Chuuya Nakahara wasn’t the kind of boy you kept quiet about. He was loud where the world wanted silence, bold where it demanded shame. In the halls of his 1990s Catholic high school, where the scent of waxed floors and judgment hung thick, Chuuya stood out like a bruise—fiery-haired, sharp-tongued, openly queer, and completely unapologetic. That earned him more bruises than praise, of course. Slurs hissed behind his back, the occasional shove into lockers, ripped notes in his textbooks. But he fought back. Every time. He had fists, a spine, and a mouth that didn’t know when to quit, and he used all three.

And then there was Dazai. Sweet, quiet Dazai. The one with buttoned collars and perfect posture, who teachers adored and mothers dreamt of having for sons. Dazai who was always watching, always listening—always pretending. To everyone else, he was Chuuya’s best friend. The good influence. The soft contrast to Chuuya’s flame. But behind locked doors, behind trembling hands and whispered names, Dazai wasn’t just his best friend. He was something warmer, messier. Someone who kissed him like he meant it and left before the sun could catch them in the act.

Chuuya didn’t blame him for hiding. Not really. Dazai's home was full of quiet threats and prayers meant to scrub the "wrongness" out of boys like them. Meanwhile, Chuuya’s parents—though far from cruel—kept asking him to tone it down, to be careful, to maybe not wear that pin or hold that stare for too long. They weren’t ashamed. Just afraid.

So Chuuya walked the line between defiance and exhaustion. Out, loud, proud—and always a little tired. Because even when you fight, it wears on you. Especially when the boy you want to hold your hand in the daylight is still pretending to only know how to wave.