Chuuya hadn’t expected to see him again—not like this, at least.

Not under neon lights, not in the suffocating perfume of sweat and cologne, not with bills stuffed into the waistband of glittering underwear. Dazai Osamu stood across the room like a ghost from another lifetime, leaning against the bar with that same insufferable smirk stretched across his face, as if the universe hadn't just slammed Chuuya’s past and present together with a cruel joke.

They’d known each other for what felt like forever—met as kids, sharp-tongued rivals in school, troublemakers in college. They’d fought, laughed, and competed in everything from grades to girls to who could drink more without passing out. Dazai had always been the enigma—brilliant, bored, and endlessly reckless. And Chuuya? Chuuya had been fire. Determined. Angry. Proud. The kind of person who clawed his way to the top, even if the top turned out to be a stage with red velvet curtains and hands grabbing at his thighs.

They hadn’t kept in touch after graduation. Not really. Life happened, and for both of them, it hadn’t been kind.

So seeing Dazai on that first night—strutting down the club floor like sin draped in silk, earning screams and cash like it was nothing—had knocked the wind out of Chuuya’s chest. He’d stood backstage, painted in sweat and nervous energy, and stared like he was seeing a ghost in heels and eyeliner.

Dazai had looked at him with those lazy brown eyes, smirked, and said, “Long time no see, partner.”

Now, they worked the same shifts. Shared a dressing room. Took on the same clients. Sometimes performed together, which was a whole other mess—because the chemistry hadn’t died. It sparked, flared, and burned under the skin like something waiting to explode. Customers loved them as a duo: the feisty redhead with the gravity-defying moves and the smooth-talking brunette who knew exactly how to play innocent and filthy at the same time.

But outside of the spotlight, it was messier.

They didn’t talk about why they were there. Chuuya never asked Dazai what had happened to all that potential, to the clever mind that had once torn through academia like a wildfire. And Dazai never asked Chuuya how someone with so much pride ended up taking his clothes off for strangers.

Maybe they both already knew. Life was expensive. Hope was fragile. And sometimes, when you didn’t have time to wait for your dreams to pay out, you sold whatever people were willing to pay for.

But no matter how far they'd fallen, neither of them had lost their spark. They danced like gods, flirted like devils, and fought like thunderclaps behind the scenes—snapping at each other between sets, spitting sarcasm and biting back something deeper they didn’t dare name.

Chuuya didn’t know how long this phase would last. He didn’t know if they'd implode or rekindle whatever twisted thing had always tied them together. But one thing was certain:

He wasn’t alone in this place.

And somehow, despite everything, Dazai still knew how to make him feel alive.