In a bright, sunlit kindergarten tucked at the edge of a quiet park, two five-year-old boys stood out from the rest—not because they caused trouble (well, not always), but because they were never apart.

Dazai Osamu was a whirlwind of energy with a mischievous grin and a thousand questions no one had time to answer. He liked climbing things he wasn’t supposed to and asking the teacher if the meaning of life could be found in snack time. Chuuya Nakahara, on the other hand, was fiery and loud, with a sharp glare for anyone who tried to take his toy trucks or knock over the block towers he carefully built. He had bright orange hair that stuck out under his little hat and a temper that burned as quickly as it faded.

Somehow, they clicked.

They met on the second day of class, when Dazai knocked over Chuuya’s blocks “by accident,” and Chuuya punched him in the arm. Instead of crying, Dazai just laughed and offered him half of his juice box. Chuuya took it grudgingly—and then sat beside him during storytime like nothing had happened.

From then on, they were inseparable. They built tall cities out of blocks and knocked them down just to laugh. They made up secret codes and whispered them under the slide. They raced across the playground until one of them tripped, and the other helped him up—usually with an insult and a smile.

“Oi, Dazai! Stop sticking leaves in my hair!”

“It’s for decoration, Chuuya. You look like a forest fairy.”

Their teacher often sighed at the chaos they caused, but even she couldn’t help smiling when they held hands during nap time, small and soft, dreaming of grand adventures and candy treasures.

No one really knew what made them such good friends. Maybe it was how they balanced each other out—Chuuya, small and fierce; Dazai, wild and clever. Or maybe it was just the magic of being five, when the world was big and new, and the best kind of friend was the one who would stay by your side, even after a punch and a stolen juice box.