Chapter Text
Season 17, Episode 1 (Auditions)
About one hundred people stood before Dazai– well, in the same humongous room as him. That was about one hundred competitors in his city alone, about one hundred people he needed to beat.
Honestly, at the start of his auditioning journey, it had been more of a careless ‘why not’. He never expected to make it past the preliminary rounds; not because he doubted his own talent, but more so his charismatic stage presence this type of show was looking for. He certainly didn’t predict to be standing here today, awaiting his turn at performing in front of only some of the most musically talented judges along with the rest of New York’s finest– vocally, of course.
His whole morning Dazai had felt the childish urge to pinch himself and make sure this wasn’t all some kind of dream. It certainly felt like one.
From the moment he had signed in and gotten his audition number to buying his third plastic bottle of water– because even he, king of self neglect knew the importance of being properly hydrated before a performance – he’d felt like a dazed ghost floating through the motions.
That was until a tall man with light chestnut colored hair, a thin mustache– definitely somewhere in his fifties, and a bowler hat that just commanded the room’s attention stepped in front of the crowd, cane in one hand and microphone in the other.
It was none other than Natsume Soseki, world renowned singer, songwriter, and even actor. He had been well established in the entertainment industry for years before he decided to put together the competition show American Idol , showcasing only the most talented vocalists of the country. Not only did the world eat it up, but he’d profited tremendously from the show as well. Now, on its seventeenth season, ready to showcase new talent, Osamu Dazai was here to be one of those contestants.
“Auditioner thirty-eight? Next up we’ll be having auditioner thirty-eight, please,” the man calls out amongst the crowd.
Immediately, Dazai’s head snaps down to check the labeled paper taped to the cotton of his grey tee, despite already having his number memorized in his head since he’d been assigned it. He awkwardly raises his bandaged arm up from the midst of other auditioners before he steps out towards Natsume– or follows him, because the man was already gracefully leading the way to the audition room.
When the teen boy caught up with the man, he nervously shoved his hands in his pockets, fidgeting with the material of his sweatpants.
Had he underdressed?
Dazai wasn’t one to care about fashion or his attire, but this was certainly one of the most vulnerable (and important) experiences of his life. He didn’t want to fail because of ‘inappropriate attire’.
Then again, he also could have done a better job covering up the bandages wrapped around his arms that were much more exposed today. They were even visible from where they peeked up over his shirt’s neckline. Most people thought it was some weird fashion statement he was trying to make considering his generation, or he was seeking attention in his performances. Either way, they were wrong, but it was easier to cover up than deal with a potential interrogation.
Dazai was aware this show was all about sappy backstories and oversharing far too personal details of contestants' lives with the viewers to come off as relatable and add to their character. That didn’t stop him from being as vague as possible in his interviews with production, knowing full well national TV is the last place he’d share anything truthful– despite all those articles he’d read the nights before his auditions warning how sharing personal information was a necessity.
He figured if he was going to make it through the show, his talent would have to be enough.
“You were alone out there in the crowd, correct Osamu?” Natsume broke the silence, tapping his cane against the ground to gain Dazai’s attention.
“Oh, um, yeah, yes,” stutters Dazai while keeping his eyes trained on the floor.
It was true, he was alone here today. After telling his parents of his aspirations to make a career out of music, they’d made it clear they weren’t supportive in the slightest, forcing him out of the house to fend for himself if he was serious about the whole thing. That was just the short, watered down, less detailed (or traumatic) version of the whole thing. In even simpler terms, Dazai doesn’t have anyone to join him today– even if he had wanted someone to.
He can’t help but continue to pull at his pants from inside his pockets, bunching the fabric in his hands.
Why was he so fidgety?
Natsume begins to sigh once they reach the glass doors to the audition room. He spares Dazai a singular glance before shaking his head and turning to face the boy.
