#school library

He looked up, startled. His eyes were brown and sad—too sad for a kid. "Because nobody wants to sit with me."

"Well, I'm sitting with you now. I'm Y/N."

"Osamu." He stared at you like you'd done something impossible. "You're... not leaving?"

"Nope. You're stuck with me. Want a cookie?"

That small smile he gave you—hesitant and real—changed everything.

From that day on, you were inseparable.

You remember running through meadows of wildflowers that summer, laughing as butterflies scattered around you. Osamu would pick flowers and put them in your hair, calling you "princess of the meadow" while he proclaimed himself the "suicidal king."

"That's not how kingdoms work!" you'd protest.

"My kingdom, my rules," he'd grin, and even at eight, something about him made your heart warm.

You remember playing hide and seek in the woods. He was stupidly good at hiding—you'd search forever.

"Osamu! Where are you?!"

He'd drop from a tree behind you, making you shriek. "Found you."

"You're supposed to hide, not hunt!"

"More fun this way."

You remember lying under the cherry tree when you were ten, watching petals fall like snow.

"Promise me something," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"Don't leave. Everyone always leaves."

You linked your pinky with his. "Forever and ever. You're my best friend. That's never changing."

"Forever and ever," he whispered, and you meant it with everything you had.

Now you're sixteen, standing outside your house waiting for Dazai like you do every morning.

When he appears around the corner, your heart does that stupid flutter thing it's been doing more and more lately.

He looks unfairly good in the uniform—shirt untucked, tie loose, sleeves rolled up showing bandaged forearms. His hair is its usual disaster, falling into his eyes in a way that shouldn't be attractive but somehow is.

"Bella!" He grins, and there's that nickname again. The one that makes your stomach flip every single time.

He pulls you into a hug, and you try not to notice how perfectly you fit against him. How warm he is. How good he smells—like coffee and something clean and entirely him.

The hug lasts maybe three seconds longer than a normal friend hug should. Long enough for you to feel his heartbeat. Long enough for you to wonder if he can feel yours.

"Ready for another day of meaningless existence and soul-crushing boredom?" he asks against your hair.

"Always," you say, trying to keep your voice normal even though your heart is racing.

He pulls back but immediately grabs your hand, threading his fingers through yours like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he doesn't know it makes you want to scream.

You've held hands since you were kids. But lately, it feels different. More intimate. More like... something.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks as you walk. "You get this little crinkle between your eyebrows when you're thinking hard."

"Nothing important."

"Liar." He reaches out with his free hand and smooths the spot between your eyebrows with his thumb, the gesture so casual and intimate it makes you want to cry. "There. Better."

"You're so weird, Osamu."

"You love it though."

I love you, you think but don't say. Can't say.

Because you're just friends. Best friends. That's all this is.

Third period Literature is usually boring as fuck, but today you can't focus at all.

Because Dazai is slouched in his chair next to you, looking half-asleep, and he's doing that thing again.

Drawing.

His notebook is open, but instead of taking notes on the teacher's lecture about symbolism in classic literature, he's drawing little monsters in the margins. Cute ones with too many eyes and tentacles and tiny hats.

You glance over and see he's drawn a small octopus wearing a top hat.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing.

He notices you looking and grins, then quickly sketches another monster—this one looks like a demented cat with bat wings.

You have to actually cover your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

He adds a speech bubble: "Existence is pain and I want to die"

You're shaking with silent laughter now, and the teacher glares in your direction.

"Is something funny, Y/N?"

"No, sorry," you manage, trying to compose yourself.

The teacher goes back to lecturing, and Dazai leans over, his shoulder pressing against yours as he tilts his notebook so you can see better.

He's drawing a whole army of little monsters now. Each one more ridiculous than the last. A blob with seventeen eyes. A stick figure with knives for hands. A round creature that's just a circle with a face that says "void screaming".

You're trying so hard not to laugh that tears are forming in your eyes.

Dazai glances at you, sees your expression, and his grin widens. He adds another monster—this one looks suspiciously like the teacher, complete with angry eyebrows and a speech bubble saying "SYMBOLISM!"

You actually snort, then try to cover it with a cough.

The teacher glares again. "Y/N, do you need to step outside?"

"No, I'm fine, just—" You cough again. "Sorry."

Dazai is shaking with silent laughter next to you, his shoulder pressed against yours, and you can feel the vibrations.

The teacher finally continues, and Dazai leans in close, his lips nearly brushing your ear as he whispers, "You have the cutest laugh. Did you know that?"

Your face burns. "Shut up."

"Make me, bella."

And there it is again. That stupid nickname that makes your heart race and your stomach flip and your brain malfunction.

He goes back to drawing, adding a new monster that looks suspiciously like you—complete with a little smile and a speech bubble that says "why am I friends with this idiot".

Next to it, he draws one that looks like him with a speech bubble: "because you love me".

Your breath catches.

He doesn't look up, just keeps drawing like he didn't just write something that makes your heart want to explode.

You glance at him, but he's focused on his notebook, adding details to the tiny you-monster, giving it little hearts floating around its head.

Fuck. You're so in love with him it hurts.

