Chapter Text
Dazai leaned back in the cheap plastic chair like it was made for him, one leg crossing over the other, his scarf folded neatly in his lap. Except his eyes didn’t match the posture, and Chuuya found them too sharp for comfort.
“Bit young for Odasaku, aren’t you?”
Figures. Fancy coat, shit manners.
Chuuya didn’t rise to it. Just took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes fixed somewhere over Dazai’s shoulder, like maybe the stain on the wall behind him had a more interesting opinion. “You’ve got opinions on his type?”
Dazai smiled, slow and deliberate. “I’ve got opinions on everything.”
He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with one lazy flick, like this entire conversation was beneath him.
“I didn’t know he was seeing anyone,” Dazai murmured, tilting his head, “Funny how people forget to mention things.”
Chuuya finally looked at him. “Maybe you’re not as important as you think.”
That earned a low, genuine laugh. “It’s just romantic,” Dazai grinned. “A secret lover. Doesn’t sound like Odasaku’s style, but I suppose love changes people, ne?”
Chuuya didn’t flinch, didn’t take the bait. He just kept drinking his coffee like he’d rather be chewing glass. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, “What’s important is that he wakes up.”
Dazai hummed softly, head titling once more like an overactive puppy, “Mm. Practical. Thoughtful. You don’t seem the type.”
That earned the first flicker of irritation, a twitch of Chuuya’s jaw, subtle but satisfying. Dazai leaned back, and studied him, “What’s your story then?”
A beat. Chuuya’s grip on his cup tightened, just a fraction. “None of your business.”
He knew better. Knew this wasn’t the time or the place to start shit — Not when he still feared Oda would wonder why he thought he had the right, but Dazai’s voice grated like glass underfoot. Silence stretched between them, thin and brittle.
Dazai’s gaze drifted towards Chuuya’s sleeves, the frayed edge of one cuff, the stubborn curve of his mouth. He liked puzzles, especially broken ones. Especially the ones pretending not to be.
“Relax,” Dazai murmured, soft, as if they were in on some private joke together. “You don’t have to impress me. You’ve already got the whole martyr thing down.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
“Gutsy, though,” Dazai added, smiling faintly. “Showing up like this. Not everyone would.”
Chuuya’s jaw flexed. “Yeah? Is that what you expected?”
“I expected decor,” Dazai mused. “Pretty. Slightly useless. Bad with coffee, probably.”
Chuuya almost threw the cup at him.
He didn’t. Didn’t even tell him to piss off, which he considers his real achievement of the hour.
In the end, Dazai left the way people like him always did, with his coat over his arm, his smile sharp enough to cut paper, not bothering with goodbyes. Something about business. Old ties. Important meetings, like he was doing everyone a favor just by existing in the doorway.
Fine. Good riddance.
Chuuya stayed.
Days later, Chuuya made himself familiar with Oda's home. Worn chairs. Mismatched bowls. Morning light spilling crooked through the cracked kitchen window, soft and too bright all at once. The kind of quiet that wasn’t silent, just lived-in.
Chuuya liked this part. Early mornings with the kids eating too much rice for their size, chair legs scraping against cheap tile, a kettle screaming somewhere in the background. The smallest one had latched onto his wrist like a bad habit, refusing to sit anywhere else.
It wasn’t love, not the way these people seemed to think. But he could play at devotion for their sake. For Oda’s sake. Someone had to, and Chuuya had never been good at leaving good people.
That’s what they kept saying about Oda. Good man. Heart too big. Should’ve looked after himself more.
Chuuya could almost love him for that alone. Almost.
He didn’t expect the smallest one to be the first to warm up to him.
It happened over breakfast. A hand curled into his sleeve, a tug, light and almost apologetic. He glanced down. Messy black hair. Round cheeks. Sleepy eyes that didn’t trust him yet but wanted the bread he was holding more than she wanted distance.
“You can just ask, y’know,” Chuuya muttered, tearing the bread in half and offering the larger piece. “Not like I’m gonna bite.”
