Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chuuya tilted his head slowly, eyes locked on his reflection in the mirror. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the fan spinning above them. He wasn’t sure what to think. He wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to feel. He stood there in nothing but a pair of dark blue underwear and the chest tape Dazai had bought online—ridiculously overpriced, of course. The kind of thing only Dazai would find a way to purchase even while grounded, even with his ‘ father’ practically breathing down his neck. He’d done it just to be annoying, just to get under Mori’s skin.

But… despite the impulse buy, despite the chaos around it, the tape kind of worked. It didn’t make him completely flat, but it was enough that, when he turned just a little, caught a different angle of himself in the mirror, it made him feel…

...something. 

Something he couldn’t quite name. Something he was scared to say out loud.

He frowned, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. His hair still fell just past his shoulders, too long for his liking. He hated it. He hated that his parents still wouldn’t let him cut it— as if it was their body, their choice. He clenched his jaw. God, he wanted to cut it so badly.

And his hips—he didn’t even want to look at his hips. Even though he wasn’t exactly curvy, there was still that frustrating curve from his waist down, a shape that made his skin crawl if he stared too long. It made him feel dysphoric.
Okay— more than a bit . A lot.

“So…” Dazai’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Tell me I didn’t throw two thousand yen in the trash.”

Chuuya turned his head just enough to glare over his shoulder. “You could’ve , I don’t know, spent a little more and bought a proper binder? Wouldn’t that have made more sense?”

Dazai, sprawled out lazily on the bed, raised a single eyebrow and tilted his head like a cat toying with a mouse. “Wow. I go out of my way to help you, and this is the gratitude I get?” He dramatically pressed a hand to his chest. “Tragic. Unbelievable.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He turned back to the mirror. “I mean…” his voice dropped a little, softer now. “It helps. I guess.” He twisted his torso slightly to see himself from the side. “I’m… flat—ish.” He pressed a palm lightly over his chest, testing the feeling.

“They didn’t sell binders for dwarfs,” Dazai added with a smirk.

Without looking, Chuuya flipped him off.

“But seriously,” Dazai continued, sitting up and letting his feet dangle off the edge of the bed. “Mori completely drained the card. Left me with, like, three thousand yen.”

“That’s because you decided to buy the most expensive book in the store,” Chuuya muttered, shooting him a pointed look. “Which you didn’t even like. Honestly? Deserved.”

“Everyone’s against me,” Dazai whined, collapsing backward onto the bed like the world had just ended. “Mori works himself to the bone, and I can’t even enjoy the fruits of his labor…”

Chuuya didn’t answer. His eyes were glued to his reflection again, body tense and still. He didn’t even notice he’d been holding his breath.

“I’ll just hack his other card then,” Dazai said after a beat, sitting up again with a spark in his eyes. “Or maybe we go out and buy one in person. A binder, I mean.”

“No.”

Dazai blinked. “Why not?”

Chuuya shifted uncomfortably, arms wrapping around his chest like a shield. His voice was small. “I don’t want people to see me… buying that.”

Dazai groaned like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “You are the most dramatic person I’ve ever met. What’s so bad about getting a binder?”

Chuuya met his gaze, expression unreadable. “People talk, Dazai,” he said simply, with a tired shrug.

“They can go fuck themselves,” Dazai scoffed, tossing a pillow toward the mirror like that would fix anything.

Chuuya let out a long sigh, his shoulders sagging just a little. “Do you…” he hesitated, his fingers twitching at his sides before he forced them to still. He finally let out a breath. “What do you think?” he asked, quieter this time, as he dropped his arms and exposed his chest.

Dazai shifted where he sat. Their eyes met for a brief second before Dazai’s gaze trailed lower, sweeping down Chuuya’s body slowly— way too slowly. Chuuya’s skin prickled instantly, his shoulders drawing in tight. He already felt too bare, too vulnerable under the light, like he was standing on a stage naked.

“I think you look like always,” Dazai said finally, blinking up at him with that infuriatingly casual expression.

Chuuya rolled his eyes, more out of defense than anything else. “So useful. Thanks.”

“No, I mean…” Dazai made a vague, helpless shrug. “It’s not like your boobs are big.” He let out a laugh. “And you wear those shirts that obviously weren’t made for you—makes you look even shorter than usual.”

Chuuya froze for a second. His face twisted, and he instantly hugged himself again, curling his arms around his chest protectively. “Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, scowling as he turned away. “Why did I even ask you?” The words were mostly under his breath, spoken through clenched teeth.

Silence. Long, awkward, and heavy.

Something crept into Chuuya’s chest—a familiar, shapeless thing. It clawed at him from the inside. Shame? Discomfort? He didn’t know. He just suddenly felt smaller in his skin. Like he didn’t belong inside it. Like his reflection had never belonged to him in the first place.

He heard a soft thump behind him—then felt it. Dazai’s hands, warm and careful, settled on both sides of his waist. The touch made Chuuya flinch instinctively, even as he turned halfway to look back.

“What?” he muttered, guarded.

Dazai raised his brows, still smirking, like nothing had shifted at all. “I could tell your parents you’re seducing me,” he teased, eyes glinting. “You’re showing way too much skin for a minor.” His voice was playful. Mocking, even.

Chuuya stepped out of his reach with a sharp huff. “Go fuck yourself. Why are you even here?” His throat tightened as the words came out. “I hate you.”

Dazai arched an eyebrow, the smirk dimming just a little. He didn’t say anything.

Chuuya’s heart was thudding. He didn’t want to cry, but something inside felt off , like a thread had been pulled too hard. He took a deep breath and looked around—grabbed his shirt from the bed, the one he usually wore even in the summer, the one that fit him like armor—and pulled it on in one quick motion.

Better .
Safer.
Not exposed anymore.

Perfect.

“Chuuya,” Dazai said after a pause, softer now. “Can I ask you something?”

Chuuya narrowed his eyes at him, keeping distance like it might protect him. “As if you weren’t going to anyway.”

Dazai didn’t flinch, but the edge of his expression softened. Just a bit. “How do you feel?”

Chuuya gave a noncommittal shrug. “Okay?”

“Sure?” Dazai tilted his head, watching him carefully now. “Did I… say something wrong?”

Chuuya snorted, trying to brush it off. “You always say bullshit.” He avoided his gaze. “Why?”

Dazai shook his head, sighing. “Nothing.” Then, after a beat, he walked a few steps closer. “Honestly, I think you looked really hot.”

Chuuya blinked.

For a second, just a second, he felt—flattered. It was rare for Dazai to throw compliments like that. His tone still had that usual teasing quality, but something in his eyes looked real.

Then… the thought slithered in.
Twisting.
Corrupting.

Dazai was straight . He had a reputation—girls fawned over him, and he never seemed to mind. If he thought Chuuya looked hot, did that mean he saw him that way? As someone attractive , sure… but in a feminine way? Did he like how Chuuya looked because of the way his hips curved, or the softness in his face? Because of what was still there , not what he tried so hard to hide?

The compliment soured in his chest.

You’ll never look like a boy.
You’ll never be a man.
You’ll never be enough.

His throat felt tight again. Dazai wouldn’t say that. Dazai was his best friend. He knew . He understood . But that voice—his own—kept whispering:

Of course he meant it like that.
Of course he did.

Chuuya stared down at the floor, blinking hard, willing the tears not to come. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Shut up,” he said, voice low and almost steady. Almost. He didn’t look up.

The air felt wrong in his lungs—thin and sharp, like he was breathing through a straw that kept getting narrower. Chuuya stood frozen, arms wrapped around himself, trying to will oxygen into his body, but nothing was working. Or maybe his lungs didn’t want to cooperate. Maybe he didn’t want to cooperate with this body anymore.

It was suffocating.
Everything was.

He felt trapped.
Not in the room, not with Dazai. No—worse than that.
He felt trapped inside his own skin, inside something that never quite fit right, like clothes a size too small, stitched wrong, twisted at the seams. Something that wasn’t his.
Something that didn’t feel like him.

Even with Dazai there—even though Dazai was supposed to understand, to get it better than anyone—he still felt… alone. Misunderstood. Distant. Like they were separated by a wall Dazai couldn’t even see.

He just wanted to disappear. Just for a while.

To vanish until the weight of existing in the wrong shape eased off his chest.
To come back when he could be himself —whole, right, real.

Why did it have to be like this? Why had he been born in this body, shaped like something he never asked for? Why did he have to feel like a boy when the world insisted he was anything but? Why couldn’t he just be like everyone else? Or better yet—why couldn’t people mind their own business ? Why did people care so fucking much about someone else’s identity, someone else’s skin, someone else’s name, someone else’s truth?

Why couldn’t he be valid?

A touch jolted him out of his thoughts.

Two hands—warm and careful—landed on his shoulders, and Chuuya stiffened instantly. His head snapped up on instinct, eyes wide, panic fluttering behind his ribs.

It was Dazai.

“Sorry,” Dazai said, his voice lower than usual.

“Huh?” Chuuya blinked, trying to make his expression go blank. He didn’t want Dazai to see anything.

“I’m sorry,” Dazai repeated, more firmly this time. His gaze was steady but unreadable. Not teasing, not smug—just quiet .

Chuuya frowned. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I said something that hurt, didn’t I?” Dazai tilted his head slightly, watching him like he was trying to read a closed book. “So I’m saying sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Chuuya.”

The lump in Chuuya’s throat was almost too big to swallow, but he forced it down anyway. “What? No. I’m fine.”

“Ha, ha,” Dazai deadpanned, unimpressed. “I know you like the back of my hand. You’re not fine. So what did I say?”

“Nothing,” Chuuya snapped too fast. “Don’t give yourself so much credit.” He turned, tried to step away, but Dazai followed, closing the gap again.

“What was it?”

“Nothing. Shut up.”

“Chuuya—”

“Dazai, cut it! ” He groaned, louder now, pressing his palms against his forehead like he could push the whole conversation away.

But Dazai didn’t budge. “What did I say?” he asked again, softer this time.

“I said nothing, just shut up ,” Chuuya hissed, turning and shoving him—not hard, but hard enough to get him out of his space. Dazai stumbled a step back, blinking.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t joke. Instead, he let out a long sigh, the kind that came from somewhere deeper than annoyance. “Chuuya,” he said quietly, “please tell me. I don’t want to hurt you. So if I did… if I said something wrong, I need to know so it won’t happen again.”

Chuuya gritted his teeth, jaw clenched until it ached. “You just said shit. Can we stop talking now?”

“Was it the comment about your boobs?” Dazai asked gently, not teasing—genuinely trying to understand.

“No, what the fuck?” Chuuya snapped, eyes flaring.

“Was it the compliment?” Dazai raised an eyebrow, searching his face. “Don’t you like compliments?”

Chuuya crossed his arms over his chest, curling inward again. “Shut the fuck up.”

Dazai sighed again, and this time it was heavier, sadder. “Chuuya. Just tell me. Please.”

Chuuya took a shaky breath, the kind that trembled in his chest before it even reached his lungs. He gave up fighting it—whatever wall he was trying to keep up had already started to crumble the moment Dazai looked at him like that . Like he really saw him. Like he wanted to understand.

He opened his mouth, tried to say something—anything. Something simple, clean. But nothing came out the way he wanted it to. “I…” he started, but the words collapsed before they reached his tongue. “Just… you… eh…” His voice faltered, and he looked down, cheeks burning in frustration. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Really.”

He couldn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t face the possibility that saying it out loud would make it feel even more pathetic than it already did inside his head.

But Dazai didn’t back off. He stepped closer, slower than usual, his movements soft— careful . His voice didn’t tease this time. “Chuuya, just say it,” he murmured. “You didn’t choose to be hurt by it—you just were . That’s not your fault. So tell me.”

Chuuya let out a quiet breath, barely more than a whisper. “It’s just that… I…” He hesitated. His throat felt like it was closing up, blocking everything. He hated how his voice trembled. Hated how small he felt. Hated that he couldn’t just say it.

Dazai’s hands reached up and gently cupped his cheeks, thumbs resting beneath his eyes. Chuuya flinched slightly at the touch but didn’t pull away. 

“Yeah?” Dazai said softly, like he was holding a glass figurine and wasn’t sure how fragile it was.

Chuuya squeezed his eyes shut, brows knitting together. “You just… you said that…” He shook his head, trying to force the words through the tightness in his throat. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “It just got stuck in my head. I know you didn’t mean it like that but—” His breath hitched. “But it still hurt.” He finally exhaled a shaky sigh.

And then—Dazai pulled him close. He wrapped his arms around Chuuya’s waist and held him tightly, solid and warm and steady. “Okay, okay,” Dazai whispered. “You don’t have to talk. I mean it. But I want you to know I’m sorry. I can say all the stupid shit you want me to say, but I never, ever want to hurt you. Not like that.”

Chuuya buried his face in Dazai’s shoulder, biting his lower lip as he felt the heat behind his eyes build until it stung. He hated crying. He hated how easily Dazai could break past the armor he wore around everyone else. Still, he hugged Dazai back, clutching onto him like he was the only thing keeping him from sinking. Because maybe he was.

“Be honest…” he murmured, voice muffled into Dazai’s shirt, trembling with emotion he couldn’t quite name.

Dazai hummed softly in response, a comforting sound, like a question without pressure.

Chuuya pulled back just enough to look at him. His voice was small. Fragile. “Sometimes you… don’t see me as a boy, do you?”

Dazai’s eyes widened slightly, his expression tightening. “What?” he said, like the words didn’t make sense to him. He shook his head. “No. Of course I see you as a boy. All the time.”

   His arms tightened around him, anchoring. “Chuuya… even before you told me—back when I didn’t know anything—I already saw you as masculine. I felt it. You don’t need to prove anything to me. You don’t need to change anything to be valid in my eyes.” He paused, voice steady, grounding. “I always think of you as what you are. A boy.”

Chuuya blinked, trying to process the words. They didn’t fix everything, no. But they softened something. They wrapped around the bruised part of him like gauze, like a balm.

Still, he couldn’t help it—his voice cracked again. “But I don’t look like a boy. I… I’d get it if sometimes you just... saw something else. Or if you forgot.”

Dazai frowned, shaking his head again. “Chuuya, it’s not about how you ‘look.’ You are .” His tone dropped into something fiercer—protective. “I can feel it when I’m with you. Your presence, your voice, the way you carry yourself—it’s all you . And who you are is a boy .”

  He took Chuuya’s hands in his. “Who the hell decided that having boobs or a pussy means you’re not allowed to be a boy? What kind of bullshit is that?”

Chuuya gave a breathy, bitter laugh. “...Society?”

Dazai groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes. “Since when do you give a damn about what society says?”

Chuuya snorted weakly.

Dazai leaned in a little closer, resting his forehead against Chuuya’s. “It’s your life. Not theirs. Yours. You don’t need to fit into their mold. You just need to be you. And I—” he pressed his fingers gently to Chuuya’s chest “—I see you . That’s not changing. No matter what.”

Those words— I see you. You’re a boy. —echoed inside Chuuya like a gentle chime. It wasn’t just what Dazai said—it was how he said it. No mockery, no doubt. Just certainty. And somehow, that certainty bled into Chuuya’s own fragile self-image, soothing the bruises he didn’t always know how to name.

It felt… good.

Really good.

His chest, tight and aching minutes ago, finally began to loosen. The invisible weight pulling him down lightened, almost as if those words had hands—warm, gentle—and were peeling away some of that suffocating heaviness.

Chuuya let out a deep breath and closed his eyes, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders. For once, he let himself just be . Just breathe. His heart fluttered slightly, stupidly, as if caught off guard by how safe he suddenly felt.

“…Stop being so sappy,” he mumbled, eyes still closed, the faintest tremor of a smile ghosting his lips. “It’s weird.”

Dazai’s voice came quiet, soft—uncharacteristically careful. “Hm. But it feels good, right?”

Chuuya opened one eye, giving him a side-glance. “…It feels like I just ate too much chocolate,” he muttered, scrunching his nose with mock distaste. “Kinda sickening.” But there was a hint of playfulness in his tone. Like he was letting Dazai know it was okay. Like the sweetness was… manageable.

Dazai chuckled, the sound warm and low. “That’s good,” he said, still holding him loosely, like Chuuya might float off if he let go completely.

Chuuya sighed, leaning back just a little to get a better look at his face. “You know,” he said, voice tinged with amused disdain, “as far as I know, you’re not like this with your girlfriends or flings or whatever the hell they are.”

Dazai tilted his head, his grin lazy. “Ah, but you’re special .”

“Gross,” Chuuya muttered, already regretting bringing it up.

“My chibi needs all of my affection,” Dazai said, sing-songy now, grinning like a fool. “They don’t deserve it. You, on the other hand…” He trailed off, reaching up to cup Chuuya’s cheeks between his palms again, thumbs brushing over the warm skin. His expression softened a fraction. “It just… doesn’t flow with them. Not like this. But with you—it’s easy.”

Chuuya’s cheeks instantly went warmer, which only seemed to delight Dazai further.

“Oh, but you , little chibi,” he cooed in an exaggerated pitch, squeezing his cheeks lightly, “you’re so easy to adore—my perfect, tiny, bite-sized ginger—”

“Ugh, shut up ,” Chuuya groaned, scowling and slapping his hands away half-heartedly. His palms pressed against Dazai’s chest, giving a little push, but there was no real force in it.

He hated how warm his face felt. Hated how Dazai knew .

But not really.

“You’re so cute ,” Dazai continued, unbothered, voice full of mischief. “Like an angry kitten. The tiniest redhead with the loudest bark.”

“Dazai.” His tone was dangerous, but not convincing.

Dazai leaned in closer anyway, nose practically brushing Chuuya’s. “It’s a crime how adorable you are.”

Chuuya glared at him, cheeks burning. “I swear to God , if you don’t shut the hell up—”

“What?” Dazai grinned, eyes gleaming. “You’ll punch me? Right here?” He pointed at his own chest. “Right where you were just crying into?”

“…You’re the worst,” Chuuya muttered, finally turning his head to hide the upward twitch of his lips.

“And yet,” Dazai murmured, voice softening again, “you’re still here.”

Chuuya didn’t respond to that. Not directly. But he stayed close. And that was answer enough.

To be honest, after the first few days using chest tape, Chuuya felt… lighter. Not physically, no—the stuff still pressed tightly against his skin—but something inside him loosened. His shoulders weren’t so tense. His reflection didn’t feel like a stranger every single time.

He liked it. He really liked it.

For the first time, he could wear a shirt without needing a second layer to flatten everything down or hide what he hated. Tighter shirts actually looked like they were meant for him. Not the kind that clung in the wrong places or made him flinch every time someone stared too long. No, these fit how he wanted them to. How he should look .

And his parents… well, they’d finally agreed to take him to get his hair cut. It wasn’t much—definitely not as short as he wanted, not yet—but it was something. Enough that he could tie the top layer back with a band, let the rest fall naturally around his face. It framed him in a way he didn’t hate. In fact, when he looked in the mirror some mornings, he almost liked what he saw.

Almost.

If it weren’t for the damn comments.

The ones at school were constant, though not new. Kids referring to him with feminine pronouns—"she," "her," “that girl,” thrown in casually like verbal darts. Sometimes behind his back. Sometimes right to his face. But it was fine. He was used to it. And besides, most of them were cowards. They never pushed it too far. Not with Chuuya. Not when they knew exactly how fast he could throw a punch and how good he was at making it hurt.

His parents… they didn’t know yet.

And honestly, that was the hardest part.

Chuuya wasn’t using a different name. He didn’t want to—he liked his name. That made it easier. Easier to exist in the in-between. But they still called him their daughter , still used the word girl with that unconscious ease that came from years of repetition and assumptions. They didn’t know they were wrong.

He hadn’t told them.

