Chapter Text
“The waves begin to pound in my chest no less.” (Nakahara Chūya, “A Memory” from Poems of Days Past)
Life feels so much like a book that sometimes you can taste the paper. Breathe in the parchment, breathe out the words chaining your soul in the shackles that bind your thoughts. Merely living a script written by unseen hands. That's what it feels like for Chuuya, day in and day out, living the side character to someone else’s protagonist.
The protagonist in question? Smug, selfish, sanctimonious Dazai. He also happens to be a part of the royal bloodline, which doesn't help his ego the size of the country he's heir to. “His Grace” who Chuuya was sworn to protect with his life, his soul, his everything. It’s hard not to feel inconsequential around someone like Dazai, who has the worst main character syndrome Chuuya has ever had the misfortune of experiencing.
Regardless, it’s technically what he signed up for, even if he didn't know Dazai at the time.
Head of the Royal Knights Nakahara Chuuya and His Highness, Prince Dazai Osamu.
“More like royal pain in the ass,” Chuuya mutters to himself as he loudly stomps his way down the vast halls at daybreak. The sun is barely starting to spill in through the high, stained glass windows, causing colorful pools of light to gather over the ornate carpets. If only he had the time to appreciate the sight.
Unfortunately, he wasn't the one so graciously blessed with a life of luxury. Would he rather be sleeping in instead of being up at the asscrack of dawn? Yes. But instead he's trying to keep his infamous temper in check because some silver-spoon-sucking prince can't be bothered to get his ass up on time.
When he finally reaches the ridiculously tall, gold-encrusted doors, he just about has fire blazing in his eyes. With as much finesse as to be expected, he throws open the door and watches as it bounces off the wall with almost enough force to damage the delicate wallpaper.
“I swear to gods, if you don’t get your pathetic ass up in the next two seconds, you’re gonna wish I put you out of our misery!” Chuuya yanks the ungodly amount of blankets off the unmoving lump with no care for the frigid, morning air. Dazai’s head is already buried under his goose feather pillow, but he curls into a defensive ball as soon as the warmth disappears.
“Don’t you mean out of my misery?” the sorry excuse for a prince grumbles. He folds around himself tighter, but it only serves to tick Chuuya off more. The redhead swipes the pillow out of the bandaged fingers and throws it to the side.
“I meant exactly what I said. Now get dressed before I throw a bucket of ice water on you.” They both know it isn’t an empty threat. Since Dazai likes to push his luck and toy with fate, he merely peeks a brown eye out between his folded arms.
“I’m pretty sure I’m the one suffering, Chibi. This is cruel and unusual punishment, even for you,” he pouts, bottom lip stuck out for added effect. Typically, getting the prince up and dressed would be the job of the gentleman of the bedchamber or even the maids, but no one would dare do what Chuuya just did so casually. Not to someone with…Dazai’s reputation. “Is that any way to wake a fair maiden from her eternal slumber?” Dazai bats his eyelashes and Chuuya swears he’d pummel the prince if he wouldn’t get beheaded for it.
“I’ll show you what suffering is in a second! I’m not gonna lose my position just ‘cause you decided you want to be a damsel in distress. Get up, bastard!” Chuuya’s shouts bounce down the corridors, but it’s been par for the course over the past few months.
“Alright, alright. Sheesh, Chibi woke up on the wrong side of the haystack.” The teasing lilt of Dazai’s voice makes Chuuya want to punch it off. Nothing and no one is more infuriating than the smirking jerk in front of him.
“Call me that again and they’ll be scraping you off the walls,” he challenges, the threat dripping from his mouth like venom. However, Dazai never did have acceptable self-preservation skills.
“Would you rather I call you Chuu~ya?” he inquires in a sing-song voice. His half-lidded eyes and voice rasped with sleep make a dangerous combination. “I’m starting to think Chuuya likes seeing me like this.” He unfurls his long limbs to draw attention to his light blue, silk pajama pants and bare chest. If Chuuya rolled his eyes any harder, he swears he’d strain a muscle.
“You have two minutes before I send for the King. I’d pick the lesser of two evils if I were you.” It’s another thing Chuuya knows no one else would get away with saying, but he's tired, frustrated, and not in the mood to put up with Dazai’s bullshit.
“Ah, my knight in shining armor always has such a way with words.” Like flipping a switch, Dazai is sitting up with an aggravatingly cheerful smile on his face. At least that’s one daily battle Chuuya can mark off. “You can go now, unless you want to watch me get undre-"
“Go jump off a cliff, asshole.”