She took it like he’d offered her his own heart. Didn’t smile, didn’t say thank you, didn’t let go of his sleeve. By the time the others woke up, Chuuya had one piece of bread left, a headache brewing behind his eyes, and a child glued to his arm like a second sleeve.
Kouyou, who Chuuya had learned was basically Dazai and Oda's eldest sister figure, watched it all from across the room, faint amusement curling at the corner of her mouth. “You’re good with them.”
Chuuya didn’t answer at first. Just stared down at the kid chewing with careful, almost resentful determination. “I’m not trying to be,” he muttered, low and rough. “They just… make it hard to be an asshole.”
Kouyou huffed softly. “They do tend to have that effect.”
The little girl tugs at his sleeve again, soft, anchoring him. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.
Kouyou’s eyes lowered to her. “She likes you.”
“Don’t know why,” Chuuya says. His fingers flex once, restless, before settling again. “I don’t know the first thing about raising kids.”
“You don’t have to.” Kouyou steps closer now, folding her arms, hair falling loose around her face. “You just have to stay .”
Hasn’t that been the story of the last two weeks? It was supposed to be a stopgap. A stupid, clumsy lie told in a hospital corridor because no one was making decisions and someone had to step up before the whole thing buckled. Because of Oda, with his ridiculous calm and his goddamn quiet hero complex, was lying in that bed upstairs with machines breathing for him, and the universe didn’t seem interested in stepping in.
There was a tight, hollow ache in his chest that came every time someone said "he hasn't woken yet, maybe tomorrow,” and one of the kids looked up like they could hear it, like they knew, like they’d been here before.
You didn’t leave good people behind. That’s what it boiled down to.
So yeah. He stayed. And he lied. And he let them call him things he wasn’t because correcting them felt crueler than letting it sit.
“You just have to stay,” she’d said.
Like it was that simple.
It doesn’t take much for the kids to start talking—not to him, necessarily, but near him. Enough that he pieces things together in broken syllables over shared meals and evenings folding laundry none of them really know how to do.
Oda wasn’t just looking after them . He was carrying them, cradling them between the ribs like they’d shatter if anyone breathed too hard in their direction. The oldest boy talks about it one day while scraping burnt rice out of a pan.
“Said we were family,” Ryunosuke shrugs, voice too old for his face. “Didn’t have to, though. We already knew.”
Chuuya doesn’t say it, but he envies that kind of certainty.
There’s another name that keeps coming up, too. Dazai.
“He’s Oda’s brother,” the second eldest, Atsushi, explains. “Not really, but…you know. That kinda thing.”
“Real scary, though,” another adds helpfully, chewing the edge of her nail. “He left for those fancy people abroad.”
“Corporate,” says Kouyou, dry as a bone. “Making a name for himself. I wonder if he’s proud of it.”
No one answers that.
Chuuya knows enough to guess: people like Dazai don’t stay. They drift, like smoke, curling through your clothes long enough to leave the smell but never the warmth. It pisses him off more than it should.
And of course, that’s exactly when Dazai shows up again. Of course, he didn’t knock. People like him don’t. Not when the whole damn house looks like it could be bought and sold for the cost of one of his ties. He wanders in like he owns the place, which, technically speaking, he probably does. There’s a tension to him now that Chuuya hadn’t remembered, sharp around the mouth. Youth worn thinner, like fabric stretched too many times over something it was never meant to cover.
“Corporate,” Kouyou had told him. Chuuya's eyes flick—not to Dazai, but to his sleeve, to the neat watchband at his wrist. Black leather.
“Chibi,” Dazai drawls, “Didn’t know you were still here. Playing house, are we?”
Chuuya doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t glare, doesn’t snap. Just lifts his chin slightly, smoothing the wrinkle in his sleeve with his free hand. The smallest kid is still attached to him, silent, watching.
“Someone has to,” Chuuya answered.
Dazai expected a temper. Sparks. Instead, he gets quiet resistance, practiced like someone biting down on the inside of his cheek. Amusing. He steps closer anyway. Of course he does.