Halfway through class, Dazai's drawing gets even more elaborate. He's created an entire story now—the little monsters going on adventures, fighting dragons, having existential crises.

You're so absorbed in watching him draw that you don't realize the teacher has stopped talking until she clears her throat loudly.

"Dazai, Y/N, since you both seem so fascinated with something other than my lecture, perhaps you'd like to share with the class?"

Dazai looks up, completely unfazed. "We were just discussing the symbolic representation of death in modern literature and how it relates to the human condition."

"Is that so?"

"Absolutely. Y/N here was just making an excellent point about how death is often personified as a comforting figure rather than a fearsome one, suggesting society's changing relationship with mortality."

You stare at him. What the fuck is he talking about?

The teacher narrows her eyes. "And what was this excellent point?"

You panic, but Dazai smoothly continues, "She suggested that the reason we fear death less in modern literature is because we fear life more. The existential dread of existence outweighs the fear of non-existence."

The teacher actually pauses, considering this. "That's... actually quite insightful."

"Thank you. Y/N is very intelligent. It's one of her many admirable qualities." He smiles at you, and your face burns.

The teacher shakes her head. "Fine. But pay attention to the actual lesson, please."

The moment she turns away, you hiss at Dazai, "What the hell was that?"

"Saving your ass," he whispers back, grinning. "You're welcome."

"I didn't need—"

"You were about to panic. I could tell. You get this look." He reaches over and boops your nose. "Adorable, but also a dead giveaway."

"Stop calling me adorable!"

"Why? You are." He leans closer, voice dropping. "Very adorable. Especially when you blush like that."

You want to die. Actually cease to exist.

He goes back to his drawings, but now he's added a new one—you and him as little monsters, holding hands, with hearts everywhere.

Your heart is pounding so hard you're surprised he can't hear it.

"Your place?" Dazai asks after school, like he does every day.

"Obviously."

Your house is empty as usual—parents working late. It's become your sanctuary. Yours and Dazai's.

You head up to your room, and Dazai immediately makes himself comfortable, sprawling across your bed like he owns it.

And god, he looks good there. Too good. His tie is loose, top button undone, hair messy, looking completely relaxed and at home.

"What do you want to watch?" you ask, trying to keep your voice normal.

"Don't care. You pick. But nothing sad. I'm already depressed enough about the meaningless void of existence."

"So... no documentaries about the heat death of the universe?"

"Especially not that."

You put on some random comedy show and climb onto the bed next to him.

Immediately, like it's automatic, he pulls you against his side, arm around your shoulders, hand playing with your hair.

This is normal for you two. You've been doing this for years.

But lately, every touch feels like it means something more. Every casual gesture of affection makes you want things you shouldn't want.

"Comfortable?" he asks, voice soft.

"Yeah. You?"

"Always. When I'm with you." He says it so casually, like it's not the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to you.

You try to focus on the show, but you're hyperaware of everything. The way his thumb is tracing little circles on your shoulder. The way you can feel his heartbeat under your ear. The way his breath ruffles your hair. The way he smells—coffee and something uniquely him that makes you want to bury your face in his neck.

"Y/N," he says softly after a while.

"Yeah?"

"You know you're my favorite person, right?"

Your heart stutters. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Like, if the world was ending and I could only save one person, it would be you. Every time. No question."

"Osamu..."

"Just wanted you to know that." He presses a kiss to the top of your head, casual and natural, and you try not to read too much into it. "You're my person."

"You're my person too," you whisper.

His arm tightens around you slightly, and you swear you feel his heart speed up under your ear.

But he doesn't say anything else. Just holds you closer.

About twenty minutes into the show, you shift to get more comfortable, and somehow end up practically lying on top of him, your head on his chest, his arms wrapped around you.

"This okay?" you ask, suddenly nervous.

"More than okay." His voice is rough, deeper than usual. "I could stay like this forever."

"Me too," you admit quietly.

You feel him tense slightly under you, his heartbeat speeding up noticeably.

"Y/N..." His voice is different now. Lower. "Can I tell you something?"

Your own heart is racing now. "Anything."

"I—"

Suddenly, he grabs a pillow from beside him and whacks you with it.

"What the fuck!" you yelp, the moment completely shattered.

"You looked too comfortable. Had to ruin it." He's grinning, but there's something in his eyes—relief? Like he chickened out of whatever he was going to say.

"You're such an asshole!" You grab your own pillow and hit him back, hard.

His eyes light up with mischief. "Oh, you want to play like that?"

"You started it!"

"And I'll finish it!" He swings his pillow again, catching you in the side.

And suddenly you're in a full-on pillow war.

You're both laughing and shrieking, hitting each other without mercy. Pillows flying, blankets getting tangled, both of you rolling around on the bed trying to get the advantage.

"Take it back!" you demand, whacking him hard enough that some feathers poof out.

"Never!" He catches your pillow mid-swing and yanks it out of your hands, throwing it across the room.

You dive for another pillow, but he's faster. He grabs you around the waist and pulls you back, and suddenly you're wrestling, both of you laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

"You're going down!" you manage between giggles.

"In your dreams, bella!"

