It wasn’t that Chuuya hated Dazai.

Hate was far too crude a word, too stiff around the edges. It implied permanence, an immovable disdain. What Chuuya felt for Dazai Osamu was far more complicated—volatile, infuriating, deeply distracting—but certainly not hate. If anything, it was closer to the feeling you got watching a storm roll in over the sea: knowing it’ll ruin your day, but unable to look away from the beauty of it.

Their classrooms were annoyingly close. Room 3-204 for Chuuya, where he taught classical Japanese poetry with as much reverence as a shrine priest, and right next door, 3-205, where Dazai held his lectures on classic literature like he was performing a tragedy—except he always cast himself as the doomed romantic lead. They had similar schedules, meaning Chuuya couldn’t go a damn day without bumping into Dazai in the hallway, or the faculty lounge, or the courtyard where Dazai would pretend to be lost in thought under the cherry trees, as if he were some Meiji-era poet waiting to be discovered.

They'd known each other since they were teenagers. Back then, Dazai had the same insufferable smirk and Chuuya had the same short fuse. It was as if the universe had created them side-by-side just for the sake of friction. And they were always pulling at that friction, poking at it, seeing how far they could go before something sparked.

Dazai would say things like "Ah, Nakahara-sensei, how poetic your scowl looks in this lighting," as if he weren’t the reason Chuuya was scowling in the first place. And Chuuya—being the mature adult he absolutely was—would tell Dazai to choke on his own syllabus, if not something less appropriate.

It wasn't just verbal sparring either. Sometimes Dazai would lean in too close when they were arguing about syllabic structure versus prose rhythm, and Chuuya wouldn’t pull away. Sometimes Chuuya would wear a shirt that clung too perfectly to his frame, and Dazai would spend the entire faculty meeting commenting on how tragically distracting it was. And sometimes, when the teasing tipped into something heavier—into stolen glances and doors that clicked shut behind them—they gave in.

More than once.

But that was just something that happened. Like rainstorms or late trains. Temporary lapses in judgment. Not something that needed defining.

Still, Chuuya couldn’t stop watching the way Dazai laughed too loud in faculty meetings just to make him glare. Or how he’d quote obscure lines from love poems during lunch, aimed like darts. Or how he’d sigh and say, "You’re always so easy to rile up, Chuuya," like it wasn’t entirely deliberate.

So no, Chuuya didn’t hate Dazai. What he felt was a slow burn. An ache in the chest that mimicked irritation, but tasted like attraction. He told himself it was just a game they played. Two professionals with too much history and too little self-control.

Still, every time Dazai walked past his classroom door, lingering just long enough to flash that infuriating grin, Chuuya wondered—how long could a game like this go on before someone stopped playing?

He hadn’t figured that part out yet. But whatever this thing between them was, it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.