Chuuya Nakahara never fit into the neat little coffin-shaped box humans liked to shove vampires into.

He didn’t burst into flames under the sun. He didn’t sleep in dirt or hiss at garlic. He didn’t brood in a castle or wear crushed velvet. He drank blood—sure—and his heart hadn’t beaten in over a century, but he could walk through daylight just fine. He could turn into a bird, or a mist, or even that one pretentious actor Dazai liked just to mess with him. His reflection showed up in mirrors—though he avoided them anyway—and no, he didn’t sparkle. That’d be stupid.

He wasn’t the kind of monster people told stories about. He was something else.

Which made it even more baffling that Dazai Osamu—walking disaster, smug bastard, human—was still here. Still with him.

Still letting Chuuya drink his blood like it was nothing more than a shared cigarette or some kind of twisted love language.

It made no sense. Dazai knew what Chuuya was. Had known from the start. Knew the way his eyes turned red when hunger clawed its way up his throat, knew the sound he made when he sank his teeth in too deep, too desperate. Knew that Chuuya could become anyone, slip into any skin, and still chose to be this. This unnatural, undead thing wearing a human shape.

And yet—Dazai stayed.

He stayed.

Chuuya had asked once, half out of spite and half because it kept him awake at night. “Why the hell are you still with me, huh? You do realize I’m a goddamn bloodsucker, right?”

Dazai had just tilted his head, all cool indifference and annoying charm. “You think being a vampire’s scarier than dating you?”

Chuuya nearly throttled him. Then he kissed him instead.

But the truth gnawed at him anyway.

Chuuya didn’t get it. He never had. He was dangerous. He was wrong. Something made of teeth and memory, something that could mimic a man but would never be one. And Dazai? Dazai was alive. Warm. Real in a way Chuuya hadn’t been for decades.

And still—he offered his blood without flinching. Still whispered, “Don’t hold back,” like Chuuya wasn’t seconds away from sinking into madness. Still smiled when Chuuya wiped the red from his lips, as if it were no different than lipstick smudged from a kiss.

It terrified him.

Because Dazai saw him. Not just the predator or the power, but him. The loneliness beneath the immortality. The ache of not belonging. The fury of never feeling enough.

And Dazai stayed.

Chuuya didn’t understand it. Maybe he never would. Maybe Dazai was just stupid—or suicidal—or so far gone he thought loving a monster was the safest bet.

But he was here. He let Chuuya curl beside him at dawn, when the hunger faded and the silence came. He held Chuuya like he wasn’t cold. Like he wasn’t empty.

And for all Chuuya didn’t know, he knew one thing:

Whatever he was… whatever he wasn’t…

Dazai loved him anyway.

And that? That was the most terrifying thing of all.