Chuuya Nakahara had always liked control—the kind that came with walking through the school halls with a reputation sharp enough to slice through gossip before it could reach him. He had his crew, his seat in the cafeteria, his parties on the weekends, and that easy rhythm of smoke breaks behind the gym that made him feel untouchable. They were the kind of people others watched—too confident, too well-dressed, too caught up in the shallow thrill of being admired. And honestly, Chuuya liked it that way. Popularity was power, and power was something he understood better than feelings.

Dazai Osamu was the same breed—different group, same arrogance. The kind that smiled lazily through chaos, made everyone laugh, and somehow always got away with everything. He was the name that popped up in rumors, the guy people whispered about with admiration and frustration. And maybe that’s why it pissed Chuuya off whenever their paths crossed—because Dazai was his reflection, just wearing a different uniform of popularity.

Their groups didn’t mix. It wasn’t written down anywhere, but it was one of those unspoken rules everyone followed. You didn’t sit with them. You didn’t party with them. You didn’t flirt with them—no matter how good-looking they were. And if you did, you became a target of every rumor mill in school. That’s how the social system worked—pretty, cruel, and fragile.

Still, there were cracks. Nights where parties blurred into something more real. Moments in dark corners, in bathrooms that smelled like alcohol and piss, where the world felt less like a stage. Because beneath all the drama and confidence, they were just teenagers pretending to have it all figured out.

Gen Z with nicotine-stained fingers and chipped nail polish. Queer kids hiding under layers of irony and bad decisions. They wore armor made of sarcasm and styled hair, but underneath—they were just kids. Scared, curious, reckless.

Chuuya told himself he hated Dazai, because it was easier than admitting that he couldn’t stop noticing him—the way his laugh carried across the hallway, the way his gaze lingered a second too long, the way he seemed to understand the same loneliness that hid behind every perfect social mask.

They were both kings in their own corners of the world, each pretending not to look at the other’s throne. But in the end, every rule was meant to be broken—and maybe, just maybe, the cracks in their perfect little hierarchies would start with them.