You manage to grab a small decorative pillow and hit him square in the face. He makes an exaggerated dying sound and falls back dramatically.

"You've killed me! I'm dying! This is it! Tell my story!"

"You're so dramatic!" You're laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

"I'm fading... going into the light..." He reaches up dramatically. "Tell everyone... that I died... doing what I loved... being annoying..."

You hit him with the pillow again. "Shut up!"

He suddenly grabs you and pulls you down on top of him, both of you still laughing. "Got you!"

"That's cheating!"

"All's fair in love and pillow war!"

You try to escape, but he's got his arms wrapped around you, keeping you pinned on top of him. You're both breathing hard from laughing, faces flushed, hair completely messed up.

And then the laughter starts to die down.

And you realize the position you're in.

You're straddling him, hands on his chest. His hands are on your hips. Your faces are inches apart. You can feel every breath he takes. Can see the exact moment his eyes darken, the laughter fading into something else.

Something intense.

"Hi," he says softly, and his voice is different. Rough.

"Hi," you whisper back.

His eyes drop to your lips. Your breath catches. His hands on your hips tighten slightly.

You can feel him under you—all of him. Including the fact that he's getting hard.

Your face burns, but you can't move. Can't look away.

"Y/N..." His voice is strained. "We should probably—"

Your phone rings, loud and jarring in the quiet room.

You scramble off him so fast you nearly fall off the bed, face burning with embarrassment and arousal and confusion.

It's your mom asking when you'll be home for dinner.

When you hang up and turn back, Dazai is sitting up, running a hand through his already-messy hair, looking frustrated and flustered.

"I should probably go," he says, voice rough.

"Oh. Yeah. Okay."

The walk to your bedroom door is awkward. You've never had awkward with Dazai before, and it's killing you.

At the door, he hesitates, then pulls you into a hug. It's tight, almost desperate.

"See you tomorrow?" he asks, voice muffled against your hair.

"Yeah. Tomorrow."

He pulls back, and for a moment, you think he's going to kiss you. He's looking at you like he wants to. His eyes drop to your lips, and he leans in slightly—

Then he seems to catch himself. He kisses your forehead instead, his lips lingering for a long moment.

"Sleep well, bella," he murmurs.

And then he's gone, leaving you standing there, heart racing, wondering what the fuck just happened.

That night, you can't stop thinking about it.

About the way he looked at you. The way he felt under you. The way his hands gripped your hips. The way he was definitely getting hard and you definitely felt it and oh god what does that mean—

Your phone buzzes.

You grab it, hoping it's Dazai.

It is.

sorry about earlier

Your heart sinks. He's sorry?

don't be sorry

i got carried away

no you didn't

...

we should talk about this

about what?

about whatever this is

what do you mean?

You watch the three dots appear and disappear several times.

Finally: nothing. forget it. sleep well.

But you can't forget it.

You lie awake for hours, replaying every moment, every touch, every look.

Wondering if he feels the same way you do.

Wondering if you're reading too much into things.

Wondering if you're about to ruin the most important friendship in your life.

The next day at school, things are weird between you and Dazai.

Not bad weird. Just... charged. Tense. Like you're both hyperaware of each other and trying not to show it.

He still walks to school with you, but the hand-holding feels different now. More deliberate. His thumb traces patterns on your palm that make you shiver.

In class, every accidental touch feels electric. When he leans over to look at your notes, his shoulder presses against yours and you swear you can feel the heat of him through both your uniforms.

At lunch, he sits so close your thighs are touching, and neither of you move away.

"You two are being weird," Ango observes.

"We're not being weird," you both say in unison, which just makes it weirder.

Oda smiles knowingly but doesn't say anything.

Then, between classes, everything changes.

You're at your locker when someone leans against the locker next to yours with way too much confidence.

"Hey there, gorgeous."

You look up. Red hair, sharp blue eyes, a black choker, and a smirk that screams trouble.

"Uh, hi?"

"Chuuya Nakahara. Transferred here last week." He looks you up and down, slowly, appreciatively, not even trying to hide it. "And you're Y/N. I asked around about you."

"You... asked about me?"

"Had to find out who the prettiest girl in school was. Turned out to be you." He grins at your shocked expression. "What? I don't believe in playing games. Life's too fucking short."

Despite yourself, you laugh. "That's... very direct."

"Direct is my middle name. Well, it's not, but it should be." He leans in closer, invading your personal space without permission. "So, you got a boyfriend? Husband? Significant other of any gender?"

The question catches you completely off guard. "What? No!"

"Really? Pretty thing like you, single?" His eyes are sharp, assessing. "What about that guy you're always with? Tall, messy hair, looks like he's perpetually planning his own funeral?"

"Dazai? He's my best friend."

"Best friend, huh?" Something flashes in his eyes. "Not boyfriend?"

"No. Just friends."

"Interesting." His grin widens, and there's something almost predatory about it. "So you're single and available?"

"I—I guess?"

"Perfect. Library after school? We can study together. Get to know each other better." He leans in close enough that you can smell his cologne—something expensive and spicy. "I'd really like to get to know you better."

You should say no. You always go to your place or Dazai's after school.

