Chuuya Nakahara didn’t need more friends. He already had guards who taught him how to fight, advisors who praised him for his swordwork, and a stable full of horses who liked him better than half the court did. He didn’t need some scrawny brat from the kingdom across the river following him around like a lost dog with a smarter mouth than sense.

But apparently, peace treaties demanded more than just ink on paper—they demanded friendship.

His mother called it diplomacy. His father called it tradition. Chuuya called it torture.

Dazai Osamu, Crown Prince of Umbrosia, was a walking headache wrapped in velvet and sarcasm. Always late to formal dinners. Always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Always watching people like they were puzzles he could break open. He didn’t walk like royalty—he slouched. Didn’t speak like a prince—he mocked. And no matter how many times Chuuya snapped at him or glared across the garden during their shared "play dates," Dazai just smiled, like none of it bothered him.

And maybe that’s what irritated Chuuya the most. Dazai wasn’t trying. He wasn’t trying to be friendly. He wasn’t trying to act like this mattered. He sat through lectures and state meetings like they were games, flicking stones into ponds and throwing Chuuya off with comments that were either too smart or too strange to be coming from someone his age. Chuuya trained with swords. Dazai quoted books Chuuya hadn’t even heard of. Chuuya rode horses at dawn. Dazai slept in and made fun of the bags under Chuuya’s eyes. Chuuya was all fire and fury, raised to lead with strength. Dazai was smoke—slipping through fingers, impossible to grab.

The worst part? Their parents were desperate for it to work. The King and Queen of Ordanell saw opportunity. The Emperor and Empress of Umbrosia saw balance. The kingdoms had fought for generations, but now they were clinging to this new hope, one that wore silk and crowns and sat awkwardly at opposite ends of long, uncomfortable banquet tables.

They were only fourteen, but they already bore the weight of future thrones and distant wars. The adults saw unity. Chuuya saw a rival with a smirk too smug and eyes too knowing. And no matter how many garden strolls, etiquette lessons, or joint sword training sessions they were shoved into, one thing remained the same:

Chuuya Nakahara didn’t like Dazai Osamu. And he was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.

Even if, sometimes, Dazai looked at him like he was waiting for Chuuya to catch up to something unspoken. Even if, on the rare occasion they stopped arguing, they could almost sit in silence without the tension swallowing the air. Almost.

But almost didn’t matter in politics. And definitely not in war.

So, Chuuya would do what he always did. He’d train harder. Stand taller. Speak louder. Prove that no matter how charming, clever, or unreadable the Prince of Umbrosia might be, Chuuya Nakahara wasn’t someone you could toy with.

Especially not if they were expected to share the future.