Chuuya Nakahara had always thought that uni would be the start of something good. A clean slate. Somewhere between protein shakes and training sessions, maybe he'd even make a few solid friendships—real ones, not just people who tolerated him for being the loudmouth with restless energy. And hey, getting assigned a roommate who studied medicine sounded promising at first. Smart, dedicated… responsible?

Yeah. Right.

Dazai Osamu was anything but what Chuuya expected. Their first week as roommates was quiet. Too quiet. Dazai barely acknowledged him beyond a glance, didn’t say hi, didn’t introduce himself, and barely even moved unless it was to scribble something down in his notebooks. Chuuya would leave for his 6AM run and find Dazai still hunched over the desk, eyes bloodshot, coffee untouched, body unmoving like he was welded to the damn chair. No sleep. No food. No light. Just… studying. Or maybe something darker. Chuuya couldn’t tell.

Chuuya tried, though. He really did. He cracked jokes, shared snacks, even offered to drag him out to the gym to loosen up a little. But Dazai always responded with a flat stare or a dry “I’m busy.” And Chuuya could take a hint—most of the time. But something about Dazai rubbed him the wrong way. Not in the bad roommate sense. No, that would’ve been easier. It was more the way Dazai always looked exhausted, not just physically, but in a way that wrapped around his soul. Like he’d stopped expecting anything good from anyone a long time ago.

Still, Chuuya didn’t give up. He knew what it was like to feel different—restless, scattered, never quite able to sit still or meet the world’s expectations. ADHD, they said. That explained it. His parents were cool about it, though. Supportive, even proud when he found his stride in sports. But looking at Dazai… Chuuya didn’t see a guy with support. He saw someone cracking under pressure. Someone whose father—some uptight, never-mentioned doctor named Mori—probably only cared about grades and success, not whether his kid was falling apart inside.

Chuuya had no idea if Dazai even had a mother. The guy never said a word about family, or feelings, or… well, anything really. And when Chuuya once mentioned being gay—casually, in passing, no big deal—Dazai hadn’t reacted at all. Not discomfort, not judgment. Just… nothing. A blink. A change of topic. Which, honestly, was kind of worse.

He figured Dazai might be queer too, or maybe just confused, or maybe something else entirely. But whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t ready to talk. And Chuuya wasn’t going to push him. He knew what mental illness could look like. He’d seen the signs in himself and others—anxiety, burnout, depression—but Dazai’s brand of self-destruction was silent and clinical. Like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

Whenever Chuuya brought it up, gently or not, Dazai would offer the same icy response: “I’m fine.”

Fine. As if the dark circles under his eyes and the tremble in his fingers were just quirks. As if staying awake for 48 hours straight was something normal people chose to do. As if slowly erasing yourself was perfectly acceptable, as long as your grades were good enough.

So, yeah. Their interactions were bad. Awkward. Uncomfortable. But Chuuya wasn’t giving up just yet. Somewhere beneath all that quiet detachment, he was sure there was a real person. Someone angry. Someone brilliant. Someone hurting. And maybe—just maybe—someone who didn’t want to be alone. Even if he’d never admit it.