But something about Chuuya's confidence is intriguing. And maybe... maybe it would be good to spend time with someone else. Someone who doesn't make your heart ache with wanting something you can't have.

"Sure. Library after school."

"Excellent." His grin is brilliant. "It's a date."

"It's not a date—"

"Whatever you say, gorgeous." He winks and walks off, leaving you slightly dazed.

What the fuck just happened?

The library after school.

Chuuya is already there when you arrive, feet up on a chair like he owns the place, looking completely at ease.

"You actually came," he says, grinning. "I was only about sixty percent sure you'd show."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because I'm incredibly forward and most people find that either intimidating as fuck or off-putting as hell." He gestures to the seat right next to him—not across, next to. "But you don't seem like most people."

You sit down, pulling out your books. "So what do you need help with?"

"Everything, honestly. I'm shit at literature. Can't stand all the flowery bullshit." He leans closer, shoulder brushing yours. "But I'm very good at other things."

Your face heats. "Like what?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He's grinning, clearly enjoying your reaction. "Maybe I'll show you sometime. If you're interested."

You try to focus on the actual studying, but Chuuya makes it nearly impossible. He keeps making comments, asking personal questions, finding excuses to touch your arm, your hand, your shoulder.

"So," he says after about twenty minutes, his hand landing casually on your knee under the table, "this Dazai guy. Your 'best friend.' What's his deal?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, are you sure you're just friends? Because I've seen the way you look at him. And the way he looks at you." His thumb rubs a small circle on your knee. "Doesn't exactly scream 'just friends' to me."

"We are just friends," you insist, maybe a bit too defensively.

"Uh-huh. And does he know you're here with me?"

"I didn't tell him specifically, but it's not like I need his permission—"

"Relax, I'm not judging. Just curious." His hand squeezes your knee. "Because if you were mine, I wouldn't let you be 'just friends' with anyone. Especially not someone who looks at you the way he does."

"I don't—he doesn't—"

"Sure." His grin is wicked. "But hey, his loss is my gain, right? If he's too chickenshit to make a move, that leaves the door open for me."

You don't know what to say to that.

"You're blushing," he observes, leaning in closer. "It's cute. I like making you blush."

"Chuuya—"

"What? I'm being honest. You're fucking gorgeous when you blush. Makes me want to see what else I can do to make you turn that pretty shade of pink."

Your face is on fire now.

He laughs, clearly delighted by your reaction. "So easy to fluster. It's adorable."

This becomes a pattern over the next two weeks.

You study with Chuuya at the library three or four times a week. And every time, he gets bolder.

His hand stays on your thigh during study sessions, sometimes sliding dangerously high. He finds excuses to lean close, to touch your hair, to whisper things in your ear that make you blush.

"You know what I think about when I look at you?" he asks one day, his hand high on your thigh, thumb rubbing small circles.

"What?" you ask, even though you probably shouldn't encourage him.

"How good you'd look sitting in my lap. How pretty you'd sound saying my name. How much I'd like to kiss that blush right off your face." His voice drops lower. "How much I want to find out if you're as innocent as you seem or if there's something naughty hiding under that good girl act."

"Chuuya!" Your face is burning.

"What? I'm just being honest about my thoughts." His hand slides higher, fingers brushing the hem of your skirt. "And I think about you a lot. More than I probably should."

"You can't just say things like that!"

"Why not? It's what I'm thinking." He leans in, lips near your ear. "I think about kissing you. Touching you. Making you make those cute little sounds I bet you'd make. Finding out what it takes to make you lose that composure."

"We're in a library!"

"So? Makes it more exciting, don't you think?" His hand squeezes your thigh. "The risk of getting caught. Having to be quiet when all you want to do is moan."

"Oh my god, stop!"

He laughs, finally removing his hand. "Okay, okay. I'll behave. For now." He grins. "But seriously, think about going out with me this weekend. Properly. Just the two of us."

"I don't know..."

"Why not? What's stopping you?" His eyes are sharp, assessing. "Or should I say who's stopping you?"

Before you can answer, you catch movement at the window.

Dazai is standing there, hands in his pockets, staring at you and Chuuya with an expression that makes your blood run cold.

His face is blank. Carefully, deliberately blank.

But his eyes...

His eyes are dark. Furious. Devastating.

He looks at you for one long moment, then turns and walks away.

And you have a very, very bad feeling about what's coming.

The next day, Dazai doesn't meet you before school.

He's never done that before. Not in eight years.

You walk to school alone, and it feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.

In class, he sits next to you like always, but he doesn't talk to you. Doesn't look at you. Just stares straight ahead with that blank expression.

"Osamu, are you okay?" you whisper.

"Fine."

"You don't seem fine—"

"I said I'm fine, Y/N." His voice is flat, cold, and it makes you flinch.

You don't try to talk to him again.

At lunch, the tension is suffocating.

Dazai sits with you and Oda and Ango, but he might as well be on another planet. He doesn't eat. Doesn't talk. Just stares at nothing with hollow eyes.

"Dazai," Oda says carefully, "are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm perfect. Never better. Just contemplating the sweet release of death."

"More than usual?" Ango asks.

"Much more."

