Chapter Text
April 7, 2013.
Dear sketchbook,
It's me! Everyone's greatest nightmare :)
Today I painted a cat. I messed up on the ears. It's a bit uneven, but that's fine. Cats are weird anyways.
I'm thinking of attempting again, but now that I think about it, Elise would probably miss me. Mom would cry about it for a week, then continue on like it's nothing. Mori would... be Mori.
Anyways, I got a concert ticket from mom. She said it would be nice to “try something new”. As if newness fixes anything.
I'm about to go with Elise. Wish me luck.
Dazai closed the sketchbook with one hand, the other still absently doodling along the edge of the page. A crooked tail. Maybe a second cat. He stopped halfway through — tossed the book on his bed like it burned him.
The room is still. Quiet. His ceiling’s got three glow-in-the-dark stars from five years ago, which wouldn't light up anymore since his room barely got any sunlight, the windows always closed. He stared at the stars like they would tell him something.
On his desk, the concert tickets sit face-down, half-buried under a pencil case, untouched.
“Onii-chaaan! I'm ready, c'mooon!” Elise's voice echoed from outside his room, cutting through the silence.
He exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the ceiling crush him for one more second. Then he moved — stretched, cracked his neck, scooped the sketchbook back off the bed and tucked it into his bag like a habit.
Dazai doesn't even know the artist's name. All he knew is that Elise was excited. That was probably the point.
In the car, Elise chatters about her day, swinging her legs, asking him questions about art that she doesn’t wait for answers to. Dazai flips through old pages in his sketchbook, showing her a few recent doodles.
She gasps dramatically at each one like they’re masterpieces. He doesn’t say anything, but a smile tugs faintly at the corner of his mouth.
They arrived sooner than Dazai hoped.
The venue was already pulsing with bass before they even got out of the car — distant echoes of shrieking fans, the kind that make your eardrums flinch before the door even opens.
He hated it immediately as they walked in.
Too loud. Too bright. The air felt sticky with humidity and noise, the crowd a sea of movement pressing in too close from all directions.
Elise, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with joy, beaming like a golden retriever in a fireworks store. She tugged at his sleeve, dragging him past rows of strangers with too much perfume and zero sense of personal space.
“Do you even know who’s performing?” she shouted over the chaos, craning her neck to look at him.
“Nope,” Dazai replied, popping the p exaggeratedly. “But I saw a rat on the way in, so that’s the highlight of my night so far.”
She laughed, pushing a cup of popcorn into his arms. He just accepted it with a blank stare. He wasn't joking, though.
Luckily, he brought his headset — his one savior in this swirling auditory hell. He slipped it over his ears, the dulled bass making the noise just tolerable enough to exist without curling into himself.
As the crowd screamed at some distant flicker of movement onstage, Dazai’s eyes wandered. He needed something to latch onto, something real. Elise would’ve been an easy subject — she was always fun to sketch — but tonight…
He saw orange.
Bright, burning orange.
His gaze caught and locked like a trap snapping shut. A flash of fiery hair illuminated by strobe lights. Short, wild, impossible to ignore.
Dazai froze.
Oh.
He didn’t move. Not at first. The world around him blurred into a haze of color and noise — his hand automatically fumbled for his sketchbook, popcorn tilting dangerously in the other. A pen was already in his grip before he knew what he was doing.
He had to draw.
Had to capture this—before it vanished.
His fingers moved on instinct, carving lines into paper, trying to make sense of what he saw.
The boy was vivid in every possible way. Messy orange hair, a compact build, eyes that — even from this distance — glinted two different colors. A walking contradiction; soft hoodie, scuffed boots, untamable energy.
He was talking to two people — a silver-haired boy and a girl with pink streaks — laughing with them like the air belonged to him.
This boy had this spark inside him that Dazai just couldn't explain with words, so he does what he always did, he draws.
Is this an invasion of privacy? Probably. But as they say, beauty is pain.
It wasn’t the singer on stage who stole the spotlight tonight.
It was him .
At some point, Dazai forgot there was a concert at all. His sketchbook became the stage, and the stranger with fire for hair was the only thing in focus.
It's like he's begging to be a muse. And who is Dazai to refuse?
