Chapter Text
Osamu walks up to the front gates during the first day of high school with lightness in his steps. The building looks welcoming, very much unlike the drab and stifling school where he’d spent his junior high. The sun is bright up in the sky with a few clouds lingering; there’s a cool breeze greeting him and a swirl of sakura petals drifting by. It’s a perfect first day, and Osamu already feels freer than ever compared to the past three years.
Plus, Chuuya will be here.
It was easy, prying from Chuuya the name of the school he would be attending. Easy enough to secretly send in an application and attend its entrance exam. And so, so easy to miss the exam for the private school his parents wanted for him instead.
Of course they were mad when the results came out. They’re always mad anyway—this barely made any difference when Osamu was already used to the sting of his mother's insults and the slam of his father's hand on the table. But Osamu's actions left them no choice this time: either let him attend this generic, non-specialized high school, or he would miss an entire year by not going to any school at all.
In hindsight, Osamu probably shouldn’t have snapped “I’ll just get a job at a FamilyMart then,” to cut short his father's tirade. But again, it’s not like he wasn't used to the belt lashings by now. He had barely even flinched until it was over. Hirotsu had come in that night, armed with his first aid kit to treat his welts. He had tsk’d in disapproval of Osamu's sharp tongue, but not of his decisions.
Not when Hirotsu had helped forge his parents’ signatures in the first place.
But again, what’s important now is that he’s free.
He didn’t have to watch in jealousy anymore as Chuuya biked to school while he's stuck being driven around by Hirotsu. Or be jealous of how casual Chuuya's uniform was as compared to the stiff suit-like clothes Osamu had to wear. He wouldn't have to escape from his window to go to Chuuya’s place on bright Saturday mornings just to take a break from the ridiculous amount of regular coursework plus shit from cram school he constantly had waiting for him, only to find out that yet again that Chuuya wasn’t around due to club practice, or track meets, or soccer, or a karate class, or whatever.
They still saw each other during those three years of course, with Chuuya mostly doing the visits when he’s free because Osamu was always cooped up and studying all the time anyway. But it was a stark change from walking to and from school together everyday during elementary school and being in the same class.
Funny, how one person’s absence is just as annoying as seeing them constantly.
But that was then. And now is now. And Chuuya? Has no idea at all that they’ll be in the same school again. Osamu has been keeping this secret for months—he can't wait to spring this surprise on Chuuya finally and rub it in his face.
A sudden gust of wind makes Osamu stop walking, his lips quirking into a small smile as he stares at the building that will be his new home for the next three years.
A home that would give him a taste of what freedom could be.
The person walking behind Osamu must’ve been caught off-guard by his sudden pause because they collide with his shoulder, causing them both to nearly stumble.
“My apologies, for I was not looking ahead.”
Osamu quickly turns around, his own apology getting cut short by a soft voice speaking in overly formal, accented Japanese.
“No, it was my own fault for mindlessly stopping. Forgive me—" Osamu zeroes-in on the III pinned at the other boy’s collar. “Senpai,” he tacks on at the end, with a small bow. Years and years of polite speech being drilled into him by tutors automatically brings out the textbook reply.
“There is nothing to forgive,” the third year student answers with a tilt of his head. Something about his too-pale face and strikingly unnatural purple eyes that remain unwavering in their gaze unsettle Osamu—he can’t exactly pinpoint why, only that… there's something—
His ears ring with static from the sudden quiet.
The upperclassman looks—still. Too still, even with the strong breeze flowing around them. He is staring straight at Osamu but it feels like he's staring at nothing—those unnatural eyes looked… empty. Unseeing. Like there's something behind—inside?—Osamu that only he could see.
It's unnerving. It's unsettling. Osamu's brain keeps screaming: this doesn't make sense, all that this guy is doing is looking so why are my instincts blaring like a siren? Why is my skin crawling for no reason at all? This doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense.
Those eyes finally find their focus. Osamu stops feeling like he's being dissected, yes, even as a literal shiver goes up his spine.