You want to say something, but you don't know what. Don't know how to fix whatever is broken between you.

Then Chuuya appears at your table.

"Hey, Y/N. Still on for the library later?"

You see Dazai's hands clench into fists on the table. His knuckles go white.

"I... I don't know—"

"Come on, we're almost done with the project. Just one or two more sessions." Chuuya grins, completely oblivious to the danger. "Plus, I'll miss you if you don't show."

"She's busy," Dazai says, voice flat and dangerous.

"Is she? She can speak for herself, can't she?" Chuuya looks at you. "So what do you say?"

You're caught between them, feeling the tension crackle in the air.

"I... yeah. Okay. Library after school."

Dazai stands up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"I need to go," he says, and walks away before anyone can stop him.

"What's his problem?" Chuuya asks.

"I don't know," you whisper, but you do know. You know exactly what his problem is.

You just don't know how to fix it.

Second period.

You're in History, trying to focus on the lecture about World War II, when the door opens.

Oda walks in, looking shaken. Actually shaken, which is rare for Oda.

He goes straight to the teacher and whispers something. The teacher's eyes widen, and they both look at you.

"Y/N," the teacher says. "You need to go with Oda. Now."

Your stomach drops. "What happened?"

"Just go."

You grab your bag and follow Oda out into the hallway.

"What's going on?" you demand.

Oda's face is pale. "It's Dazai. He's—fuck. You need to see this."

He leads you toward the bathrooms, and you can hear it before you see it.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The sound of fists hitting tile.

CRACK. BANG. CRASH.

Oda opens the bathroom door, and what you see makes you stop breathing.

Blood. There's blood everywhere.

On the white tiles. On the mirror. On the sink. Splattered on the walls like something out of a horror movie.

And Dazai.

He's standing in front of the wall, punching it. Over and over and over.

His hands are destroyed. Completely destroyed. Blood is streaming from his knuckles, running down his arms, dripping onto the floor.

The mirror is shattered. There's a hole in the wall—an actual hole where he's punched straight through the tile. Cracks spider-web out from the impact point.

He's muttering something as he punches. You can't make out the words at first, but then you hear it.

"—can't watch this anymore—fucking kill him—she doesn't know—doesn't fucking know—"

BANG. More blood splatters.

"—mine—supposed to be mine—can't—can't—"

CRACK. His fist goes through the tile again, and you can actually see bone through the torn skin.

"Osamu!" you scream.

He doesn't stop. Doesn't even seem to hear you.

Oda moves forward carefully. "Dazai. Dazai, you need to stop. You're going to permanently damage your hands."

"Don't care." BANG. "Don't fucking care." CRASH.

"Dazai—"

"She was with him!" His voice breaks, anguished. "She was with him and she let him touch her and I can't—I can't fucking watch it anymore!"

He pulls back for another punch, but this time Oda catches his arm.

"Enough. You're done."

"Let me go—"

"Look at your hands, Dazai. Look at them."

Dazai finally looks down, and you see the moment reality sets in.

His hands are mangled. Blood is pouring from multiple lacerations. You can see white bone through some of the deeper cuts. His knuckles are swollen to nearly twice their normal size, purple and black with bruising. Some of his fingers are bent at wrong angles.

"Fuck," he whispers.

Then his legs give out, and he collapses against the wall, sliding down to sit in a pool of his own blood.

You rush forward, dropping to your knees beside him, not caring about the blood.

"Osamu, oh my god, what did you do—"

"I'm sorry," he whispers, staring at his destroyed hands. "I'm sorry. I couldn't—I had to hit something. And it was either the wall or him. And if I hit him, I wouldn't stop. I'd kill him. I'd actually fucking kill him."

"We need to get you to the hospital—"

"No. No hospitals. They'll call my parents. They'll make a big deal. Just—" He looks at you, and his eyes are wet. "Just you. Please. Just you."

You look at Oda, who nods. "I'll cover for you both. Tell them it was an accident. But you need to take care of him."

"I will. I promise."

You help Dazai stand, and he sways slightly, clearly dizzy from blood loss.

"Come on. We're going to my place. I'll clean you up."

"Okay," he whispers. "Okay."

Getting Dazai to your house is a nightmare.

He's weak from blood loss, stumbling, barely able to walk straight. You have to support most of his weight, and he's taller than you, heavier, and it's hard.

But you manage.

Your house is empty, thank god. Parents at work.

You get him up to your room and sit him on your bed, then run to get your first aid kit and extra supplies.

When you come back, he's just sitting there, staring at his hands with this hollow expression.

"Osamu," you say softly. "I need to clean these. It's going to hurt."

"Don't care."

You carefully start unwrapping the makeshift bandages Oda had wrapped around his hands to stop the bleeding.

What you see when you unwrap them makes you want to cry.

His hands are destroyed. Completely and utterly destroyed.

The skin across his knuckles is split open in multiple places, some cuts so deep you can see the white of bone underneath. Blood is still seeping from the deeper wounds. His knuckles are swollen grotesquely, purple and black and red with bruising. Some of his fingers are definitely broken—you can see the unnatural angles.

