Chapter Text
August 15, 19:00
The lights flick on, basking the stage in a warm glow.
Seats circle the stage, each and every one filled to the brim by enraptured onlookers; their thunderous cheers shake the building as if Zeus himself was landing blow after blow upon the stage.
Chuuya steps forward.
The spotlight glares down on him, sparkling against each and every sequin carefully hand stitched onto his costume. He squints. A thin sheen of sweat glitters against his brow as he looks up at the roaring crowd.
A toothy grin spreads across his face. They're loud tonight.
His gaze flicks to Shirase. Sat just beyond the reaches of the spotlight, he's hunched over an old soundboard with an even older laptop to his left. After a few moments of fiddling with various buttons and knobs, he looks up from his work. Signaling Chuuya with a thumbs-up, he slides up a dial, and music fills the arena.
With a deep breath, the crowd drains away. The only sounds left are the soft melody filtering through the speakers as well as the gentle accompaniment of his hurried heartbeat.
Calloused fingers encircle the bar in a way one would hold an old friend, and, with that, the show begins.
August 15, 18:35
Dazai sits, utterly motionless, dull eyes staring blankly ahead at nothing in particular. The summer evening feels thick against his skin.
He groans. This is gross.
Summer has always been the worst season in his book. His self-sabotaging habit of wearing layers upon layers of clothing in dark, heat-absorbant colors always managed to betray him in the warmer months. Luckily, he had the foresight to shed his woolen suit jacket, which now rests at his side alongside his camera.
Another groan. He ignores the odd looks of those passing by.
He looks up from his misery, absently eyeing the vast sea spread out in front of him– an endless blue as it melds into the horizon.
The Yokohama Waterfront has always been his escape– well, at least it has been for the last year whilst he’s been “studying under" (i.e. avoiding) his uncle. Mori Ougai, award-winning surgeon, innovator in the field, and, in Dazai’s not-so humble opinion, a massive pain in the neck.
This particular instance of Dazai fleeing was due to Mori’s last, albeit failed, attempt to bring him along to some upper-class business dinner. “If you want to make it in the medical field, you need to make some connections,” he’d said, “It’s what your parents would want, isn't it?” Dazai, alternatively, found that a prime reason why he’d rather do anything else than making connections .
He retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket, sluggishly dabbing the sweat from his brow.
He was bored. He is bored.
His eyes shift back up to the sea.
It truly is beautiful; he ought to take a photo.
He retrieves his camera, flying through the setup as if it were as natural as breathing. He raises it to his eye, looking out upon the waves glittering beneath the low sun.
Snap.
He lowers the camera, gaze softening as he examines the photo. Ever since he first picked up that camera all those years ago, he only ever found his subjects to be nature; after all, humans were far too fickle for his tastes. He never understood the masses, their unquenchable thirst for futility, their volatile nature… He’d even venture to describe it as frightening at times. Nature, however, was the opposite. While cruel, violent, and unforgiving, it was a known variable.
His thoughts come to a screeching halt, attention snapping upwards as a person speeds their way through the crowd, nearly knocking over a family of three in the process. The figure seems to be that of a young man, probably in their late-teens if Dazai had to guess. They wore rectangular sunglasses perched haphazardly upon blonde curls, of which are currently threatening to fly off as they sail through the packed waterfront. Dazai thinks he can make out a faint stream of I’m late I’m late I’m late I’m late I’m late– mixed with the occasional apology, but it was difficult to discern amongst the countless sounds of protest as they shoulder their way through the sea of people.
Dazai watches with a mix of interest and amusement, curiously eyeing their trajectory. His gaze lands upon a collection of striped red and white tents nestled in a grass area, cheerfully illuminated by what seems to be countless star shaped bulbs.
Huh.
That wasn’t there before.
And, sure enough, the instant the blond boy breaks free of the crowd he makes a beeline towards the tents. And, reasons beyond his comprehension, Dazai finds himself following after the boy, coat in hand and camera dangling loosely from his neck.
As he approaches the striped cluster he’s faced with the thunderous cheers coming from within, accompanied by what seems to be music? He watches as the blond slips hurriedly through a fold in the cloth, a brief view of the interior revealing several people who seem to be reprimanding him.
