The village was small. The kind of place where everyone knew everything about everyone else—who cheated on the harvest weights, whose kid came home late from the fields, whose dog had puppies, and who was sneaking off behind the old storehouse. Chuuya Nakahara hated that part the most. But he lived with it, just like everyone else. You learned to work, to keep your mouth shut, and to listen to your parents. That was the rhythm of life here. Get up with the sun, drag yourself through chores and school, and try not to get caught doing something stupid.

School was more of an obligation than an opportunity. A single building, two cramped classrooms, one aging teacher. There were only a handful of kids around his age, and most of them either worked the land or were destined to inherit their family’s trade. Chuuya, fifteen and already weary of the world, found it stifling, but tolerable. At least until Dazai showed up.

Osamu Dazai was just a few months younger, though he acted like he’d seen a century more. Pale, messy, and always looking like he’d just narrowly avoided trouble—or was about to cause some. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was with that calm, grating voice that always sounded like he knew something you didn’t. And somehow, he always did. Chuuya wasn’t sure what irritated him more: the smugness, or the fact that Dazai was never actually wrong.

They didn’t get along. Not really. Dazai liked to provoke him, and Chuuya always rose to the bait. It was a game neither of them would admit they were playing. Sometimes Chuuya thought they hated each other. Other times, when they walked home from school side by side in silence, he wasn’t so sure.

But then came the news.

It spread through the village like sickness. Whispers at the market stalls, muttered conversations between the elders, a heavy silence at dinner tables. The rumor was absurd, cruel—and real. Dazai’s parents, already known for being cold and unkind, were selling him. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Actually selling their youngest son.

Chuuya didn’t believe it at first. It sounded like something out of a bad story. But when he brought it up to his parents, they exchanged a look that made the blood drain from his face. And then they told him the truth: they were going to take Dazai in.

“Buy” wasn’t the right word, not really. There was money involved, but only because there had to be. The village had its customs, and sometimes even decency came at a price. But they weren’t doing it for Dazai’s parents—they were doing it for Dazai.

Chuuya didn’t know how to feel. He was angry, at the parents who could give away their kid like an object. He was confused, because even though Dazai annoyed the hell out of him, he didn’t want this for him. And beneath it all, there was a strange twist in his chest that he didn’t want to name.

Now, the house was quiet. His parents had gone to fetch Dazai, leaving Chuuya alone to prepare the room. It was strange, moving things around, dusting corners he hadn’t touched in months, folding an extra blanket with more care than he’d expected. Dazai was going to stay here. In his room. In his space.

He grumbled to himself as he stuffed a few old notebooks into a drawer. “Tch. Damn guy better not touch my stuff.”

Still, he cleared a corner of his desk, made sure the window opened all the way, fluffed the pillow. He even cracked the window open a little, just in case the air felt too heavy when Dazai walked in.

Chuuya stood in the center of the room, hands on his hips, scanning it one last time. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than whatever Dazai was coming from. And for now, that had to be enough.

He didn't say it aloud, but part of him hoped Dazai would feel... safe here.

Even if he’d never admit it to his face.