A small smile graces his lips, as though the young man had changed? his? mind? and doesn’t consider Osamu irrelevant after all.
“Have a good first day of school,” the third year adds, and with the faintest of nods, he walks away.
“Yeah, you too.” The words feel trapped in Osamu's throat and it was all he could do to get those three out.
What the hell? Barely five seconds of interaction with someone shouldn’t have elicited that. Whatever that was. That which had somehow drowned out the noise of an entire courtyard filled with the usual chaos of students undergoing adolescence.
A group of girls behind him bursts into laughter, and it helps clear the fog in Osamu’s head. He nods a greeting at them, hiding his discomfort with a flirty smile and letting their presence wash away all the whateverness of earlier. By the time they’ve exchanged names and see-you-later’s, the entire encounter with the third year has disappeared from Osamu’s memory.
Another gust of wind that’s colder and sharper whizzes by and it feels like a slap in the face. Osamu resists the urge to roll his eyes. That could only be the result of one thing: Chuuya is losing his temper somewhere.
As usual.
Minutes later, Osamu finds Chuuya lying on the grass under the shade of trees at the back of the campus. He's mouthing along to some song with his eyes closed, gakuran jacket folded neatly beside him. Osamu approaches him stealthily. He has an unopened packet of matcha Pocky in his hand, its box already thrown away. Earlier this morning, Osamu had painstakingly snapped all the sticks in three places.
He holds the pouch right over Chuuya’s face, and lets gravity do its job.
Chuuya startles. He yells as he sits up and shoves the headphones down to hang around his neck, thunder already crashing in the distance.
“The hell is your—Osamu?” Chuuya’s eyes widen comically. He’s caught in this awkward pose where he’s not standing and yet barely sitting, arms frozen mid-flail. He looks so hilarious that Osamu almost can’t hold in his laughter.
“Yo." He greets Chuuya with a flick on the forehead. Instantly, a scowl appears on Chuuya's face, even as he settles back to sitting on the grass properly.
“You’re here? The hell. Whatever happened to that fancy business high school?”
“Ditched the exam.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Fucking hell.”
“I know right.”
“And you’re still alive?”
Osamu's only answer is the complicated ‘shrug plus head-tilt plus eye-roll plus handwave plus choking sound’ expression he’d perfected at age seven to explain away his parents.
“Well yeah okay, point.” Chuuya continues to stare like he can’t quite believe Osamu is here. To be fair, a part of Osamu still can’t believe it either.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, you ass.”
Osamu easily sidesteps the light punch Chuuya aims at his leg. "Chuuya speaks like a delinquent now. So unbecoming.”
“So unbecoming,” Chuuya repeats with an exaggerated dramatic tone. But then he starts laughing—that kind of full-hearted laughter filled with impossible-to-conceal happiness. And soon enough, there's that giddy smile too making an appearance, one that Osamu easily matches, though his own may be a tad muted.
For how can one match a smile that literally shines brighter than the sun?
A smile that makes sunbeams break through the shade of the massive tree’s leaves, just to scatter spots of warm light all over its owner. And here comes the sun again, seemingly on a mission to infuse their rays into every single strand on Chuuya's head, his hair appearing lighter than its true shade. They kiss his perpetually tanned skin and bounce back from the most radiant blue eyes Osamu has ever seen.
It always hurts a little, seeing Chuuya at his most beautiful. At his brightest. At his happiest.
Osamu blinks only out of necessity. His eyes hurt, and some tears are forming, but he's getting used to it.
He wants to get used to it.
He wants to see Chuuya like this, all the time.
He wants to be the reason Chuuya gets this bright, always.
This picture in front of him, this sight of Chuuya in perpetual ethereal glow, is why Osamu kept his plans to himself. This is why he didn't tell him anything for months on end, why he kept concealed the new bruises and lied away those he couldn't hide. And he’ll bring this particular little secret of his to the grave.
“So are you going to help my delinquent butt off this grass?” Chuuya gets his laughter under control, and finally grabs his gakuran jacket with one hand and holds out his other to Osamu.