Dazai, rather than going the backdoor route, makes his way to the main entrance. He soon spots a table with a clearly handmade sign over the front reading Buy tickets here. Behind it sits a pink–haired girl, looking to be just about his age, maybe a bit younger. She doesn’t look up at him, or make any indication she’s aware of his existence for that matter, instead continuing to fiddle with her hair in a manner of blatant disinterest.
“Tickets’re a thousand yen. ‘don’t take card.”
Dazai nods silently, retrieving the requested amount from his coat pocket.
She nods, slipping the cash into a banged up register which couldn’t possibly be any less than forty years old. She then reaches under the table, pulling out a small slip of paper which she holds out for Dazai.
“Show starts in five. It’s a full house so please for the love of god sit in your assigned seat.”
Dazai nods, taking the offered ticket before moving past her, examining the lettering which decorates the face of the slip.
Cirque de Mouton, huh? How prestigious.
He looks up as he enters the tent, breath vaporizing from his lungs as he takes in his surroundings. The same star shaped bulbs adorning the exterior hang in the walkways by the hundreds, countless streamers in countless colors are strung from the roof, a trio of hued spotlights dance across the crowd– which, as the girl had said, was certainly nearing max capacity. A small booth on the opposite side of the entrance advertises concessions and trinkets in bright glowing letters, all flashing cheerfully in sync with the carnival music coming from the countless speakers around the tent’s perimeter.
Dazai steps forward, and, under a kaleidoscope of colors, the stage comes into view. The stage, if you could even call it that, was a massive circular platform taking up just over a quarter of the tent's interior. Its surface was laid with rows upon rows of wooden planks, and, at its center, there was a lone metal hoop hanging from the rafters.
This is… A lot.
After a beat, his reverie fades, and Dazai continues on. He steps into the colosseum-esque seating area and looks down at his ticket, noting the printed Row B, Seat 17 as he worms his way through the bustling crowd.
It doesn’t take long to find his seat. It takes longer to stand at the edge of the row, awkwardly fiddling with the edge of his coat as he slowly but surely gathers the courage to scoot past the sixteen occupied seats between him and his destination. To his surprise, he prevails with minimal casualties.
He’s surprised with his luck in regards to seating, especially considering he showed up at the epitome of last minute. He’s positioned atop a raised platform, a mere two rows from the front– those in front of him seeming to be VIPs of some sort; which, in a setting like this, is beyond a foolish expenditure.
Suddenly, the lights flicker off. The ambient chatter quickly follows, dissipating to a mere whisper.
A speaker crackles to life. “Ladies and gentlemen, kids of all ages, boys, girls,– and, er– other!!” A cough. “Welcome, one and all, to the big top!”
The crowd cheers. Dazai is beginning to regret letting his curiosity get the best of him.
Down at the stage, a lone spotlight flickers on, shining down upon the blond from earlier; who currently seems to be concerningly out of breath. Despite this, he continues, pumping an enthused fist to the skies.
“How’re we feeling tonight?!”
More cheering. Dazai definitely regrets letting his curiosity get the best of him.
The blond beams, twirling around as he speaks. “ Woo! Man, do we have a fantastic show for you tonight! I’m talkin’ acrobatics-” He punctuates each word with an overly-aggressive count of his fingers. “-aerialists, dancers, and even some clowning I’ve been told?”
He freezes, bringing a hand up to hold what Dazai presumes to be an earpiece.
“Oh right– And!! Of course, the long awaited return of– drumroll please– the one, the only, Nakahara Chuuya!”
At that, Dazai half worries he’ll go deaf at the hands of the crowd’s uproarious cheers.
The blond waves his hand dismissively, executing another slow twirl, “ He’s very cool, yeah yeah – Anyways! Without further ado, I’m glad to present the fabled Cirque de Mouton.”
He swings his arms with a flourish, and, with that, the lights shut off and the crowd falls silent.
Moments later, the lights stutter to life once more, this time illuminating a small framed red-head, arm stretched upward in order to hold onto the now lowered hoop from earlier.