In their minds, Chuuya was probably just a very "tomboyish" lesbian. A phase. A style. A personality. Not… a boy .

Chuuya wasn’t mad at them. Not really.

He just didn’t know how to start the conversation.

“It’s so hot,” he complained, dropping onto the floor like a pile of frustration, fanning his face dramatically. “I can’t think like this.”

“You never think,” Dazai said, plopping down beside him with a lazy grin.

Chuuya glared at him. “Ugh, and you with all those bandages—it makes me feel hotter. Like I’m sweating just by looking at you.” He scrunched up his nose in exaggerated disgust.

Dazai snorted. “Poor, sensitive little Chuuya,” he said mockingly, leaning back on his elbows. “You should take your shirt off.”

Chuuya narrowed his eyes instantly. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

Dazai blinked, completely unfazed. “I’ll do it first, then. Maybe you’ll follow,” he muttered, already pulling at the hem of his shirt.

Chuuya watched, unamused. “Wow. Yeah, go ahead, strip. Great plan.”

“As if you weren’t practically naked in front of me last week,” Dazai said with a grin, tugging his shirt over his head. “ Much better,” he sighed dramatically, stretching.

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “You still look like a mummy,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely at Dazai’s arms, which were nearly completely wrapped. His torso had fewer bandages, but enough to look ridiculous in the summer heat.

“Bandages breathe better than fabric,” Dazai replied airily, patting his chest. “My skin deserves freedom.”

Chuuya huffed. “You just want to see me shirtless, that’s it.”

“Guilty,” Dazai said without hesitation, flashing him a toothy grin.

Chuuya scowled, but the air was so humid, and the sweat clinging to his skin was unbearable. With a grumble, he yanked his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. “Ugh. Better,” he muttered under his breath, leaning back against the wall.

A small, quiet noise came from beside him. Dazai turned his head, gaze softening slightly. “You’re not wearing anything under it?”

Chuuya shook his head, casually. “The tape does the job.”

There was a brief pause. A shift in the air. “Oh…” Dazai said, but not mockingly. “Do you know what your parents are going to think if they walk in?” he asked suddenly, glancing toward the closed door with a raised brow.

Chuuya groaned and let himself fall backward onto the floor, arms sprawled out like he was melting into it. “Oh, please. They’re totally gonna think we’re doing something.” He made a face, scrunching his nose. “ Ugh . Disgusting.”

Dazai burst out laughing and dropped down beside him, mimicking his pose. “What a scandal,” he grinned, voice still breathy from the laugh.

Chuuya snorted, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Though honestly... at least they’d stop thinking I’m a lesbian,” he muttered, the words casual but a little dry.

Dazai blinked. “Wait— they think that ?”

“Mhm,” Chuuya hummed in confirmation, voice airy and tired.

“What the fuck ,” Dazai chuckled, turning his head toward him with a faint smirk. “Do you even like girls?”

Chuuya stayed still for a second, thinking. “...Dunno,” he said finally, and then turned his face slightly to meet Dazai’s gaze.

Dazai blinked again, surprised. “ How do you not know?” he scoffed, eyebrows raised.

“Probably not,” Chuuya muttered. “I think I’m gay.”

There was a pause. Not an awkward one—just the kind that lingers when someone says something quietly honest.

“So why’d you say you didn’t know?” Dazai rolled his eyes and nudged his shoulder lightly. “You dramatic little liar.”

“Shut up,” Chuuya muttered, hiding the beginning of a smile. “My brain’s slow.”

Dazai hummed knowingly. “Yep.”

“It’s because of the heat, dumbass.”

“Oh sure, sure,” he said with a smirk. “Except it’s always slow. Maybe you were born with it—maybe it’s Maybelline.”

Chuuya groaned and slapped his hand weakly against Dazai’s shoulder. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

“You love me,” Dazai said smugly, elbowing him playfully.

“Ugh. Gross.” But there was no bite to his voice. He was smiling.

“When are you planning to tell your parents?” Dazai asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had settled between them. His voice wasn’t pushy—it was gentle, just curious, but the weight of the question still landed heavily.

Chuuya let out a long groan, dragging a hand down his face like the mere thought was exhausting. “Why do I have to tell them?”

Dazai propped himself up on his elbows beside him, watching Chuuya carefully. “You don’t have to,” he said after a second, choosing his words slowly. “But… I think they should know. About you . The real you.”

Chuuya exhaled sharply and rolled his eyes, more in frustration than disagreement. “I don’t know ... like, how the hell would I even tell them?”

Dazai hummed, frowning thoughtfully. “I mean… like you told me?”

Chuuya gave him a look. A look . Then sat up with a huff, crossing his arms tightly. “That was completely awkward. A mess. A disaster.”

Dazai sat up too, clearly trying—and failing—not to grin. “Oh yeah, let me remember,” he said, putting on a ridiculous mock-serious expression. “ ‘Dazai, I know this is weird—’ ”

“ Please , don’t,” Chuuya groaned, already burying his red face in his hands.

“ ‘—but could you refer to me as a boy?’ ” Dazai continued dramatically, hand over his chest like he was performing Shakespeare. “ ‘I understand if you feel uncomfortable, but I really hope you understand—’ ”

“ Shut up, ” Chuuya muttered, his voice high with embarrassment. “I’d never said that to anyone before—don’t blame me if I sounded like a damn trainwreck.”

Dazai chuckled, nudging him with his knee. “I’m not blaming you,” he said softly, still smiling. “It was adorable —in a very painful, awkward, I-want-to-cringe-into-the-earth kind of way.”

“Wow. Thank you,” Chuuya deadpanned.

“But seriously,” Dazai continued, his voice lowering just a bit. “It was okay. You said it. You were honest. That’s what mattered. I understood. I think they could, too.”

“It’s not that easy,” he said finally, voice quiet, distant.

Dazai nodded. “I know. Do you want help?” he asked gently.

Chuuya blinked, caught off guard. “Help?”

Dazai gave him a tiny, genuine smile. “I could be there. If you ever decide to tell them. Or not. I’m here either way.”

By now, Chuuya should’ve known: Dazai’s ideas came in two flavors—ridiculously efficient or efficiently ridiculous. No middle ground.

This one?

Definitely ridiculous.

Yet there he was, the night before, hunched over his desk under the dim glow of his lamp, scissors in one hand, blue paper hearts scattered all over the floor, his fingers slightly sticky from glue. He folded a simple card, blank except for one bold line on the inside:

“It’s a boy.”

That was it.

No speech, no explanation—just those words and a small cascade of hand-cut blue hearts that would fall out when the card opened. Absolutely absurd. It looked like something ripped out of a baby shower.

Chuuya wanted to scream into his pillow just thinking about it. And yet, somehow, he did it. Because… it was better than stumbling through his words. Maybe it was dumb, but it felt safer.

The next afternoon, Dazai showed up at his house like usual—loud, barefoot, completely at home, like he had done a thousand times before. Chuuya’s parents had grown used to seeing the lanky boy lounging on their couch or stealing fruit from the fridge. Just Dazai being Dazai .

But this time, the pit in Chuuya’s stomach wouldn’t go away.

They spent about an hour pretending everything was normal. Dazai rambled about something idiotic, trying to distract him, tossing grapes into the air and catching them with his mouth, while Chuuya sat curled up on the armrest, eyes bouncing nervously between the clock and the hallway.

Finally, when it felt like his chest was going to explode, he stood.

“Now?” Dazai asked gently.

Chuuya nodded, even if his knees disagreed.

He held the card tightly behind his back as he walked into the kitchen. His mom was already halfway through chopping vegetables, humming to herself, the smell of garlic and oil filling the room.

“Mom?” Chuuya’s voice cracked slightly.

She looked over her shoulder. “Yes, sweetie?”

“I… uh. I want to talk to you and dad. Just for a minute.”

She paused, wiping her hands on a towel. “Alright. Love!” she called up the stairs. “Come down, Chuuya wants to talk.”

Chuuya felt the air thicken the moment he heard his father’s footsteps descending. His palms were sweating. He barely noticed Dazai standing behind him until he felt the faint brush of their elbows.

“You’ve got this,” Dazai whispered.

Chuuya swallowed hard.

When both of his parents stood in front of him, curious and casual, Chuuya suddenly forgot every single word he had ever learned in his life. His tongue felt like lead. His stomach flipped.

Still, he pushed forward, even if his voice came out tight. “I know I… can be rude sometimes,” he began, eyes fixed on the floor. “And I don’t say it much but… I really love you both. A lot. And I… hope you’ll understand this.”

His mother stepped a little closer, brow creased with concern. “Chuuya, what’s wrong?” she asked gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And what’s that in your hands?”

His father frowned a bit. “You okay?”

Chuuya didn’t answer. He just held out the card. His mother took it, confused, and slowly opened it.

Out fell a few crooked blue hearts, fluttering down onto the kitchen tile. Then her eyes fell on the words inside: “It’s a boy.” There was a pause.

Then: “Huh? What does this mean? ‘It’s a boy’ ?” his father read aloud, blinking. His voice dipped into concern. “Don’t tell me… Don’t tell me, Chuuya Nakahara , you’re pregnant.”

That broke him.

Chuuya burst into laughter, his hands flying to his face as a few tears—definitely from laughter, definitely —leaked from his eyes.

His father’s confusion deepened. “Don’t tell me Dazai’s the father. Who’s the father?”

Between gasps, Chuuya grinned and wiped his face. “ You ,” he said. “ You’re the dad.”

His father blinked once, twice. His mother stared at him, piecing things together. “What… do you mean?” she asked slowly, eyes narrowing.

Chuuya shrugged, cheeks flushed pink, voice soft but steady. “Ta-da,” he mumbled, gesturing vaguely at himself. “Your child… is a boy.”

There was silence. A long, aching silence.

Chuuya could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Then his mother stepped forward. She looked at him—not at his hair, or his body, or the letter—but him . She blinked a few times.

Then, without a word, she pulled him into a hug. And though she was quiet, her arms wrapped around him tight—just like always. “Okay,” she murmured softly. “Okay.”

His father exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well,” he muttered, eyes darting around. “I was gonna ask if you were dating Dazai, but that feels like a whole other conversation.”

Dazai coughed, suddenly pretending to inspect the ceiling.

Chuuya groaned against his mother’s shoulder. “ Please don’t start.”

Chapter Text

“So,” Chuuya said, arms crossed, smirking as he let the locker door slam shut with a clang, “your last high school Valentine’s Day.”

Dazai flinched and turned to glare at him. “That’s my locker, you pest,” he said, reopening it with exaggerated dramatics. “If you don’t mind, I’m currently trying to rid myself of an avalanche of embarrassing confessions and poorly folded stationery.”

Chuuya laughed and leaned closer, peeking over Dazai’s shoulder at the chaos of pink and red notes stuffed haphazardly inside the locker. “I don’t know why you’re acting so over it this year,” he teased, plucking a heart-shaped envelope off the top of the pile. “Didn’t all this used to boost your massive ego?”

“It did,” Dazai muttered, eyes scanning the inside of the locker like he’d lost something important. “Now it’s just noise. None of them really want me.”

Chuuya raised an eyebrow. “Please. They all want you. You’re like… hot and insufferable. That’s their type.” He tore open the envelope with exaggerated flair and read aloud in a dramatic voice, “ ‘I like you since the first moment I saw you. You’re so handsome and kind, and I know we’re destined to be— ’”

“ Shut up ,” Dazai groaned, nudging Chuuya hard in the ribs with his elbow. “Help me throw them away already. Unless you want to keep one?”

Chuuya laughed, scooping up a small stack. “So rude to your fan club. They’ll cry if they find out the great Dazai Osamu chucked their confessions straight into a trash can.”

Together, they walked across the hallway, dumping the letters without ceremony into the nearest bin. 

Chuuya brushed his hands off, smirking. “Guess that means the womanizer era is officially dead?”

“Maybe,” Dazai hummed. He’d returned to his locker, rummaging again with growing frustration. “Chuuya, by chance, you didn’t borrow my math notebook, did you?”

Chuuya blinked. “No? I don’t think so. I’ll check, but I don’t remember taking it.” He dropped his bag to the floor and crouched, rifling through folders and notebooks. Nothing. “Nope,” he said, standing up and slinging the bag over his shoulder again.

“Check your locker?”

Chuuya let out a breath and turned toward his own, a few meters away. “If someone stole it, your weirdly neat math notes are gone forever.”

“Funny,” Dazai said, deadpan. “But seriously, it’s important.”

“Why?” Chuuya glanced back over his shoulder. “We didn’t have homework, did we?” He reached his locker, spun the combination, and opened it—and paused.

There, sitting neatly on top of his books, was a single red envelope. Clean, crisp. His name was written on the front in precise cursive. No heart doodles. No sender.

Chuuya frowned. He rarely got Valentine’s letters, and when he did, they were usually passed in person by nervous girls who knew not to expect much back. Anonymous wasn’t really the style at this school.

He picked it up, turning it in his hands. 

Behind him, he heard approaching footsteps.

“Did you find it?” Dazai’s voice came far too close—followed by the weight of his chin settling on Chuuya’s shoulder. “Ooooh, what’s this ?”

Chuuya flinched slightly, his fingers tightening on the envelope. “It’s… a letter,” he muttered.

Dazai let out a delighted gasp. “Chuuya has a secret admirer! How scandalous~”

“Shut up…” But he opened it anyway, his curiosity already chewing at his nerves.

The letter was long—carefully written, with actual effort behind the words. It wasn’t a joke, not like some of the others he’d seen floating around that day. It talked about admiration, how long the writer had liked him, how beautiful he was—not just outside, but inside . Chuuya felt a tightness in his chest.

Then, as he kept reading, something twisted.

There were lines that made him pause. A sentence that read, “I like you for what you really are,” which at first seemed sweet… but was followed by: “I don’t care that you think you’re something else.”

His stomach dropped.

There it was. That awful, insidious almost-kindness he hated. The idea that someone could love him and still not see him .

He read the line again.

I don’t care that you think you’re something else.

His fingers curled tightly around the paper. Then, without a word, he crumpled it in his hand.

“What?” Dazai asked immediately, trying to peek. “What happened? I didn’t finish reading it!”

Chuuya turned toward the trash can and tossed the letter in with the others. “It’s trash,” he muttered.

“Hey, wait, wait,” Dazai grabbed his arm playfully. “Come on, let me read it! Maybe it’s from your future boyfriend~”

“No.”

“Chuuya.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on —”

“I said no .” His voice was flat now, final. He didn’t raise it, but Dazai heard something in it—a sharpness that made him stop.

There was a beat of silence between them.

Then Chuuya rolled his eyes and sighed. “Someone who likes me… but not really. You know how it is.”

Dazai didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at Chuuya—really looked at him. Then, slowly, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, folded paper. Not red. Just plain white.

He held it out.

Chuuya frowned. “What’s that?”

“A letter,” Dazai said. “One I forgot to put in your locker this morning.”

Chuuya stared at it, surprised. “You… wrote me a letter?”

Dazai shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a romantic.”

Chuuya hesitated, then took it—and for the first time all day, he smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

“Hope it’s better than the last one,” he muttered.

“Oh,” Dazai grinned. “It’s so much better.”

Chuuya slid the white letter Dazai had given him into his pocket, not quite ready to read it yet. Something about it felt... important. And delicate. Like it needed to be read in silence, without witnesses—even Dazai. For now, he turned back to his locker and continued searching. Tucked behind one of his textbooks, barely visible under a loose paper, was a familiar black notebook. Dazai’s.

He frowned. “…Huh. Found it,” he muttered, pulling it free. It wasn’t like him to forget things in Chuuya’s locker. Dazai was chaotic, yes, but not careless—not with stuff like this. He made a mental note to ask later.

They walked together toward their first class of the day—Japanese. The hallway was still noisy, students drifting lazily into classrooms, chattering in clumps, buzzing with Valentine’s Day gossip and anticipation. When they entered, the teacher was already at her desk, quietly grading papers, but hadn’t started class yet.

As expected, even though Dazai had an assigned seat at the front—where he never sat—he made a beeline for the seat beside Chuuya, sliding into it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Chuuya didn’t object. In fact, he found himself leaning a little toward him as they launched into a discussion about a new game Dazai wanted to buy.

“It's open-world and looks stupidly pretty,” Dazai was saying, animated. “You can climb anything—like mountains, trees, your self-esteem—”

“Sold,” Chuuya said, smirking. “I want it.”

“Copycat.”

“Shut up, I liked it first.”

Dazai laughed, and Chuuya chuckled with him—until a hand landed lightly on his shoulder.

He turned.

Standing beside his desk was Yuan.

He hadn’t seen her up close in months—not since last year, when their entire friend group turned on him. When they made it clear that being close to Dazai was somehow unacceptable. Chuuya never got a clear reason. The betrayal had burned, but over time it cooled into a kind of numb understanding. He didn’t need people who abandoned him the moment he started being himself.

Still, her sudden presence made his shoulders tense.

“Did you read my letter?” she asked softly, her voice sweetened with expectation.

Oh. So that letter had been from her.

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I did. Thanks.”

There was a short pause. “And?” she pressed, tilting her head slightly, lips pursed like she already knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway.

Chuuya blinked, already exhausted. “And what?”

“Did you think about it?”

He gave a quiet, incredulous snort. “Sorry, Yuan. I’m not into girls.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, right on cue, Dazai leaned in, one arm wrapping loosely around Chuuya’s shoulders. “He’s for the boys,” he sing-songed, grinning like he was proud of it.

Yuan's expression didn’t change immediately, but her eyes sharpened, narrowing as she looked between them. “You mean she ,” she said evenly. “I thought you were a lesbian, Chuuya.”

Chuuya inhaled slowly. “No. I’m not.”

“You publicly said you were homosexual.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, forcing himself to stay calm. “Homosexual. Gay . Attracted to boys .”

Yuan scoffed, almost like she pitied him. “Straight with extra steps.”

His jaw tightened. He didn’t respond—not yet. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of getting under his skin.

But then she added, almost offhandedly, “You were prettier when you didn’t try to look like a boy. Which is ridiculous, by the way. You are a girl, Chuuya. I know you know it. It’s biology. You can’t change that.”

Something inside him curled. Not in fear—but in that particular kind of rage that comes when someone thinks they know your truth better than you do.

He opened his mouth to say something—but Dazai beat him to it.

“You know what you can’t change?” Dazai said, his voice light but cold. “Your tiny, useless brain. That thing’s hardwired to be stupid.”

Yuan’s face twisted in anger. “Excuse me?”

“You’re a disappointment,” Dazai went on, still smiling like it was a joke, but the venom underneath was unmistakable. “To women, to humans, to the entire gene pool, really.”

She jabbed a finger at him. “Take that back, you asshole.”

“Can’t. It’s a fact ,” he said, voice flat.

“Dazai, stop,” Chuuya whispered, tugging gently on his sleeve, trying to deescalate. His pulse was high, his face hot. Not because of Dazai—but because of her . Because of all the words she kept throwing at him like blades and expecting them to stick.

Yuan crossed her arms. “Oh, I get it now. You’re dating Chuuya, right?” She sneered. “Of course. You’re straight—you can’t possibly tell me you’re actually into her . Not when she’s—”

“What the fuck are you even talking about?” Dazai cut her off, groaning in disgust. “Can someone translate? She’s malfunctioning.”

“No one will ever see you as a man, Chuuya,” Yuan said sharply, her voice rising. “You’re not one. You never will be. You’re just ill .”

The final word hung in the air like a slap. Chuuya’s nails dug into his palms. His breath caught somewhere in his throat. There was a loud buzzing in his ears, like static. Part of him wanted to scream. Another part just wanted to disappear.