“You’ll just hit me if I say no,” Osamu grumbles as he tugs on Chuuya’s wrist with enough force to pull him up, even as he keeps his face innocent. Like he’s not planning something devious.
Something like letting go of Chuuya’s hand the moment he’s halfway up.
Chuuya crashlands back on the grass with a soft thud. He's so trusting sometimes, really—he of all people should know better.
And Osamu?
Osamu runs for his life.
“I’m going to kill you, Dazai!”
Osamu gets such a kick out of Chuuya suddenly switching to his surname like this, like it’s an actual threat, as though he’d pissed Chuuya off so much he wants to erase the past decade they’d known each other. He’d started doing it around two years ago for some mysterious reason but regardless—
It’s so fucking hilarious whenever it happens and Osamu loves it so much.
The freezing wind greets Osamu like a slap to the face as he runs across the courtyard, making leaves and dirt and papers (and skirts) fly in every direction. Even his eyes get watery from the dust that settles in them, but he's got no time to wipe the tears off.
Not when there's a shrieking Chuuya chasing after him.
Osamu changes into indoor slippers, the quickest he has ever done so in his life, eternally grateful that Chuuya’s assigned locker is located three rows away. He then runs up the main stairs and right on cue, the morning bell echoes through the hallway speakers. Osamu almost thinks he's made it, but—
Well.
Chuuya is a nationally ranked sprinter after all. Osamu, who hates any kind of physical exertion, will never win against him despite how many minutes he buys in advance. What he does have is a great sense of balance though, so he doesn't fall when he suddenly gets jerked back by the elbow.
“I’ll get you during lunch, I swear—the hell is this?” Chuuya’s rough tone changes into one of puzzlement as he slaps away a smattering of what looks like miniscule bits and pieces of dead leaves stuck behind Osamu’s right arm.
"Eh? That wasn't there this morning," Osamu answers just as confused. It's like someone tore open a bunch of tea bags and sprinkled their contents over his shoulder all the way down to his wrist.
“And you dare call me the delinquent when you go to class all dirty like this,” Chuuya huffs, slapping the cloth harder. The leaves come off easily with Osamu helping too and they create a significant mess on the floor.
“I don’t know where they came from!” Osamu protests. The teachers are going to arrive any minute now and they can't see this, they can't get reprimanded on their first day.
Osamu slides open the door to his classroom, relieved at seeing one of the girls he met earlier sitting nearby.
"Aoi-san, do you have tissues? Wet wipes? A handkerchief?" Puzzled, the girl hands over a packet of wet tissues. He beams at her in reply before running out again.
Chuuya and Osamu kneel down at the same time, taking two tissues each and frantically wiping the floor to gather all the leaves scattered.
“I’ll kick your ass at lunch,” Chuuya reiterates his threat with a matching glare while scrubbing furiously to get any remnants left behind.
“I have tamagoyaki from Hirotsu-san.” Osamu says out of the blue innocently. He bundles up all the used tissues in a ball as they both stand. Chuuya turns to him sharply with a squeak from where he was checking the corridor for any teachers.
"You hate tamagoyaki."
"Maybe I don't anymore," Osamu answers with very big, very wide eyes.
It's all bullshit, of course; Osamu will always and forever hate tamagoyaki—
Osamu knows this, Hirotsu knows this, Chuuya knows this. There is only one reason Hirotsu will prepare an extra bento filled solely with tamagoyaki and it's never for Osamu.
Chuuya though looks actually worried and the fact that he's still beyond gullible after all these years when it comes to the shit Osamu says is honestly amazing.
"You wouldn't dare."
"Won't I?"
Two teachers appear by the stairway.
"Lunch. I will find you, and if I see you've touched my tamagoyaki, you're dead." Chuuya points a finger at Osamu with as much threat there is in his tiny body, and the fact that Chuuya has to look up to glare at Osamu eye-to-eye now thrills him every time.
"Yes, yes I know."
Honestly? Osamu can't wait.