“At least you’re dressed for the part,” Dazai murmured, reaching out to tug the edge of Chuuya’s apron slightly straighter, too deliberate to be anything but mocking. “Wouldn’t want to embarrass the family.”
“I’ll manage.”
And that’s what it does—the restraint. The deliberate choice not to snap. The effort of playing along, for someone else’s sake, not his own.
It’s worse when one of the kids peeks in from the hallway and chirps, “Dazai-san is back! He's with Chuuya-san!” before darting off again
Chuuya feels the humiliation burn through his stomach like whiskey on an empty gut.
Dazai’s grin goes sharp, bright with something too pleased to be innocent. “Ah, they're so familiar now. I'm still amazed. I’ve been been busy, but surely I wasn’t so neglectful that he’d forget to share such happy news.”
Because it’s a lie. Because it’s none of his business. Because fuck you.
Chuuya doesn’t say any of it. His nails dig into his palms.
“Didn’t think you were his type. Then again…” His eyes flicker, lazy and pointed all at once. “...he could’ve done worse.”
Something low and treacherous curls in Chuuya’s stomach, sharp and inconvenient. It’s not the words that get him. It’s the way Dazai says it, like he’s testing the weight of the lie, rolling it around his tongue just to see how it fits on Chuuya.
Close. Always too close.
God, he’s annoying.
And worse, is the way he looks at him. Half amused, half bored, sharp as glass beneath it all. Like he could peel the skin off a lie with two fingers and a smile.
It wasn’t much better at dinner.
The house is too small for formality, but they all try anyway with their shirts tucked, hair combed, hands washed in cold water before they sit. There’s not enough chairs, so someone always ends up on a stool or the arm of the couch dragged too close to the table. Kyouka stays pressed to Chuuya’s side, quiet and steady, as if she can tell something’s about to break.
And then there’s Dazai, draping himself over a too-small seat like a cat on someone else’s bed, smiling like he’s been invited.
Chuuya doesn’t look at him. He focuses on the food, on making sure Kyouka’s bowl is full, on pretending his appetite isn’t shrinking by the second.
Dazai’s the one who breaks the silence first.
“Brilliant work, chibi,” Dazai sighs, taking a bite of rice like he’s slumming it in a five-star restaurant. “Imagine eating like Odasaku every day. What a dream.”
“Dazai,” Kouyou says, soft, sharp.
Before he could get worse, one of the kids—half-asleep, face sticky with sauce—looked up and mumbled, “Are you gonna stay forever? You cook better.”
But Dazai just hums, flicking his gaze to Chuuya like he’s waiting to see how far the game will go.
And Chuuya—god help him—keeps playing. Smile small, voice even. If they want a fiancé, he’ll give them one. If Dazai wants a scene, he can wait for it.
But somewhere between the biting remarks and the kids arguing about who’s doing dishes, something… shifts.
It’s the way Chuuya cuts up the fried egg on Kyouka’s plate without thinking, pushing the softest pieces to the edge of her bowl. The way Ryunosuke nudges Atsushi’s knee under the table when the younger one flinches at the sharp sound of a glass setting down too hard. The way Kouyou’s gaze lingers, soft but exhausted, like she’s holding the whole mess of them together with sheer will.
Chuuya, the imposter, doesn’t quite fit, but he’s finding the shape of it. Not for himself, not out of pride, but because someone has to hold the pieces together. Dazai watches, that hollow ache curling beneath his ribs, unfamiliar and unwelcome, pretending it isn’t there.
When the redhead glances up again, catching him mid-smirk, there’s a shift in the shape of Dazai’s mouth. Bright blue eyes. Dazai unclenches a fist he hadn’t realized was tight.
Only a little.
He still leans over before the end of the meal, elbow on the table, chin balanced on the heel of his hand.
He tilts his head, lashes lowering just enough to look conspiratorial, voice pitched just loud enough to draw Kouyou’s narrowed eyes and the kids’ distracted glances.
Dazai’s grin curled sharper, testing. Like a kid poking a bruise to see if it still hurt. “Actually… Come to think of it, Odasaku used to tell me about you.”
