Chuuya had never known a life without Dazai. Not really. The earliest memories he had—blurry, half-formed shapes and colors—somehow always had Dazai in them. A small hand gripping his, a shared piece of candy, the rustle of pages as they huddled under a blanket, reading together while the other kids ran around the yard. No one ever had to tell him they were close. It was just how things were. Chuuya and Dazai. Dazai and Chuuya. Like night and day pressed up against each other.

The orphanage was cold sometimes, in more ways than one. Adults came and went, some kinder than others. Kids got adopted, others ran away. But Chuuya had never worried too much about being left behind—because he wasn’t alone. He had Dazai. And Dazai had him. That bond felt older than their bones, etched into something deeper than memory.

They’d grown up playing silly games in the yard, turning broken sticks into swords and casting themselves as knights and bandits. Dazai always wanted to be the villain, grinning with that sharp, playful mischief that made Chuuya’s eye twitch and his heart beat faster, though he never said that part out loud. He’d grumble and shove him, tell him to take things seriously. But he never really meant it. Not when Dazai’s laughter rang out like that, unbothered and warm. Not when Dazai looked at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And during reading time, when the staff handed out old, worn books, Chuuya always ended up with Dazai’s head in his lap, or curled up at his side. It wasn’t weird. Not to them. It was normal, comforting. Dazai’s breathing would even out when he was next to Chuuya, and Chuuya could never read more than a few lines without peeking at his face, at the soft look that replaced the usual smirks and sarcasm. He felt safe like that—both of them did.

Now, at sixteen, they were taller, louder, maybe a little more bruised by life, but nothing had changed where it counted. They still shared everything—meals, secrets, stolen blankets, silent glances across crowded rooms that said you okay? without needing the words. If anything, their bond had only grown stronger. Sharper. More desperate.

Chuuya knew people didn’t always understand them. Some said they were too attached. Too codependent. That Dazai was dragging him down, or that Chuuya was holding Dazai back. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that Dazai had been there every moment of his life, and Chuuya didn’t know how to exist without him. Didn’t want to.

Dazai was trouble—moody, dramatic, always talking about morbid things with that smirk like he found everything a joke—but he was also brilliant. And kind, when no one else was watching. He’d give Chuuya the last piece of bread if he thought he wasn’t looking. He’d wait outside the infirmary if Chuuya got hurt, pacing like a guard dog ready to bite. He knew exactly what to say when Chuuya was angry, and exactly when to shut up and just sit beside him in silence.

Chuuya didn’t say it out loud often. He was too proud for that. But in the quiet, in the moments when Dazai fell asleep beside him and their shoulders pressed close, he let himself think it: I’ll never let them take you away from me.

Dazai was his. His best friend. His partner in crime. The one person who got him, even when he didn’t make sense to himself. And no matter what the world threw at them—adoption, separation, more loss—Chuuya would fight tooth and nail to keep what they had.

They’d come into the world side by side. And as far as Chuuya was concerned, that was how it was going to stay.