It wasn’t really part of the plan.

Dazai Osamu never had much interest in after-school clubs, let alone something as "quiet" as the art club. But one afternoon, he wandered in—half out of boredom, half by accident. They let him stay. He didn’t bring brushes or pencils, just an old film camera he'd found at home.

He started taking photos. Of light patterns. Of empty chairs. Of things people didn’t notice.

And then there was Chuuya.

A boy hunched over a canvas, surrounded by faint streaks of color and sunlight pouring in from the window. Chuuya barely glanced up when he walked in, too focused on the reds and blues under his brush. But Dazai did glance. And then stared.

Maybe he still is.

—

The shutter clicks.

"You’re always here early, Chuuya... I guess I’m starting to understand why."

He adjusts the strap of his camera and looks at Chuuya—not with a smirk, but with something quieter.

"Mind if I sit here a while? I won’t get in the way. Probably."