But instead, he exhaled slowly—painfully slowly—and closed his eyes. “Shut up,” he said. Not loud. Not harsh. But solid. Final. “And get away from me.”

She hesitated. Maybe she sensed the edge in his voice. Maybe it was the silence around them now—how the conversation had drawn a few curious glances from nearby desks. But eventually, Yuan rolled her eyes and walked away.

Chuuya stayed quiet. Dazai didn’t say anything either. Then, after a moment, Dazai’s arm slid back around his shoulders, more gently this time. He didn’t make a joke. He didn’t push.

Hopefully, the rest of the day would be better .

Chuuya told himself that as he sat through Japanese class, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from slipping into his thoughts. But the words on the board blurred, the teacher’s voice faded in and out, and every so often his gaze would drift—toward the window, toward Dazai’s steady presence beside him, toward anything that wasn’t the echo of Yuan’s voice in his head.

But the day didn’t get better.

When the bell rang and students began pouring out of the classroom, Chuuya barely had time to adjust his bag on his shoulder before he was stopped—literally—by a wall of familiar figures in the hallway. The Sheep.

His old friend group.

They stood in a loose half-circle, not blocking him outright, but making it clear they expected him to stop. At the front, Shirase stood tall, arms crossed, his mouth set in a tight line. Behind him—almost pathetically—Yuan hovered, half-hidden, as if she wasn’t the one who lit the fuse earlier.

Chuuya’s stomach sank. He stopped, squaring his stance, glaring up at Shirase with icy precision. “Can I help you?” he asked, voice low and sharp.

Shirase tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something that looked too much like pity. “I have a question.”

Chuuya didn’t respond.

The taller boy continued. “Since you started hanging out with Dazai, you changed a lot. Like, a lot .”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Wonder why…”

“One day you were normal,” Shirase gestured vaguely at his own chest, as if that explained everything. “Like us. And the next—you suddenly think you’re a boy ,” he said the word like it tasted bitter. “You stopped liking what you used to. Stopped wanting to hang out with us. It’s like you turned into someone else overnight.”

Chuuya crossed his arms. “And you ever considered that maybe I was already someone else—just too scared to say it?”

Shirase didn’t flinch. “No. I think it’s because he infected you with his queerness,” he said flatly, nodding toward the figure now approaching beside Chuuya.

Dazai didn’t stop walking until he was shoulder to shoulder with him.

Chuuya huffed. “If by ‘queerness’ you mean he actually gave me space to breathe—to exist—then yeah, he did,” he said. “Dazai let me be myself. Something none of you ever did.”

Shirase scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You just want to be a man because no one liked you when you were a girl.”

Chuuya stiffened.

“You think being a boy will make it easier,” Shirase continued, unbothered. “But you’ll never be a boy, Chuuya.”

“Oh yeah?” Dazai stepped forward now, voice suddenly sharp. “Says who ?” His tone was cutting, cold. “Says who that no one liked him before? Says who that he’s not a boy?”

Shirase took a step forward too, chest puffed. “Says me. A boy. One born this way.”

“You need to insult someone else’s identity to prove your own?” Dazai tilted his head mockingly. “That’s sad . You don’t sound like a man. You sound like a scared little kid.”

“I’m not doing this to feel better—watch your mouth,” Shirase snapped. “You’re just a queer freak who flirts with girls to pretend he’s straight. But everyone knows. You’re gay .”

Dazai smirked. “And what if I am? What if I like boys? What if I like both ? What does that do to you?”

Shirase’s jaw tightened. “It doesn’t, it just—”

“Then live your life , and keep your mouth shut about mine,” Dazai cut in. “Nobody asked.”

“I’m just trying to get Chuuya to understand she is not a—”

“He is more of a man than you,” Dazai hissed, jabbing a finger into Shirase’s chest.

There was a beat of stunned silence. Shirase scoffed. “Sorry? How is a girl more of a man than me, who was born this way?”

Dazai’s voice dipped into a whisper—calm, terrifying. “Because a real man doesn’t need to break someone else down to stand tall. He doesn’t question someone else’s manhood to feel like he has his own. Is your masculinity that fragile?” He gave a mock pout. “Aw. Poor baby.”

That did it.

Shirase shoved him.

Hard.

Dazai stumbled back, losing his footing—but Chuuya caught him, arms locking around his waist to steady him before he hit the ground.

“You okay?” Chuuya murmured, holding him close.

Dazai winced but nodded. “Yeah… just—”

“Don’t fight for me,” Chuuya whispered, tightening his grip. “You don’t need to.”

“But—”

“Let him be,” Chuuya said, eyes fixed on Shirase. “He’s not worth it.” He grabbed Dazai’s hand and tugged him to walk away.

“You will realize you will never be a man, Chuuya,” Shirase said. “So sad a man with a pussy—it doesn’t even make sense.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Chuuya muttered, walking down the hallway.

The walk home after school was silent—too silent.

The world around them moved in soft, distant shapes: cars passing by with muffled engines, kids laughing across the street, birds chirping on wires overhead. But for Chuuya, it was all background noise. His hands were in his pockets, his gaze fixed ahead, and even though Dazai walked right beside him, close enough that their shoulders occasionally bumped, he felt a little bit like he was drifting.

Dazai had tried.

He cracked jokes, made stupid impressions of their teachers, pointed out every dog they passed, even mimicked their barks just to get a smile out of Chuuya. But all Chuuya could manage were a few quiet hums or nods. His chest felt tight, his head heavy. Nothing quite stuck.

Maybe that was why Dazai didn’t leave. Maybe he knew.

He came home with him—no invitation needed—and didn’t say anything when Chuuya dropped his bag by the door and collapsed on the couch without a word. Instead, Dazai simply pulled out his Switch and held out a controller with a smirk.

And slowly—painfully—Chuuya’s world cracked open a little again.

They played for what felt like hours, and though Dazai absolutely wiped the floor with him, Chuuya still shouted at him like it was the other way around. He cursed, he groaned dramatically every time Dazai won, and threatened to bite him when he smirked too smugly. Dazai only laughed harder and leaned into it, trash-talking with an energy that made the room feel lighter.

Chuuya didn’t want to admit it—but it was fun.

It was comforting in a way that didn’t need explanation. It was easy. Simple. Safe.

Eventually they raided the kitchen, pulling together a chaotic mix of snacks—instant noodles, crackers, a half-eaten bag of marshmallows—and collapsed back onto the bed with Chuuya’s laptop perched between them. They picked a movie, but spent more time arguing about what was going to happen than actually paying attention.

“No, no, there’s no way she ends up with him,” Chuuya muttered, mouth full of noodles.

“She absolutely will. I can feel the heterosexual tension from here,” Dazai grinned.

“Heterosexual tension is just bad writing, and you know it.”

They barely realized when the movie ended. They stayed like that, side by side, until the screen dimmed and the only light was the fading sun casting warm orange across the walls.

Then Dazai shifted.

Without saying anything, he moved closer and looped an arm gently around Chuuya’s waist, burying himself against his side as if he belonged there.

“Stop being so clingy,” Chuuya grumbled, though he didn’t push him away. He never did.

“You are my tiny plushie,” Dazai mumbled with a smile, nuzzling in.

“Since when?”

“Since you agreed to be my friend, duh,” he giggled softly.

Chuuya scoffed, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Oh, you did,” Dazai nodded solemnly. “It was in the fine print. Tiny letters. Hidden under ‘emotional support’ and ‘occasional video game duels’.”

“Always the fine print,” Chuuya muttered.

But he relaxed—just a little—and curled into Dazai too, resting his head against the other’s chest. It was quiet. Steady. Familiar. And he didn’t want to admit how much he needed it today.

Apparently, Dazai took the movement as full permission. He shifted again—this time tangling their legs together, wrapping around Chuuya completely, and tucking his head into the crook of his neck. Like he was trying to disappear into him.

It was... rare.

They didn’t cuddle like this often. Only when Dazai was in one of those moods. Quiet, distant, too still. When he needed the warmth but didn’t know how to ask for it. It didn’t happen much, and Chuuya hated what it meant when it did.

“Hey…” he murmured, voice softer now. “You okay?”

“Perfectly,” Dazai whispered. His breath tickled against Chuuya’s throat. “Just hugging my favorite puppy.”

“Shut up,” Chuuya mumbled, hiding his face against Dazai’s hair.

But Dazai chuckled under his breath and pulled back slightly, eyes flicking down. “Are you using the binder or the tape today?” he asked quietly.

Chuuya frowned. “Why?”

“Just answer.”

“The binder.”

A small pause. “It’s already six,” Dazai said gently. “You should take it off.”

Chuuya sighed. “Shut up. Let’s nap.”

“Chuuya.”

“Dazai.”

“You know it’s not good to wear it too long,” he added, reaching up to gently poke his nose.

“I said let’s nap ,” Chuuya repeated, rolling his eyes but not moving. “I’ll take it off later.”

Dazai didn’t push further. He just leaned forward again and kissed the top of Chuuya’s head. “…Okay. Nap now. But later, you listen to me.”

“Bossy.”

“I’m literally the picture of gentleness.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chuuya muttered, but his voice had softened. His body eased again, arms finally settling around Dazai’s waist. “Just shut up for a bit.”

And indeed, they napped—a long one.

The kind of nap that sinks deep into your bones, the kind that makes the world slow down, hush, and blur around the edges. Chuuya hadn’t meant to fall asleep for that long. But being there, curled up against Dazai’s chest, surrounded by warmth and quiet, it had been too easy. Too safe. Too good to resist.

Dazai smelled like antiseptic and expensive perfume—sharp and sweet, somehow cold and warm at the same time. But under all of it was something uniquely him —a scent that felt familiar, grounding. It made Chuuya’s chest ache a little, because it reminded him he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Here. In Dazai’s arms.

When he finally stirred, the room was dark. The only light came from the soft golden glow spilling in under his bedroom door. He could hear distant clinks and low voices from the kitchen—his parents must’ve come home already.

Chuuya yawned, stretched ever so slightly—and froze.

He couldn’t move.

Dazai had somehow tightened his grip during the nap and now held him like a damn octopus, all limbs and long arms, draped around him with no escape route in sight. His legs were tangled with Chuuya’s, and one of his hands was resting just over Chuuya’s ribs like he was trying to keep him there forever.

That lanky bastard.

Even in his sleep, he was clingy.

Not that Chuuya… minded.

Okay—fine. Maybe he liked it.

Maybe he liked it a lot.

He hesitated for a second, glancing up at Dazai’s face. His lashes fluttered slightly, his lips parted just a little. His breathing was steady, slow. Chuuya couldn’t tell if he was really asleep or just faking it again like a drama queen. But before he could stop himself, he shifted closer and buried his face in the curve of Dazai’s neck.

His nose brushed against warm skin, and he let out the softest exhale as he nuzzled in, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

God.

Dazai was so warm. And his scent—so familiar, so constant—it filled Chuuya's head, made his chest feel tight in a strange, fluttery way. It was embarrassing, how nice it felt to be this close. How right it felt to just be here, in his arms.

His face burned. His heartbeat sped up for no reason other than this.

He shifted again, curling his legs more securely with Dazai’s and wrapping his arms tighter around him. It felt like locking a puzzle piece in place. Like the whole world could fall apart outside that room and it wouldn’t matter.

He could stay like this forever.

He wanted to.

Just as he was drifting back into that soft haze, a familiar, low murmur broke the silence.

“And I was the clingy one…”

Chuuya’s entire body tensed.

Of course that bastard was awake.

And did he have to speak in that raspy, sleep-heavy voice? That ridiculous, gravelly murmur that vibrated against Chuuya’s collarbone and sent a shiver down his spine?

Why did that do things to him?

God, he hated how it made him feel.

“Shut up…” Chuuya grumbled, voice rough from sleep—and lower than usual. But that low tone made him feel… weirdly proud of himself. He blinked slowly and almost smiled, just a bit. “Or I’ll kick you out.”

Dazai only pulled him closer, arms tightening with lazy satisfaction. “Mmm, so grumpy,” he teased, pressing a kiss—maybe too soft to count as one—against Chuuya’s hair. “I can’t express myself in this place.”

“No, you can’t,” Chuuya muttered, eyes half-lidded. “You’re just a fuckin’ mackerel.”

Dazai hummed, his breath warm against Chuuya’s scalp. “Love when you roll your r’s,” he whispered. “And with that voice—are you trying to seduce me?”

“What the fuck ?” Chuuya jerked slightly, face burning again. “You woke up too gay.”

A quiet laugh rumbled from Dazai’s chest. “I already was.”

Chuuya snorted. “Really? Thought you were purely straight, what with all the girlfriends.”

“Nah,” Dazai hummed. “Men are hot too.”

“So gay of you.”

“You’re gayer.”

“Shh. We’re talking about you ,” Chuuya pulled back just enough to smirk.

Dazai only smiled, eyes gleaming in the dim light. “And you’re mine. Therefore… we’re still talking about me.”

“What the fuck , dude?” Chuuya groaned, trying to hide his face again. “I’m not—ew.”

Dazai leaned in, arms looping around him tighter again. “You are my chibi,” he murmured against his hair. “My tiny chihuahua. My best friend.” He paused—then added softer, almost sleepily, “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

Chuuya’s breath caught. He wanted to say shut up again, to grumble, to shove him away for being weird and annoying and possessive and Dazai. But instead, he just mumbled, voice barely audible, “…Idiot.”

There was a moment—just a breath of stillness—where neither of them moved. The room was quiet, the soft hum of distant voices from the kitchen barely reaching them. Chuuya lay still, feeling the warmth of Dazai’s arms around him, the soft rise and fall of their breathing in sync.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world—like he did this every day—Dazai shifted.

He nuzzled forward slowly, rubbing his face into Chuuya’s hair like a cat marking its territory, gentle and unhurried. The sensation made Chuuya’s scalp tingle. Then, their noses brushed—light at first, then firmer as Dazai leaned in without hesitation.

Chuuya’s breath hitched.

God, their faces were too close .

His cheeks were already on fire, and when Dazai gave him a soft kiss—first on one cheek, then the other—it was like being short-circuited. Warm, fluttering, infuriating.

“Stop it—it’s weird,” Chuuya whined, squirming under the contact, half trying to escape and half sinking further into it.

Dazai only smiled against his skin. “I’m feeling especially clingy,” he murmured, his voice all lazy affection. “Deal with it.” And then, like the bastard he was, he nipped the tip of Chuuya’s nose.

Chuuya squeaked. “ Don’t bite me! ” he snapped, poking Dazai’s side sharply.

Dazai let out a bark of laughter, folding inward until their foreheads touched, warm and solid. The smile on his face softened a bit, eyes half-lidded, lips still curved as he let the quiet settle for a second longer. Then he said, as if he’d just remembered something vital, “Wait—your binder.”

Chuuya froze. His body tensed. “I don’t… I don’t wanna get up,” he mumbled, eyes flicking away.

Dazai pulled back just slightly to give him a look. “Your binder, Chuuya.”

“But…” His voice faltered, small and unsure.

Dazai's brows furrowed. He shifted his hand gently over Chuuya’s side, resting just above his ribs. “Chuuya, your body deserves freedom,” he said dramatically, poking at him with his finger like he was making some grand declaration. “Release the ribs.”

Chuuya let out a breath, lips tugging into a pout, but the tension hadn’t quite left his shoulders. “But I already feel kind of…” he paused, biting the inside of his cheek. The words caught like thorns in his throat. “Bad. It just… if I take it off, I’ll feel worse.”  His voice was quieter now, and Dazai stilled, reading the change in him immediately. Chuuya swallowed hard. “I hate seeing it. Feeling it. It’s easier to pretend it’s not there when it’s on.”

For a moment, there was no teasing, no dramatic performance. Just silence. Dazai bumped their noses together, gently this time.

“Why do you feel bad?” he asked, voice low, almost hesitant.

Chuuya glanced at him, then looked away again. He didn’t need to answer. Dazai knew .

“You’re not what they say,” Dazai said, his expression darkening slightly. “They’re just too immature to understand. You’re real. You’re you . And that’s not something they get to define.”

Chuuya blinked fast, like that could stop the sudden stinging in his eyes. “Oh, I see…” he muttered, trying to sound unaffected. But it came out too soft. Too exposed.

Dazai touched his cheek lightly, thumb brushing just under his eye. “Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s take it off. I’ll help, okay?”

Chuuya hesitated for a long moment, then finally nodded.

“And then we can have a sleepover,” Dazai added, his voice lifting just enough to bring a flicker of levity back into the room. “If you want.”

Chuuya raised an eyebrow. “Did you ask your parents?”

Dazai shrugged, nonchalant. “They’ll say yes. They prefer when I’m not at home.”

There was something bitter underneath the words, but Chuuya didn’t poke at it. Not now. He rolled his eyes instead, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Okay.”

Dazai grinned like he’d won a war. And maybe he had. Not against Chuuya—but against the voices in his head that whispered that he wasn’t enough, wasn’t right, wasn’t real.

‘Help’ from Dazai never truly meant help. Not in the practical sense, anyway.

Chuuya should’ve known better.

When they finally got up and walked to the small bathroom connected to his room, Dazai had trailed behind him like a lazy cat, humming some tune under his breath, his hand casually brushing Chuuya’s lower back on the way—like he had to keep touching him. Once inside, Dazai leaned casually against the counter, not moving to leave, but not making a scene either. He didn’t try anything, just watched with soft eyes and a faint smile.

All he did— all he did—was hold the shirt.

Just that.

He cradled it in his arms like it was something important, thumbs brushing over the fabric absently, like it held some weight beyond cotton.

Chuuya stood with his back to him, fingers fumbling with the fastenings of the binder. His breath came a little shorter— not from the physical strain, but from the feeling of being watched. From the way the silence thickened the longer it took. His shoulders twitched slightly, tense.

He felt exposed.

Not physically, not exactly. But emotionally. This—standing here, turning his back, letting someone be here while he peeled away something so vital to his daily armor—it wasn’t something he did. Not even with Dazai.

Especially not with Dazai.

The binder came off with a soft stretch of fabric and a quiet gasp of relief from his lungs. His skin stung a little where the seams had dug into him all day. He could feel the angry flush across his ribs and chest, that warm irritation spreading like bruises that hadn’t surfaced.

“See? I told you, ” Dazai’s voice broke the silence behind him—gentle, but smug. “Look how red your skin is.”

Chuuya flinched slightly, more from embarrassment than anything else. “Shut up and give me the shirt,” he muttered quickly, holding out a hand but keeping his back turned.

Dazai didn’t tease him further—not really. He pressed the shirt into Chuuya’s waiting palm with a deliberate slowness, like he was giving him something sacred.

As soon as the soft cotton touched his fingers, Chuuya slipped it on in one fluid motion, tugging it down and smoothing it out. He still didn’t turn around. Not yet.

There was a pause. Then: “You okay?” Dazai asked, his voice quieter this time, closer.

“Yeah,” Chuuya said, though it came out rougher than he meant it to. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah. Fine.”

“You always say that when you’re not,” Dazai said, and Chuuya could hear the little smile in his voice—but also the concern beneath it.

Chuuya turned around slowly. Dazai was still leaning on the counter, head tilted, eyes unreadable but soft. Chuuya scoffed lightly. “You’re annoying.”

“Absolutely,” Dazai grinned, straightening up and stepping forward. “But devastatingly handsome.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes.

Dazai stopped in front of him, not too close, but close enough that their socks almost touched the edge of the bathmat. He lifted a hand slowly, letting it hover, then gently reached forward to flick a lock of Chuuya’s hair from his face.

“Better?” he asked, with surprising softness.

Chuuya nodded, blinking a little too quickly. “Yeah.”

