Chuuya never thought he'd survive living with someone. He liked his space, his silence, his own brand of chaos arranged exactly how he wanted it. But then again, Dazai had never really counted as “someone.” Dazai had been around since they were both awkward teenagers with paint-stained fingers and too many sketchbooks shoved into worn-out bags. They'd been classmates, rivals, collaborators, and somehow, eventually, something that felt suspiciously like friends.

Now, years later, they shared a cramped studio apartment on the top floor of the campus dorms, walls covered in art and chaos, where the air always smelled like turpentine, coffee, or burnt toast, depending on the day. There was only one real room—half kitchen, half living space—with their beds pushed into opposite corners and an easel in between like a flag planted in neutral territory.

And somehow, it worked.

They had the same classes, mostly by accident, though no one believed that. Painting, sculpture, conceptual art, even the nightmare that was figure studies at 8 a.m.—if one of them was there, the other wasn’t far behind. Their professors either loved them or avoided seating them together, claiming their "creative energy" was too disruptive. That was fair. Dazai never shut up and Chuuya never let things go.

They bickered constantly. Over brush brands. Over color palettes. Over who drank the last of the oat milk and forgot to buy more. But underneath all of it was an ease that most people didn’t understand. Dazai could look at a half-finished canvas of Chuuya’s and say one quiet sentence that unraveled a week’s worth of frustration. Chuuya could wordlessly hand Dazai a clean brush or fix his light setup without either of them needing to explain. They understood each other in that rare, quiet way artists did—when paint became language, and silence felt like conversation.

Their relationship didn’t raise eyebrows. Not at art school. Not when they occasionally shared a blanket on the couch during late-night critiques or passed a cigarette back and forth on the balcony like it was nothing. They were very gay—but so was half their department. It wasn’t scandalous. It was just… them. Chuuya didn’t bother labeling it. He didn’t need to. They flirted sometimes. They argued all the time. They trusted each other with their messes, their minds, and their worst paintings. That was enough.

Living with Dazai was both a nightmare and a strange kind of peace. There were paint spills on the floor. Philosophical debates at midnight. Shared playlists and overlapping projects. Dazai forgot everything except the exact time Chuuya needed a reminder. And Chuuya, despite all the yelling, never asked for another roommate.

In a world where nothing was stable—not deadlines, not critiques, not the price of canvas—Dazai was the one thing that stayed. And maybe Chuuya would never admit it out loud, but in that messy little studio apartment filled with half-done art and quiet moments of comfort, he'd found something close to home.