“Quit being so nervous, lad. Everyone who goes in there is nervous. If you walk in there with even the smallest confidence, you’ll already be a step ahead.”
It takes a minute for Dazai to process the fact that the Natsume Soseki is giving him advice right now.
He shakes his head and takes a deep breath, bringing himself back down to Earth.
“Right, right. Thank you, sir,” he nods– a bit shocked at his own formality, which is very out of character for him.
Before Dazai turns to walk into the room, he sucks in one more breath, smiles at Natsume and gives him a confident salute before turning on his heels. “I got this Natsumeee!” he obnoxiously sings, “Just watch!”
That’s more like him.
The older man sighs as he watches the boy skip into the room with a disapproving shake of his head.
Kids these days.
Dazai’s newfound confidence doesn’t falter once he walks to the center of the room, giving the judges seated at the table before him a big smile and excited wave.
“Hellooo!” he greets in a sing-songy tone.
The judges all reply with a variety of “hello’s”.
There’s four of them. Singer, songwriter, and producer Ogai Mori, singer and actress Kouyou Ozaki, other songwriter and producer Yukichi Fukuzawa, and finally, producer and actor Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald; all infamous regulars as judges on the show– and most, previous American Idol winners. One of the biggest accomplishments in Natsume’s career was putting together such an entertaining yet balanced cast of judges. While Fukuzawa was known for keeping the peace among the group, Kouyou and Mori almost always failed to meet eye to eye with each other. Fitzgerald was a fan favorite, never failing to add a bit of drama wherever he went.
The fantastic four were also known for scaring contestants off.
“And who are you?” Kouyou smiles at Dazai, sitting poised in her seat with her arms leaning on the judges table, hands folded.
“I’m Osamu Dazai, I’m twenty-two years old, and I’m from Manhattan.”
Each of the judges nod at the boy, taking in the introduction he certainly hadn’t practiced alone in his bedroom at least fifty times. Nope, not him.
“And what will you be singing for us?” Mori quips, an eager smile tugging at his lips.
Dazai returns the smile as he walks over to the classic black piano set up behind him, taking a seat on the cushiony bench.
“Fly Me To The Moon, Frank Sinatra.”
This time, it was Kouyou’s turn to grin at the contestant, obviously pleased with his song choice. “The floor is yours,” she gestures towards him as the other judges wait for Dazai to begin.
Dazai gives them a small nod before focusing all his attention on the black and white keys beneath his stalled fingertips. This was it.
The butterflies in his stomach and adrenaline coursing through his veins was an oddly refreshing feeling. Normally, performances never got Dazai worked up. He could brush his nerves off easily and feign confidence like it was nothing. But, it felt nice to experience the jitters of any vocal performance, it felt nice to go in with feeling .
He lets out one last shaky breath before hitting the first key. From there, he hit autopilot in his body and let his fingers play out the sequence he’d memorized over and over for years. Now all he needed to do was deliver the most impressive show of his life. Simple, right?
“Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars,” he starts off low as his eyes flutter shut. “Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars~” Dazai rings out each note appropriately to match the original song.
He opens his eyes just enough to get a peek at the way his voice captivates the judges, hunched over the table on the edge of their seats just to listen.
“In other words,” he tilts his head to smile directly at Kouyou, who raises her eyebrow at him impressed. “Hold my hand.”
“In other words,” back down at the keys under him he looks. “Baby, kiss me,” sings Dazai louder, jumping to a higher note than he’d been singing.
Here, he lets his slow piano playing smooth its way into a quicker tempo as his voice gets noticeably chipper.
Fill my heart with song and let me sing forevermore
You are all I long for, all I worship and adore
Dazai takes in a breath of air before starting the next line, staring at the white painted wall in front him.
In other words, please be true
In other words, I love you
He sings, then bursts into a lively piano solo, letting his fingers run rampant.
