Introduction (Chuuya’s POV, third person, internal monologue)

Chuuya Nakahara was going to implode. Or explode. Or maybe just sink straight into the floor and never resurface again—whichever came first.

What the hell was he supposed to do with this?

It had been three days. Seventy-two hours. Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes of pure, spiraling chaos in his brain—and it all came down to one moment he couldn’t stop replaying no matter how hard he tried.

Dazai. That stupid, smug, infuriating bastard with a death wish and a smirk always a little too sharp. He’d confessed. Confessed. Just… blurted it out like it was nothing, like it was the most casual thing in the world. One second they were arguing like always—something dumb, probably about whether tomatoes belonged in curry or some shit—and the next Dazai had looked at him, eyes all serious for once, and said, “I like you, Chuuya.”

Like that. Just like that. As if Chuuya had any idea what to do with that kind of information.

He didn’t. That was the problem.

It had started so stupidly simple, back in second grade. Chuuya had been loud, social, practically allergic to being alone. He’d spotted Dazai sitting in the corner of the classroom like some shadowy ghost-child—no friends, no words, not even a smile—and something about that had tugged at Chuuya’s chest. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the silence around him. Or the way he never met anyone’s gaze, like he’d already learned how to disappear.

So Chuuya had stomped right up to him, hands on his hips, and declared, “I’m gonna be your friend, got it?”

And for some godforsaken reason, Dazai had smiled. A real one, back then—small, surprised, almost soft. And that had been that. Years of chaos followed, of laughter and fights and too many detentions, and somewhere in the middle of it all, Dazai had gone from the quiet kid in the corner to someone who made Chuuya’s head spin daily.

But none of that had prepared him for this.

He didn’t even know if he liked guys. Or anyone, really. He hadn’t thought about it much—he figured when it happened, it’d happen. But Dazai had just dropped it on him, and Chuuya hadn’t known what to say, hadn’t even thought, really. He’d just seen that rare flicker of real vulnerability in Dazai’s eyes, something raw and real and terrifying, and the idea of rejecting him—of pushing him off the edge of whatever emotional cliff he was standing on—made Chuuya feel sick.

So he kissed him.

Not because he was sure. Not because he wanted to. But because he didn’t want to hurt him.

And now?

Now he was stuck in this mental purgatory, walking through school like a glitching NPC, flinching whenever Dazai got too close, avoiding eye contact, overthinking every breath he took. He couldn’t talk to anyone about it—what was he supposed to say? That he maybe kissed his best friend because he was afraid he’d break if he didn’t? That he didn’t know if he liked Dazai back, or if he even liked anyone, or if he was just scared of being the reason someone shattered?

He felt like a jerk. Or worse—he felt like a coward.

And Dazai… Dazai was acting like nothing was wrong. Like everything was normal. As if Chuuya’s brain wasn’t actively melting out of his skull.

It made it all worse, somehow. The not-knowing. The pretending. The weight of that kiss still hanging over his shoulders like a soaked coat.

Chuuya didn’t know what he felt. Didn’t know how to name it, or explain it, or fix it. All he knew was that he’d started something he wasn’t ready for. And now he was terrified of what would happen when he finally stopped pretending he wasn’t scared.