“Well, since Chibi asked so nicely~” Chuuya is already walking out of the room and slamming the door shut behind him by the time the nickname reaches his ears. His fist tightens and he’s fairly sure a vein in his head is about to burst, but he manages to calm himself back down. It’s too early in the morning to lose all his patience in less than five minutes and there’s still a whole two hour long self-defense session with the bandaged freak to survive.
With each thunderous step down the hall, a fraction of his anger, that only Dazai can produce, dwindles one-by-one. He takes a deep breath to reign the last bit of his temper in and focuses on preparing the training room. At the beginning, he started teaching Dazai swordsmanship through wooden swords…meant for seven-year-olds. Dazai might be a few years behind (see: 15 years), but Chuuya sure as hell wasn't going to start him off with archery and let him take out someone’s eye. Most likely one of theirs, with his luck.
It’s another fifteen minutes before Dazai casually saunters in, still thinking time revolves around him, with an ever-present smirk. Chuuya’s eyebrow twitches preemptively in annoyance, yet he holds himself back. Somewhat.
“I have other shit to do, y’know,” he points out through clenched teeth as he ties his hair up into a high ponytail. “Would it kill you to hurry up for once?” Even though it’s rhetorical, Dazai unfortunately still graces him with a response.
“If it did, I’d do it more often. Alas,” Dazai clasps his hands behind his back, “here we are.” Blood pressure already rising, Chuuya whips around to face the pampered prince with an insult on the tip of his tongue, but is stopped in his tracks.
Today Dazai decided to wear a deep purple, sleeveless wrap that winds tightly around his midsection, over his chest, and splits to cascade lightly over his shoulders. It leaves his arms bare of anything aside from the bandages that are usually only seen around his wrists as they disappear beneath his sleeves. Even under the bandages, Chuuya can see the defined muscles despite Dazai’s scrawny build and how the violet compliments Dazai’s dark eyes and-
“Paint a picture, it’ll last longer, Chibi.” The voice snaps Chuuya out of his embarrassing thought, and even worse he realizes that he's been staring.
“Can't wait to stab your bandaged ass with a wooden sword,” he quickly shoots back, but Dazai simply hums.
“Chuuya needs to work on making his threats more unpleasant~” If Chuuya’s face wasn't bright red before, it definitely is now. He blames it on the anger coursing through him and covers it up by throwing Dazai his mock weapon. Dazai’s overconfidence wavers somewhat when he fumbles to catch the sword, but still manages to hold onto it. With an amused snort, Chuuya straightens up and enters a wide fighting stance.
“Ready position, Mackerel,” he effortlessly commands. His sword is angled towards the ground as he waits for Dazai to follow suit. Even though he grumbles, Dazai still mirrors his pose.
If there's one thing Chuuya isn't impatient about, it’s swordsmanship. Eager? Yes. Foolish, idiotic, unprepared? No. He doesn't run headfirst into something without a plan of attack, regardless of his temperament.
Everyone knows how smart Dazai is…when he chooses to apply that intellect. But when it’s something he doesn't particularly care about…
Dazai makes the first move, rushing forward with his sword aimed for Chuuya’s neck. The redhead sighs and, as soon as the other’s sword is within reach, he deflects the wooden blade and continues the upward arch to land mere centimeters from Dazai’s vulnerable throat.
“Again,” Chuuya says like he does everyday. They move apart again and resume positions.
This time, Dazai thrusts his sword to Chuuya’s solar plexus, until Chuuya expertly traps the prince’s timber blade in the hilt of his own and rapidly twists it to yank it from his grasp. The blade goes flying, but Chuuya catches it, then tosses it back.
“Again.”
Dazai’s sword to Chuuya’s face, Chuuya forces it up and nails him in the extended arm.
“Again.”
Dazai aims for Chuuya’s chest, and as their weapons clash, Chuuya tucks Dazai’s sword under his arm so he can't pull it free and strikes just beside Dazai’s cheek.
“Again.”
Another lunge.
Another block.
Another strike.
“Chuuyaaa,” Dazai finally draws out in complaint, sweat beading up and trickling down his temple. “I'm tired.” The whine and puppy dog eyes do nothing to faze Chuuya.
“It’s been ten minutes,” he responds monotonously. He might have more empathy if Dazai actually listened to any of the advice he ever gave. “Your knees still turn in, which makes you unstable and easy,” he juts a hand into Dazai’s chest, causing him to fall on his back, “to push over. You look at your sword instead of your target. You leave vital spots open to attack.” As emphasis, he extends his arm so the tip of his sword barely touches Dazai’s throat. “You don't. Take it. Seriously.” Dazai simply stares up at him, at least having the decency to look shocked for once.