At this point, Dazai memorized the boy's features. Which is probably creepy, but as an artist — it should be taken as a compliment . Definitely nothing weird or obsessive. Once he gets home, he'll color the sketch in with watercolors.
Yeah.
Once he's finally satisfied with the lines — when he could breathe again — he stared at the page for a long moment. Then, almost unconsciously, he scribbled one word at the corner in messy ink:
Fireworks.
Which may not make sense at first, but it's the attempt of being poetic that counts. That boy was like the sound of fireworks. Loud and bright and impossible to look away from — like he exploded something in Dazai’s chest just by existing.
“Onii-chan? Hellooo~!? Ooh, what're you drawing?” Elise leaned into Dazai's line of sight right as he snapped the sketchbook shut with reflexes born from panic. “Nothing, just some doodles—”
“YOU HAVE A CRUSH?!”
And for once, Dazai is so thankful that they're in a loud space, or else he'd definitely combust.
“Ha-ha. How'd you get to that conclusion, 'Lise-chan?” Dazai puts on a forced smile, causing the blonde to purse her lips.
“You—you never draw strangers!” she squeaked. “Only me or landscapes or, like… dying flowers! You looked so dazed and in love just now-!”
“How does anyone look in love?!”
“You wouldn't get it, you just do !”
“You watch too much Shoujo.”
“Do not ! It's called intuition! And vibes!”
Dazai groaned, running his hand down his face. “First of all; that's stupid . Second; I don't believe in love at first sight. Third; I don't even love in the first place!”
“That's because you're busy being a depressed and angsty teen all the time!”
They kept bickering like that for a while, tossing popcorn back and forth like ammunition, until the stage lights dimmed and the performance finally started pulling the crowd’s attention.
But Dazai?
He couldn’t stop thinking about that spark. That orange flash.
And how, for a moment, it felt like something inside him had finally caught fire.
The concert ended in a burst of cheers, and Dazai’s ears were still ringing as he guided Elise out of the venue.
“Onii-chan, I’m hungry!” she whined, tugging at his sleeve like she was about to pass out from popcorn deprivation.
Dazai sighed, not even pretending to fight her. “You and your bottomless stomach…” he muttered, steering her toward a nearby diner glowing dimly across the street.
The restaurant was quieter. Warmer. It smelled like grilled meat and old music. A small comfort in the chaos of the night. Elise eagerly ordered a full meal, while Dazai, still disoriented, stuck to a plain vanilla ice cream.
So far, he'd rate the day a 4/10 . Better than most of his outings, to be honest. It did work on distracting him from all the depressing thoughts. Elise didn't annoy him, and the concert…
Well.
He thought it was over.
Until the mic crackled.
Elise perked up immediately. “Ooh! They have a live performance too?! What are the odds?”
Dazai barely listened, though. He continued licking his ice cream while poking at a ketchup packet, wondering if he could die from boredom. His headphones did die, though. There's nothing left to buffer the world.
And then—
The first chord strummed.
He looked up, and then his world went still.
Oh. Oh no.
It's him.
Orange hair pulled back under a hoodie. Boots swinging as he adjusted the stool.
Dazai’s mouth parted slightly, the air catching in his throat. His hands went still over his ice cream.
His guitar was beat up, his voice wasn't perfect, but it still fits .
It was the boy from the concert.
Except now he was glowing even more — not from stage lights, but from something inside him.
The crowd was small, but that didn't matter. He sang like someone had carved the words into his ribs. Like each note was a reason to breathe.
Beside him were the same two friends — silver hair on the drums, pink on the bass — but they might as well have been shadows.
The spotlight lived on the redhead.
Dazai didn't even hear what Elise said, absentmindedly eating his ice cream as he watched the redhead sing.
“Oi, onii-chan!”
Dazai finally snaps his mind out, glancing at his little sister. He tilted his head, indicating her to go on.
“If you like them that much, you could draw them and ask for an autograph,” Elise shrugged. And for once... Dazai isn't opposed to that idea.
Dazai opened his sketchbook, flipping back to the page he’d drawn earlier. His pencil hovered — and, to keep up appearances, he added a few new doodles around the edges. A stool. A boot. Some music notes. Like it wasn’t already a full-blown shrine.
Elise peeked in. “Is that… him? From earlier?”
He yanked it away with a hissed, “Don’t look at it like that.”
