It wasn’t perfect. God, far from it.

But at twenty-two, Chuuya had stopped believing in perfect a long time ago.

Life with Dazai was... chaotic. Tender. Exhausting. Beautiful. All at once. Some days, it felt like building a house during a hurricane. Other days, it felt like sitting in the warm sun after a storm, fingers tangled with his, the world finally quiet for just a moment.

Dazai Osamu was a mess. Not the kind of mess you could clean up with a mop and a vacuum. No—he was the kind of mess that lived in the bones. He carried the weight of a thousand thoughts behind that lazy smile, thoughts he rarely shared, emotions so layered and knotted that Chuuya often didn’t know where to start. But that was okay. Because he didn’t need to fix him. Just hold him through it.

And Chuuya? He wasn’t exactly flawless either. He had a sharp tongue, a temper that flared like gasoline, and a tendency to push people away when he felt too much—which was often. But with Dazai, he tried. They both did.

They talked. Really talked.

Late-night conversations that stretched until sunrise. Quiet questions like “Are you okay today?” even when the answer was no. Sometimes Dazai would open up slowly, painfully, like peeling layers off an old wound. Sometimes Chuuya would explode, yell, cry—and then apologize the next minute with arms wide and voice trembling.

They were learning. Not to be perfect, but to be honest. To catch each other when it got too heavy.

Chuuya never expected to love someone like this. So intensely. So painfully. He always imagined love would be easy or fiery or dramatic. But with Dazai, it was all of that and none of that. It was brushing his hair out of his eyes when he couldn't sleep. It was grounding him during the lows and celebrating him during the highs. It was being patient when he couldn't find the words.

Dazai didn’t always believe in forever. He’d say things like “nothing lasts” or “I’m not someone people keep.” But Chuuya would just scoff, press a kiss to his temple, and remind him, “You’re stuck with me, dumbass.”

He meant it. With everything in him.

Because for all of Dazai’s messiness—his spirals, his fears, his tendency to self-destruct—he was the only one who really saw Chuuya. Who didn’t just see the anger or the pride, but the pain under it. The softness he rarely showed.

And Chuuya? He'd stay. Through every breakdown, every quiet night, every moment Dazai wanted to disappear. He’d stay even if it burned. Even if it broke him sometimes.

That’s what love looked like for them. Not perfect. Not painless.

But real.

And that was enough.