He doesn’t dare look the judges in the eyes throughout this part, avoiding any sort of distraction that could cause him to slip up because he refuses to let anxiety be the reason he goes home today. He does, however, catch sight of the rack of golden tickets next to the door he’d come in from.
That was his goal.
“Fill my heart with song! Let me sing forevermore..” Each of the judges acknowledge Dazai’s impressive vocal range with a sudden backward movement or a quiet clap. The small “wow” one of the four let out is enough encouragement to keep Dazai smiling as he sings his heart out. This was exactly where he needed to be, and his parents could kiss his ass.
In other words, please be true…
In other words…
“In other words…” he dragged out the last note, fingers slipping away from the piano as he stood up from the bench.
I love you
Dazai lengthens the last word, drawing it out.
There’s a long pause after he finishes singing, catching his breath as the judges stare him down.
Was he awful? Because they were looking at him like he came in half-naked.
“Wow,” Kouyou starts, “Wow, wow, wow. You have a lot of talent, Dazai.”
Mori begins chuckling from the end of the table, next to Kouyou. “Shockingly, I for once am in agreement with Kouyou. That was an excellent performance,” he grins.
Dazai gives the judges a small smile, knowing it was only the polite thing to do when America’s most talented musicians are complimenting him.
Even Fitzgerald has something to say as he leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up on the table.
“The two buffoons are right, I thoroughly enjoyed that performance.”
Dazai is almost about to laugh at the comment, though it seems his feedback was not over yet.
“Though I agree with my co-judges,” Fukuzawa clears his throat. Oh no. “I would like to hear a little more of your singing. There was a lot of piano, and as impressive as it was I feel it was holding you back from your true potential. I think I would have liked to see a cappella from you.”
Dazai nods at the man's words, indicating his acknowledgment. As calm as the boy seems on the outside, he’s internally a mess. Unfortunately, he couldn’t go back and repick his song, so he’s hoping that mistake isn’t enough to ruin this for him.
“Well, I think it’s pretty clear then,” Kouyou speaks up.
Dazai chews on his lip while the judges all turn and whisper to one another, confirming their decision.
Finally, Mori announces the results of their discussion.
“Sadly, not all of us were satisfied with your performance today,” he pauses and gives Fukuzawa a judgemental look while the other man simply rolls his eyes. Shit, he blew it. Of course it was the old geezer Fukuzawa who didn’t enjoy his performance; Dazai’s about to flip him off–
“But the good news is, you’ll have another chance to make up because–”
“You’re going to Hollywood Week!” Fitzgerald and Kouyou enthusiastically interrupt, letting their excitement and impatience get the best of them.
Dazai immediately bursts into laughter and smiles, and for once it feels a little more genuine. He can’t hardly believe what he’s hearing or what is happening. How had he gotten to Hollywood Week on American Idol?
Definitely a dream. Though, pinching himself to check would be a little embarrassing on national television. Oh- he’s going to be on national television.
“Oh. Oh, wow– wait, really?” he laughs in disbelief.
“Yes, really, stop being such a dork and go grab your ticket!” Fitzgerald had to roll his eyes with sass at the boy.
Though he isn’t the most expressive person, he makes sure to thank all of the judges with a quick bow before rushing to grab his golden ticket.
“Thank you all!” he gushes once more before exiting the room with a much more authentic confidence than what he entered with.
Outside the door was none other than Natsume, waiting patiently with a neutral face.
“I take it by your expression and all the pep that you did well?”
“Oh, I did amazing, Natsume! They loved me, for sure,” Dazai assures, giving the old man a pat on his shoulder before skipping down the hall, away from the cameras awaiting him next to Natsume.
Natsume sighs as he watches Dazai run off after getting only such minimal screen time. “He’s a character,” is all he offers the viewers.
Typically, at this point of the show the cameras would cut to the successful auditioner calling their families with news, or jumping into the arms of the loved one accompanying them that day. Like Dazai told Natsume Soseki, he was alone today, meaning there was no one to alert on his accomplishment.
