At first glance, you’d think he was just another fox — small, sleek, fiery orange fur rippling down his back like flames, bright blue eyes glinting with mischief and sharp wit. But you’d be wrong. Chuuya wasn’t just any fox — he was a hybrid. A rare one. One of those creatures born between two worlds, toeing the line between beast and man, wild and civilized. He could shift at will, paws becoming hands, fangs shrinking into a cocky smirk, his tail fading as long red hair fell over his shoulder in that familiar human form.

But that wasn’t what made him so damn frustrated.

No, what really irritated Chuuya was the size difference. Compared to the tigers, the wolves, and especially the kitsunes — gods, the kitsunes — foxes were tiny. And as fate would have it, the most infuriating of all kitsunes had to be the one always next to him. Dazai Osamu. The nine-tailed smug menace. Tall, sly, charming in the worst kind of way, with his ink-dark hair and eyes like a storm that always knew something Chuuya didn’t. Where Chuuya was speed and bite and fire, Dazai was all shadow and silk, towering over him like a smug tree Chuuya wanted to set on fire.

It didn’t help that Dazai liked the height difference. Always leaning down, calling him “tiny fox,” acting like Chuuya was some sort of armrest or lap decoration. And sure, Chuuya bit him for it. Frequently. And maybe it turned into a wrestling match that sometimes ended in nuzzles and napping on each other’s tails. Whatever.

They called themselves frenemies. Which was accurate, kind of. They fought all the time — clawed and cursed and argued and rolled through the woods until their fur was a mess and the birds stopped chirping. But when it came to hunting, surviving, living… they did it together. Always together.

Neither of them ever talked about why they left their packs. Why a kitsune of nine tails would abandon his cold mountain clan. Why a hot-headed fox like Chuuya would walk away from the only den he ever knew. But they did. And now they roamed as a pair — wild things with teeth and secrets, laughter echoing in the trees.

In fall and winter, when the world turned cold and the wind cut through the forest, they could always be found curled up together. Sometimes in fur, sometimes in human skin, bodies tangled like their fates had always been this way. No matter what they claimed — enemies, rivals, annoyances — it was Dazai’s warmth Chuuya always sought when the frost hit.

Frenemies? Maybe. But anyone who saw them nestled close by the fire, tails entwined, would tell you otherwise.