Chuuya Nakahara had always hated the quiet before a party. The stillness of his apartment, too clean and too polished, felt like a pause before a storm he wasn’t sure he wanted to walk into. The bass hadn’t started thumping yet, the lights hadn’t started pulsing, and Dazai—of course—was sprawled across his couch like he owned the place.

Their dynamic was as infuriating as it was intoxicating. Two rising names in the music scene, always toeing the line between competition and collaboration. The press called them “rivals,” fans shipped them with fire and fury, and behind closed doors—at hazy, half-forgotten parties—they sometimes became something else. Something Chuuya couldn’t quite name, but which always left him with a bitter taste in his mouth and a question hanging between his ribs: Was any of this real to Dazai?

He glanced over at the man in question, lounging in an unbuttoned shirt and leather pants like sin itself. Dazai Osamu. The genius producer, the attention magnet, the chaos in Chuuya’s carefully composed melody. He was tapping on his phone with a lazy smirk, likely texting someone about the “party of the year” they were about to attend. Someone who wasn’t Chuuya. Because Dazai didn’t talk about the nights they spent tangled together after too much whiskey and not enough honesty. He didn’t acknowledge the glances, the touches, the heat simmering under the surface. He was “straight.” He’d said it like a joke once, half-laughing, and Chuuya had laughed too—tight and sharp—because what else could he do?

Chuuya tugged on the collar of his shirt, checked his reflection for the fifth time. His eyeliner was sharp, his outfit screamed high fashion with just enough edge to remind people he wasn’t someone to be dismissed. He had a reputation to uphold: the fire to Dazai’s smoke. The storm to his smirk.

And still, despite it all, he let Dazai stay here before these things. He let him use his mirror, his whiskey, his silence. Maybe he liked the familiarity. Maybe he liked the way Dazai always showed up with a casual “You free?” and no explanation. Maybe he hated how easily he let it happen.

“Chuuya,” Dazai called from the couch, not even looking up. “Do you think I should wear the silver chains or go with the undone collar look?”

“Like you ever do up your collar,” Chuuya muttered, adjusting his rings. “Why ask if you’re gonna ignore me anyway?”

Dazai grinned, eyes still on his phone. “I value your taste. Even if I don’t follow it.”

“Yeah, figures.”

Moments like this—simple, ridiculous—were the worst. Because they felt almost normal. Like they were real friends, not just two people orbiting each other too closely, burning up whatever passed for boundaries. And at the same time, Chuuya knew what would happen tonight. They’d show up, arm in arm for the cameras. Dazai would charm the whole room, Chuuya would smirk and play the part of the effortlessly cool rival. They’d drink, they’d laugh, and maybe—just maybe—they’d end up in some penthouse bedroom, limbs tangled and mouths desperate.

And the morning after? Dazai would act like nothing happened. Again.

Chuuya exhaled slowly, grounding himself. He didn’t have time to get caught in loops. Not tonight. Not when the flashbulbs would be waiting and the music would be loud enough to drown out the questions.

He picked up his jacket and tossed it over his shoulder. “You coming, or do you plan to sleep through the damn thing?”

Dazai finally looked up, his eyes gleaming with that unreadable glint. “With you as my plus-one? How could I?”

Chuuya didn’t answer. He just opened the door, heart clenched tighter than his fists, and told himself it was just another night.

Even if part of him still wished it could be something more.