A string heavy melody soon fills the tent as the hoop, and red-head with it, begin their ascent.
The red-head’s movements are slow and controlled. He lifts himself from his hanging position with practiced ease, folding around the arm still gripping the bar. The music soon speeds up, a drum joining the cacophony of stringed instruments. His movements follow in turn.
He rolls and twists around the bar with such fluidity Dazai can only akin it to a river current molding seamlessly around a lodged twig. His muscles flex and stretch–a certain detail which certainly doesn’t fall unnoticed–as he contorts himself around the metal bar. Each and every movement is executed with such effortlessness it nearly makes Dazai’s heart flutter.
That’s… probably not good.
Unbeknownst to Dazai’s newfound struggle, he continues: hanging, rolling, dropping, and sliding around the hoop as if it were simply another appendage. The audience has far beyond lost it at this point. Dazai’s chances of exiting the tent without hearing problems are dwindling.
Before long, the music begins to slow– the once chorus thinning to no more than a lone violin. The red-head’s movements mirror this, a once sound barrier-breaking rhythm slowing to that of a poorly oiled machine.
Dazai blinks dumbly as the hoop descends, too focused on the view before him to even notice, much less lament, the embarrassing flush which has found its way across his cheeks. As it nears the ground, he manages to snap out of his reverie just long enough to retrieve his camera– flying through the setup hardly in time to snap a photo as the boy's feet touch the floor; the manner of which was more graceful than Dazai previously thought possible.
He bows, handing the hoop off to a member of the floor crew who quickly gets to work switching it out with some sort of fabric. Dazai watches raptly as the world-altering boy leisurely struts off stage, irritatingly unaware of the internal turmoil he’s caused.
Moments later, the blond guy from before reammerges, but his words register as no more than incessant buzzing as Dazai studies the photograph. The only way he could even attempt describe it is nothing short of ethereal; the bold red and black of the boy’s costume against pale skin, the definition of his muscular shoulders, the fiery glow of his hair under the spotlight, the feather-light touch of his pointed toe to the floor– a prima ballerina would quit then and there if she witnessed the same.
The rest of the show passes by in a blur. The crowd remains as lively as ever; however, Dazai remains in a daze, the entirety of the red-head’s time on stage playing in his mind on loop.
At some point they announce an intermission. Dazai quickly seizes the opportunity to exit the tent.
Fresh air would be good.
Sure enough, the summer evening, suffocating as it may be, immediately soothes Dazai’s scattered thoughts the instant it rushes across his skin. To his right is the table from earlier, the pink-haired girl behind it paying him even less attention than before as she scrolls her phone.
Dazai turns away, hastily retreating into the evening. A soft burning sensation is still present just beneath his skin.
He’s going to have some things to think over tonight.
August 15, 19:08
“Chuuya!! Dude! You did great!” Albatross beams, slinging an arm over Chuuya’s shoulders.
Chuuya shrugs his arm away. “Wasn’t my best. I fucked the barrel rolls.”
Albatross scoffs. “Oh yeah? The elbow obliterators? I don’t think there’s a way not to fuck those.”
Chuuya ignores him.
“Don’t you need to be on stage after this act?”
Albatross’ eyes widen. He mutters what seems to be a farewell before turning on his heels and sprinting towards the right wing.
Chuuya huffs in amusement, watching as he disappears beyond the dressing rooms.
“Ah– Lad, routine over already?”
Chuuya wheels around, craning his neck to address Kouyou.
“Ane-san!” Chuuya shrugs, “It was one of my quicker ones, tried not to surpass six minutes my first show back.”
Kouyou laughs, lightly bumping his shoulder. “Only you could consider a six minute routine a soft comeback.”
Chuuya smiles, a subtle look of pride twisting its way onto his features.
Kouyou eyes him in amusement before shifting to a more concerned tone. “How is it doing? Your shoulder, I mean.”
“Eh, could be worse.” Chuuya rolls his shoulder for emphasis, wincing at the resulting pop . “I should be completely back on my feet in a week or two.”
Kouyou sighs, resting a hand between his shoulder blades. “Be careful, Lad. We don’t want you re-injuring yourself like last time.”