Well, except one person.
Dazai watches his phone ring three times, staring at himself through the FaceTime call before someone picks up, and another face appears on the screen.
“Dazai! How’d it go? Oh my god, tell me you didn’t flip off any of the judges– oh my god, you flipped off Fukuzawa!” The person panics from the other line.
“Odasaku!”
Oh yes, Odasaku– well, that was his nickname given by Dazai. Oda Sakunosuke, one of those “loved ones” in Dazai’s life, more specifically– his older brother. They aren’t blood related; their parents had remarried, and oh, the look on Dazai’s face the day he had found out a seventeen-year old boy, five years older than him, would be moving in. Little did he know– that boy would be one of the best things to ever happen to him, and the only family he has left eight years later.
Unlike his parents, Oda still keeps in touch with him on a regular basis after Dazai had announced his plans entailing a music career. He’d expressed to his younger brother numerous times that he would support and love him no matter what, only wanting to see him happy. And for that, Dazai’s grateful.
“Why do you have no faith in me, I’m not that bad,” whines Dazai, pouting at the camera. He watches Oda sigh and shake his head.
“Don’t act as if you’re some angel, Dazai. I was there when you yelled at that nice elderly lady in the supermarket for– stealing your mangoes?” Oda accuses over the phone, sounding confused himself.
“Hey! I had every right to cause a scene! They were the perfect mangoes, just the right color and texture– and she stole them right before I could grab them with her old people hands! And she was not nice!” Dazai protests. He crosses an arm over his chest all dramatically with a huff.
Again, Oda sighs. “Okay Dazai, be nice. Anyway, how did you do!?”
“Oh right,” Dazai huffs, digging in his back pocket to pull out his already crinkled golden ticket. “I got this thing,” he dryly informs Oda, angling his phone to showcase the ticket.
“Oh my god– OH MY GOD! YOU DID IT! DAZAI!” Oda shouts over the phone, the same disbelief and excitement in his voice that Dazai had prior to calling his brother– which in turn causes his audio to crack up.
“Yes, Yes, what can I say? I'm simply a star,” Dazai smiles, flipping the imaginary hair over his shoulder.
Oda snorts, “Modest too. Do me a favor and learn to be a little less of a conceited asshole before you call me next.”
Dazai clicks his tongue at the comment his brother makes. “This conceited asshole just got a golden ticket to Hollywood Week. They call it star quality,” he sassily counters.
“Right, right, text me when you’re performing in the Nissan Stadium. Wouldn’t want them to sell out before I get a ticket,” Oda jokes before Dazai could notice the evident drop in his smiling expression.
“Sorry Dazai…dad’s calling, I- I gotta take this,” Oda rubs his eyes and sighs. Dazai can’t lie that such a soon ending to their call is disappointing, though he can tell his brother already feels bad enough for having to hang up at such a time.
“Oh, yeah, that’s fine. I get it,” Dazai quickly spits out, moving to pocket his ticket.
“Hey, look–” Oda interrupts right before Dazai’s thumb hits the red button to end the call. “I’m proud of you Dazai, really. I knew you had it in you.”
Dazai fails to suppress a smile at his phone, and feels like an idiot in that hallway. “Thanks, Odasaku, I appreciate it.” There’s an awkward silence for a moment; neither of them are used to such heart-to-heart, touching or “wholesome” family moments. “Okay, byeeeee!” Dazai sings, finally hanging up on his poor brother.
Making his way down the hallway, Dazai feels as if he is on Cloud 9. Other auditioners who spot the golden ticket in his hand congratulate him on his success, hoping they’ll get to walk out the same.
Although Dazai does run into a less optimistic sight on his way back to the waiting room.
Next to the mens bathroom, a younger kid sits on the floor hugging his knees. He has a choppy haircut with peculiar white hair and the tackiest outfit of a white shirt and suspenders Dazai has ever seen.