She grinned. “This is the most alive your drawing's looked since forever! You only drew the singer boy, huh?”
“He seems the most fun to draw,” Dazai said, feigning nonchalance.
After the set ended, Elise pushed him up from the booth before he could even think.
“Go! Before I do it for you.”
Holy fuck . What's he gonna do? Dazai has never just gone up to a random stranger, going “hey I just drew you, can you put your signature on it please?” so he has no clue on how this is supposed to go.
But Dazai was already moving. Sketchbook in hand. Legs shaking slightly beneath his jeans.
He stopped in front of the boy.
The boy looked up, blinking. His hoodie was slipping down, hair damp at the ends from sweat. On closer inspection, he indeed had mismatched-eyes — one blue, one brown.
Dazai swallowed the lump in his throat, and for once… he didn't have a well-thought plan on what to do.
Well, Dazai's a person with no shame, so—
“Hi,” Dazai said, voice dry. “You were pretty good.”
He didn’t wait for a thank you. Just held out the sketch and a pen, like his hands weren’t trembling.
“Autograph?”
Dazai wanted to punch himself. That wasn’t cool or suave . That was barely a full sentence.
There was a pause. A beat.
Then the boy took the sketchbook, eyes widening.
“Holy shit,” he muttered. “This is—like—really cool. You drew this?”
Dazai just nodded, heart pounding. He was going to pass out. Right here. In this cheap diner.
He took the sketchbook with a weird kind of gentleness. Like he didn’t want to mess it up.
Dazai watched the way his hand hovered, hesitant for a second before signing. His penmanship was a little messy. Like maybe he was nervous too.
Then he handed it back. Their fingers brushed.
“Thanks,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a grin that looked too big for his face. “This kinda made my night.”
Dazai said nothing. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
He was absolutely losing his mind.
“Uh,” the shorter boy scratched the back of his neck, “you draw other people too, or just, uh… random redheads performing?”
“I draw... what’s worth remembering,” Dazai said before his brain could stop him.
The ginger raised a brow, clearly unsure whether to be flattered or creeped out.
Dazai panicked. “Also rats. I drew a rat earlier.”
Surprisingly, the boy let out a short laugh — surprised, unpolished. The kind that slips out before he can stop it.
“Well... glad I ranked above rodents, I guess,” he said, half-teasing, half-bewildered.
Dazai wanted to disappear into the floor.
“No offense to the rat,” he added weakly, as if that helped.
He glanced at him — really looked this time. Eyes flicking across Dazai’s expression like he was trying to figure out what the hell to make of him. Bandages. Bored stare. Wild energy barely tucked under casual sarcasm.
A beat passed. The restaurant noise filled in around them again — low conversation, the clink of utensils, a waitress calling an order.
The boy glanced over his shoulder where his friends were packing up their instruments. “I should probably head back.”
Dazai gave a shallow nod, forcing a casual tone. “Right. Wouldn’t want your drummer to abandon you.”
“Pfft. He would if he could get out of carrying the drum kit.”
The redhead took a step backward, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket. For a second, it looked like he was going to say something else — maybe a goodbye, maybe a question — but instead, he just nodded once, slow.
“Thanks again. For the drawing. It’s cool as hell.”
Then he turned. The moment passed.
Dazai stood there for another second, sketchbook clutched to his chest like a heart transplant.
He blinked. Exhaled. Tried to find solid ground again.
Behind him, Elise peeked around the booth, practically vibrating. “DID HE SAY ANYTHING?! Did he give you his NUMBER?! DID HE SMILE ?!”
Dazai sat back down slowly, ignoring the flurry of interrogation. He flipped the sketchbook open again.
There it was.
Chuuya — scribbled in black ink, jagged and a little messy.
“Are you finished? Let's get back home.”
He didn't miss the scowl his little sister gave him. “Wait, I need a bathroom break!” she said, running off.
Dazai took the opportunity to glance at his sketchbook again. He stared at the page for a long moment. Let himself feel that electric jolt in his ribs again.
“... Fireworks ,” he whispered, tracing over the name.
Because that’s what the boy— Chuuya —left behind. Something loud. Something bright. Something that lit up the dark without even trying.
And now?
And now Dazai officially has a celebrity crush — if this even counts.