Chuuya bites down a groan, resisting the urge to wave a dismissive hand as that would probably be considered impolite. Instead, he settles for a simple “I’ll be fine;” which Kouyou appears thankfully uninterested in disputing.
Kouyou straightens up, recollection flashing across her face. “Oh, right– I was meaning to ask. Have you by chance seen Ace anywhe–”
"Tachihara you imbecile. "
Kouyou's eyes widen for a moment, quickly followed by a look of unmatched exhaustion settling over her features.
Chuuya sneers, voice dropping to a mumble. “Right over there.”
" Hah!? What'd you just call me?"
This’ll get messy.
"I called you an imbecile. What, is your intellect so rudimentary that you couldn't understand that much?"
" Fucker. I'll kill you!"
Tachihara rolls his sleeves past his elbows and charges forward; however, he’s quickly restrained by an equally exhausted looking Hirotsu.
"Tachihara. Don't start fights backstage during a show."
" I'm not starting a fight, Mr. Cards-up-his-ass here is already waay ahead of you on that."
Ace gasps, splaying a hand across his chest. "I beg your pardon?"
Tachihara sticks his tongue out. "You heard me– what, is your intellect too rudimentary?"
"I'll have you know–"
" Boys."
They both snap their attention to a dangerously fed up looking Kouyou. Chuuya has to stifle a chuckle at the sheer speed the blood drains from their faces.
Kouyou steps between them, visibly restraining herself from strangling them both then and there.
"Mind explaining what exactly this little scuffle is about?"
Ace recovers first, puffing out his chest. "This fellow here ruined my 1983– vintage, mind you– never before used playing cards."
Tachihara opens his mouth to speak– Kouyou holds up her finger. He closes it.
"Tachihara," Kouyou's tone is cold. Chuuya half thinks he can see her eye twitch. "Do you have anything to add?"
Tachihara scowls. "He poured wine on my costume so I used his cards to do my eyeliner."
"I told you white wasn't your color–"
"Oh really?" Tachihara breaks free of Hirotsu's restraint, "How about we see if red is your color after I beat the shit ou–"
"Quiet!"
Tachihara flinches, bowing his head to Kouyou. "Sorry Ma'am."
Kouyou clearly can't find it in her to dispute the title, instead bringing a hand up to pinch at her bridge. "You both are done for the night, yes? Go home early."
"But–"
" Go home early."
The two stand up straight, nodding before fleeing out the backdoor. The instant the door clicks shut Chuuya can pick up the muffled revival of their argument.
Kouyou sighs. Chuuya steps up to her side.
" Lord– I know it's a circus, but you'd think they'd learn not to act like such clowns."
Chuuya hums, watching absently as Hirotsu returns to where he was assisting with makeup prior to the scuffle. "They'll probably be back to normal tomorrow."
Kouyou grumbles, rubbing at her temple. "I hope you’re right."
A pause.
Chuuya points to Kouyou’s makeshift office. “Tea?”
Kouyou exhales, a soft smile slowly easing the tension between her brow. “That’s a lovely idea.”
August 15, 21:36
Dazai flops onto his bed with a huff.
It’d been hours since he’d left that tent, and yet, he couldn’t get that one performer to leave his mind. The photograph may well be permanently seared into his retinas– and, even worse, he can't say he's too distraught over the possibility.
Wind taps at his window, he can hear Mori on the phone downstairs.
He lifts his face from the sheets.
Glittering red hair, eyes so blue sapphires would drop dead, a shining grin beaming across ever so perfectly dimpled cheeks, muscles flexed in such a way tha–
He rolls over onto his back with a groan, staring blankly at the seemingly endless off-white sea of his ceiling. Lifting his hands to rest on his chest, he can feel the still-stuttering pulse thrumming away just beneath his skin.
He has a lot to think about.
Correction: he has a lot which he really doesn't want to think about.
He looks over to the digital alarm clock glaring at him from the night stand, stark green lettering flashing a dreadful 21:43.
It's late. He should really go to sleep.
He should really… go to sleep.
He should… really…
He…
Sleep…
Fuck.
He sits up abruptly, clawing a hand through disheveled locks as he retrieves his camera and stalks over to his desk. He takes a seat, rustling through the drawer in search of…– there it is.
