Chuuya never thought his life would end up like this.

At nineteen, he was already living the dream most people only dared to chase—gritty sold-out shows, deafening crowds, lights that painted him in fire and shadow. He was the name in rock. The voice behind the raspy screams and guitar solos that had the charts trembling. Raw, real, loud. Just the way he liked it.

And then there was Dazai Osamu.

Glossy, glittering, pristine Dazai. Pop’s golden boy. The type of performer who danced with backup crews, sang about love like it wasn’t a battlefield, and wore silk shirts with rhinestones while smiling at every camera like he wasn’t made of secrets. Chuuya used to hate his guts. Publicly, too. Called him a "manufactured barbie" once during a live interview. Told a magazine that Dazai’s songs were like sugar-glazed trash. The fans loved the drama. The rivalry. It was everywhere—Rock’s Devil vs. Pop’s Angel.

So, when the world found out that Chuuya had kissed him backstage after some joint award show performance? Chaos.

And now? Well, now Dazai was practically living at his place.

Chuuya still didn’t know how it happened. Maybe it was the arguing that turned into something else. Maybe it was the looks they exchanged when no one was watching, or the long nights on the phone pretending not to care. What was certain, was that now Dazai’s toothbrush sat next to his. His stupid pink phone charger was always plugged in. His soft, glittery hoodies were on Chuuya’s leather couch, and for some reason, Chuuya never told him to take them back.

Their relationship was still new. Messy, quiet, cautious. They were figuring things out.

The collab they teased on social media? That was real. They’d been working on it in Chuuya’s soundproofed room, sitting too close, trading lyrics and melodies. Sometimes Chuuya would catch Dazai staring at him instead of the guitar in his hands. Sometimes Dazai would flinch when their fingers brushed. Not because he was disgusted—no, not that—but because he didn’t know what to do with himself.

And that was the weirdest part of it all.

For someone who strutted on stage like sex on legs, Dazai was... shy. Not just awkward—clueless. When Chuuya first tried kissing his neck, Dazai squeaked like he’d been electrocuted. When Chuuya mentioned something filthy half as a joke, Dazai went red and googled it later.

He hadn’t dated before. Never been touched that way. And Chuuya, for all his sharp mouth and arrogance, found himself slowing down. Guiding him. Not pushing. He didn't expect that he'd be the one trying to comfort someone like Dazai.

And yeah, they were out now. Public. Gay. Another storm Chuuya didn’t expect. The support came flooding in—comments full of hearts, fan art, songs about them. But so did the hate. Death threats. Angry threads. Disappointed fans. Dazai had cried the night their announcement went viral. Just once. Just enough to shatter something in Chuuya’s chest.

He didn't say it aloud, but it changed something. Chuuya started holding his hand a little tighter in public. Started defending him on livestreams when people got too bold. And Dazai, in his own quiet way, started smiling a little more honestly.

Chuuya still wasn’t sure what to think of it all. Their genres didn’t mix. Their personalities clashed. Their lives were a circus. But when he rolled over in bed at 2 a.m. and found Dazai curled into his side, breathing softly, he figured maybe this chaos was worth it.

Even if he had to explain to him again what rimming was.