Who the hell goes outside wearing suspenders nowadays?
The kid looks like he’d been dressed by his mother or belongs in a 1960’s detective film.
Dazai, being the angel he was– even despite Oda’s accusations– can’t just leave the child to sit on the floor sulking – although he would any other day without a second thought, he just so happens to be looking for entertainment at the moment. Plus, he’s sure a good deed like this will grant him good karma or something in return. And if he’s going to be performing in Hollywood Week, he needs as much as he can get.
“Hey. Kid.” Dazai pokes at the boy as he taps his shoe against his leg.
The boy jumps, startled by the sudden intrusion before looking up at the owner of the shoe kicking at his own leg. He has puffy eyes, red and inflamed from prior crying and matching red cheeks.
“Hello?..Can I help you?” asks the boy, confused.
“Nooooo, unless you can direct me to the nearest bridge,” Dazai sings, earning an even more confused glare from the kid. “But I can help you!”
“H-help me?” he sniffles.
“Mhm! Why are you crying, kiddo?” Dazai plops down next to the stranger, unbothered by the people walking in and out of the bathroom beside them.
It takes a moment for the white-haired stranger to finally open up, clearly having some internal war with himself on whether he should trust some random stranger with his problems.
“I’m auditioning soon…and I’m not very…confident I’ll do well,” the younger boy rushes out.
Dazai can sense the kid’s negative aura, energy— whatever from a mile away, and frankly, it’s starting to weigh him down too.
“Oh, come on! What makes you say that?” Dazai twists his head to look at the other, waiting not-so-patiently for an answer.
“Well…” he anxiously rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve..never sang on a stage before, or for anyone really. So this is kind of…my first performance?” He speaks with the most awkwardness and uncertainty Dazai’s ever heard— and Dazai has been in a lot of awkward situations.
“Wait, wait, wait—” Dazai holds out his hand, hitting the brakes on the conversation. “You’ve never performed before? Oh be serious, you’ve had to have sang in front of an audience before, no? Like, even a shitty middle school talent show. I mean— the stage is meant to be like a second home to people like you and I,” Dazai explains.
Meanwhile, his “new friend” stares at him as if he has three heads.
There’s no way.
“Oh my god!” Dazai clasps his hands over his mouth. “You’re- You’re a stage virgin!” He shrieks.
“What!?” The other boy chokes.
Dazai continues to yell absurd words without a care in the world for the concerned onlookers.
“You heard me! You’re a stage virgin! What’s your name, kid?”
“…Atsushi?” Atsushi apprehensively answers.
“Atsushi! You’ve never performed in front of anyone before, therefore you’re a stage virgin,” Dazai declares, shoving his index finger in Atsushi’s face all matter-of-factly as if he’s some shitty teacher.
“I- I’m not a stage virgin!” argues Atsushi as his cheeks turn an even redder shade.
“Well, not for long! You’re going to sing for me to get those jitters out!”
“I am?”
“Mhm! Let’s go, Atsushi. There’s gotta be some quiet place around here where you can practice,” announced Dazai while fumbling back up into his feet like an old man, despite being a very capable twenty-two year old.
Dazai smiles down at Atsushi as if he is some angel coming to save him— though to Atsushi, he seems more like his executioner right about now.
Atsushi grumbles something from behind Dazai as they walk, though he can’t make out exactly what the boy said.
“Hey, how old are you by the way?” Dazai tilts his head back at Atsushi while pushing open a door clearly labeled with a sign reading “staff only” in bold letters. Seriously— what in hell possessed Atsushi to follow this guy? For all he knew, this random person is leading him to his death, about to murder him in cold blood— oh god, who would find his dismantled body hidden away in whatever dark closet he just followed the man into? Was this the end? Was this it for him? He hadn’t even gotten the chance to—
“Um, hello, earth to child,” Dazai interrupts Atsushi’s internal nervous breakdown with a bonk to his head.