He plugs the retrieved USB cord into his camera, connecting the other end to his laptop with a click.
The internal storage pops up on his monitor. He bites his cheek.
Moving the desired file over to his– very legally obtained, mind you–editing software, he clicks the looming Create new file .
The image displays across his screen.
He fears his heart may have stopped beating entirely.
Nevertheless, he sets the fluttery sensation clouding his mind aside and gets to work.
He sits in silence for who knows how long, the idle state of his room only interrupted by the occasional creaks of his chair and clicks of his mouse. He’s edited countless photos in the past, the task was easy to him now; yet, he still prefers to take his time. Good things come to those who wait, or whatever.
Alas, to his distraction-seeking dismay, he soon finds the photo hardly needs any editing at all. Of course, he adjusts the white balance and contrast, tweaks the HSL, even crops it slightly to perfect the composition. Nonetheless, after what couldn’t possibly be a second over ten minutes, he finds himself making changes just for the sake of changes. The base image was stunning, he knew, yet he found it impossible that no manner of photoshop was able to even capture–much less improve–the purely ethereal quality of it.
How irritating.
He spends another twenty minutes making changes only for the sake of futility–backpedaling each one the moment it's made–before he finally deems it aimless effort.
Defeatedly, he clicks export and his laptop a bit harsher than probably necessary.
He rolls back from his desk, looking once more to his alarm clock.
22:35.
He sighs. Bed. Right.
He gets up from the desk chair, shedding his dress wear in favor of an old worn-out T-shirt. Sitting back down on the bed, he doesn't even bother with the covers, instead returning to his earlier task of mapping out the endless nothingness of the ceiling.
Eventually, after who knows how long, his eyes grow heavy. He can hear Mori sign off on his phone call, Elise snoring softly in the room next over, the trees tapping lightly upon his window. It’s peaceful.
He’ll be back to normal in the morning.
He sighs once more, and, taking slow breaths, attempts to lull himself into a slumber.
Alas, the birds singing outside his window, warmly illuminated by morning rays, would beat him to it.
August 16, 9:57
Chuuya frantically throws open the doorway to backstage, rushing inside at such speeds he's out of earshot when it clicks shut behind him.
He rounds the corner, dishing out hurried Good Mornings as he sprints by.
He bursts through the door to Kouyou's office, not even taking a moment to catch his breath before throwing himself into an apologetic bow.
" Ane-san– 'm sorry I'm late I– Huh–? " He registers those in front of him: Kouyou, Hirotsu, and Tachihara all sit around Kouyou's tea table, each fiddling with their own tea cup– which, by the looks of it, all seem damn near boiling.
They all turn towards him, clearly having been in the midst of discussion.
Something’s happened.
Kouyou gestures to an empty seat. "Chuuya, good morning."
Chuuya takes a bated breath before joining them at the table.
"What's gone wrong?"
Tachihara slinks back in his chair, earning a glare from Hirotsu.
Kouyou sighs, readying Chuuya a tea cup of his own. "Ace didn't show up to his meeting this morning; and, he’s currently refusing to answer any of our calls."
Chuuya hums, taking a slow sip. Fuck it’s hot–
"Oh– that's, uh– that's a shame."
Chuuya never really liked the guy.
Kouyou nods solemnly. "Yes, it is. I know he’s– well, less than tolerable at times. But, he’s a good photographer."
Chuuya nods, thinking back to countless poorly timed images of himself–mid-blink or otherwise–which he'd received throughout the years.
There’s certainly better.
Looking over to Tachihara, he seems to share this sentiment.
Hirotsu pipes up, "On the bright side, it's the last day of this gig. We have adequate time to sort the situation."
Kouyou nods, taking a sip of her own tea. "Yes, I'll try to contact him once more later on today. It’s possible he’s simply overslept."
Tachihara picks at the edge of his jacket, speaking in a hesitant tone, “And… if not?”
Kouyou pauses, allowing silence to settle over the room as she gazes distantly at the far wall.
Eventually, she releases a resigned sigh. “Then, if not, I’ll have a job offer up by the morning.”
