love with you. Have been for months. Maybe since the beginning. I don't know exactly when it happened but it DID and I can't keep it in anymore."

Tears pricked your eyes. "You absolute DISASTER—"

"I know, terrible timing after making out, but I couldn't—"

You kissed him quiet.

"I love you too," you whispered against his lips. "So fucking much. You have no idea."

His smile was BRILLIANT. Blinding. Beautiful.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you, Dazai Osamu."

"Again."

"I love you I love you I love you—"

He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, perfectly.

And then he said the words that would change everything:

"Marry me."

You pulled back, staring at him. "What?"

"Marry me. Not now—we're seventeen, we're broke, we're stupid. But someday. When I turn eighteen and age out of here. When we can actually be together properly. Promise me someday."

"Are you seriously PROPOSING right now? On a roof? After we just made out for the first time?"

"I'm promising you forever. I'm asking you to promise me forever back. Is that a yes?"

You laughed through sudden tears. "Yes, you absolute disaster. Yes, I'll marry you someday."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kissed you again, and it felt like a promise. Like the beginning of something real and permanent and GOOD.

You stayed on that roof until dawn, wrapped around each other. Kissing and touching and whispering promises and dreams and futures.

Everything had changed.

Everything was perfect.

The months between that first kiss and Dazai's eighteenth birthday were a blur of stolen moments and increasing desperation.

Midnight meetings became routine. Friday nights, you'd climb through that window. Every time, Dazai would be waiting. Every time ended with hours of kissing on the roof.

The journal got even MORE explicit.

"Can't stop thinking about last night. About your hands in my hair. About the sounds you made. About how you taste. I want more. I want EVERYTHING. - D"

"Me too. I ache for you. Literally. Physically ache. This is torture. Beautiful torture. - Y/N"

"Good. I want you aching. Wanting. Desperate. Just like I am. - D"

"I AM desperate. I touched myself thinking about you this morning. Came so hard I saw stars. - Y/N"

"FUCK. Now I'm hard at dinner. In front of the DIRECTOR. This is YOUR fault. - D"

"Oops? 😇 - Y/N"

"'Oops' my ass. You did that on PURPOSE. - D"

"Maybe. What are you going to do about it? - Y/N"

"Show you on Friday. In DETAIL. - D"

Friday nights became everything. Kissing that lasted hours. Hands exploring over clothes, learning each other's bodies. Grinding together until you were both desperate and aching.

But never going all the way. Saving that. Waiting.

December brought snow and plans for the future.

"I turn eighteen in February," Dazai said one night, both of you wrapped in blankets under the stars. "Oda's arranged an apartment for me."

"I know."

"Come with me. Not to live—not yet, your brother would murder me. But visit. Stay over sometimes. Be with me properly."

"Yes. God, yes."

January arrived with biting cold and growing anticipation.

"Only one more month," you whispered against his lips one Friday night.

"One more month until I'm free. Until we can be together without sneaking around."

"I can't wait."

"Me neither."

But there was something he needed to do first.

Mid-January, two weeks before his birthday, Dazai asked you to visit during actual daylight hours for once.

"I need to show you something," he'd written in the journal. "Come Saturday afternoon. Music room. Please."

So you did.

You found him sitting at the piano, staring at the keys like they held the secrets of the universe. He looked nervous. You'd never seen him genuinely nervous before.

"Hey," you said softly from the doorway.

He turned, and his smile was automatic but shaky. "Hey."

"You okay? You look nervous."

"I am nervous."

"Why? It's just me."

"That's exactly WHY I'm nervous." He patted the bench beside him. "Sit with me?"

You sat close enough that your thighs touched. "What's going on?"

"I need to play something for you."

"Okay?"

"But I need you to just listen. Don't say anything until I'm done. Can you do that?"

The intensity in his voice made your stomach flip with something between anxiety and anticipation. "Dazai, you're scaring me—"

"I'm not trying to scare you. I just—" He took a shaky breath. "Please. Just listen. Let me do this."

"Okay. I'm listening."

He turned to the piano. His hands were trembling as they hovered over the keys.

Then he started to play.

Clair de Lune.

The piece he'd told you reminded him of you. The piece that sounded like hope. The piece he played when he thought about you.

But he'd never played it for you before. Not like this.

He played it slowly, carefully, pouring absolutely everything into each note. And as you listened—really listened—you heard it all. Every emotion he couldn't put into words.

The gentleness. The longing. The fear of losing you. The overwhelming, terrifying, all-consuming love.

Tears streamed down your face. You pressed both hands over your mouth, trying desperately not to make a sound like he'd asked.

When the last note faded into silence, his hands remained on the keys. Still trembling.

"That's how I feel about you," he said quietly, voice shaking. "Every single day. Every moment. That's what it sounds like in my head when I think about you. When I see you. When I imagine any kind of future that doesn't completely suck."

"Dazai—" Your voice broke.

"I'm not good with words. I never have been. I can write in that journal because I have time to think and edit and make it sound right. But in person?" He finally turned to face you, and the vulnerability in his eyes was OVERWHELMING. "In person I'm a mess. But music—music I understand. And that piece... that's you. That's us. That's everything I feel and can't properly say out loud."

He took a shaky breath.

"I'm in love with you. So completely it terrifies me every single day. You're the only good thing in my entire life. The only thing that makes sense. The only reason I want to keep breathing and facing each day. Before you, I was just... existing. Waiting for it to end. But you made me want to live. Actually live."

"Dazai," you sobbed.

"And I know we already talked about this. About getting married someday. But I needed you to know. Really know. How much you mean to me. What you've done for me just by existing and refusing to give up on me."

You were full-on crying now. Ugly crying. Happy tears streaming down your face uncontrollably.

"You IDIOT," you sobbed.

He flinched. "I know, I'm sorry, this was stupid, I shouldn't have—"

You grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him.

Hard. Desperate. Pouring everything you felt into it.

He made a surprised sound against your lips, then kissed you back just as desperately. His hands flew to your waist, pulling you closer—

The piano bench tipped backward with a CRASH.

You both tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

"OW—FUCK—" Dazai was laughing and wincing simultaneously. "Are you okay?!"

"I'm perfect." You were still crying and laughing and kissing every part of his face you could reach. "You're perfect. That was perfect. I love you so fucking much it's actually ridiculous—"

"Yeah?" His smile was SO bright it hurt to look at.

"YES, you absolute DISASTER. I've been in love with you for MONTHS. Maybe since you first played piano for me. Maybe since the roof. Maybe since you wrote that first journal entry. I don't even know anymore but I love you."

"Good. That's—that's really good."

You kissed him again, slower this time. Sweeter. Both of you still on the floor, piano bench on its side next to you, neither of you caring about anything except this moment.

"I love you," you whispered between kisses.

"Say it again."

"I love you, Dazai Osamu."

"Again."

"I love you I love you I love you—"

He kissed you quiet, and this time it was intense. Deep. Passionate. Months of love and longing pouring into it.

His hands slid up your sides. Your hands gripped his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. Neither of you could get close enough.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

"Two more weeks," he whispered. "Two more weeks until I'm eighteen. Until I'm out of here. Until we can really start our life together."

"I can't wait."

"Me neither."

You lay there on the music room floor, wrapped around each other, making promises about the future.

Everything was perfect.

Everything was about to begin

You broke into an orphanage at midnight for me. You promised me forever under the stars. How could I not believe in tomorrow when you're my reason for wanting to see it?- Dazai Osamu

ty for reading!