There are fragments of tile embedded in some of the wounds. Glass from the mirror. Pieces of plaster from the wall.

"Oh, Osamu," you whisper, tears streaming down your face. "What did you do to yourself?"

"What I had to do." His voice is flat. "To stop myself from doing something worse."

You start cleaning the wounds as gently as you can, but he still flinches and hisses with pain.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you keep whispering as you work.

"Don't apologize. This is my fault."

"This isn't your fault—"

"It is." He finally looks at you, and the pain in his eyes is worse than the physical wounds. "This is all my fault. I'm the one who couldn't handle seeing you with him. I'm the one who lost control. I'm the one who's too fucked up to just be normal."

"You're not fucked up—"

"I destroyed my hands because I was jealous, Y/N. That's pretty fucking fucked up."

You don't know what to say to that, so you just focus on cleaning the wounds, removing bits of tile and glass with tweezers, trying to be as gentle as possible even though you know it hurts.

He doesn't make a sound. Just watches you work with those hollow eyes.

"Why?" you finally whisper. "Why did you do this?"

"Because I had to hit something. Because if I didn't, I was going to hit him. Or worse."

"Worse?"

"Yeah. Worse." He laughs bitterly. "I had some very detailed fantasies about what I wanted to do to him. None of them were legal."

"Osamu..."

"You want to know what I thought about?" His voice is rough. "I thought about breaking every bone in his hands so he could never touch you again. I thought about making him disappear so you'd never see him again. I thought about locking you in my room so no one else could have you."

Your hands freeze on his. "You... what?"

"I told you. I'm fucked up." He looks away. "You should probably stay away from me. I'm clearly not stable."

"I'm not staying away from you."

"You should."

"Well, I'm not." You finish cleaning his right hand and start on the left. "You're my best friend. You're stuck with me. Forever and ever, remember?"

"That was before you knew how insane I am."

"You're not insane. You're hurt. There's a difference."

He's quiet for a long moment, just watching you work.

"Can I ask you something?" he finally says.

"Anything."

"Do you have feelings for him? For Chuuya?"

The question catches you off guard. "What? No!"

"Then why are you spending so much time with him? Why are you letting him touch you?"

"It's just a project—"

"It's more than that. I've seen the way he looks at you. The way he touches you. And you're not stopping him."

"I don't know how!" The words burst out of you. "I'm not used to people being that forward! I don't know what to do!"

"You could tell him you're not interested."

"I have!"

"Not convincingly enough, apparently. Because he keeps coming back."

You finish bandaging his left hand and look up at him. "Why do you care so much?"

He stares at you for a long moment, something desperate and vulnerable in his eyes.

"Because..." He stops, shakes his head. "Never mind."

"No. Tell me. Please."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm terrified." His voice cracks. "Because if I tell you and you don't feel the same way, I'll lose you. And I can't—I can't survive that."

Your heart is pounding. "Osamu, what are you talking about?"

He looks at you, really looks at you, and you see years of pain and longing and fear in his eyes.

"Figure it out, Y/N. Please. Just figure it out. Because I can't say it. I physically cannot say the words."

"I don't understand—"

"You do. Deep down, you do. You're just scared to believe it." He reaches out with his bandaged hand and touches your face gently. "But I can't keep doing this. I can't keep watching you with him. I can't keep pretending I'm okay when I'm not. Something has to change."

"What needs to change?"

"I don't know. But I can't..." His voice breaks completely. "I can't watch you fall in love with someone else. I just can't."

Tears are streaming down your face now. "I'm not falling in love with anyone else."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I don't know! I'm confused! I'm scared! I don't know what's happening!"

"Join the fucking club," he mutters.

You both sit there in tense silence for a moment.

Then he says, quietly, "I should go. Let these heal."

"Stay. Please. Just... stay with me tonight."

He looks at you, surprised. "Your parents—"

"Are working late. They won't be home until midnight. Please stay."

He hesitates, then nods. "Okay. Yeah. I'll stay."

You spend the rest of the afternoon just lying on your bed together, not talking, just existing in the same space.

At some point, you both drift off.

You wake up hours later to find yourself curled against his side, his arm around you, his bandaged hand in your hair.

"Osamu?" you whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Are we okay?"

"I don't know." He pulls you closer. "I don't know what we are anymore."

"Me neither."

"But I know I don't want to lose you."

"You're not going to lose me."

"Promise?"

"Forever and ever."

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, and you feel him relax slightly.

"Get some sleep," he murmurs. "We'll figure this out. Somehow."

You want to believe him.

But you're not sure either of you knows how to fix what's broken between you.

The next few days are torture.

Dazai is distant but not cold. He still walks to school with you, still sits next to you, but there's a careful distance now. Like he's afraid of getting too close.

His hands are heavily bandaged, and everyone asks what happened.

"Punched a wall," he says casually. "Got angry about the meaninglessness of existence. Standard Tuesday."

People laugh, thinking he's joking.

You know better.

Meanwhile, Chuuya seems to sense weakness. Opportunity.

He gets bolder.

One day at the library, his hand doesn't just rest on your thigh. It slides up, way up, fingers brushing against your panties through your skirt.

