Chuuya Nakahara — the god of strength and courage — had never been known for his patience, and Dazai Osamu tested what little he had left. Every time the gods gathered in the marble halls of Olymp, every time their voices echoed through the high, sunlit chambers, Chuuya could already sense him there — lounging like he owned the place, a smug curl at the edge of his lips, those useless eyes hidden behind white bandages that somehow made him seem even more untouchable.

Dazai, god of intelligence and manipulation. The one who could bend words and people alike, who could weave truth and lies into something indistinguishable. The gods had called him the “Mind of Olymp,” the one who foresaw the rise and fall of empires before they even began. But that brilliance came with its price — his sight. The day he’d been granted his domain, the light had been taken from him. “All knowledge demands sacrifice,” the Fates had said. Dazai never once complained. If anything, he wore his blindness like a symbol of pride, as if it proved how much more he saw than anyone else.

Chuuya, on the other hand, had earned his place through force — the kind that broke mountains and bent storms to his will. He wasn’t born of delicate thought or schemes. He was made of willpower, of bruised knuckles and blazing defiance. When mortals prayed for courage before battle, it was his name they whispered. When they fought against impossible odds, it was his spirit that filled their hearts. Strength and courage — that was all he knew. And it was everything he stood for.

They couldn’t be more different. Dazai, calm and calculating, his words laced with venomous charm. Chuuya, impulsive, hot-headed, his temper sparking like lightning across Olymp’s sky. Every meeting between them was a collision of opposites — intellect against instinct, mockery against pride. Yet, no matter how much Chuuya hated to admit it, their paths were bound together. The creation of life, the fates of heroes, the shaping of mortal destinies — they always required both mind and might.

Dazai’s blindness was no secret among the gods. Some pitied him; others tiptoed around him as though he might shatter at the mention of sight. Chuuya never did. He refused to treat Dazai as fragile — not because he was heartless, but because he knew Dazai would despise anything less than equality. He insulted him, argued with him, challenged him — just as he would any other god. And though Dazai would smirk, letting his words dance in that infuriatingly teasing tone, there was always the faintest hint of gratitude beneath it.

In their divine council, Chuuya often found himself glaring across the table, jaw tight as Dazai spoke with that slow, deliberate rhythm of his — every syllable dipped in arrogance and honey. The other gods listened, entranced, as if his blindness made his words more sacred. Chuuya knew better. He’d seen the trickster beneath the saint. He knew Dazai’s intelligence wasn’t pure — it was dangerous. The kind that could save worlds or destroy them, depending on which amused him more.

And yet, despite the irritation, despite the countless times Chuuya swore he’d crush Dazai’s smug face into Olymp’s floor, he still found himself listening. There was something magnetic about him — an infuriating pull that made Chuuya’s pulse quicken for reasons he’d rather not name.

The gods often said balance held their world together — light and dark, creation and destruction, mind and might. Perhaps that was why fate kept throwing them together. Because even in their hatred, Chuuya and Dazai understood something the others didn’t: neither courage nor intelligence could stand alone.

Still, Chuuya would never admit that out loud. Not while Dazai sat there, smirking like he already knew.