Chapter Text
The singing of cicadas drifts unobstructed through the open windows of the second-year high school classroom. Most are listening attentively to the lesson, but Dazai has no need for it. The class has been canceled; it’s self-study, and they’re free to chat instead of maintaining strict discipline. Osamu knows the material perfectly, so he lazily sprawls across his desk, basking in the warm July sun like a large black cat. He and Yosano exchange idle remarks, quietly gossiping about those absent from class.
“I used to date him. He’s the kind of person who hooks you instantly,” the girl says.
Dazai smiles gently. “The faster the interest ignites, the faster it burns out.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“No?” Dazai lifts his head. “Not very convincing. You broke up, after all.”
“But we stayed friends,” Yosano protests. “Honestly, he’s the only ex I still keep in touch with.”
“Sounds like bullshit.”
This story began in the most banal way: a new student transferred into their class last year. Nakahara Chuuya didn’t stand out in any particular way: he was good at some subjects, bad at others; in some things he could be called a genius, and in others he was so terrible that even extra lessons couldn’t save his “below rock-bottom” grades. He was handsome, but not perfect. Often rough, yet somehow able to get along with almost everyone.
Dazai Osamu was almost perfect. He was tall, handsome, the middle son of the wealthiest man in the prefecture. He had high marks in every subject, easy absorbed information and out of boredom often skipped several topics ahead, making studying no effort at all. Teachers liked him for his cheerful nature. And his well-proportioned features and pretty face attracted crowds of admirers. Of which the school had more than enough.
Hoka Academy was one of the most prestigious schools in Japan. Just three years ago it had been an elite institution for girls; now it had become co-ed. Dazai had been shoved in here for two reasons.
The first: unspoken status. Your son studies at a high-class school? Then you’re better than the neighbors.
The second (the one that made Osamu agree without resistance): the dormitory. The academy was far from home — something Dazai secretly very much wanted.
When there’s a shortage of one gender in a school, that gender automatically draws attention. Especially given the height of first love at that age. Dazai fondly called it raging hormones. Thanks to the fact that this wasn’t some cheap harem setup, and not all boys with rich parents had equally stunning looks, Dazai’s pretty face quickly grew into “gorgeous,” and thanks to his ability to carry himself properly, just as quickly reached goddess status. And he gladly made use of it. Accepting confessions and starting new relationships every week. Literally.
Dazai Osamu firmly believed that spending seven days with a person was enough to fully understand their nature. Usually he got bored by the second, but clinging to some faint hope that someone might actually interest him, he dumped them on the seventh. Sometimes they dumped him, saying, “I had the wrong impression of you.”
Yes. Despite his perfect image, Dazai Osamu was a liar. Everything he showed the world was nothing more than a polished, staged performance. A fake.
He didn’t like his real self. He hated his real self. He slashed his arms with a box cutter again and again, afraid that just a little more and he would be exposed.
“Someone who hooks you instantly…” What’s your secret? How do I find it out? What is it you do that makes people unable to let you go once they know you? …Or maybe?
Nakahara Chuuya transferred to Hoka Academy for one damn rational reason. He ran away from home.
As the eldest son, his parents had been overprotective since childhood — though Chuuya would say restrictive. Going outside — no. “You’ll catch a cold, get sick, get hurt, break something.” Going to the river — no. “You’ll drown, get chilled, catch something nasty.” Socializing with other kids — no. “They’ll ruin your upbringing, you’ll degrade, they’re beneath you, not your status, and so on and so forth.” Reading foreign authors, comics, and manga — no. “Those foreigners with their European values are just waiting to corrupt young minds. We’re a Japanese family that values tradition. And those scribbles are foolish reading unfit for your education.” Nevermind that Chuuya had been seven at that time. He ran away by climbing a tree whose branches crossed the fence; taught himself to swim; befriended local kids; and at school read superhero comics during breaks, which his friends kindly brought him.
Chuuya grew, and with him grew the imposed obligations. His father, a military doctor accustomed to everything bending to his will, wanted his eldest son to follow in his footsteps.
To say Chuuya didn’t give a damn about medicine would be an understatement. Nevertheless, his father grew more insistent by the day. He wanted to control everything in his son’s life: from clothes to future profession and place of residence. Conflicts at home escalated. Chuuya wasn’t easy prey either. In the end, after the entrance exams for medical college, he brought his father a separate sheet with the correct answers. The man didn’t understand what it was at first. But he figured it out quickly when the results came in. Failed exams. Because screw that. It was a massive red rag to an enraged bull, with the words: “I can do it the way you want. But I won’t.” The scandal was enormous. That same night, Chuuya packed his modest belongings into a sports bag, took his savings, and ran away through the same tree he’d used as a child.
Understanding that school education in Japan mattered a hell of a lot. Being a direct path to a good university, and the level of the university practically equating to your future salary, Chuuya had no intention of dropping out. That’s how he found Hoka Academy — an elite institution that had recently gone co-ed and was very interested in recruiting boys. But most importantly, the school offered scholarships and, to maintain its high reputation, participated in numerous competitions with cash prizes! And thanks to his achievements in sports, the academy covered Chuuya’s tuition. Jackpot. He even managed to work part-time on the side.
It’s Monday now. He’s standing in the back courtyard of his school in front of one bastard from his class who had repelled him from the very moment Chuuya first saw him. A girl a week… disgusting.
“Chuuya, let’s start dating.”
No stuttering, no flushed cheeks, no nerves from confession. Dazai Osamu stands opposite him in the bright rays of the summer sun, blinking his doe-like eyes and looking utterly bored.
There isn’t a single damn reason to keep listening to this nonsense. Time to answer this lousy joke with sarcasm or a fist. And yet something makes him change his mind and ask:
“What kind of flower do you like anyway?”
Dazai falters instantly, eyes widening in confusion. He opens his mouth, but no word leaves his lips. Osamu falls silent, embarrassed, staring at his feet in thought. “Peach. Peach Blossoms,” he finally says after a pause.
Chuuya raises an eyebrow in surprise. That’s not what he expected. Interesting. “Now I see what kind of human you are. Fine then. Seven days, right?”
Maybe something will come of it.