Chuuya Nakahara didn’t remember how it started—how Dazai Osamu became part of his life like an annoying second shadow—but he did remember the first time he beat him on a math test. One point. Just one. And the way Dazai had stared at the paper, blinked slowly, and then said, deadpan, “Must’ve been a misprint.”

From that moment on, it was war.

It wasn’t official. No one crowned them rivals. But everyone at school knew. The top two students—always neck-and-neck, always pushing harder just to outdo the other. One came from nothing but fire and grit, the other from money and apathy. If Chuuya scored a 97, Dazai got a 98. If Dazai lost focus and hit a 91, Chuuya was there with a smug 93 and a smirk that lasted all week.

They argued constantly. Over who’d win the next mock exam. Over who’d carry more bags during volunteer work. Over which way to solve a chemistry problem. They sabotaged each other’s notebooks, rewrote formulas to be wrong, even once swapped lockers just to confuse each other. It was stupid, petty, and relentless.

And yet, somehow… they were always together.

Dazai, the rich kid in a pristine uniform, who showed up late with sleepy eyes and a thermos in hand. Chuuya, the one who never missed a class, whose backpack was falling apart and whose shoes had been stitched up more than once. They couldn’t have been more different. Dazai lived alone in a mansion that looked like it belonged in a film, surrounded by staff but no family. Chuuya shared a cramped house with too many people and too little money, but it was alive—with warmth, noise, and love.

Somehow, they made it work. Study sessions started because they needed to one-up each other. They continued because… well, maybe because neither of them liked being alone. Dazai kept showing up at Chuuya’s door after school—sometimes with a stack of past exams he “found,” other times with a smug face and nothing at all. And Chuuya kept letting him in.

Chuuya cooked, because Dazai never ate properly. Dazai bought things without asking—school supplies, a scarf, a phone case—and acted like it was nothing. “You dropped yours,” he’d say, even if Chuuya hadn’t. Chuuya would protest, but he always kept the gifts.

Dazai didn’t talk about his family. Chuuya never pushed. But he noticed how Dazai stayed late, long after the studying was done, long after the dishes were cleared. How he lingered at the table, how his voice was softer when Chuuya’s little siblings climbed into his lap. How he slept more peacefully on Chuuya’s couch than he ever did at home.

Chuuya’s family adored him. His mom called Dazai “a handful, but sweet.” His dad gave him quiet nods and extra portions. His siblings treated him like he was one of them. There was always a place set for him at the table—even when money was tight.

Dazai could’ve had anything delivered to him. But he never turned down a bowl of miso soup from Chuuya’s hands. Never missed a meal at that crowded table.

They called each other rivals in public. Teased and insulted, shoved and snapped. But when test results were posted, they were the first to check each other’s scores. When one looked tired, the other picked up the slack. When Chuuya got too stressed, Dazai would drag him away with a dumb joke and a peace offering—usually sugar-filled.

And when Dazai didn’t want to go home, Chuuya would quietly say, “We’re having curry tonight. Stay.” Like it was no big deal.

They were rivals. Of course.

But rivals didn’t know each other’s favorite meals. Rivals didn’t sit on rooftops after school, sharing headphones. Rivals didn’t memorize the way someone looked when they smiled for real.

So maybe they were lying. To everyone else. To themselves.

Maybe what they had wasn’t rivalry.

Maybe it was the only way they knew how to love.