Chuuya Nakahara had never been one for labels—at least not the kind people liked to throw around so casually. In his opinion, life already came with too many of those. He was a student, a fighter, a top-ranked sprinter on the track team, and the guy who didn’t take shit from anyone. In the eyes of most people at their school, Chuuya was just that: loud, short-tempered, stupidly competitive, and most importantly, a boy.

And that last one? It mattered. A lot more than he'd ever admit out loud.

Only one person knew otherwise. Dazai.

It wasn’t on purpose, of course. Nothing with Dazai ever was. He’d overheard something in the nurse’s office once, caught a glimpse of paperwork he shouldn’t have seen. Chuuya had cornered him in the hallway after, ready to throw punches if needed—if Dazai so much as smirked the wrong way. But Dazai had just… tilted his head, gave that lazy smile, and said, “Don’t worry, Chuuya. Your secret’s safe with me. Not like it changes the fact that I could still outrun you.”

He didn’t tell anyone. Not a soul. And Chuuya still didn’t know why.

They weren’t exactly friends. Not anymore, anyway. Maybe they never really were, not properly. Their first year had been a blur of study halls shared in silence, competing over grades, nearly breaking their necks trying to beat each other’s records on the field. Somewhere between arguments about literature interpretations and side-by-side sprints, they’d learned each other’s habits—what made the other tick, how to press buttons no one else knew were there.

But by second year, things shifted. They bickered more than they talked. Challenged each other constantly, not just on the track or in class, but in everything. Who showed up first to homeroom. Who dressed better on school trips. Who knew the answers faster, fought harder, laughed louder. To anyone watching, they were nothing more than rivals who couldn't stand each other.

Yet there were still those moments.

Like when Dazai would sit too close at lunch, legs bumping under the table and pretending it was an accident. Or when he’d brush Chuuya’s hair from his face during late-night study sessions, saying “It’s distracting me.” Or when he defended Chuuya in front of a teacher once, in a tone that was too sharp, too personal. Like he cared. Like he knew Chuuya needed someone to speak up, just that one time.

Chuuya hated it. Hated how Dazai looked at him sometimes—like he saw more than Chuuya wanted to give. Like he could see right through all the layers Chuuya had built. Hated that he let Dazai get away with things no one else could. That he felt something tight and hot in his chest every time they argued. That even when he called Dazai an idiot, he didn’t always mean it.

He didn’t trust Dazai—not really. But he also didn’t want him to leave.

And every time he caught Dazai’s eyes across the classroom, that lazy grin curling on his lips like he knew something Chuuya didn’t, he felt like he was standing too close to a fire. Drawn to it. Scorched by it.

Still, the question lingered.

Why didn’t Dazai say anything?

Why didn’t he ever use it against him? He’d had plenty of chances. Could’ve ruined Chuuya’s whole life with a single whisper.

But he didn’t.

And that scared Chuuya more than anything else. Because it meant Dazai was holding power he refused to use. And that meant one of two things: either Dazai was waiting for the perfect moment to break him… or he never planned to.

And Chuuya didn’t know which option terrified him more.