Then Dazai smirked again. “Now that your ribs are free… tickle fight? ”

“What—no!” Chuuya tried to dart past him, but Dazai snatched him around the waist and hauled him in with no effort, laughing as Chuuya squirmed.

“Let me go! ”

“Never! You’re weaker now!” Dazai giggled, pressing the softest of pokes to his sides—gentle, teasing touches that barely tickled but made Chuuya yelp from pure panic.

“Dazai, I swear to god—!”

“I’m being gentle!” Dazai beamed, his face buried into Chuuya’s neck again. “You’re very cuddly without the armor on, you know?”

“I will bite you.”

“Hot,” Dazai whispered.

“You’re insufferable, ” Chuuya growled—but his arms had found their way around Dazai’s waist again, holding him close.

“I know,” Dazai whispered against his ear. “But I’m your insufferable.”

And for once, Chuuya didn’t have the strength—or the desire—to deny it. Not when being held like this felt a little bit like safety. Like acceptance.

Like home.

(He felt in a cloud, and he couldn’t decide whether that was good or bad).

They stayed there in the bathroom for a moment longer, tangled in each other like they hadn’t just been talking about binders and body image, like Dazai hadn’t just poked him half to death. The warmth between them lingered, quiet and soft, until Chuuya finally huffed and pulled back just a little—not enough to let Dazai go, of course, but just enough to glare at him properly.

“You’re lucky I didn’t dropkick you just now.”

Dazai blinked innocently, hands still resting loosely on Chuuya’s hips. “ Dropkick me? In your delicate state? That sounds dangerous for you , not me.”

Chuuya gave him a flat look. “I’m literally stronger than you.”

“I’m fragile,” Dazai said, dramatically flopping his head back, “I’m like glass. Handle me with care.”

“You’re like a fucking cockroach,” Chuuya grumbled, but his ears were pink.

“Ouch,” Dazai winced, then grinned. “So harsh. But go on, say more mean things about me. I like it when your voice gets all deep and grumbly.”

Chuuya’s face burned . “I will throw you out the window.”

Dazai just laughed and leaned in again, far too close, their foreheads nearly touching. “So violent. And yet here you are… still holding me. Curious, isn’t it?”

Chuuya blinked and only then realized that yes—his hands were still at Dazai’s waist, gripping his shirt slightly. He yelped and let go like he’d been caught doing something wrong, stepping back so fast he almost tripped on the edge of the bathmat.

“I—I wasn’t holding —shut up!”

Dazai’s smile was slow and satisfied. “Too late. Already in my heart. You can’t take it back.”

“I wasn’t giving you anything in the first place!”

“ Your affection, ” Dazai corrected, pointing at him with mock seriousness. “It leaked. All over me.”

“Gross. You’re gross.”

Dazai put a hand over his heart like he was wounded. “Chuuya, you wound me with your words.”

“Not enough, apparently.”

But his face was still red. Burning, in fact. And Dazai was watching him with that lazy, half-lidded gaze that made it worse—like he knew exactly what he was doing. Chuuya crossed his arms tightly, trying to regain some sense of control. “Aren’t we supposed to be having a sleepover or something?”

“Yes,” Dazai said, instantly perking up. “With popcorn, emotional support plushies, and at least three hours of me watching you instead of the movie.”

“ What? ” 

“I’m kidding,” Dazai smiled. “Mostly.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Yet, here I am,” Dazai said, slipping past him and casually plopping onto the edge of Chuuya’s bed like he lived there. “Accepted into your sacred lair.”

“It’s not sacred,” Chuuya grumbled as he followed him back out. “It’s just a room.”

Dazai laid back dramatically, arms spread wide like he was making a snow angel. “It smells like you. Heaven. ”

Chuuya threw a pillow at his face. It hit with a satisfying thwump , and Dazai just peeled it off, still grinning. “So soft,” he murmured, then added in a sing-song, “just like you~ ”

“I’m literally going to punch you.”

“Oh please,” Dazai patted the pillow beside him. “You’d miss me if I left.”

Chuuya paused. “…No, I wouldn’t.”

Dazai tilted his head, smile going a little softer at the edges. “Yeah. You would.”

Chuuya didn’t respond. He just looked away, muttering something incoherent as he sat on the edge of the bed. But the way he leaned slightly into Dazai when he sat up again? Yeah . He’d miss him. And maybe, maybe , he kind of liked having this idiot around. Just a little. Maybe.

Eventually, the quiet comfort of Chuuya’s room was broken by the sound of his mom calling them from down the hall. “Dinner’s ready!”

They both blinked, realizing how much time had passed, and Chuuya groaned softly as he peeled himself off the bed. “They probably already think you’re staying over again.”

Dazai just grinned, stretching his arms above his head lazily. “They’re smart people. Can’t blame them for accepting the truth before you do.”

Chuuya threw him a look as he headed toward the door. “What truth—shut up.”

Dazai only hummed to himself, hands in his pockets as he followed, all soft smugness and zero shame.

By the time they reached the table, the food was already plated, and the dining room was warm with the scent of something savory—maybe chicken in sauce, rice, and vegetables. Chuuya’s dad gave them both a nod, and his mom just smiled knowingly, handing Dazai a glass of juice like it was routine.

Because it was.

Dazai had eaten here more times than Chuuya could count. Somehow, he just belonged.

They all started eating in a natural rhythm, until Chuuya’s mom, ever the gentle meddler, gave them both a sly look. “So… any confessions today?”

Chuuya nearly choked on his rice. “ Mom. No.”

She laughed softly. “Just checking. You’ve been awfully cozy lately.”

Before Chuuya could recover, Dazai leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table like he had manners —which he absolutely didn’t, because he was talking with food still in his mouth.

“He had one,” he said shamelessly, swallowing finally. “But you know—people don’t deserve Chuuya.”

Chuuya narrowed his eyes and kicked him under the table. “ Stop. ”

Dazai barely flinched, just gave him a crooked smile like he was the victim here.

“Oh?” His dad raised an eyebrow, watching with mild curiosity. “What do you mean?”

Dazai shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “They don’t see how cool he is. They just… judge him for dumb things. Like what he wears, how he talks, or something as basic as what he has between his legs.” He rolled his eyes, tone just shy of bitter.

Chuuya kicked him again . “Dazai.”

“What?” he blinked, innocently, rubbing his shin with mock pain. “I’m just saying the truth. Your kid’s awesome. Deal with it.”

There was a pause.

Then Chuuya’s dad nodded slowly. “...He’s got a point.”

Chuuya stared. “You’re not supposed to agree with him.”

His mom smiled warmly at him. “You are pretty amazing, sweetie.”

Chuuya’s ears turned bright red, and he tried to hide behind his cup, muttering something that might’ve been “thanks” or “kill me.”

Meanwhile, Dazai was looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I’m just here as a witness to greatness,” he added, reaching for another helping. “And also because your mom’s food is better than mine.”

“You literally don’t have food,” Chuuya muttered.

“Exactly.”

Chuuya’s mom chuckled softly. “You’re always welcome here, Dazai.”

“See?” Dazai beamed, nudging Chuuya with his knee under the table. “Even your mom loves me. Resistance is futile.”

Chuuya glared at him, cheeks still warm. “One more word and I’ll make you sleep on the floor.”

“Oh no,” Dazai whispered dramatically. “Anything but that. I’d be heartbroken. Betrayed. Cold. ”

His dad gave them both a long, dry look. “Just don’t keep us up laughing all night like last time.”

“No promises,” Dazai said with a smirk.

Chuuya sighed and shoved more food in his mouth just to avoid answering. But under the table, even as he glared at Dazai across the plates, he didn’t pull his leg away when Dazai’s pressed against his.

Not even a little.

Chuuya had gotten used to holding in discomfort. To avoiding mirrors in public bathrooms, to walking quickly with his head down, to the way people stared at him like he didn’t belong anywhere.

He was used to going to the women’s bathroom—because that’s what school rules and the signs on the doors told him to do. Even if it made his skin crawl. Even if he hated the way it made him feel— wrong, like he was pretending to be someone he wasn’t just to make other people comfortable.

But no matter what he chose, there was always someone ready to complain.

When he went to the mall with Dazai and they split off to use the restrooms, Dazai would tug at his wrist without thinking, pulling him toward the men’s one. Like it was natural. Like it was the right one. And Chuuya appreciated it. He really did. But the looks from other men—those muttered comments, the raised eyebrows—always ended with Dazai flipping them off and dragging him back out.

So he tried the women’s one.

But there, it was worse. The stares were sharper. The women would give him these confused, often uncomfortable looks, sometimes even asking him why he was there. One time a woman had even stepped out and double-checked the sign on the door.

Apparently, he didn’t look like anything enough.

Not “boy” enough. Not “girl” enough.

Just stuck in a space where neither side wanted him.

High school hadn’t made things easier. In fact, it complicated things even more. His classmates—most of whom had known him before he started to transition—were rarely subtle. They called him she when they thought he couldn’t hear, snickered in corners, threw barbed comments behind fake smiles.

The school made him use the girls’ bathroom. The official rules said so. He tried to avoid it whenever he could.

Sometimes, he slipped into the boys’ bathroom—like during soccer games. Nobody paid attention there, too hyped on adrenaline and sweat to care about anything other than the score. And besides, the guys always wanted him to play.

Despite everything—despite how much they denied his identity—they still wanted him on their team.

“Pure men only,” they had said once, pointing at a sign-up sheet with smug expressions. Then, ten minutes later, they were fighting over who would get Chuuya on their team because he actually knew how to play. Because, in truth, he was better than most of them.

Hypocrites .

The P.E. teacher, at least, had his back. He treated Chuuya like one of the boys. Called his name like it wasn’t up for debate. Marked his scores in the male category. Expected him to take the longer endurance tests. And Chuuya loved it. He loved pushing his body, feeling his muscles burn, racing ahead of everyone else.

Not like Dazai.

Dazai barely made it through one lap before complaining dramatically and threatening to dissolve into grass stains.

“Come on, you can do it,” Chuuya called out, slowing his pace as he looked over his shoulder.

Behind him, Dazai was shuffling like a sleep-deprived ghost, his hair sticking slightly to his forehead, shirt already untucked, face painted with theatrical exhaustion. “I’m—ah… I’m gonna die,” Dazai wheezed, dragging his feet as if they were bricks. “Go on without me… Tell my story…”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, lips tugging into a smirk. “Funny. But I’m not leaving you. What if you pass out and get stepped on? That’d ruin the game.”

“Go…” Dazai groaned. “Go be the legend you are. Show them you’re the best.”

Chuuya snorted. “I’ve shown them plenty of times, thanks.”

“Then slow down,” Dazai complained, catching up enough to lean his arm dramatically across Chuuya’s shoulders. “This is bullying. You’re not supposed to be so fast and so handsome. It’s unfair to the rest of us.”

Chuuya froze for half a second before shoving his arm off. “Shut up. You’re gross.”

Dazai grinned, sweat and all. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m overheating.”

“Sure. Let me die in peace then.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I feel like I am.”

Chuuya smirked again, nudging his shoulder against Dazai’s lightly. “You always act like you're suffering when we run, but you still come with me.”

“Because you’d be bored without me.”

“Because you’d be bored without me ,” Chuuya corrected.

Dazai hummed as they jogged together, falling into a lazy, matching rhythm. “Maybe. But mostly because I like watching you when you’re serious. You get this really determined look—kinda hot, actually.”

Chuuya nearly tripped on his own foot. He glared at Dazai, who smiled innocently. “Shut up,” he muttered, and his face was burning now.

“Ohhh, Chuuya’s overheating again,” Dazai teased softly, voice sing-song.

“You’re a pain.”

“You love me.”

“Do not.”

“You ran slower just to wait for me. That’s love.”

“I ran slower because I was afraid you’d actually collapse and make me carry you back.”

“You would carry me though.”

“…I hate you.”

Dazai just laughed—bright and easy, with none of the exhaustion from before—and Chuuya couldn’t quite hold back his own tiny grin.

In the end, Chuuya had to literally drag Dazai across the finish line for the endurance test—Dazai leaning on him like a dying man, theatrically gasping for air while still managing to complain about the sun, the dust, the tragic unfairness of life.

After that, class didn’t slow down. The P.E. teacher had them continue with conditioning: jumping rope, burpees, push-ups. Chuuya went through the motions with practiced ease—he was good at this. He liked the heat in his muscles, the steady burn in his calves. Dazai, on the other hand…

Dazai tripped over the rope three times in two minutes, then managed to fall in the most dramatic way possible, sprawled on the ground like a wounded soldier.

“My ankle… I think it cracked,” he groaned, holding it like it had just been hit by a truck.

“You tripped on your own shoelace,” Chuuya said flatly, not stopping his jumping.

“I collapsed from overexertion. My body has limits, Chuuya.”

“It’s been five minutes.”

“I don’t think I’ll make it,” Dazai added, rolling onto his side and blinking up at him.

Chuuya sighed. It wasn’t until Dazai started making really exaggerated moaning sounds that the teacher gave him a pass to go to the infirmary—and of course Dazai turned expectantly to him.

“Help me walk. My hero.”

“You’re the most dramatic bastard I’ve ever met,” Chuuya muttered, but he looped Dazai’s arm over his shoulder anyway and helped him limp out of the gym.

The nurse took one look at Dazai and didn’t seem even remotely surprised. “Twisted ankle?” she asked without missing a beat.

“Possibly shattered,” Dazai replied solemnly, dangling his foot in the air like it was barely attached.

“Here,” she said, handing Chuuya a small bag of ice. “Put that on it.”

So, Chuuya ended up kneeling beside the infirmary bed, pressing a slowly melting ice pack against Dazai’s bare ankle while he laid back dramatically with his hands behind his head.

It was hot in the room. No AC, no fan, just the suffocating stillness of medical silence and the occasional creak of old furniture. Chuuya’s shirt clung to his back, sweat dripping down his neck. He was melting, and Dazai was humming a tune under his breath like this was a vacation.

“Are you done faking it?” Chuuya finally asked, already knowing the answer.

“I wasn’t faking,” Dazai said with his most innocent expression—one that would’ve worked on anyone but Chuuya.

Chuuya didn’t even respond. He just stood up, wiped his forehead, and yanked Dazai upright. “You done being helpless?”

“For now,” Dazai smirked, hopping a little as he leaned on Chuuya.

By the time they made it back to the gym, the class was already over. Of course Dazai had timed it perfectly. Chuuya couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed. His body was already sore and the idea of missing the last set of workouts felt like a blessing.

He grabbed his bag and water bottle and started toward the locker rooms, just craving a cold shower and a change of clothes. He felt disgusting—sticky, tired, overcooked under the afternoon sun.

But of course Dazai had to ruin the moment.

“You’ll have to help me shower,” he declared dramatically, leaning all his weight on Chuuya again.

“In your dreams,” Chuuya snapped, elbowing him lightly. “You can walk just fine now.”

“But my ankle’s still so weak,” Dazai said with a pitiful expression. “What if I fall in the middle of shampooing?”

“Then scream. Someone will help you.”

“I don’t want someone,” Dazai whined, tugging on Chuuya’s wrist. “I don’t want them to see me. But you… You’re Chuuya .”

“Don’t be annoying,” Chuuya muttered.

They stepped into the hallway leading to the men’s bathroom—and it was like someone hit mute. The usual chatter died instantly. A couple of the boys stared outright. One even scoffed, turning to his friend with an ugly smirk.

Chuuya’s stomach dropped.

Here we go again.

He braced for it before it even came.

“People with periods don’t get in this bathroom,” one of the guys said, loud enough to be heard by the whole locker room.

Dazai didn’t even blink. “Oh, good to know,” he said casually, gesturing between the two of them. “None of us get periods.”

The boy rolled his eyes and snorted. “Please. She definitely does,” he nodded at Chuuya, face curling with mocking certainty.

Chuuya lifted his chin. “Haven’t had a period in six months,” he said flatly, sticking out his tongue. “So, nope.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. The boy blinked, clearly not expecting that. Then he laughed, cruel and childish. “Anyway—just real boys in here.”

Dazai’s face didn’t change, but his tone went sharper. “He’s a real boy.”

“No, she’s a girl—with a pussy and all,” the boy snapped, sneering now. “Don’t try to deny it. Now go away.”

The words hit harder than Chuuya wanted them to. He sighed and gently pulled his wrist free from Dazai’s grip. “Don’t,” he said under his breath. “Don’t pick a fight.”

“But—” Dazai’s voice was tight, shoulders tensing.

“It’s fine. I’ll leave,” Chuuya said, patting his shoulder. “Go shower. I’ll meet you in the lockers.”

And before Dazai could argue again, Chuuya turned and walked away—back toward the women’s bathroom. Back into a place he still didn’t feel he belonged.

Chuuya had read about all the possible effects of testosterone, the good and the bad. He knew what to expect—at least on paper. But knowing didn’t make experiencing it any less real . And, even with the frustrating parts, he honestly loved how his body was changing.

It had been a little over seven months since he’d started HRT. Seven months of quietly watching himself shift, piece by piece, as if finally stepping into the shape he was always meant to have. It wasn’t dramatic—not like the stories some guys told online—but it was his. Subtle things, small victories, that made him feel grounded in his skin.

His voice was one of those things.

It wasn’t deep yet, but there was a weight in it now. A scratchiness in the mornings that hadn’t been there before. A slight drop when he wasn’t forcing anything. And whenever Dazai pointed it out—usually in the most casual way, like, “Whoa, did your voice just crack mid-‘shut up’?” —Chuuya would pretend to be annoyed, but inside? It felt amazing .

Because it meant it wasn’t just him who noticed.

It meant the change was visible. Audible. Real.

Body hair was… whatever. He didn’t love it, didn’t hate it. He’d definitely noticed more of it—fine hair on his arms, thicker fuzz on his stomach and thighs. But he wasn’t too focused on that. What really got to him—what really made him feel strong —was the muscle.

He worked out three or four times a week, depending on school, sleep, mood. Nothing too crazy. Usually at home, with the pair of dumbbells he kept under his bed, and his pull-up bar on the doorway. But he swore, since starting testosterone, he could see it—feel it. The way his arms responded faster, how his shoulders were getting broader. He caught himself in the mirror sometimes, sweaty and breathless after a workout, and actually liked what he saw.

But what really sealed it was Dazai .

That bastard had once spent a solid five minutes just poking and prodding his biceps like it was some kind of scientific marvel.

“Are you flexing?” Dazai had asked, pressing two fingers into the muscle.

“I’m literally just holding a water bottle.”

“So this is your default state ? Amazing.”

He was annoying. And yet, Chuuya hadn’t told him to stop.

No—he’d kind of liked it. Liked the way Dazai’s fingers lingered, the admiration that slipped through his teasing. It wasn’t lewd. It wasn’t pitying. It was just… honest. Like Dazai saw what he saw.

But, as much as there were things he liked, there were parts that sucked, too.

His skin had gotten worse. Acne on his back, sometimes his jawline. The kind of angry red spots that refused to go away. Some days, it really got to him—especially when he’d worked so hard to feel comfortable in his body. But the worst part?

The libido.

God, the libido .

It was like a switch had been flipped—only no one had told him how to shut it off. The first months were the most intense. Like suddenly being stuck in a body that thought about sex on loop, without asking for permission.

Now, it had mellowed out a little, but not by much. It was still there—lurking. Stirring at the smallest things. A casual glance, a thought, a brush of skin. And the worst part? It wasn’t even satisfying .

Chuuya couldn’t blame testosterone for that. But it didn’t help.

Sometimes, his body would be on fire, breath heavy, mind already in that place—and he’d try. But half the time he couldn’t even finish . Or it took forever. And even then, it didn’t feel… complete . Not the way he remembered it used to. The sensitivity was weird—too much or too little, never balanced. It left him frustrated, overheated, and hollow.