Tachihara smiles, quickly masking it with a cough.
Hirotsu clenches his jaw, clawing a tense hand through his hair as he leans back ever so slightly. “If that scenario does come to pass and you need any assistance reviewing applicants, feel free to contact me.”
“Thank you, Hirotsu; however, I’m sure I can manage.” Kouyou sets down her cup, resting her hands one atop the other in her lap. “You’re free to go. Thank you for your time.”
Hirotsu nods, rising to his feet. “Of course. Have a nice day.” He circles around the table, ushering Tachihara up and out the door before exiting himself.
Kouyou watches as the door clicks shut behind the two before turning to Chuuya. “I apologize for the rough circumstances this morning.”
Chuuya fiddles with his tea cup, watching as the liquid lazily sloshes from side to side. “It’s no worries. D’you think Ace is going to pull through?”
Kouyou bites her lip, working it between her canines for a moment before offering a response. “I… I have my doubts. He’s done this before, but this time feels different. He would usually have sent in his demands by now.”
Chuuya grunts at the memory– honestly, if Ace’s return meant being forced to refer to him as Sir for another week, he could stay gone.
“Never mind that, it will be sorted by Monday at the latest.” Kouyou levies Chuuya with an inquisitive glare. “Now, would you mind explaining why you sprinted in here nearly an hour late?”
Chuuya winces, suddenly very interested in the swirling wood grains spanning the tea table. “I overslept. Sorry.”
Kouyou huffs in amusement, patting his shoulder. “You’re fine, I’m just messing with you. I usually expect you to be at least an hour and a half late after show nights– you’re improving. Congratulations.”
Chuuya wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
“Regardless, I hate to rush you out but I have a meeting at 10:15. Best for you to get going, lad.”
Chuuya nods, finishing off the last of his, admittedly still relatively blistering, tea. “Got it. See you at eleven?”
Kouyou smiles, the action nearly erasing the tired look from her eyes. “See you at eleven.”
Chuuya waves farewell and exits the small office, walking straight into the thinly veiled chaos which is tearing down.
He spots Gin and Higuchi amidst the mayhem, each shouldering more fold-up chairs than he could count. To their right is Kyouka, sweeping up spare sequins with the assistance of a very distracted looking Kajii. Then, right behind them, is Albatross, Doc, and Lippmann– all trying their hardest to transport a bin nearly overfilled with silks. Albatross trips over a stray foot guard, sending himself, as well as the bin, crashing to the floor. Lippmann and Doc both let out a shared groan as they begin to recollect the contents.
Chuuya bites down a laugh, jogging over to join the group.
Albatross looks up as he approaches. "Chuuya!! You're awake before eleven!"
Chuuya groans. "Oh shut the fuck up. You usually sleep way later than I do.”
Albatross lifts the last silk into the bin and closes the lid before responding. “My guy, there's no need to be ashamed. I understand your need for beauty sleep.”
“God– I wasn’t even an hour late! I don’t see why everybody’s got their panties in a twist over this.”
Lippmann stands, brushing off the non-existent dust apparently tarnishing his slacks before helping Doc up to his feet. He eyes Chuuya with a heart-throbbing smile. “It is quite impressive; however, I wish you had taken just a bit longer. An hour more and I would’ve won the bet.”
Albatross’ eyes widen, a gleeful grin spreading across his face. “ Ooh I almost forgot about that! You owe me so much money.”
Lippmann sighs. “It’s a shame, really–”
Chuuya holds up his palms in a halting gesture, flicking his eyes between the two. “Hold the fucking phone. What?”
Doc pipes up, “After you left last night we all made bets as to when you’d claw your way out of bed this morning. These two decided to put money on it.”
Chuuya furrows his brows, knuckles white as he smothers the urge to throw each of them off the nearest elevated surface. “I hate you guys.”
Albatross pouts. “Even me?”
“Especially you.”
Doc laughs.
Albatross rolls his eyes, slinging an arm across Chuuya’s shoulders. “ C’mon – don’t be like that, dude! You love us.”
Chuuya backs away. “Love if you’d choke on a rock and die, maybe.”