His wild, brown hair sticks to his forehead as he tries to catch his breath, chest heaving from the minimal exertion, as the light catches his eyes just right to reveal a sliver of liquid gold amongst the darkness. The darkness cascades from one shore to the other in unpredictable patterns of seafoam and melancholy, and those waves begin to pound in Chuuya’s chest no less. At the center of the cacophony is Dazai. The pink tinge to his cheeks-
Dazai grasps the tip of the sword before pulling the other down in one fell swoop and Chuuya lands on his chest with a surprised squeak, orange curls bouncing at the sudden movement.
“And you get distracted too easily,” Dazai shoots back with a lopsided smirk, holding Chuuya’s wrists between them as red hair pools on his shoulder like liquid fire. When Chuuya goes to speak, he prays his voice doesn't crack.
“And if this were a real battle, you’d be dead a long time ago. Not that you give a shit.” He adds a bit more force than necessary when he twists his wrists out of Dazai’s grip and tightly latches onto his instead. As he rolls out of the predicament, he takes Dazai with him and kicks him over so that the bastard is once again lying flat on his back.
“Gentle, Chibi,” Dazai wheezes pathetically and taps the floor in surrender. In response, Chuuya smoothly jumps to his feet and shoves his hands into his pockets before looming over the other. Some say it’s like he reverses gravity with how light he is on his feet, even with armor weighing him down.
“Get up, I'm not even close to done with you.” He uses his foot to kick his sword up and catches it midair. Just as he’s about to get on with their lesson, the creaking of a door fills the quiet morning air.
“Excuse me,” a timid voice interjects, “Your Highness, Knight Commander.” Pale eyes worriedly dart between the two, obviously perturbed but unsurprised by Dazai being sprawled out on the floor. Chuuya doesn't look away from Dazai, the first rule of combat, but answers nonetheless.
“What is it, Atsushi?” he inquires with a slight edge of exasperation to his voice. Dazai lifts only his head to look at the door without getting up, practically sensing a way to get out of training.
“Well, uh, my apologies for the interruption.” Atsushi hastily bows, long sleeves swinging at the sudden movement and, when the page of the prince looks back up, Chuuya is staring expectantly at the kid. “But your…” he glances to Dazai, then corrects what he was about to say, “the King has summoned you.” The mood in the room shifts and sours in an instant as any semblance of buoyancy is ripped from the air. Chuuya might be a lot of things, but callous is not one of them. He wouldn't wish the king’s company on anyone, and that included Dazai. The hardened look of false indifference tinges the air before Chuuya even has the chance to turn around. Still, Dazai plasters on a well-practiced, faux smile.
“Looks like we have to cut today short, Chibi!” he exclaims, a bit too cheery, and hops to his feet. Chuuya does his best to hold back the growl of annoyance, but can't help letting out a snarl. “My sincerest apologies you won't be graced with my presence further.” Dazai parodies his princely bow and turns on his heel to leave.
“Actually!” Atsushi starts nervously, raising his voice a tad too much accidentally. When the other two look confused at his outburst, he clears his throat. “Actually, he wants to see you… both.” Well fuck, Chuuya notes in his head, that's never a good thing. Subtly, he shifts his eyes to Dazai, who stares straight ahead.
The prince’s face remains unreadable as he stands up, walks past Chuuya without so much as a glance, and brushes past Atsushi. Chuuya’s eyes follow Dazai, then he rubs his temple and takes a steadying breath, it’s way too early for this.
“Sir Chuuya…?” Atsushi asks tentatively, wringing his hands together. Having some mercy on the page, Chuuya sends him a brief smile.
“Yeah, I’ll be there in a second,” he waves Atsushi off and picks up Dazai’s carelessly discarded sword as he does so. He just has to do everything for the pretentious bastard. “And drop the ‘Sir’,” he admonishes as the kid nods fervently before scuttling off.
Meanwhile, Chuuya looks over the sword in his grasp, the hard edges of the wood dented from the amount of times it’s been struck. They've been at it for weeks, yet Dazai still refuses to learn from his mistakes.
With a sigh to himself, he places their training weapons back and runs a hand through the vibrant strands of hair that came loose while practicing. Just one council with the king and, hopefully, they can get back on track. Back to training, organizing the men-at-arms, fighting battles, the usual.
There's just one minor problem that makes his job just that much harder. Something out of control, and no matter how much he tries to stop it…he can't.
He's in love with Dazai.
And it’s a beautiful curse.