And it wasn’t something he could just talk about.

It wasn’t like he could casually say, “Hey, my sex drive is on steroids but nothing works right anymore.” Especially not to Dazai. Or… maybe he could. But he didn’t want that kind of attention. Not if it meant being seen as broken or confused . He wasn’t. He knew who he was.

He just didn’t always know what to do with what his body had become.

…But Dazai was his best friend for a reason, right?

They told each other everything—absolutely everything—even when it was stupid, awkward, or dangerously close to becoming a therapy session. Even when Dazai was a complete, insufferable idiot. He was Chuuya’s idiot. His dramatic, loudmouthed, emotionally chaotic bastard.

Still… how the hell was he supposed to start this conversation?

It wasn’t like they hadn’t talked about sex before. They had—plenty of times. But it always just… happened. Slipped in between jokes and exaggerated stories, usually with Dazai bringing it up in the most absurd way possible. It had never been Chuuya who started it. And definitely not like this . Not when it was real. Personal. Private.

And kind of painful.

So, for now, he just sat on the floor, back resting against the edge of his bed, Switch in his hands, pretending like none of that was sitting heavy on his chest.

“It’s not even November and there are already girls asking about the damn graduation ball,” Dazai said, slumping dramatically beside him and grabbing the water bottle they’d been sharing. He took a long sip. “Asking me , to be specific.”

Chuuya scoffed, not looking away from his game. “Looks like you already have options, then. Pure man power, huh? Isn’t that what you’re always bragging about?”

“Ha, ha,” Dazai deadpanned, rolling his eyes. He leaned his head against Chuuya’s shoulder, letting out a theatrical sigh. “None of them… I don’t like any of them.”

“You like no one,” Chuuya muttered, a small smirk curling at his lips. “Not even being bi—how the hell did you even figure that out if you’ve never actually liked anyone?”

“I do like people,” Dazai argued, voice suddenly soft in a way that made Chuuya glance at him. “Girls are pretty. And hot. Like Sasaki. She was pretty.”

Chuuya made a face. “She’s married to Kunikida-sensei , Dazai.”

“Still,” Dazai shrugged, grinning faintly. “I have a point.”

“...I guess.”

“And Michiko was hot.”

“Then why the hell did you break up with her?”

Dazai let out a long, tortured groan and flopped dramatically onto the floor, back flat against the carpet. “She was too dramatic.”

Chuuya laughed, nudging him with his knee. “Wow. Coming from you , that’s rich.”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing,” Chuuya said innocently, though his eyes gleamed.

Dazai flung an arm over his face like a tragic widow. “Besides, she was literally begging me to give it to her after just three months of dating.”

Chuuya snorted. “Give what?”

“You know what,” Dazai huffed, peeking out from under his arm.

“Sex?” Chuuya said flatly. “Yeah, well… I guess we’re teenagers. Hormones are a mess. And didn’t you say you wanted sometimes too?”

Dazai made a noncommittal sound, rolling onto his side to face Chuuya again. “Yeah. Just… not with her .”

“Then with who ?” Chuuya paused the game, eyebrow raised.

Dazai grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “Storytime of how I discovered men are hot, chapter one. It all began when I stumbled upon this very spicy comic online—”

“Oh my god, Dazai, what the fuck ?” Chuuya barked out a laugh, half horrified.

“No, listen,” Dazai insisted, sitting up. “In my defense, I didn’t know ! I thought it was some slice-of-life drama, and then suddenly— bam! They’re doing it on the floor with neckties involved.”

Chuuya rubbed his temples. “You cannot base your sexual orientation on a drawing.”

“Are you invalidating my experience ?” Dazai gasped, clutching his chest.

“Yes. I am,” Chuuya said flatly.

“I feel homosexual. Very homosexual. Thank you very much.”

Chuuya snorted, arms crossed. “Would you kiss a man, then?”

Without missing a beat, Dazai nodded.

“Name one,” Chuuya challenged, turning to him, smug.

Dazai blinked, then tilted his head. “You.”

Chuuya stared. Blinked. “...Hah?”

“I mean, of course,” Dazai said casually, as if he hadn’t just thrown a brick at Chuuya’s brain. “Just a kiss. For science. A bro kiss.”

Chuuya groaned and dragged a hand down his face, trying to smother the heat rising on his cheeks. “Name another one.”

Dazai paused. “...Some singer.”

“You’re so stupid .”

Dazai laughed. “Maybe. But I meant it. Anyway ,” he began again, voice just a little too loud and theatrical for the quiet, dim-lit room. “As I was saying—gay comic. Right? And, ugh, this is so embarrassing—”

“You have no shame,” Chuuya muttered without looking at him, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve like he wasn’t already bracing for whatever was coming.

“—But it turned me on, ” Dazai finished with a devilish grin, as if he’d just confessed to shoplifting a candy bar and not, well, that .

Chuuya blinked. Slowly. “Okay…”

“That’s it,” Dazai shrugged innocently, like the sentence hadn’t just sucked the air out of the room. “Funny, right?”

Except it wasn’t funny. Not really. Especially not with how his ears were turning pink, and how he kept rubbing the back of his neck like he didn’t know where to put his hands. Chuuya noticed. Dazai could play cool all he wanted, but there was something in his posture that gave him away—shoulders slightly drawn in, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Chuuya sighed and tilted his head, meeting his eyes with a teasing glint. “So it made you think about unholy things?”

Dazai smirked, pleased. “Oh, you have no idea. The most I saw… hm,” he clicked his tongue and leaned back a bit, grinning lazily. “I got hard and—”

“I definitely don’t need to know that,” Chuuya groaned, turning his head away and covering his mouth like it could stop the heat rushing to his face.

Dazai laughed—a sharp, amused sound, far too smug. “I’m exaggerating,” he said, though his tone didn’t make it sound like much of a lie. “But, well… I have jerked off thinking about it.”

Chuuya hummed low, a noncommittal sound—because what the hell was he supposed to say to that ? He tried focusing on the vague patterns of light and shadow on the floor, anywhere that wasn’t Dazai’s grin or how his words made Chuuya’s chest twist with something too confusing to name.

“What do you think about when you do?” Dazai asked next—because of course he did—voice dropping just a little as he shifted, knees brushing against Chuuya’s.

Chuuya blinked slowly. “That’s… kind of personal, don’t you think?”

“Are you embarrassed?” Dazai raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “What are you, ten? You literally said it yourself—we’re teenagers. Raging hormones. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes and shifted a little to the side, as if that could create distance that didn’t feel so strange. “It’s not wrong. It’s just… private.”

“Oh, what?” Dazai leaned in again, his grin wicked. “Do you have weird kinks or something?”

“No,” Chuuya answered flatly, narrowing his eyes. But that just seemed to encourage Dazai.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go first,” he offered with mock nobility, placing a hand on his chest. “I’ll be the sacrifice.”

“ Don’t, ” Chuuya warned, already regretting staying in the same room.

“I really like the idea of being choked,” Dazai said cheerfully.

Chuuya let out a long, miserable groan and buried his burning face in both hands. “I didn’t need that information. Like. At all.”

“Your turn,” Dazai said as if they were playing a card game.

“There’s no turns ,” Chuuya snapped without lifting his head. “I’m not doing this.”

“Oh, you are ,” Dazai chuckled, nudging his foot playfully against Chuuya’s.

“I have no kinks or whatever.”

“Sure, sure. So then…” Dazai shifted again, getting just close enough for his voice to dip into something softer, more curious. “What do you think about? When you’re, y’know. Giving yourself love.”

Chuuya groaned again—less out of embarrassment now and more because the phrase “giving yourself love” made his entire soul curl up in secondhand cringe. “Jesus, you’re gross.”

Dazai only smiled wider. “Come on. No fake scenarios? No person in mind?”

Chuuya hesitated. Swallowed. “Sometimes,” he said, low, like he wasn’t sure he meant to say it aloud. “Sometimes it just… flows. Other times…”

Dazai didn’t interrupt. He just watched, still and quiet in a way that was rare for him. Attentive.

“…Yeah. Sometimes I think of someone,” Chuuya admitted, fingers tugging slightly at the sleeves of his hoodie. “Not like… someone I know . Just—someone. A guy. Faceless. Touching me.”

Dazai nodded, slowly. “Faceless.”

Chuuya nodded too, his gaze fixed on the floor. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it pressed gently against them, thick with something unsaid. Not awkward—just fragile. Charged.

Then, Dazai’s voice broke it, lower this time. “…You ever want someone real to do that?”

Chuuya looked up, startled. He wasn’t sure what answer was safe. He wasn’t even sure what answer was true . “Geez, yes, of course, I guess,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he looked away again, refusing to meet Dazai’s eyes. His fingers fidgeted in his lap, thumb tracing the seam of his pants in a small, nervous loop. “Though I… I think it’ll be a while until I find someone.” He laughed a little, dry and self-conscious. “Heh…”

Dazai huffed, rolling onto his side with a groan like the floor had offended him. “A while?”

“Yeah…” Chuuya murmured, shrugging with a forced sort of nonchalance. “I’m still underage,” he added with a pointed glance, like that was a solid, reasonable barrier. Something safe to hide behind.

Dazai rolled his eyes, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “Just because of that?”

“And because…” Chuuya hesitated, then looked away again, lips pressing into a thin line. “It’s not like I’m actively looking for someone right now,” he said, slower this time, trying to sound casual. (Not because I think no one would ever want me like that. Of course not… that’s not why.)

Dazai sighed—dramatically, but it didn’t carry the same weightless humor it usually did. “Fair enough,” he muttered, stretching his legs out with a groan.

Chuuya hummed softly in response, the sound barely reaching over the quiet between them.

“You know?” Dazai said after a pause, flopping onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. His voice was softer now, stripped of bravado. “My antidepressants are messing with me anyway.”

Chuuya turned his head immediately, brows furrowed. “Oh, yeah?”

“My libido,” Dazai clarified, eyes still fixed on the ceiling like he couldn’t bear to look at Chuuya while saying it. “It’s kind of… frustrating. Takes longer. And it doesn’t feel the same.” His voice dropped with the last part, a small confession tucked into silence.

Chuuya tilted his head, studying him quietly for a moment. His own voice came out gentle, without teasing. “I get it…” he said, more to himself than to Dazai.

Dazai’s gaze flicked to him, curious. “You do?”

Chuuya cleared his throat, not quite sure how much he wanted to admit. “I guess… everyone goes through their bad moments,” he offered, evasive but not dismissive.

“ You do,” Dazai said slowly, narrowing his eyes with a knowing glint. “From personal experience?”

Chuuya hesitated, then gave a half-hearted nod. “Kind of.”

Dazai hummed, stretching one arm behind his head while keeping his eyes on him. “Poor Chibi,” he said with a little smirk, but his tone wasn’t cruel. It was almost affectionate. “All sexually frustrated and lonely.”

Chuuya’s face flushed hot. “Weren’t you just saying you are too?!”

“Yeah,” Dazai grinned. “I never said I wasn’t.”

His smile faded just slightly after that—enough for Chuuya to notice. Enough for the silence to grow again, this time not uncomfortable, but tender. Vulnerable. The kind of quiet that only comes when both people have shown a little more than they meant to.

They didn’t speak for a moment. Dazai stared at the ceiling, and Chuuya stared at him. There was something in the air, unspoken but loud. They were both frustrated. Lonely in ways they couldn’t fully name.

Chapter Text

The end of the year was creeping in faster than expected, and with it came the endless talk about the graduation ball. It had started as murmurs in the hallways, low and casual, but now it seemed like it was everywhere . Posters on walls, teachers mentioning it like it was the highlight of their careers, students whispering about dresses and tuxedos and who-would-go-with-who during lunch. Even group chats were flooded with it. More than finals. Way more than finals.

And Chuuya was tired of it.

He’d never really cared about things like that—at least, that’s what he told himself. But maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe he had cared, in the way you care about something you never thought you’d get. A distant kind of longing. He’d always imagined that if there ever was a ball, he’d go with someone. Not because he needed it. Just because it was a nice thought—dancing under dim lights, dressed up, maybe even a slow song with someone who actually liked him.

It wasn’t like he was unpopular. Sure, he had his fair share of classmates who didn’t like him—some for stupid reasons, others for more personal ones—but he had a solid group of friends. People admired him in their own way. He got compliments, sometimes even confessions, though most felt more like admiration than genuine crushes. It had never gone anywhere. It had never felt real .

But now?

Now, every day, he saw someone new walk up to Dazai , smiling nervously, holding folded notes or half-laughing as they asked him to the ball. It had become a daily routine. And Chuuya pretended not to care.

It wasn’t jealousy.

No, of course not.

…Right?

He told himself it was just annoying. It was annoying how Dazai got all that attention without trying. Without caring. Without being particularly nice to anyone. He turned people down with that smug grin and a shrug, as if none of it mattered. As if it didn’t even register.

And the worst part? Dazai hadn’t even picked anyone. Still , people kept asking. Like moths to a flame, drawn to that same chaotic charm that had pulled Chuuya in, once upon a time, in ways he hadn’t really sorted out yet.

Meanwhile, Chuuya? Nothing. Not a single person had asked him .

All his friends had someone. Hell—even Tachihara had a date. And Dazai, well, he was technically dateless too… but not because he couldn’t get a date. No. It was because that idiot rejected everyone.

“Sigma,” Chuuya asked one afternoon, lifting his head slightly from where he had it buried in folded arms on the cafeteria table. “Do you have a date for the ball?”

“Yep,” Sigma replied without missing a beat, munching on their fries. “I’m going with Kolya. Sorry, man.” They gave him a small, apologetic shrug.

Chuuya blinked. “Wasn’t Fyodor Kolya’s date?”

“Yes,” Sigma said simply, as if that explained everything.

Chuuya stared at them for a second longer before letting his forehead drop back onto the table with a dramatic thud . “Wow.”

There was a short pause before Sigma added, a bit more gently, “But you can come with us if you want. No one’s going to mind.”

Chuuya lifted his head just enough to roll his eyes, lips twitching in tired sarcasm. “Nah. If that’s the case, I’ll just ask Dazai .”

It was a joke. Kind of.

But the words stayed in the air longer than they should’ve. Echoed in his own head a bit too much.

Ask Dazai.

He wasn’t seriously considering it. Was he?

…Maybe.

Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.
At least he wouldn’t say no.
Probably.

There he was.

Little dumb Chuuya—heart pounding, palms sweaty, and brain working overtime as he paced slowly down the hallway, muttering to himself like a lunatic.

“You’ll just say it casually. No big deal. Just… ask. It’s Dazai for god’s sake,” he breathed out, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “He’s your best friend. He won’t make fun of you. Or… well. Not too much.”

The plan was simple: catch Dazai before class, ask if he wanted to go to the ball with him, and move on like it was no big deal. A joke, even, if it didn’t land right. Laugh it off. Pretend it meant nothing. Perfect backup plan.

Except—of course —Dazai had decided to vanish for almost the entire lunch break. Apparently to spend it hiding in the bathroom. Chuuya had checked the cafeteria, the library, even the empty classrooms. Now , only with five minutes before the bell rang, he finally spotted him.

Dazai stood at his locker, lazily rummaging through the mess of notebooks and wrappers inside like he had all the time in the world. His hair was slightly damp near the temples—maybe he’d splashed water on his face—and his tie was crooked like always.

Chuuya paused. Took a breath. Another.

Okay. Okay. Just walk up to him. Say it. Ask. He’s your best friend.

Right.

He stepped forward. “Dazai, hey. Everything’s alright?” Chuuya tried to sound casual, like he wasn’t nearly vibrating with nerves.

Dazai glanced over his shoulder and then closed the locker with a soft click . “Hm?” he hummed, raising a brow. “Yeah? Why? And why do you have that weird face?”

Before Chuuya could respond, Dazai reached out and poked him right on the nose.

“Oi—!” Chuuya slapped his hand away with a scowl. “This is just my face, dumbass.”

“Oh yeah,” Dazai replied dryly, smirking. “Forgot you were born with it.”

Chuuya huffed, but his annoyance faltered when his eyes caught something else— the bandages . Not the ones always wrapped around Dazai’s arms in that strange, too-casual way, but the fresh ones on his wrist. These were different. Sloppy. Stained. They looked like he had done them in a rush. Maybe in a bathroom mirror. Maybe recently .

His stomach sank for a second. It wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed it before—Dazai and his habits—but something about seeing it up close, in the middle of this dumb hallway, before he could even get his words out, hit a little harder.

Still, he didn’t ask.

Not here.

Not where Dazai could dodge the question with a joke or walk away or make him feel like a fool for caring.

So instead, he just sighed quietly and reached out, patting his shoulder—not too soft, not too obvious, just enough for Dazai to know he’d seen it. That he wasn’t going to ask. But he knew .

And Dazai? He didn’t flinch. But he did blink once, a little slower, and didn’t say anything. That was something.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Chuuya said finally, voice lower than before.

Dazai tilted his head slightly. “Go ahead.”

Here it was. No going back.

Chuuya looked him in the eyes, then immediately looked past him—at the wall, at anything. “Wanna go with me to the ball?”

A beat of silence.

Then Dazai chuckled. That low, amused kind of laugh that was more familiar than breathing by now. “Of course ,” he grinned, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Before Chuuya could process it, Dazai reached forward and cupped both of Chuuya’s cheeks between his hands. “I thought that was pretty obvious.”

Chuuya stared, frozen. “What—?”

But then—

RINGGGGG.

The bell screamed through the hallway, loud and shrill, snapping them out of the moment.

Dazai let go with a laugh and turned away, hands in his pockets, already walking toward their classroom. “C’mon, partner. Don’t wanna be late.”

Chuuya stood there for a second longer, mouth still half-open, cheeks still burning. “…What the hell just happened,” he muttered, trailing after him.

The rest of the day felt off .

Dazai had this particular kind of silence— not the lazy, smug quiet he usually carried around like a worn-in coat. This was something else. The kind of quiet that hummed beneath the surface. That ticked . Chuuya could feel it like a second heartbeat.

He watched as Dazai zoned out during class, fingers idly tracing patterns on his desk. Barely reacted when the teacher called on him. Smiled at the wrong times. Laughed too late. Not even a sarcastic comment when their math teacher said they had homework for the weekend.

Yeah. Something was definitely wrong.

And Chuuya knew the signs. He’d seen it before—too many times, too closely. He connected the dots fast. The bandages. The quiet. The fake laughter. The way Dazai had pressed just a little too hard when he smiled earlier. This wasn’t just a bad day.

Chuuya gnawed the inside of his cheek as they packed up their stuff at the end of the day. He knew Dazai had been taking his meds regularly, and they were supposed to help, weren’t they? But depression didn’t always follow the rules. Dazai didn’t either.

Whatever it was, Chuuya wasn’t going to let it slide.

Because Dazai was his best friend. And— damn it —Chuuya cared. Maybe more than he should. Maybe too much.

He just couldn’t let anything happen to him.

“Yes, though I think we’d have to look in the children’s section for you,” Dazai muttered teasingly, slinging his bag over his shoulder as they stepped into the hallway.

Chuuya scowled, trailing after him. “Ha, ha, so funny. You must be the life of the party.”

Dazai shot him a lopsided grin.

“I was thinking, seriously , about a white tuxedo,” Chuuya continued, brushing hair out of his face. “Since the ball’s going with that whole pure white, swan-lake-aesthetic thing—”

“As if you were going to the ball,” came a sneering voice from behind.

Chuuya didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Shirase . God, that guy was like a cockroach—you crush him once, and he always came crawling back.