"Chuuya!" You grab his wrist.

"What?" He grins, not moving his hand. "You telling me you don't like it?"

"I'm telling you to stop."

"Your body's saying something different. You're trembling." His fingers press slightly. "And I can feel how warm you are. I bet if I moved these panties aside, you'd be wet for me."

"Chuuya!" Your face is on fire.

"Relax. I'm just teasing. Mostly." He finally removes his hand, but his grin is wicked. "But seriously, you can't tell me you don't think about it. About what it would be like. About me touching you properly. Making you feel good."

"We're in a library!"

"So? Makes it hotter." He leans in close. "The risk of getting caught. Having to be quiet. Trying not to moan while I—"

"Stop!" You're blushing so hard you feel like you might combust.

He laughs. "You're so fucking cute when you're flustered. Makes me want to fluster you more. Make you blush everywhere."

"I need to go."

"Running away?" His hand catches your wrist. "Or running to him?"

"What?"

"Your best friend. The one who's clearly in love with you. The one who's been watching us through that window for the past ten minutes."

You turn, and sure enough, Dazai is standing outside the window.

And he looks murderous.

His bandaged hands are clenched into fists despite how much it must hurt. His jaw is locked. His eyes are dark and dangerous.

Then he turns and walks away, and you have a very bad feeling about what's coming.

The next day, everything explodes.

You're at the library with Chuuya, and he's being more aggressive than ever.

"You know what I think?" he says, hand high on your thigh, thumb rubbing circles.

"What?"

"I think you like the attention. I think you like having two guys interested in you. It makes you feel wanted."

"That's not—"

"Come on. You could have shut me down weeks ago. But you keep coming back. You keep letting me touch you." His hand slides higher. "Why is that?"

"The project—"

"Fuck the project. We both know that's not why you're here." He leans in close, lips brushing your ear. "You're here because you like it. You like how I make you feel. You like knowing that your best friend is losing his mind with jealousy."

"That's not true!"

"Isn't it?" His hand moves to cup you through your panties,and you gasp. "You're already wet. Just from me touching you. Just from knowing he's probably watching."

You grab his wrist and try to push him away, but he's stronger.

"Chuuya, stop—"

"Make me." His grin is wicked. "Or better yet, let me keep going. Let me see how long it takes before you—"

The library door doesn't open. It explodes inward, slamming against the wall with enough force to crack the plaster.

Dazai stands there, and he looks absolutely feral.

His eyes are wild. His bandaged hands are clenched despite how much it must hurt. He's breathing hard, chest heaving.

And he looks ready to commit murder.

"Get. Your. Fucking. Hands. Off. Her."

His voice is low, controlled, but laced with such violence that even Chuuya hesitates.

"Or what?" Chuuya asks, but his hand finally moves away from you.

"Or I'll break every single bone in your body." Dazai's voice is terrifyingly calm. "Starting with your hands. Then your arms. Then your ribs. Then your fucking skull. I'll make it slow. Make it hurt. Make you beg me to stop."

"Jesus, man, it was just—"

"Just what? Just you assaulting her in a public library?" Dazai takes a step forward, and something in his expression makes Chuuya actually flinch. "Get the fuck away from her. Now."

Chuuya stands up, hands raised. "Okay, okay. I'm going."

"Good. And if I ever—and I mean ever—see you near her again, if you so much as look at her, breathe in her direction, exist in her general vicinity, I will make good on my promises. Do you understand?"

"Yeah. Fuck. I understand."

Chuuya leaves quickly, and then it's just you and Dazai.

The silence is deafening.

"We need to talk," Dazai says, voice still rough. "Now."

He grabs your wrist—not gently, but not painfully—and pulls you out of the library.

You don't resist. You're too shocked to resist.

He drags you through the halls, around corners, until you're in a deserted section near the old lockers that no one uses.

Then he spins you around and presses you back against the lockers, his bandaged hands on either side of your head, caging you in.

His face is inches from yours. His breathing is ragged. His eyes are wild.

"I can't do this anymore," he says, voice rough and desperate.

"Can't do what?"

"Watch him touch you. Watch him say things to you. Pretend I'm okay with it when I'm losing my fucking mind."

"Osamu—"

"No. Listen to me. Just... just listen." His voice cracks. "I have been in love with you since we were kids. Since you sat next to me under that tree and promised to stay. Since you became my reason to keep living."

Your breath stops entirely.

"Watching you with him has been torture. Actual, physical torture. Every time he touches you, I want to rip his arms off. Every time he makes you laugh, I want to destroy everything. Every time I think about him having you when I can't—"

He stops, breathing hard.

"You're in love with me?" you whisper.

"Yes. Fuck, yes. I'm completely, pathetically, desperately in love with you." His eyes search yours. "Have been for years. And I was too scared to say anything because you're my best friend and I couldn't risk losing you. But watching you with him... I'd rather risk everything than keep pretending."

Tears are streaming down your face. "You idiot."

"I know—"

"I'm in love with you too!"

He freezes. "What?"

"I'm in love with you! I have been for years! I thought you only saw me as a friend! I thought I didn't have a chance!"

"You—you love me?"

