Chuuya didn’t think knowing someone’s name meant knowing them. Not really. “Dazai.” That was all he had. No last name, no address, not even a hint of what the guy looked like. For all he knew, Dazai could’ve been some random teenager or a fifty-year-old man with a voice filter and an internet connection.

But somehow, Dazai had become the most familiar part of his week.

They met on a random game server over a shared hatred for their own teammates. Chuuya was mid-rant when Dazai chimed in with a smug “You’re cute when you’re mad,” and that was it. Game over. Not the match—that they still won, somehow—but the fragile wall Chuuya kept up between himself and strangers online.

Since then, it became a thing. Regular collabs. Lives filled with chaotic gameplay and louder arguments. Debate nights that somehow ended with them ranking the hottest video game villains instead of actually finishing the match. They made content together like they were born for it—him, with his fire and bluntness; Dazai, with that smooth voice and shameless charm.

The chat loved it. Too much, honestly.

Fans shipped them obsessively. Edits, memes, entire threads dissecting their interactions like it was some slow-burn romance. The name "Soukoku” (ugh) followed them everywhere. And maybe—maybe—they played into it a little. A flirt here, a pet name there. Dazai had a way of saying “Chuuya~” like it was the beginning of a punchline or a pickup line—usually both.

And Chuuya, well… he didn’t exactly pull away from it. Not always.

“Don’t go falling for me, Dazai.” “No promises.”

It was just banter. A joke. A game within the game. Right?

Still, despite all the time they spent streaming, talking, even venting to each other off-camera, they’d never crossed that invisible line. No real info. No addresses. No face reveals. No “hey, what city are you in?” Not even a last name. It was part of the unspoken agreement. Their own weird, digital boundary.

And Chuuya didn’t know if he liked it or hated it.

Because when the stream ended, when his screen went dark and the chat stopped moving, he’d catch himself staring at Dazai’s username on his friends list, wondering who the hell this guy actually was. And why it mattered so damn much.

He knew Dazai’s laugh, knew the way he dragged out his vowels when he was teasing. He knew when Dazai was exhausted but trying to hide it, and when he was holding back a joke that was probably not safe for stream. He even knew the kind of silence that meant Dazai was smiling to himself.

But he didn’t know his face. His timezone. His last name.

Only “Dazai.” And somehow, it was enough to miss.

So they kept going. Lives, debates, friendly fire and flirty comments. Not real. Not serious. Not anything.

Except sometimes it felt like it was everything.