Atsushi immediately flinches at the sudden assault and stares up at Dazai dumbfoundedly.
“Oh— sorry! I-I’m eighteen. My birthday’s May 5th, I’m 170 centimeters, about 121 pounds last time I checked, but that may not be accurate, blood type AB—”
His nervous rambling, or oversharing, is cut off by yet another lightened fist to the head. Well, now Dazai knows this kid’s entire autobiography, and he supposes his age too. He feels a little strange only being four years older than him, and he has a hard time believing Atsushi is meant to be a legal adult.
“Wow. You need some serious help, stage virgin. Telling random strangers your blood type has to be against some paranoid mother’s stranger-danger rules. Luckily for you, you ran into me! Think of me as your…older brother,” Dazai nods at Atsushi.
The title was the first thing that came to him, sounding correct– the right thing to say. Looking back, Dazai assumes that must have been the same reason someone else said the same exact thing to him years ago.
He hits the light switch with overwhelming enthusiasm, watching the room flood with fluorescent yellow lighting. Now, the contents of the room were much more visible. It’s scattered and buried in boxes upon boxes filled with various microphones, lights, and random tattered costumes or decorations.
“Did you bring us into…a storage closet!?” Atsushi shouts.
Dazai starts to think he is actually working the kid up even more rather than calming his nerves.
“Woah, woah, calm down, okay! Technically, I didn’t know it was a storage closet. I mean– they could’ve advertised it outside a little better that this wasn’t meant for auditioners!” Dazai throws his hands up in defense as he refutes Atsushi’s claims.
“Dazai, we are in a goddamn storage closet! We have to leave– what if we get thrown out!?” Atsushi shouts.
“Well, if you keep yelling, we are going to get caught!”
“Oh my god,” Atsushi sighs as he clasps his hands over his face, having another one of his nervous breakdowns.
Dazai pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking of a better way to approach the situation.
After a moment of thinking and Atsushi’s panic filled babbling in the corner, Dazai takes the initiative. He steps over to Atsushi and grabs his shoulders to twist him around and look at him eye to eye.
Atsushi merely sniffles at him.
Dazai takes a deep breath.
“Alright, look Atsushi, I know you’re feeling nervous, but so is everyone else here. I was nervous. At least fifty percent of the people waiting to audition out there are going to let their anxiety get to them and cost them their performance and their shot at American Idol,” he starts. Technically, he’s plagiarizing someone else’s words, someone much wiser than he’ll ever be. But, it’s for a good cause, he figures, and that’s what matters, right?
As he spoke, Dazai could tell his words only stressed Atsushi out even more as the kid silently listened.
He began backpedaling, “If you go in there, and deliver a performance confidently, you’re already better than that fifty percent. I know that you have talent to even get this far, and you don’t need prior stage experience to utilize that talent today. Personally, I think American Idol is a pretty cool first concert,” Dazai smirks, giving Atsushi a small nudge to the shoulder.
At that, Atsushi finally seems to breathe for the first time in the last ten minutes, even going so far as to laugh at Dazai’s terrible humor.
“Th-Thank you, Dazai…It means a lot, and you’re r-right,” Atsushi stutters. And for a second, Dazai thinks the kid’s going to start crying.
Luckily, Dazai’s able to turn things around.
“Always am! Anyway, what song are you doing?”
He turns around, exploring the small, stuffy storage room for a half decent place to sit.
“Um..I’m doing Piano Man..by Billy Joel.”
Dazai’s thanking every higher power above that his back is turned to Atsushi, because his eyes are blown wide and he just barely caught himself from choking on his saliva out of shock.
Shit, he thinks. This kid is actually going home– and he’d just given him that whole pep talk–
“Oh, well, that’s…an impressive song, you wanna sing it for me? Practice, y’know?” Dazai coughs.
Oh shit .
“S-Sure…” Atsushi hesitantly agrees.