"Yes, you absolute fucking idiot! Why do you think I've been so miserable? Why do you think Chuuya doesn't mean anything to me? Because he's not you! He's never been you!"

"Say it again."

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you, Osamu Dazai."

He makes this sound—almost a sob—and then he's kissing you.

It's not gentle. It's desperate, hungry, years of wanting compressed into a single moment.

His lips crash against yours with enough force to knock your head back against the locker. His hands cup your face roughly, tilting your head to get a better angle. His body presses completely against yours, pinning you to the metal.

You gasp against his mouth and he takes advantage immediately, his tongue sweeping in to claim every inch of you.

One of his hands slides into your hair, gripping tight—almost painful. The other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. His body covers yours completely, and you can feel every inch of him—including how hard he is.

When he finally pulls back, you're both gasping for air.

"Mine," he growls against your lips. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours."

"Again."

"I'm yours, Osamu. Only yours."

"Good." He kisses you again, deeper this time. "Because I'm not letting you go. Not now. Not ever. You're stuck with me."

"Good," you breathe. "Because I don't want anyone else. Just you. Always you."

He rests his forehead against yours, both of you just breathing, trying to process what just happened.

"We're both idiots," he finally says.

"The biggest idiots."

"Years. We wasted years."

"Then let's not waste any more time."

He kisses you again, softer this time but no less intense. "Be my girlfriend. Please. Officially."

"Yes. God, yes."

His smile is brilliant, beautiful, completely unguarded. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck, I love you." He kisses you again. "I love you so much."

"I love you too."

"Say it again."

"I love you."

He kisses you between each declaration, and it's perfect. Everything is perfect.

Finally.

The next day at lunch, you sit down next to Dazai and he immediately pulls you into his lap, arms wrapped possessively around your waist.

Ango chokes on his water. "What the fuck?"

"We're together," Dazai announces proudly, nuzzling into your neck. "She's my girlfriend. Finally."

"FINALLY!" Ango practically shouts. "Do you know how long we've been waiting for this shit?"

"Since middle school," Oda confirms with a small smile. "Congratulations."

"Wait, you knew?" you ask.

"Everyone knew except you two morons," Ango says. "You were painfully, obviously, devastatingly in love with each other."

That's when Chuuya appears, looking far too amused for someone who was threatened with bodily harm yesterday.

"So you finally grew some balls, huh?" he says to Dazai.

"What the fuck do you want?" Dazai's arms tighten protectively around you.

"Just wanted to say congratulations." Chuuya grins. "And also, you're welcome."

"Welcome for what?"

"For being the push you needed to finally confess." He looks at Oda and Ango. "Right, guys?"

Silence.

A terrible, loaded silence.

"What?" you and Dazai say together.

"Your friends recruited me over the summer," Chuuya explains, looking way too pleased with himself. "Told me about two idiots desperately in love who were too chickenshit to confess. Asked me to transfer here and help light a fire under your ass by making you jealous."

Your jaw drops. "You were WHAT?"

"Fake. The flirting, the touching, all of it—calculated to make bandages here finally snap and confess." He grins at Dazai. "And it fucking worked."

"I'm going to kill you," Dazai says calmly. "I'm going to kill all three of you."

"You can try. But you're too happy right now." Chuuya stands up. "You're welcome, by the way. My work here is done."

After he's gone, you turn to glare at Oda and Ango.

"You orchestrated this entire thing?"

"Dazai was destroying himself," Oda says simply. "Literally. We had to do something."

"We didn't expect him to actually destroy his hands," Ango admits, looking at Dazai's still-bandaged fingers. "That was... excessive. But it worked."

Dazai is quiet for a long moment. Then: "I'm still furious at you. But also... thank you."

"You're welcome," they say in unison, grinning.

Dazai pulls you closer, pressing kisses to your neck. "Worth it. All of it. Even the hand trauma."

You lean back against him, lacing your fingers carefully with his bandaged ones. "Yeah. It was."

Six months later.

You're lying in bed with Dazai, his head on your chest, your fingers running through his hair.

His hands have healed, mostly. There are scars—lots of them. His knuckles are slightly misshapen. Some of his fingers don't bend quite right anymore.

But they're his hands. The hands that hold you. The hands that touch you. The hands that make you feel loved.

"Remember when you destroyed these?" you ask softly, running your fingers over the scars.

"How could I forget? Hurt like a bitch." He kisses your collarbone. "But worth it. Got me you."

"You would have gotten me anyway."

"Maybe. But I'm impatient." He grins up at you. "And possessive. And slightly unhinged when it comes to you."

"Only slightly?"

"Okay, very unhinged." He pulls you closer. "But you love me anyway."

"Unfortunately."

"Hey!"

You laugh and kiss him. "I'm kidding. I love you. So much."

"Good. Because you're stuck with me now." His eyes are soft, warm, full of love. "Forever and ever?"

"Forever and ever," you promise.

Just like you did under the cherry tree all those years ago.

Except now it means everything you always wanted it to mean.

And you wouldn't change a single thing.

You're mine—you've always been mine—and I'd rather destroy myself than watch someone else have you.- Dazai Osamu

ty for reading!