Across the table, Kouyou glances up, one brow arching, not wary, but interested. Like she’s choosing to let this play out.
“Yeah,” Dazai continues, as if recounting some tender old memory. “Said you made the worst tea he’d ever tasted. Absolutely criminal. And you—what was it? insisted on making it for him every morning anyway. Said it was tradition. Romantic, really.”
Kyouka blinks up at Chuuya, suspicious. “Is that true?”
Chuuya’s mouth flattens, but his hands stay steady as he cuts the egg on Kyouka’s plate with surgical precision, like he’s been through worse interrogations before breakfast. “Tch, he never complained."
Dazai chuckled, "Maybe he was just distracted by the view."
Chuuya's eyes narrow.
Atsushi chokes on his rice. Kyouka narrows her eyes like she’s filing this away for later. Dazai’s grin sharpens, delighted. He presses his lips together, barely holding in the laugh curling at the edges of his teeth.
“Oh, and the love letters,” he adds lightly, like an afterthought. “Terrible handwriting. I think Odasaku framed one. Hung it in the bathroom for inspiration.”
Chuuya meets Dazai’s gaze head-on this time, chin lifting just a touch, voice smooth. “But if Odasaku framed anything I ever wrote, it’s because he knew quality when he saw it.”
“Bathroom decor,” Dazai said gravely. “High art. Minimalist. I expect the Louvre to call any day now.”
This time Kouyou does huff, but it’s not disapproving. If anything, there’s the faintest amusement flickering in her expression. Chuuya—against his better judgment—huffs once, low, sharp, almost a laugh but too bitter to be free.
The kids don’t quite know what to make of it.
But Dazai watches the way Chuuya sits straighter anyway. Watches the way his hand lingers by Kyouka’s bowl just a second longer. Watches how Kouyou lets it play out, not intervening, not protecting, like she knows the shape of this already and trusts Chuuya to hold his own.
Dazai opened his mouth, some sharper comment poised on the tip of his tongue, and then, oddly, let it go. His fingers drummed once against the table, thoughtful. “Hn.”
When Chuuya looked up again, the dark haired man was already tipping his chair back like he was bored of the whole show, smirk curling like he’d been expecting more fireworks.
Dazai’s gaze drifted over the mismatched chairs, the too-small table, the chipped tile. “He always did have a thing for strays,” he said absently, almost like he’d meant to think it, not say it.
Just a flicker. Just enough to make Chuuya glance up, wary.
But Dazai was already smoothing his cuff again, that faint smirk returning like a reflex. “Suppose it’s tradition, now.”
But he doesn’t twist the knife after that, either.
Not yet.
And for now — for now — he lets the lie sit.
But the trouble with pretending is that someone always forgets where the edge is. Later, after the kids drift out in twos and threes with their sticky fingers, tired eyes, murmured complaints about dishes, there’s a lull. One of those sharp, unfinished silences.
Chuuya’s still there, standing at the sink now, sleeves pushed up, stacking bowls with careful hands—precise, like a soldier folding his uniform.
Dazai’s still watching him. Watching him like he’s trying to decide if he wants to peel the skin off or kiss him for it.
“You’re really going to keep pretending you like them?” Dazai murmured, voice softer than it had been all night, almost thoughtful.
Chuuya didn’t rise to it. “Don’t have to pretend.”
For once, Dazai didn’t smile like he’d won something. He just nodded, slowly, like maybe that was the first thing Chuuya had said that he almost respected.
“Terrible handwriting though,” Dazai muttered as he walked past, faint amusement curling at the edges. “Romantic, sure. But still criminal.”
Chuuya huffed, sharp and annoyed, but maybe not as bitter this time. Dazai didn’t leave—not yet. He rolled up his sleeves and stepped in beside Chuuya at the sink, reaching for a towel like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Their elbows brushed.
“Careful, Chuuya,” Dazai murmured, low and close. “People might think you like me.”
Chuuya didn’t look at him. Just kept scrubbing at the same plate like it owed him rent. “Keep talking,” he muttered, voice low and steady, “and I’ll put your teeth through the sink.”