The band was everything to Chuuya.

From the moment he stepped into high school, electric guitar slung over his back and fire in his chest, he knew what he wanted. A band. His band. And by some miracle—or sheer force of will—he got it. Three years in and they were tight, loud, and dangerous in all the right ways. Higuchi had drums that hit like a damn freight train. Gin was soft-spoken but lethal on bass. Tachihara? That bastard could shred a riff on rhythm guitar that made the walls of Chuuya's garage shake. It was perfect.

Or... almost.

Something was missing. They all felt it. That gap in the melody, a haunting echo that no guitar or bass could fill. Chuuya fought the idea at first, but the thought kept circling back like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

They needed a violin.

It sounded crazy for a rock band, but they weren’t ordinary. Their songs deserved something raw and haunting to carve through the reverb—a sound to bleed emotion. And right when they were all still awkwardly dancing around the idea, Tachihara, smug and too damn casual, said:

“I know someone.”

That should’ve been a red flag. But Chuuya—stupid, tired, and too wired on cold coffee—just nodded and said, “Fine. Bring him.”

And then Tachihara had the audacity to say the name.

“Dazai Osamu.”

Chuuya choked on his drink.

Dazai Osamu. The kid who sat alone at lunch. The kid who read poetry in the library and didn’t speak unless spoken to—and even then, it was with that flat, unreadable expression. He floated through school like a ghost, untouched and untouchable. Chuuya always acted like he hated him. Made jabs when his name came up. Said he was creepy. Said he was boring. But in reality?

Chuuya was screwed.

Because Dazai had this quiet, hollow-eyed kind of beauty that stuck in Chuuya’s brain like a splinter. And if anyone had paid enough attention, they might’ve noticed how Chuuya’s eyes always lingered a little too long in the hallway when Dazai walked by. Or how he always went just a bit too hard when someone mentioned Dazai’s name. Not because he didn’t care—but because he cared too damn much.

And now... he was going to be in Chuuya’s garage.

Holding a violin.

Breathing the same air.

Playing with his band.

The moment Tachihara told him, Chuuya nearly lost it. He acted cool, shrugged, gave some half-assed “Sure, whatever,” like he couldn’t care less. But the second he got home, he practically collapsed onto his bed, arm thrown over his eyes, heart racing like he’d just run a damn marathon. His stomach was a knot of dread and anticipation. How the hell was he supposed to focus on power chords and lyrics when Dazai would be standing six feet away, playing some elegant violin shit, probably not even looking at him?

God, he was so screwed.

And worse than that?

He still said yes.