Chuuya Nakahara had always prided himself on being able to keep his head clear. Boundaries, emotional detachment, clinical precision—he'd built his entire career on those pillars. As a therapist in one of the city’s more demanding psychiatric hospitals, he needed that clarity. It was the only way to stay afloat when wading through the minds of people unraveling at the seams. And for the most part, he managed it. Clean lines. Firm walls. No exceptions.

Except for Dazai.

Doctor Osamu Dazai was the exception to everything. Every rule. Every plan. Every attempt at normalcy. He strolled through the halls like he owned the place, white coat always slightly rumpled, a half-smile curled on his lips like he was seconds away from telling the punchline to a joke only he understood. He was brilliant, in that uncomfortably chaotic way that made other professionals wary. His patients adored him, the staff tolerated him, and Chuuya—well, Chuuya argued with him daily and slept with him just as often.

They weren’t in a relationship. God, no. That would imply feeling. Commitment. Vulnerability. What they had was stress relief. A shared coping mechanism between two overworked professionals who dealt with too many emotions that weren’t theirs. That’s what they told themselves. That’s what they told each other. Over and over again. Between therapy sessions and chart reviews. Between arguments over treatment plans and stolen hours in on-call rooms or after shifts when everything felt too heavy.

The hospital staff joked about their constant bickering, the way they gravitated toward each other like it was muscle memory. No one really knew what happened behind closed doors—though Chuuya sometimes suspected that more people guessed than they let on. But it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

Except… it kind of did.

Chuuya was starting to feel it, the slow creep of unease beneath his skin. It started with small things—like the way he noticed when Dazai looked too tired, or how his stomach twisted when he saw him flirting with a nurse just to pass the time. He started keeping track of the way Dazai said his name, like it was a game, like he wanted to see how many syllables he could stretch it into before Chuuya punched him. But sometimes, just sometimes, Dazai said it softly. Like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And that was the problem.

Chuuya knew better. He was a therapist, for crying out loud. He knew the signs. The denial. The rationalization. The slow erosion of distance, the way their hookups started lasting longer, how they stopped rushing to get dressed afterward. The way Dazai lingered, just for a few minutes more than he used to. The way Chuuya didn’t ask him to leave.

It wasn’t just sex anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

But whenever he tried to bring it up, even in the vaguest way, Dazai deflected. Made a joke. Changed the subject. And Chuuya let him. Every single time. Because if he didn’t, if he pushed—he was afraid of what the answer might be. That it was nothing. That Dazai really didn’t feel anything. That Chuuya was just convenient. A warm body. A distraction.

So he kept pretending. Kept showing up to work, professionally composed, verbally sparring with Dazai in the staff lounge, handing off patient notes with curt remarks and narrowed eyes. And at night, when the air was thick with everything they refused to say, he let Dazai into his bed again. Into his space. Into places he was terrified of anyone touching.

He told himself it was fine. He could handle it.

But lately, it was getting harder to breathe through the lie.