Dazai takes a seat, finally settling to use a random wooden box to rest his legs as Atsushi clears his throat.
He should have just kept walking. Maybe, if he had guilt tripped Oda into staying on the call longer this would have never–
“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday,” Atsushi begins, starting strong yet maintaining a somber tone. “The regular crowd shuffles in…there’s an old man sittin’ next to me, makin’ love to his tonic and gin..”
Dazai watches Atsushi sing with fascination. Despite not having any instruments, performing a complete capella, he still captures every part of the song perfectly. And it certainly wasn’t the voice Dazai expected from the kid. He’s definitely a tenor, yet has an impressive range. Dazai’s impressed, and completely eating his words.
He says, “Son, can you play me a memory?
I’m not really sure how it goes
But it’s sad and it’s sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man’s clothes”
“La, la-la, di-di-da–”
Atsushi’s singing comes to a halt as he gets interrupted by Dazai falling on his ass. The box from under him broke, leaving him to crash to the floor along with the rest of the wooden chunks. Sitting dust rises up around him, and suddenly Dazai remembers his allergies. He starts uncontrollably coughing, tears filling his eyes and his skin itching.
“Um– Dazai? Are- are you okay!?”
“Yes, yes!” He pauses to choke, his throat already seeming to close up. “I”m great– keep, keep going!”
Before Atsushi can get a word in, a fist pounds at the door.
“Hey! Who’s in there!? Get out!”
The voice sounds like it belongs to an older man, and Dazai wants no part in that. By the time he collects himself off the ground, the man from outside has successfully gotten in and Atsushi’s frozen.
A middle-aged man glares at the two of them. He has grey hair, gelled back out of his face and a spikey, short beard with a matching mustache. Dazai’s more focused on the fancy monocle the man wears.
“Uh…hello there, sir! Nice to meet you! I’m Dazai, just made it to Hollywood Week,” Dazai flaunts and holds out his hand for the man to shake.
Although the man does the exact opposite, giving Dazai and his allergy affected self a once over before grabbing him by the arm and throwing him out.
“Hey! Hey! I’m going– ow!” Dazai yelps embarrassingly.
Meanwhile, Atsushi was about to get the same treatment.
“Wait, sir! Please, it’s not his fault, I brought him in there– well he followed me willingly, but– we meant no harm!” Dazai pleads— even getting on his knees— while Atsushi stares at him with a “you better fix this” face, the most threatening the kid has looked all day.
The other man glares at Dazai, though gives into his pathetic pleading by letting his grip on Atsushi go, slamming the door to the storage closet shut, and leaving them both out in the hallway.
Neither of them spoke after Dazai scrambled back up onto his feet with a sigh of relief, a voice over the loudspeakers coming in first. “Next auditioner is number fifty-seven. Fifty-seven is next,” it announces.
Atsushi’s eyes went wide once again.
“That’s me. Oh god, that’s me— Dazai, I’m up!” He begins to yell, anxiety getting to him again.
“Hey, hey, remember what I said, okay? You’ve got this!” Dazai clutches Atsushi’s shoulder, trying to be as supportive as possible with his minimal time.
Atsushi nods up at him, fighting the urge to find the nearest bag to hyperventilate into. A repeat of the announcement floods the loudspeakers again, and Atsushi pulls away from Dazai’s grip.
“Right, I-I gotta go, but thank you, Dazai! Thank you!”
He gives Dazai a small bow then runs off in the other direction.
Dazai smiles as he watches the boy’s figure get farther and farther away, and he would have never expected to leave his audition with such a proud brotherly feeling in his gut.
“You were great in that storage closet, Stage Virgin!” he calls out after him. “I’ll meet you in Hollywood Week!”
As Dazai walks off, the opposite direction of where Atsushi’s headed, he hears a faint yell echo through the hallway— and he smiles.
“I’m not a fucking stage virgin!”