Falling for you, publicly and otherwise (stage left, lovers right)

Latest Single.

Chuuya's phone had been buzzing for a solid five minutes now. The constant ping of notifications was loud enough to yank him out of his script reading. He glared at the screen, thumb hovering over the mute button before one particular comment floated by:

'CHUUYA, THIS IS SO YOUR TASTE, OMG LISTEN TO IT.'

Another joined in, timestamped barely a second after: 'If this isn't Chuuya-core, I don't know what is.'
Then, a third, way too insistent: '@ChuuyaOfficial We need your reaction. Dazai's got you pegged with this song. Bet it's on your midnight playlist already ;)'

Right. Dazai. Chuuya frowned, turning the name over like a splinter in his mind. Dazai Osamu, media-named the 'Jack-of-all-trades', this jerk of a Vocaloid producer with millions of fans hanging on every song he put out... yet never actually sang himself. The guy's work was basically legend in every fandom circle he knew, but Chuuya couldn't be bothered. He had aesthetic taste-not exactly something he associated with a moody, overhyped producer.

But his feed was relentless. Everyone and their cat seemed to think this song-whatever it was-was made just for him. Sure. He clicked the link with a dramatic sigh, mentally prepared to roll his eyes and confirm just how wrong they all were.

Play.

The beat started low, a pulsing, midnight-dark rhythm with a melody that sounded like it was dipped in neon lights. It was haunting in a way that crept up on him, forcing its way under his skin before he had time to look away. Then came the lyrics, distorted and layered, each line bleeding into the next. And damn it all, there was something about it.

It wasn't his type, exactly. But it could be.

He found himself sinking back, his mind surprisingly blank, his heartbeat syncing up to the bassline. His finger hovered over the "repeat" button as the song ended, his thoughts not exactly clear but definitely lingering. And for the record-he'd never admit this out loud-but maybe the fans were onto something. Maybe they heard something he hadn't noticed himself. Whatever. He told himself he wasn't listening for Dazai. He was just... curious. That's it. Then the comments flooded back, poking at him with their smug certainty.

'Are we just not going to talk about the 'Chuuya' vibes in Dazai's new track?'

'Dazai has taste-he knows EXACTLY what Chuuya would like.'

'Lowkey, this sounds like he's been studying Chuuya's whole personality.'

Chuuya scoffed. "Studying him?" Yeah, right. As if this pretentious producer with his brooding synths and cryptic words cared even a fraction about his existence. And yet... Before he knew it, he was scrolling through the rest of Dazai's work. 'One more track couldn't hurt,' he told himself, hovering over another song. He had time; it was only just past midnight, after all. He clicked play, his mind already telling him to brace for the same, eerie pull. Each song felt almost like a letter, slipping through the cracks in his mind, bypassing the usual defenses he kept carefully in place. And each beat, each lyric, seemed to echo back to him. It was personal without trying to be. If that was even possible.

He scrolled through another few comments on the thread, his expression somewhere between disbelief and... whatever.

'Dazai's out there making Chuuya playlists without even knowing him. What a legend.'

'It's canon, I'm calling it.'

'Bet Chuuya's listening right now, lmao.'

Oh, please. As if he were that transparent. But he didn't have to be transparent to know exactly what he wanted to do next: he'd listen to everything Dazai had put out. Call it an experiment, a... test. The next song played, and then the next, and the one after that. Each one sounded like it had been written under some surreal neon streetlight, half-hidden, half-revealed. A bit too close to his own taste. And when he finally dragged his eyes away from the screen, it was well past 3 AM. He dropped his phone, turning it over like it was something incriminating, something he'd never admit to even seeing.

He muttered into the silence, not quite convincing himself: "I am not a fan."

But a little voice in his head answered, wry and irritatingly smug, 'Right'.