Shirase leaned against the classroom door frame, arms crossed, smirk plastered across his face like he thought it was intimidating. “Didn’t you hear? The director said the dress code’s classic .” He narrowed his eyes. “And I asked him—he means ‘women in dresses, men in suits.’ So you better not show up in anything funny. You won’t even get in if you’re not dressed properly.”

Chuuya froze for a second. Just a second. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose and turned, voice low. Tired. Cold. “Go fuck yourself, Shirase. Leave me alone.”

“Hey, I’m just informing you,” Shirase replied, raising both hands in mock innocence. “I mean, it’s not like you even have a date. Who would want to go with…” he made a face, “a fake man like you?”

Chuuya’s hands clenched at his sides. Not again. Not today. “I actually do have a date,” he said, jaw tight. “For your information.”

Shirase barked out a laugh. “Oh yeah? Who pitied you enough to say yes?”

“I didn’t pity him,” came Dazai’s voice, calm but sharp like a knife. In the next second, he was at Chuuya’s side, arm sliding smoothly over his shoulder in a move so natural, it felt rehearsed. “ I chose him.”

Chuuya’s breath caught. He didn’t move. Didn’t look at Dazai. Just swallowed hard and tried to ignore how warm his face suddenly felt.

Shirase’s smirk faltered, warping into something uglier. “Of course,” he muttered. “Of course you would. Reject every hot girl just to end up with…” he looked Chuuya up and down, eyes crawling with disgust, “the ugliest one. Pathetic .”

The shift in Dazai was instant.

His smile stayed, but something behind it froze . Turned dangerous. “Your sorry ass didn’t pull a fly , we got it,” Dazai said, voice dipped in acid. “Now do us a favor and shut the fuck up.” He turned slightly, hand pressing firmly to Chuuya’s back as if to move him along. “Come on, Chuuya. We’ve got better things to do than waste oxygen on a knockoff of a man.”

Shirase scoffed. “ Me ? A knockoff? At least I have a dick .”

Dazai stopped. Turned his head slightly, just enough to cast him a glance sharp enough to cut glass. “Good to know,” he said coolly. “Sadly, it’s useless . Like everything else about you.” Without waiting for a reply, he pushed Shirase aside with a lazy hand. “Now, if you don’t mind—you’re in the way.”

“You little—”

“Mind your business, Shirase,” Chuuya added with a mockingly sweet tone as he passed, shooting him a wink. “Go get yourself a life.”

They walked away together, shoulder to shoulder. Dazai didn’t say anything for a few steps. Neither did Chuuya.

Then, quietly, Dazai said, “You okay?”

Chuuya nodded, his voice tight. “Yeah.”

Like almost every day, Dazai somehow ended up at Chuuya’s place.

At this point, it wasn’t even surprising—Chuuya had gotten used to it. It was like Dazai was part of the furniture. His hoodie draped over the back of a chair, his cologne lingering faintly on the blankets. Half of his wardrobe might as well be in Chuuya’s closet by now, folded neatly next to Chuuya’s own clothes.

Chuuya didn’t mind. He never had.

That evening was no different. They ended up in Chuuya’s room, surrounded by half-eaten snacks and the soft light of fairy lights strung along the ceiling. Neither of them had bothered to choose a movie. They just lay there, side by side on the bed, a shared bowl of popcorn between them, eating more out of habit than hunger.

At some point, without a word, Dazai shifted and rested his head against Chuuya’s chest.

And that was when Chuuya knew .

It confirmed everything he’d suspected about Dazai’s mood lately—that something was simmering under the surface, pulling him inward. Dazai wasn’t a stranger to physical touch, but this wasn’t one of his playful gestures. This was quiet. Seeking. Needy .

Chuuya didn’t say anything. He simply sighed and began running his fingers gently through Dazai’s messy brown hair, letting the strands slip between his fingers. He kept the other hand loosely in the popcorn bowl, grabbing a few pieces occasionally and popping them into his mouth, careful not to disturb the stillness.

Dazai let out a tiny breath. Shifted a bit, then again. Fidgeting like something was off.

Then came the inevitable.

“I don’t feel your tits.”

Chuuya blinked. There was a pause where his brain stuttered. “…What?” he said, flatly, lips twitching in disbelief.

“I don’t feel them,” Dazai repeated, voice as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. He sat up slightly, brow furrowed in mock confusion, and stared straight at Chuuya’s chest like it had personally betrayed him. Then he tilted his head up, locking eyes with him. “You’re not wearing your binder, right, Chuuya?”

There it was. That look . Soft, knowing, quiet concern wrapped in something playful.

Chuuya swallowed hard. “…Of course not,” he said, too quickly. A weak smile curled on his lips, the kind that never reached his eyes. The lie was fragile. Transparent.

“Chuuya,” Dazai said again, this time slower. Firmer. That voice he used when he wasn’t going to back off.

Chuuya pouted. Literally pouted. He sat up with a sigh, arms crossing over his torso protectively as if he could block the entire conversation with body language alone. “But you don’t get it,” he muttered, voice small, hugging himself tighter. “Besides… I haven’t worn it that long. I swear.”

Dazai’s eyes flicked over him. He sighed softly. “You wore it all day.”

“I did not .”

Dazai gave him a look.

Chuuya winced, then looked away. “I feel better with it on…”

“But it’s not healthy ,” Dazai said gently. “You know that.”

“You don’t get it,” Chuuya said, almost under his breath. His voice wasn’t angry—it was tired. Heavy. “You don’t know what it’s like to wake up and already feel wrong. To look in the mirror and feel like you’re stuck in someone else’s skin. It helps. Even if it hurts.”

Dazai moved closer, slow and careful, as if trying not to spook him. He reached out and touched Chuuya’s chin, lifting his face just enough to meet his eyes. “I know I can’t feel what you feel,” he said softly. “But I do see you. And I know what it’s like to hate something about yourself so much that you’d rather hurt than live with it.”

Chuuya’s eyes burned, just a little, but he blinked quickly. Swallowed it.

Dazai’s voice lightened, just enough to soften the ache. “But I need my emotional support chibi to be healthy,” he said, squeezing his cheek gently. “Otherwise, I’ll die. And you wouldn’t want to live with that on your conscience, would you?”

Chuuya snorted, swatting at his hand. “Idiot.”

“Guilty.”

Eventually—after a dramatic, drawn-out groan and a few theatrical flops onto the mattress—Chuuya finally peeled himself out of bed. He dragged his feet toward the bathroom like it was a death sentence, muttering under his breath the whole way. The soft click of the door signaled his reluctant compliance.

When he came back a few minutes later, binder-free and visibly more relaxed, he immediately dropped back into bed with a sigh. He didn’t even bother adjusting the blankets—just returned to the exact same position they’d been in before. Dazai, who had been waiting with an annoyingly smug expression, let out a deeply satisfied hum the moment his head was back on Chuuya’s chest.

“Mmm… softer,” Dazai whispered, clearly far too pleased. “I like it.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes so hard he nearly gave himself a headache.

“Now I feel all the love I need,” Dazai added, turning slightly so his face nestled perfectly against Chuuya’s shoulder. His voice dropped to a dramatic murmur. “Oh no… I’m running low on affection. Chuuya, recharge me. Quick.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Chuuya muttered, but the corners of his mouth curled up in spite of himself. With a soft huff, he shifted onto his side and wrapped both arms around Dazai, pulling him in close. “Happy now?”

Dazai responded by practically melting into him, letting out a quiet sigh that brushed warm against Chuuya’s neck. “A lot,” he murmured, contentment dripping from his voice like honey. He nuzzled deeper into the curve of Chuuya’s throat.

Chuuya chuckled lightly. “Okay, oversized cat,” he said, brushing his fingers lazily over Dazai’s back. “You better not start purring.”

Dazai hummed softly in response, too comfortable to offer a witty comeback. And then they just stayed like that. Still. Quiet. The only sounds were the occasional rustle of fabric and the steady rhythm of their breathing. Warm. Safe. Close.

And Chuuya—he loved it. He loved it too much. He’d trade anything to keep this kind of peace wrapped up in his arms forever.

Then Dazai’s voice came, soft and so quiet Chuuya almost missed it:

“I don’t think my meds are working.”

His breath hitched.

“I feel like shit.”

The words hit Chuuya like a weight dropped in his chest. He blinked, stunned, his grip tightening instinctively. “Oh…” he exhaled shakily, holding Dazai closer. “Wanna talk about it? I mean, you should really tell your parents. They could get your doctor to adjust the dosage or something…”

Dazai didn’t respond immediately. He shifted again—closer, impossibly close—until Chuuya could feel every shallow breath against his collarbone.

“I… I was…” he started, then faltered, the words getting tangled in his throat. “I was going to have a whole year clean, you know?”

Chuuya froze.

Was.

Past tense.

And it shattered something inside him.

He didn’t ask what Dazai meant. He didn’t have to. The way he clung to Chuuya, the weight of guilt in his voice—it said enough. Too much.

Chuuya swallowed hard, tears threatening, and pressed a soft, trembling kiss to Dazai’s forehead. He shut his eyes tightly, anchoring himself in the feel of Dazai’s body against his own.

“Last night…” Dazai whispered, voice nearly cracking.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Chuuya asked gently, barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t want to… bother you,” Dazai mumbled, fingers curling tightly into Chuuya’s shirt, like he was afraid he might slip away if he didn’t hold on.

Chuuya’s heart ached. “You would’ve never bothered me, Dazai.” His voice trembled with quiet conviction. “I told you. I always told you—call me. Every time. No matter what.”

“I’m sorry…” Dazai’s voice broke then. Shaky. Small. Too small for someone who took up so much space in Chuuya’s world.

“It’s okay,” Chuuya murmured, burying his face in Dazai’s hair and inhaling deeply. His arms tightened around him, protective and full of something deeper than words could hold. “You’re okay. That’s what matters. That you’re here… with me.”

Dazai didn’t respond right away. But his grip softened, just a little, like he’d been able to breathe for the first time in hours. His face stayed tucked into Chuuya’s neck, silent. Vulnerable. Safe.

“You can’t leave me, did you hear me?” Chuuya whispered, his voice raw and quiet as he pressed his face into Dazai’s hair. His fingers gripped the back of Dazai’s shirt like they were anchoring him in place, like letting go would unravel him completely. “What am I supposed to do if I don’t have an annoying mackerel glued to my side twenty-four-seven?”

Dazai let out a weak chuckle, low and tired, but real. “Live in peace, maybe?”

“Ugh. Boring,” Chuuya muttered, wrinkling his nose as he gently pinched Dazai’s side in retaliation. “Besides, who’s gonna remind me how ridiculously amazing I am every five minutes? Hm? You think I can function without that?”

“Your parents could,” Dazai murmured, eyes fluttering shut again, soothed by the rhythm of Chuuya’s voice. “They’d probably be happy to hype you up daily.”

“Nah. They have to. It’s in the parental contract or something,” Chuuya scoffed, shaking his head slightly. “But you ? You do it ‘cause you want to. Because you’re… you.”

Dazai made a quiet sound, almost like a hum or maybe a sigh. “You could find another admirer easily. Probably two, if you really smiled at someone for once.”

Chuuya frowned, clearly unamused. “I don’t want another admirer, Dazai. I want you ,” he said it firmly, no hesitation, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. He buried his face further into Dazai’s hair, breathing him in, clinging just a little tighter. “You’re my best friend. My person. I can’t just… lose you. I’d—” He hesitated. His throat clenched. “I’d die.”

Dazai’s body stilled. His breath caught in his throat. “Why?” he asked, pulling back slightly so he could look at Chuuya. His voice was steady, but his eyes weren’t. They searched Chuuya’s face, like they needed proof. Evidence. A reason to believe.

Chuuya blinked, caught off guard. “...Because I’d be so damn sad ,” he muttered, eyes flickering away as his chest tightened. “And I’d feel guilty. I mean… What if I didn’t say the right thing, or didn’t notice something, or wasn’t there when I should’ve been?”

Dazai narrowed his eyes, tilting his head slightly. “Why would you feel guilty?”

“What do you mean , why?” Chuuya huffed, his brows furrowing. “Because I care about you, dumbass. A lot. I—” He faltered, then inhaled deeply and forced the words out, even as his voice wavered. “I love you, okay? Losing you would be like… like losing my lungs. Like not being able to breathe anymore.”

There was silence.

Then Dazai’s lips quirked into a small smile, his cheeks tinged with a soft red hue that reached the tips of his ears. “Sap,” he whispered, though it didn’t sound like an insult. If anything, it sounded like a lifeline.

“Emotional speeches are sappy,” Chuuya muttered, cheeks just as flushed, dragging Dazai back into his chest and wrapping him up in his arms like he never intended to let go. “Deal with it.”

Dazai let himself be pulled in, nestling into the warmth again. He didn’t argue. Instead, he chuckled softly, the sound barely louder than a breath. “I’m not that sappy, right?”

“You’re worse,” Chuuya said immediately, but the smile in his voice gave him away. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Dazai sighed quietly, content, and let his eyes drift closed again. “Good,” he whispered. “Because I think I’d stop breathing too, if I lost you.”

Chuuya didn’t answer right away. He just held him tighter, heart pounding too loud to speak.

Because he knew— really knew—that Dazai meant it.

“What kind of person would like a fake man?”

The words hit Chuuya like a rock thrown in the dark. Sharp. Sudden. Cold.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. The voice came from one of those boys sitting on the bench near the gym entrance—outsiders. Not from his class. Not even supposed to be there, probably just wandering in during a free period to kill time and hang around their friends. But of course, they had something to say about him .

They always did.

Chuuya was in the middle of a flexibility drill, sitting on the mat, reaching forward to touch the soles of his shoes. He tried to keep his breath even, tried to focus on the ache in his thighs, the stretch pulling at his calves, his hamstrings, his spine. He tried to block out the voices. But they didn’t stop.

“Oh, right, someone who likes women,” another boy piped in, laughing under his breath. “And she likes men, right?”

“She does. I heard that too.”

“Well, perfect then. Just your average straight girl crying for attention,” the first boy snorted. “So ridiculous.”

Chuuya’s fingers curled tighter around his sneakers. He kept his head down, eyes fixed on the floor just past his feet, on the lines of the gym mat, anything but them. The burn in his legs wasn’t enough to drown out their words. Not even close.

“And seriously,” the boy kept going, his voice loud enough for half the gym to hear, “what people do for attention these days. Poor girl . Thinks calling herself a guy will make her special.”

Chuuya breathed in through his nose. Out through his mouth. Tried to picture Dazai, flailing dramatically in the background of the gym because he couldn't even reach past his knees, whining about how “his beautiful legs weren’t meant for this medieval torture.” Normally, that would’ve been enough to make Chuuya crack a smile.

Not today.

“Like, come on,” another voice added, snickering. “No real man would date a girl who wants to be a man. That’s just… weird.”

“Not even a gay guy would go for that,” another boy said with a laugh. “I mean, they like dicks, right? And she doesn’t even have one.”

“Right!”

They all broke into cruel laughter.

Chuuya's throat tightened. His eyes burned.

He didn’t want to cry. God, he didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

But the words weren’t just insults—they were knives, twisted versions of thoughts he’d tried so hard to silence inside himself. Every syllable scraped against the tender places he’d stitched back together over and over again. His chest felt hollow, like someone had reached into it and carved something out with their bare hands.

He forced himself to keep stretching. Stay still. Don’t give them anything.

But his hands were shaking.

Chuuya practically bolted the moment the class ended.

He didn’t even register whatever it was Dazai said to him—just grabbed his bag with trembling hands and stormed off down the hallway, past the lockers, past the stares. His chest ached with a pressure too familiar. His legs moved fast, like if he didn’t make it to the bathroom soon, something inside would shatter.

He rushed into the first stall, slammed the door shut, and locked it. Then he sank down onto the toilet seat—didn’t even bother lifting the lid—hugging his arms around himself like they could hold him together. The air felt too thick to breathe properly. The walls too close. The light too harsh. He buried his face in his hands and finally let the tears fall.

It had been a while since it felt this bad.

HRT had helped— was helping. Most days, he actually liked what he saw in the mirror. Liked how his voice was sounding. Liked how his body was changing. Felt like he was finally, slowly, becoming himself.

But this week had been… too much .

The way certain teachers still subtly treated him like a girl—not directly, not in the way they spoke, but in the things they did . Like assigning him to help the “girls” decorate the class board with pink flowers and glitter, while the boys carried tables. Like saying “ladies first” while looking right at him . That sting didn’t go away.

And then the ball. That stupid school ball.

Suddenly, everyone had opinions—more than usual. People throwing snide comments in the hallways, whispering behind his back, or worse: saying it right to his face. “Are you gonna wear a suit or a dress?” “Shouldn’t she stay home?” “Attention-seeking much?” And somehow, the worst ones weren’t the loudest—they were the ones that sounded polite. Passive-aggressive. Smiling.

And then… there was his dad.

Earlier that week, in passing, his father—trying to be funny, trying to be casual—suggested Chuuya try on a red dress his mother had once worn to a wedding. “Wouldn’t that be nostalgic?” he’d said with a laugh, as if it didn’t feel like a knife sliding between Chuuya’s ribs.

He’d laughed too. Pretended it didn’t sting.

And Dazai…

God, Dazai.

They’d been arguing with some idiots in class. Defending Chuuya, like always. But in the middle of the heat, Dazai had gotten flustered—his words tangled—and he accidentally called Chuuya she .

It was clearly just a mistake, a slip caused by the jerks who had kept misgendering him, but… it stuck. Like a splinter. And sometimes, it came back. Especially now.

Especially after this .

More bullying. More words. More people acting like he was wrong for existing. And the worst part was—no matter how much he wanted to stay angry, to scream, to flip them all off and walk tall—he couldn't.

Instead, he cried.

Because he was tired. Of the stares. Of the whispers. Of trying to explain himself to people who had already decided they didn’t care.

Tired of being the target. Tired of having to “prove” he was real. Tired of the days when even he doubted it.

He cried because he was born in a body that didn’t feel like his.
He cried because no matter how many steps forward he took, the world kept shoving him two steps back.
He cried because—what if they were right?

What if he was broken? Confused? What if this whole thing was a mistake? What if he was just pretending?

He hated that those thoughts could even find space in his mind.

Then, a knock on the stall door.

Knock knock.

“Chuuya?” A soft voice. Familiar. Sigma.

Chuuya covered his mouth with one hand, trying to stifle a sob.

“Are you in there?” they asked again, voice gentle, uncertain. “Are you okay?”

He hesitated, wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, then croaked out, “Y-yeah. Peachy! Don’t worry.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Chuuya,” Sigma said softly. “Please. Open the door.”

“I’m trying to shit—go away,” Chuuya snapped, hoping the sarcasm would scare them off.

But Sigma just sighed. “No, you’re not.”

Another pause.

“Chuuya,” they said again, firmer this time. “Please.”

Chuuya bit the inside of his cheek and looked down at his trembling hands. Then, slowly, he stood, legs heavy, and unlocked the stall door with a soft click . It creaked open, revealing him—red-eyed, flushed, arms crossed tightly across his chest like a shield.

“What are you even doing in the lady’s bathroom?” he mumbled, trying to muster up his usual sarcasm.

But Sigma didn’t flinch. “What are you doing in the lady’s bathroom?” they shot back, their voice calm but tinged with meaning. “No men allowed here, remember?”

Chuuya let out a shaky laugh, surprised it even came out. It wasn’t much, but it helped. A little.

Sigma stepped inside and gently closed the stall door behind them. “They didn’t let Dazai in,” they added. “He tried.”

Chuuya blinked. “Oh…”

“I know you’d probably rather talk to him,” Sigma said with a small shrug. “But I’m here. If you want to talk. Or not talk. Whatever you need.”

Chuuya looked down at the floor.

“Don’t listen to those idiots,” Sigma said, hands sliding gently onto Chuuya’s shoulders.