Albatross remains unfaltered. “Sure man. Anyways, if we’re done dawdling , these silks aren’t going to move themselves.” He crouches, gripping on to the bin and nodding to his right. “Chuuya, you get that corner!”
Chuuya huffs, yet complies nonetheless. Lippmann and Doc return to their previous positions prior to the upset. On the count of three, they heave the box into the air once more and start off towards the equipment trucks.
August 17, 11:36
The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and Dazai was resolutely not happy.
Thick august air seeps through his window, left ajar in hopes of capturing even the slightest breeze– an effort which has been to little avail. A fan whirrs helplessly in the far corner, incessant rattling filling the room.
Dazai, starfished out across sweat stained sheets, is beginning to think maybe the cold embrace of death is the only thing that can save him now.
It, of course, is of no help whatsoever to his less than ideal mood that he’s been unable to catch hardly any sleep over the past two days– mind still irritatingly occupied by a certain red-head. Dazai was starting to get really sick of his grinning face tainting every other thought.
He needs to get out of his head.
Now, preferably.
Although, he’s at least been somewhat productive throughout these troubling times, having delved into some shallow research in regards to the boy.
Nakahara Chuuya , he recalls, only fifteen years of age and already one of the best aerialists in the nation.
He now finds himself with a painful understanding of the crowd’s uproarious reaction that night in the tent.
He had only been able to dig up a handful of articles, each speaking of the boy as if he was nothing short of the second coming. And, while he agreed to an extent (after all, it was no easy feat to enrapture the Dazai Osamu in such a way), it was starting to get a bit repetitive. He’s always had a bone to pick with prodigies. Even the word itself makes his stomach churn.
Despite this, he still finds every thought to be irritatingly plagued by Chuuya. His ailments know no bounds. Quite tragic, if you ask him. The certain picture which happened to be pinned up by his bed was obviously for solely getting-over purposes.
…
Obviously.
He groans, laboriously dragging himself to a seat. A him-shaped silhouette of sweat reveals itself against his sheets.
He makes a face. That’s a problem for later.
He stands– It’s way too hot for this– scratch that, he lies back down, now on the floor, to continue his scheduled programming of heat induced suffering.
His bandages are beginning to itch.
It’s hot.
Sweat’s most definitely soaked through his shirt by now.
This sucks.
Despite his misery, needs to get up soon. If he recalls correctly, which he almost certainly is, Mori made plans for him to go to the afternoon meeting at the hospital. He ought to enjoy his fleeting moments of freedom before he’s locked away behind the looming bars of brainless data presented by even more brainless bureaucrats.
Alas, enjoying his freedom is a tall order under the oppressive fist of summer heat.
The AC needs to step up its game.
He listens to the fans’ rattling cries.
Poor guy.
…
That is a fan.
He’s lost it.
Groaning once more, he turns his attention back to his of up-most important floor laying activities.
Dazai, as per usual, is bored. And, last time he was bored, things ended far from well for him.
He rolls across the floor, waving his arm through the air. Eventually, he manages to retrieve his phone from atop his desk through his fumbling. He clicks it on.
Upon Twitter’s startup, he’s greeted by an ad. Automatically, he opens the menu– thumb hovering over the block button until the title catches his eye.
Cirque de Mouton: Photographer Wanted
His eyes widen, scanning through the description as he attempts to ignore the resurgent fluttering in his chest. He should probably see a doctor about that.
Upon the recent departure of our last photographer, applications are now open for those aspiring for the position. Please submit a portfolio by Thursday, August 20th. More information in regards to the position can be found on our website.
Thank you,
Cirque de Mouton Management.
He takes in a shaky breath, screenshotting the ad with trembling fingers. He rolls onto his back, setting his phone aside. He’s done paid gigs before, picking up one or two whenever he was in need of pocket money. People seem to like his pictures, “ an eye for composition,” or whatever. He inhales, letting oxygen fill his lungs before releasing it once more. His heart rate returns to its typical idle thrum.
A job opportunity.
His eyes pick up a determined glint. He gets up, taking a seat at his desk. His laptop comes to life, a half-formed plan already floating through his mind as his fingers fly across the keyboard.
This will be fun.