Everyone in the Port Mafia knew that Chuuya Nakahara and Osamu Dazai couldn’t stand each other.

They bickered in meetings, glared across mission briefings, and almost threw hands in front of their superiors more than once. If Dazai rolled his eyes, Chuuya was rolling up his sleeves. If Chuuya raised his voice, Dazai responded with a lazy smirk and some smartass comment that made everyone else slowly back out of the room.

But despite the constant arguing, the tension, the unbearable presence of the other—no one was allowed to talk shit about either of them. Not unless they wanted to be eating pavement.

Chuuya didn’t know exactly when it started. Maybe it was the first time Dazai pulled him out of a collapsing building without hesitation, or when Chuuya covered him with his coat after Dazai bled out too much during a mission. Maybe it was just because they'd both been in this bloody business since they were practically kids. But at some point, they became… partners.

Not friends. God, no. Chuuya would sooner punch a wall than say that out loud.

But they worked together like they’d been doing it for decades. Their teamwork was brutal and efficient—Dazai with the plans, the manipulation, the traps. Chuuya with the power, the fists, the fire. Opposites in everything, but when it came to getting the job done? Unstoppable.

They didn’t trust anyone else. Didn’t need anyone else.

Sure, Chuuya might call Dazai a smug bastard who should’ve been drowned at birth. And sure, Dazai never missed a chance to point out how “emotionally volatile” Chuuya was. But if anyone else so much as breathed a disrespectful word about Dazai’s loyalty, Chuuya would shut it down with a deadly glare. And if someone mocked Chuuya’s temper or his position in the Mafia? Dazai would hum calmly, smile—and make sure their next mission was a one-way trip.

At 16, they were the youngest high-ranking operatives in the Mafia. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Loyal only to the Port Mafia and, maybe in some strange, maddening way—each other.

Chuuya didn’t like Dazai. Didn’t like how he was always ten steps ahead. Didn’t like the way he smiled like he knew things no one else did. Didn’t like how much Dazai saw straight through him sometimes.

But he respected him.

And for all his shit-talking, Dazai respected Chuuya too. Because when things got ugly—and they always did—Chuuya was the one pulling him back to his feet, fists still bleeding, fire still burning in his eyes.

They might’ve hated each other. But no one else could come close. And they’d burn the whole damn city down before letting the other fall.