“It’s hard,” he whispered, voice cracking.

“I know.” Sigma squeezed his shoulders gently. “They won’t use the correct pronouns even if their lives depended on it. And in my case, it’s just that .”

Chuuya’s throat tightened. “It’s more than that, Sigma,” he said, his voice raw. “It’s… all of it.”

Sigma nodded. “Yeah. I know. But even if they don’t understand it… I do.” Their voice softened. “I know what it’s like to feel like you’re not enough. Or too much. Or too confusing. I know what it’s like to want to scream until someone finally gets it.”

Chuuya didn’t respond, but his eyes shimmered again. Just a little.

“Please,” Sigma said gently. “Let’s get out of here. This bathroom is gross.”

Chuuya made a face. “God, yeah.”

“And Dazai’s outside,” Sigma added with a small smile. “I think he’s about to start a fistfight.”

Chuuya’s head snapped up. “We have to stop him.”

Sigma laughed, a little triumphant. “That’s what I thought.”

Finding the right suit for Chuuya had been a journey .

It wasn’t that there were no options—on the contrary, there were too many . Tuxedos in every cut and color imaginable, racks and racks of formalwear that screamed "this is what you’re supposed to wear" in a way that made Chuuya’s skin crawl. Either they looked too stiff, too feminine, or too aggressively masculine in that uncomfortable, boxy way that didn’t feel him .

He’d spent hours with the tailor, crossing his arms and muttering no , no , no —until finally, finally , he found it.

The perfect tuxedo.

Not over-the-top, not flashy in a way that begged for attention—but elegant. Quietly confident. It was mostly black, but the vest and tie were pure white, crisp and clean, and the detailing— oh , the detailing—was a subtle gold: lining the buttons, tracing the cuffs, running just faintly along the hem of the jacket like a secret only he got to keep. It fit like it was made for him, hugging his waist just right, resting on his shoulders like armor.

He fell in love with it the moment he saw himself in the mirror.

And now…

Now it was time.

The ball.

His phone buzzed with a text— Dazai’s on his way —which only made his heart thud harder. Of course Dazai had insisted on picking him up. “You can’t just walk into the night looking like a prince without me by your side,” he’d said, like a smug bastard. But Chuuya couldn’t exactly say no, not when Dazai’s dad had offered up that sleek, black luxury car for the event. Rich people and their toys.

Still, that idiot refused to tell him what he was wearing.

“It’s black,” he’d said.

Just that. Black . So helpful.

Chuuya rolled his eyes, muttering something about dramatic bastards, and turned back to the mirror. He adjusted his collar with slow, precise movements, brushing down the lapels, checking the cuffs. His fingers trembled slightly—not because he didn’t like how he looked, but because…

Because he did.

He looked good. Really good. Handsome in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before. His body, his face, his presence—it all felt his . His reflection stared back with pride, not confusion. His chest swelled with a quiet, glowing warmth. The tuxedo didn’t hide him. It revealed him. Or maybe… it celebrated him.

Hell, he even combed his hair properly for once. He ran his fingers through the strands, fluffing the waves just right, smirking a little at himself.

He looked… hot. There. He said it.

He couldn’t help it—he took a few selfies. Okay, maybe more than a few. But who could blame him?

With time to spare and nerves coiling in his stomach, he started tidying his room. Not that it was messy, but the anxious energy needed somewhere to go. He picked up clothes that were already folded, adjusted the edge of his bedspread, dusted off a shelf that didn’t need dusting. Then he moved to his desk. Opened his bag, took out his notebooks, stacked them neatly.

His gaze lingered.

Those notebooks were done. They held scribbles and homework, margin doodles and test dates. Now they were just relics—memories pressed between pages.

He was going to graduate.

The ceremony was next week, but tonight made it real . He ran his hand along the edge of one of the notebooks, then opened it, flipping lazily through the pages. And then—

A folded piece of paper fluttered out and landed on the desk.

Chuuya blinked.

He picked it up slowly, brow furrowing. It was familiar. Just a plain, white paper folded once. He opened it.

Dazai’s handwriting.

Messy, but recognizable. He hadn’t seen this in months. Wait. Wait .

Was this the Valentine’s letter?

Oh shit . It was.

He never read it.

Dazai had given it to him that day, Chuuya had ended up shoving it into his notebook to avoid blushing in front of the whole class. He was supposed to read it that night. But Dazai had been with him the whole day . Every break. Every afternoon moment. There was never a quiet second. Eventually, the letter got buried, forgotten under deadlines and late-night calls and Dazai’s constant presence .

Chuuya sat down slowly, heart picking up speed. He unfolded the letter carefully, as if it might burn him, and began to read.

The first few lines were what he expected: cheesy metaphors, classic Dazai-level drama.

“You’re the light in my perpetual abyss,” it said. “The annoying chibi who somehow makes my heart skip like a bad record.”

Typical. Dumb. Sweet.

Then it got… softer.

“You make me feel alive in a way no one else does. You make me want things I’m afraid to want.”

Okay…

And then—his heart stopped.

“I can only wonder what your lips taste like. Or how being yours feels like.”

Chuuya’s breath caught.

What?

He read it again.

“I can only wonder what your lips taste like.”
“What being yours feels like.”

His face went hot. He stared at the page like it had personally insulted him.

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!

His eyes darted to the last line, and it punched him in the gut:

“But if you don’t want more than my friendship, it’s okay. Just act like you didn’t read this.”

...

He hadn’t read it.
He had literally done exactly what Dazai told him to do if he didn’t feel the same.

And Dazai—Dazai had probably assumed he was rejected. That Chuuya didn’t care . That he didn’t want him . Chuuya let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a groan and a scream, and buried his face in his hands.

No no no no no.

How had he missed this?! Dazai had liked him. Had loved him, probably—for who knows how long . The flirting. The touches. The way Dazai always looked at him like Chuuya held the sun behind his eyes. It hadn’t been a joke. None of it had.

And worse—Chuuya was only just realizing that he liked him back.

Not in a just now kind of way, but in a this has been growing for months kind of way. In a Dazai’s laugh makes my chest do weird things kind of way. In a his dumb hair and dumb voice and dumb everything kind of way.

In a I thought about Dazai while jerking off once and I hated myself for it kind of way.

His hands slid down his face.

“Oh my god ,” he whispered.

They liked each other. They had liked each other for a stupidly long time—and he’d missed it.

He stared blankly at the letter again, then slumped forward, letting his head hit the desk with a dull thunk . He stayed there, groaning into the wood.

He was going to kill Dazai. Or kiss him. Maybe both.
But first, he had to survive the ball.

After adjusting his tie one last time, Chuuya left his room and was immediately ambushed by his parents—his mother gasping softly, his father chuckling with a proud, warm smile.

“My god, look at you,” his mother whispered, placing a hand over her chest like she might cry. “You look like you stepped out of a magazine.”

“Better than a magazine,” his father added, pulling him into a quick, slightly awkward hug. “You’ve grown up, kid.”

Chuuya laughed it off, cheeks warm but heart light. Their words meant more than he expected. He felt seen. For once, truly seen as himself. But the peace only lasted a moment—because then, he heard it.

A knock on the door.
His breath caught. His chest tightened.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

Of course. It had to be him . Dazai .

He practically floated to the door, legs moving on autopilot as his nerves screamed. He peeked through the peephole—and, yup, there he was. Tall, sharp-eyed, with that insufferable grin already tugging at his lips.

And just like that, Chuuya’s stomach turned upside down.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that now— now , after finding that letter, after realizing everything —he had to face Dazai like he was just a friend. Like his entire world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.

His fingers hovered over the doorknob.

He was buzzing. Happy, yes. Elated, even. But also terrified. The kind of fear that crept in quietly, threading itself through the cracks in his chest. A small, mean voice whispered at the back of his mind:

What if Dazai didn’t like him anymore? 

What if that letter had been a fleeting thing? A crush. A phase. What if Dazai had written it, waited for a reply that never came, and just… moved on? Or worse—what if he only liked Chuuya because of the things Chuuya still hated about himself? That part he couldn't change, no matter how hard he tried. That softness, that sharpness, that contradiction. That thing.

But no.

No.

He shoved that voice aside like slamming a door. He knew Dazai. And after everything— everything —he had to believe in himself too.

He could do this.

Chuuya inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, then turned around to wave half-heartedly at his parents. “Wish me luck,” he muttered.

His mom smiled. “You don’t need luck. You’re radiant.”

With a snort, he opened the door. “Stop knocking, idiot,” Chuuya muttered, arching an eyebrow as Dazai blinked at him. “So impatient…”

But the moment their eyes met—everything stopped.

Dazai just… stared.

For a beat too long. And Chuuya’s breath caught again.

Because sure, Dazai was wearing the most standard black suit in existence—classic cut, slim tie, not a single flashy detail—but damn it all, he looked incredible . Unfairly, infuriatingly incredible. The kind of sharp that made Chuuya’s knees weak. Tall and smooth, like a secret weapon dressed in silk.

Chuuya swallowed hard, his gaze flicking away. Why. Why tonight, of all nights, did Dazai have to be hot.

He tried to play it cool. “…Dazai?” he asked, voice carefully measured. “Are you broken or what?”

Still, Dazai didn’t speak.

He just stared, blinking once, then twice—until a lazy, slow-burning smile crept across his lips. “Nothing’s wrong,” he finally said, voice lower than usual. And then his eyes traveled down Chuuya’s body like a slow drag of fire before returning to his face. “You’re so fine.”

Chuuya’s heart flipped . His fingers twitched. “...Thank you,” he mumbled, suddenly self-conscious in the very tuxedo he’d adored half an hour ago. “You’re… good too.”

Good too? Good too?! Oh god, what a loser thing to say—

Dazai immediately pouted, dramatically, as if Chuuya had stabbed him in the chest. “Oh, just good?” he sighed, hand flying to his heart. “How cruel. I was expecting to be compared to a god at the very least.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, but he was already biting back a smile.

“Let’s go, my prince,” Dazai added, holding out his hand with an exaggerated bow. “We have a ball to conquer.”

Chuuya snorted. “Ridiculous,” he muttered—but he took his hand anyway. Their fingers slid together with ease, like they were always meant to fit that way.

“And you,” Dazai said, voice teasing but eyes soft, “are ridiculously handsome tonight.”

Chuuya didn’t even try to hide the flush this time. “Shut up.” But he didn’t let go of his hand.

The ride to the high school wasn’t long—barely fifteen minutes at most—but to Chuuya, it stretched on like slow-burning molasses. The inside of Dazai’s dad’s absurdly sleek black car was too quiet, too polished, and way too small when Dazai was sitting that close.

Every few seconds, Chuuya’s eyes would flick to him—like he couldn’t help it, like some magnetic pull was tugging at his attention—and he’d find Dazai looking ahead, calm, utterly unreadable. His posture was relaxed, like he didn’t have a single worry in the world.

And that just pissed Chuuya off.

How the hell could Dazai just sit there, all smug and pretty, like nothing had happened?
Like he hadn’t written that letter.
Like he hadn’t poured his feelings onto paper and slid them into a notebook like it was no big deal.
How the fuck had he acted completely normal this whole time?!

Chuuya clenched his fists lightly on his lap, heart thudding in a wild rhythm he couldn't tame. Meanwhile I’m over here dying every two seconds just looking at him. This is so unfair.

When the car finally pulled into the school parking lot, Chuuya had barely caught his breath.

“Ready, my prince?” Dazai teased, stepping out first and offering his hand with a flourish like they were stepping into a royal gala.

Chuuya rolled his eyes, slapped his hand away, and got out by himself—but he was smiling. He hated that he was smiling.

They didn’t linger outside.

As soon as they stepped through the doors, the noise hit them like a wave—music, laughter, voices, all buzzing together in the air.

The gym had been transformed—or, well, tried to be transformed. Someone had made an effort: colorful string lights looped across the ceiling beams, a disco ball spun slowly in the center like it was trying its best to matter, and a long table stood along one wall, piled with plastic cups, snacks, and suspiciously non-spiked punch.

Students were scattered everywhere—some clinging to the benches, others swaying awkwardly to the soft thrum of the background music. A few were already dancing, and others were gathered in clumps, chatting in overly loud tones to be heard over the beat.

Then—

“Who’s this hot guy?”

Chuuya turned, startled, just as Tachihara walked up with dramatic flair, giving Chuuya a once-over like he was some A-list celebrity stepping onto a red carpet.

“You’re stunning, man.”

Chuuya snorted, caught off guard but flattered. “Thanks, dude,” he said with a grin, giving Tachihara a playful nudge on the shoulder. “You look great.”

Tachihara tossed his hair dramatically. “Of course I do—look who my date is.” He stepped aside with a smug smirk, gesturing to the girl beside him.

Gin.

She wore a silky blue dress that shimmered under the lights, her usually severe look softened with subtle makeup and a sweet, awkward smile.

Chuuya blinked. “No way.”

“Oh my—what about Akutagawa?” Dazai asked, voice laced with mock concern. “Wasn’t he completely against your relationship? I recall something about dramatic threats of exile?”

“Nah, he’s chill now,” Tachihara waved it off, jerking his head toward a quiet corner of the gym. “He’s busy—look.”

There they were: Akutagawa and Atsushi, heads tilted toward each other in conversation. Akutagawa looked tense, like usual, but not hostile. Atsushi was smiling nervously.

“Oh, boy,” Chuuya muttered under his breath. Then he turned to Gin, smiling softly. “You look beautiful, Gin. Blue’s your color.”

Gin’s lips twitched into a rare chuckle. “Thank you. You look amazing too, really.”

As the group scattered, Chuuya wandered toward the food table with Dazai close behind. He grabbed a plastic cup of bright red punch and took a sip—his throat felt parched from nerves. The sugar barely helped.

And then—

Without a word, Dazai casually reached out , took Chuuya’s cup, and took a sip like it belonged to him.

Chuuya stared. Then blinked. Then slowly turned away like he absolutely had not just felt his heart explode. No. No. He would not let that smug little eel know he was flustered. Absolutely not.

“OH MY GOD—no way!” a voice called, high and dramatic. “Chuuya. CHUUYA. You're a star. ”

Sigma.

They swept over like a storm in heels and glitter, eyes wide and sparkling. “You look like a damn movie character. No, I refuse to let this go undocumented. Picture. Now. ”

Chuuya chuckled. “Of course. You’re radiant, Sigma.”

Sigma immediately wrapped an arm around his shoulders, leaning into him like they were born for the camera. “You,” they gestured at Dazai with a flourish, “mummy knockoff—take a picture.”

Dazai blinked. “Sorry? I’m not your personal servant.”

“Dazai,” Chuuya said sweetly, his voice all sugary sarcasm, “would you please take a picture of us?”

Dazai sighed, hand on heart. “For you, my tiny chibi? Always.” He pulled out his phone like it was a royal duty and stepped back. “Pose.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, but he was laughing as he leaned in beside Sigma, their arms still linked. And for just a second, as the flash clicked, as Dazai smiled behind the phone, as the warmth of friends and music and something more wrapped around him—

Chuuya forgot to be nervous.

He just felt happy.

After a good five minutes of Sigma obsessively scrolling through the photos, their perfectly manicured fingers pinching and zooming on every single detail, they slowly turned their head toward Dazai with the intensity of a judge at a fashion tribunal.

“These are not perfect,” Sigma declared, deadpan.

Dazai blinked. “I literally took fifteen—”

“Sixteen,” Sigma corrected. “And in fourteen of them, the lighting washes me out, Chuuya’s hair is covering his eye, and your angles are criminal.”

Chuuya chuckled behind his cup, sipping the last of his punch to hide the smile growing on his face.

With a dramatic sigh, Sigma handed the phone back to Dazai. “Again. Make me glow , demon boy.”

Dazai sighed like the weight of the world had been dropped on his shoulders but obediently lifted the phone again. “Say ‘I hate you all’ on three.”

“I HATE YOU ALL,” Sigma and Chuuya said in unison, grinning into the camera.

Once that round of photos was deemed acceptable, the three of them huddled together for a selfie. Dazai extended his arm while Sigma posed with theatrical elegance and Chuuya leaned slightly into the frame, caught between embarrassment and genuine joy.

Click.

“Perfect,” Sigma finally announced, satisfied.

Then Chuuya’s eyes caught movement across the gym.

Oh no.

“Wait,” he narrowed his eyes. “Aren’t they supposed to be your dates?” he asked, nodding toward the far side of the gym where Nikolai and Fyodor were clearly being... themselves.

Sigma followed his gaze.

Nikolai was leaning half against a wall, laughing like a maniac, hair already disheveled, one hand suspiciously low on Fyodor’s back. Fyodor, meanwhile, looked completely unaffected as usual—composed in that unsettling way—but his tie was loose, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to raise questions, and his expression was that of someone who had plans to commit something vaguely illegal.

“They were ,” Sigma replied flatly.

Chuuya raised an eyebrow. “And you’re not with them because…? ”

“They wanted to make out,” Sigma shrugged, nonchalant, like this happened every Tuesday. “And I was not in the mood to get groped in this outfit. I paid too much to have their greedy hands messing with it before the photo ops.”

Chuuya blinked slowly, processing. “…You are absolutely right.”

“Obviously,” Sigma replied, brushing a strand of hair behind their ear. “Besides, look at Fyodor—he already looks like he’s been dragged through someone’s emotional trauma.”

Chuuya nodded, squinting at the pair. “Yeah. He’s giving... ‘wrote five love letters in blood before coming here’ energy.”

“Exactly!” Sigma clapped their hands together. “ No thank you. I’ll go wrangle them before they start tongue-wrestling by the punch bowl. Good luck.”

Chuuya blinked again. “With what?”

But Sigma only gave him a subtle nod toward Dazai—who was currently sipping another drink like he hadn’t just called Chuuya his prince earlier—and arched one perfectly sculpted brow. Then they turned on their heel. “Bye,” Sigma sang over their shoulder.

Chuuya stared after them for a second. His cheeks warmed as he turned his gaze back to Dazai, who was now tapping something into his phone. “Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath, heart drumming faster again.

After what felt like the most painfully awkward eternity of Chuuya’s life—filled with his own racing thoughts, the weirdly loud sound of his heartbeat, and the realization that he’d just been standing there staring at Dazai—Dazai finally looked up from his phone.

There was that damn smirk again. The smug, knowing one. The one that made Chuuya want to roll his eyes and punch him at the same time. Dazai slipped the phone into his pocket and tilted his head.

“Wanna dance?” he asked, voice smooth, a little amused.

Chuuya let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes narrowing in mock irritation, though he couldn’t hide the nerves buzzing beneath his skin. “Why not,” he muttered, trying not to sound as breathless as he felt.

Without waiting for a clearer answer, Dazai stepped forward and gently took Chuuya’s wrist, his fingers warm against his skin. Chuuya blinked, startled, as Dazai pulled him away from the crowded food table with ease.

They stopped near the edge of the dance floor, far enough from the chaos but close enough for the colored lights to paint streaks of pink and blue across their faces.

And then…

Nothing.

They didn’t move. They didn’t speak.

They just stared at each other.

For too long.

The last song had faded out and a new one had started—something soft and slow, the kind of romantic background track that would’ve made Chuuya snort on a regular day—but he barely noticed. He could barely hear it over the sound of his own heartbeat, which was beating a little too loud and a little too fast. Dazai’s eyes were steady, warm, and unreadable. His gaze didn’t waver, and it felt like he was looking into Chuuya, not just at him.

The noise around them dulled. The room felt far away. For a single suspended moment, it was just them—like the lights and voices and music had blurred into something dreamlike.

Then Dazai moved. Slowly. Carefully.

He took Chuuya’s hand and guided it to his waist.

Chuuya’s fingers hesitated for half a second before landing, and the second they touched Dazai’s waist through the thin fabric of the tuxedo, his brain short-circuited. He could feel Dazai. The warmth of him. The closeness. He wasn’t breathing right.

Dazai’s other hand settled lightly on Chuuya’s shoulder, and then…

They started to dance.

Well— Dazai danced. Chuuya just followed.

It was a slow sway, a lazy rhythm that didn’t care if they looked good or not. They just moved with the music, in their own little bubble. Chuuya’s mind was screaming, but his body stayed quiet, soft, just trying to keep up. Every time he looked up at Dazai, he found those damn brown eyes already on him, and it made his stomach twist in something sharp and sweet and terrifying.

He didn’t know what he was doing. His feet didn’t really know how to do this, but it didn’t matter. He was there. He was with him .

It was like a movie.
A perfect, slow-burning, heart-fluttering romance movie.

The kind Chuuya used to pretend he hated but secretly watched when no one was around. The kind where two people just… fit, even if they didn’t want to admit it. The kind where a single glance could set your whole body on fire.

Oh.
Okay. He got it.

He was completely smitten. Head over heels, butterflies in the gut, flushed cheeks, everything. He was doomed. His heart kept fluttering like an idiot—could it stop , please? (It didn’t. It wouldn’t .)

When the song ended, the magic didn’t exactly vanish, but it… paused. The spell broke.

They stopped moving, quietly stepped away from the dance floor, and headed back toward the food table. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, just… heavy. Full of unsaid things. Chuuya didn’t dare glance at Dazai—he couldn’t. Not with how warm his face felt. Not with how stupidly good Dazai had felt in his arms.

So he did the only thing that made sense: shove some sweets in his mouth.

He grabbed a chocolate tart and bit into it like it had personally offended him. Whatever. Anything was better than accidentally locking eyes with Dazai and melting on the spot. He let his gaze drift around the room—lights, people dancing, someone almost tripping over the punch bowl— perfect. All things that weren’t Dazai .

Until a gentle nudge at his side brought him back.

He felt Dazai press just slightly against him, leaning close— too close—his breath brushing over the shell of Chuuya’s ear as he murmured, “Let’s go—I think we can be in… somewhere quieter.”

A shiver crawled down Chuuya’s spine like a spark.
Too close. That voice was way too close. His ear felt like it was catching fire.

“O-oh,” he stammered, blinking fast and swallowing whatever the hell had been in his mouth. “Fine.”

He grabbed another sweet—because of course he did—and followed Dazai through the crowd. The gym felt suddenly too full, too loud, too bright, while his brain was a blank page scribbled with panic. They were going to be alone. Just the two of them.

Alone.

And normally, that would’ve been perfect. He liked being alone with Dazai. It used to be his favorite kind of quiet. But now ? After dancing with him like that? After realizing he was literally starring in the gay version of a high school romance movie?

God, destiny really had it out for him—

Thud.

Chuuya jolted as something hit him square in the chest. Cold splashed across his front.

His heart dropped. His entire soul dropped.

He looked down at the sticky liquid dripping over his now-soaked shirt and then up—very slowly—to the dumbass who had bumped into him.

Oh, of course .
Shirase.

Did this guy not have a life?

“I am going to kill you,” Chuuya growled, his fists clenching so tightly his knuckles went white.

“Whoa, whoa, what?” Shirase stepped back, hands raised in mock innocence. “It’s just a drink—an accident , calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” Chuuya snarled, stepping forward, fire in his chest. “That wasn’t an accident, and we both know it. You’re always hovering around me like a cockroach. Come here—I’ll make your face an accident.”

“Chuuya—” Dazai’s hand found his shoulder gently, grounding.

But Chuuya shrugged him off.

He was breathing hard. Not because of the drink. Not even because of the ruined suit. But because this guy —this walking insult in sneakers—just had to ruin this night.

“Hey, hey,” Shirase laughed nervously. “Dazai, control your girlfriend , huh?”

There it was.

Oh.
Oh.

Chuuya wasn’t even mad anymore.
He was furious .
He was offended .
He was ready to turn this school dance into a boxing match.

“Oh, this girl is gonna knock the shit out of you,” Chuuya said, voice dropping into a low, vicious smirk. He grabbed Shirase by the collar of his ugly-ass shirt, yanking him forward with terrifying ease.

“ Chuuya, don’t, ” Dazai said quickly, firmer now, stepping closer.

Chuuya snapped his head toward him. “ Let me. He can come in here, ruin my night, make me feel like absolute shit in front of everyone, and I can’t hit him?” His voice cracked, eyes wide, furious, and embarrassed. “ You want to punch him half the time too—so why can’t I? ”

Dazai held his gaze, quiet for a second. Then, gently, he said, “Because you’re not going to see him again.”

Chuuya blinked. Dazai’s voice was softer now, serious. “Let him be,” he said again, quietly. “That’s what you always tell me.”

It stung—but not in a bad way. It hit like truth. Familiar. Like something only Dazai would throw back at him at the right time, in the right way.

Chuuya’s grip on Shirase’s collar loosened. He let go. “Whatever,” he muttered, stepping back, brushing his now-wet shirt with a grimace. “He’s not worth it.”

Shirase scoffed something under his breath, but didn’t stick around. He walked off fast, not looking back. Chuuya didn’t watch him leave. He was too busy staring at the floor, heat rushing to his cheeks, humiliation pooling low in his chest.

“…Sorry,” he muttered finally. “I just—he knows how to push buttons.”

Dazai reached over and flicked a piece of something sticky off his shoulder. “I know,” he said. “But I’d rather dance with you again than visit you in juvie.”

Chuuya snorted. “…Shut up.”

They made their way quietly down one of the school’s side hallways, the music from the gym growing muffled behind the walls. The sterile lights above buzzed faintly, and their footsteps echoed against the linoleum floor. It was quieter here, cooler too, and the adrenaline from earlier finally began to fade.

Inside the bathroom, they tried—tried being the key word—to clean up Chuuya’s shirt. Dazai dampened paper towels and gently dabbed at the red stain spreading across the front of his vest while Chuuya grumbled under his breath. The fruit punch had seeped through the fabric and dried in splotches already, sticking it to his skin.

“No use,” Chuuya sighed, pulling the damp vest away from his chest. “I’m sticky, I smell like a fucking fruit salad, and I look like a toddler that lost a fight with a juice box.”

“You still look good,” Dazai said casually, without even looking up.

Chuuya didn’t respond. His ears were pink.

Eventually, when there was nothing more to be done, they gave up and wandered toward the stairwell at the back of the building. The air was calmer there, quieter, like the world had exhaled. They sat down on the last few steps of the staircase—Chuuya slumping slightly, arms resting over his knees, Dazai leaning back with his legs stretched out lazily.

Neither of them said anything at first.

Then Dazai shifted and gently tilted sideways, resting his cheek against the top of Chuuya’s head. “Wouldn’t it be amazing if we just ran away from everything,” he murmured, voice quieter than usual, “and lived in a small house in the mountains?”

The image bloomed in Chuuya’s head instantly: misty mornings, coffee shared over wooden balconies, silence between pine trees, snow in winter, peace.

He leaned into Dazai’s warmth, closed his eyes. “Yep… I’d have to deal only with you,” he whispered. “I’d like that.”

Dazai breathed out a soft laugh, barely more than a breath. After a long pause, he began to hum under his breath. The melody was soft, familiar—one he’d played countless times from his phone and sung at every opportunity. “ Give me sirens and a cyclops… ” he sang quietly, off-key but unashamed, “ give me giants and a hydra… ”

Chuuya smiled and joined him, their voices almost blending. “I know life and fate are scary…” He leaned his shoulder into Dazai’s slightly.  “…But I wanna be legendary.”

Dazai chuckled, tilting his head until his hair brushed against Chuuya’s temple. “Imagine it,” he said softly, “a tiny, pissed-off ginger fighting a giant with a sword twice his size.”

Chuuya snorted. “I’d be amazing, for your information. I’d take the bastard down in five minutes.”

“Sure, sure,” Dazai laughed, teasing. “Of course you would.”

“You don’t get to talk, mister ‘I scream if a cockroach even looks in my direction.’ You don’t have the credentials.”

Dazai cackled. “Hey, those things are fast. And unnatural. I stand by my choices.”

“You’d be hiding in a barrel while I save the day.”

“Then I’ll be your Penelope,” Dazai said dramatically, one hand on his chest. “Waiting faithfully, weaving tapestries, crying softly into my silk handkerchief…”

Chuuya chuckled, turning toward him with a lazy grin. “Now that I need to see. You, in a flowy dress and heels, crying because the sheep wool ran out.”

Dazai grinned back. “And I need to see you as Odysseus, giving dramatic monologues to the gods and refusing immortality just to come back to me .” He batted his lashes playfully.

Chuuya laughed, actually laughed, deep and breathy. “You really need to stop obsessing over that musical.”

Dazai gasped, mock offended. “It’s not obsession. It’s appreciation. Art.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. You’ve sent me like, seven videos this week. You quote it during lunch. You hum it in your sleep , Dazai.”

“And it’s working! ” Dazai whooped triumphantly, throwing an arm around Chuuya’s shoulders and gently shaking him side to side. “My influence is spreading! The corruption is complete!”

“Yeah, yeah…” Chuuya leaned into the hold, his voice quiet but fond. “You’re annoying.”

“But charming.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.”

They stayed in silence for a long time, leaning into one another like tired pillars holding each other up, their shoulders pressed together, staring blankly down the dim, empty hallway. The distant hum of fluorescent lights and the soft whir of a vending machine were the only sounds around them, except for the occasional creak of the old building settling into the night.

Chuuya’s fingers twitched slightly in his lap. His throat was tight, his heart thudding so loudly he could almost hear it echo in his ears. He was battling himself, caught in a tug-of-war between fear and desire. His mind kept circling the letter—the one he never replied to, the one he hadn’t even read properly until far too late. And now… now the words haunted him.

He wanted to speak, to tell Dazai everything. That he had felt the same. That he had been a coward. That he had convinced himself Dazai could never see him like that—not romantically, not in the way that twisted up his gut every time they touched or made eye contact too long. He wanted to say that he had forced himself to bury it, to strangle the feelings that kept growing each time Dazai laughed, each time he defended him, each time he stayed beside him without asking anything in return.

That he loved him. That he always had.

But the words didn’t come. They never did, not when it mattered most.

Instead, he broke the silence with a quiet voice, barely above a whisper. “What do you feel right now?”

Dazai turned slightly, his expression unreadable. “Huh?”

“What are you feeling… in this moment?” Chuuya repeated, eyes still fixed on the shadows dancing along the hallway wall.

Dazai blinked slowly, then shrugged. “Nothing? I guess? Why?”

Chuuya snorted under his breath, though it lacked any real humor. “For example…” He hesitated, swallowed down the lump in his throat. “I feel my heart racing. Like, stupidly fast. And my stomach’s a mess—something between wanting to puke and… and butterflies or whatever.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Dazai leaned away slightly, and Chuuya, nervous, turned to look at him.

The dim moonlight filtering through the high windows painted Dazai’s face in silver-blue hues. His features looked softer than usual—almost vulnerable, like something fragile hiding behind his typical mask of smugness. And the look in his eyes—confused, yes, but also tender—only made Chuuya’s heart hammer harder.

Trying to fill the silence, to stop himself from spiraling, Chuuya added with a nervous chuckle, “Also, the chest tape’s squeezing me weird on one side. It’s driving me nuts.”

Dazai huffed a laugh—quiet, but genuine. “That’s such a you answer.” He looked away for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know… It’s kind of a weird question.”

Chuuya waited.

“Maybe… it feels like my last day on Earth,” Dazai murmured.

Chuuya frowned, shifting slightly toward him. “What?”

“Like… everything feels unreal.” Dazai offered a soft, breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t worry. I’m not dying or anything. It’s just… a lot.”

Chuuya watched him, eyes searching for something he couldn’t name. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he reached for Dazai’s free hand. Their fingers brushed, and he forced himself to breathe as he intertwined them.

Dazai looked down at their joined hands with visible surprise, brows drawing together, then glanced up to meet Chuuya’s gaze.

They stared at each other.

And Chuuya, still terrified, still unable to speak the truth aloud, tried with everything he had to let Dazai see it.

Please understand, he begged silently. Please. You make my world make sense. I want more. I want you. Not as a friend. Not just as a partner. More.

His thoughts spilled over like a silent confession. I like you too. I always have. I never stopped.

Dazai’s eyes narrowed just slightly, as if trying to hear something in the quiet.

You’re insufferable, and impossible, and somehow you made space in my heart and refused to leave. Chuuya gave the smallest nod.

I love you , he thought as loud as he could, willing the words into the spaces between them.

Dazai’s lips curled into a smirk, and then, so casually it made Chuuya dizzy, he murmured, “I can’t read your mind, chibi.” He leaned in just a little. “I know it seems like I can, but I’m not magical.”

Chuuya let out a dramatic groan, rolling his head back against the wall. “I hate you so much.”

“Nope,” Dazai sang softly, triumphant. He lifted their entwined hands, pressing a warm, deliberate kiss to Chuuya’s knuckles. “You looked like a lovesick puppy two seconds ago.”

Chuuya glared—but it was useless. His heart was doing cartwheels. He flipped Dazai off with his free hand anyway. “I swear to god, I’m going to choke you in your sleep.”

Dazai only smiled wider, unfazed. Then he let out a mock-gasp. “Hot.”

Chuuya yanked his hand away and punched Dazai’s shoulder—not hard, but enough to make a point. “You’re disgusting!” He shifted down a step, trying to get some distance. Of course, Dazai only leaned closer again, as if pulled by gravity.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Just tell me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing,” Chuuya muttered, arms crossed. “From now on, I don’t even know you.”

“Oh nooo,” Dazai whined dramatically, draping himself across Chuuya like a wet blanket. “Don’t say that. My poor, fragile heart.”

Chuuya took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and exhaled slowly, shakily. His chest felt tight, like something was pressing down on it—not painfully, but insistently, like a hand urging him forward. If he didn’t do it now, when would he? Tomorrow? Next week? Never? The thought of never made his stomach churn.

Now or never. There was no better moment than the present… right?

Right.

He could do this. He had to do this. What was the worst that could happen? Don’t answer that, his brain screamed. Just don’t . So he didn’t.

“I have something I need to confess,” Chuuya murmured, voice lower than usual.

Beside him, Dazai hummed, soft and curious. “Oh?”

Chuuya's throat went dry. He couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t meet those warm, impossibly knowing eyes. So instead, he leaned into him, rested against his side like it was the only thing holding him upright.

“I need you to… really forgive me,” he began, each word carefully chosen. “My mind’s a mess most days. It’s like everything’s tangled and spinning, and I’m barely keeping up.”

Dazai let out a light laugh, tightening the arm he had slung around Chuuya’s shoulders. “Yeah, that sounds like you. Tiny brain, too many thoughts. It’s gotta be exhausting.”

“I’m regretting this already,” Chuuya muttered, squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself not to back down. “I… I didn’t read the letter you gave me on Valentine’s Day.”

A pause. A beat of silence, sharp and weighty.

“I mean—I didn’t read it until today ,” Chuuya rushed on, the words tripping over each other. “I forgot it existed. I just… forgot. And I’m sorry. I should’ve read it sooner.”

Dazai slowly withdrew his arm, pulling back slightly.

And that subtle shift—just the absence of his touch—made something twist deep in Chuuya’s gut. Cold dread, immediate and all-consuming. He turned to him, forcing himself to meet Dazai’s gaze, searching it for something—anger, hurt, anything.

“First of all,” Chuuya said, his voice cracking with forced levity, “you’re such a damn sap. Seriously. That letter? Over the top.”

Dazai blinked, clearly thrown off.

“Second,” Chuuya jabbed a finger into Dazai’s chest, “you didn’t even tell me in person. You just slipped me a letter like some middle schooler. I feel personally offended.”

“Uh—” Dazai opened his mouth but no words came out.

“Third, now that I’ve read it, you’re ridiculously obvious. I mean, how did I not notice sooner?” Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “You’re basically begging to get caught.”

Dazai stared, a small pout forming on his lips, looking both embarrassed and confused.

Chuuya inhaled deeply, grounding himself. This was the hard part. His fingers clenched slightly before he let them go.

“Fourth,” he said, quieter now. “Do you still like me?”

There it was again—that silence. Heavy. But this time, it wasn’t ugly. It was thick with something else, something tender.

Dazai’s gaze softened, unreadable but intense. Then he nodded once, slowly. “...Yes.”

Relief crashed through Chuuya like a wave. His whole body seemed to exhale at once. He nodded to himself.

“Then… fifth,” he muttered. He hesitated. What was he supposed to do now? He hadn’t thought this far ahead.

But his hands moved before his mind caught up—he reached out and gently cupped Dazai’s cheeks, thumbs brushing along his jaw. Dazai’s face flushed instantly, turning a deep, lovely shade of red that made Chuuya’s chest ache.

God, he was cute . Too cute. Unfairly cute. It made Chuuya’s heart flutter and skip like it didn’t know how to beat right anymore.

“I like you too, dumbass,” he said softly. “Unfortunately for me, I have a thing for damsels in distress.”

Dazai blinked. “What?”

“Shut up,” Chuuya muttered, rolling his eyes. “You ruin moments with your nonsense.”

He leaned in closer, so close he could feel Dazai’s breath catch.

“So use that mouth for something better,” he whispered—and then, finally, kissed him.

The moment Chuuya's lips touched Dazai’s, time stuttered.

It wasn’t fireworks—not at first. It was stillness. Dazai didn’t kiss back. His body stiffened under Chuuya’s hands, the tension in his jaw barely perceptible but so loud to Chuuya it felt like thunder. For a single, eternal heartbeat, there was nothing but the press of lips and the sound of Chuuya’s brain screaming at itself.

Shit. Shit. SHIT.

Chuuya almost pulled away. Almost. But he couldn’t. His hands were cupping Dazai’s cheeks, and his lips were still against his. It felt like letting go would mean the sky would collapse. He told himself he didn’t care— he didn’t care —but then why was his chest tightening like this? Why was every fiber of his being screaming with panic, and hope, and the unbearable urge to keep kissing him even if it meant being rejected?

And then—

Dazai moved.

Soft. Gentle. His lips tilted slightly against Chuuya’s. His fingers curled around Chuuya’s wrist, slow and careful, as if afraid too much would break the moment. And then he kissed back—tentatively at first, like he was testing the ground beneath him, like he couldn’t believe it was real.

Chuuya’s breath hitched. He felt it. The short circuit in his brain. Like someone had dropped a live wire straight into his nervous system and everything— everything —crackled.

He pushed forward without meaning to, deepening the kiss, losing himself in the softness, the warmth, the terrifying vulnerability of it. His heart was a jackhammer in his ribs. His legs felt like jelly. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was screaming at himself to calm down, to stop, to back away before he made a fool of himself.

But he couldn’t.

Not when Dazai’s other hand slid up to rest on the back of his neck. Not when his lips moved with more certainty, more hunger, like he’d finally caught up to reality and didn’t want to let it go. Not when Dazai made the softest noise against his mouth—something like a sigh and a whimper all at once—and fuck , Chuuya was going to die.

He was melting. Imploding. Exploding. Every cell in his body was on fire.

And yet, he didn’t want it to end.

When they finally pulled apart, just barely, their noses brushing, both of them breathless, Chuuya kept his eyes squeezed shut. His forehead pressed to Dazai’s. His lips tingled, still parted, still wanting.

“I think I broke something inside me,” he whispered. “Like… permanently.”

Dazai’s chest shook with a soft, breathless laugh. “You and me both, Chuuya.”