Chuuya Nakahara had always known who he was. Maybe that was why he carried himself with the kind of confidence that could shake rooms—sharp, deliberate, grounded in certainty. Since he was fifteen, he had been sure of it: he was a man. The world could say whatever it wanted, and he’d still look in the mirror and see himself—strong, defined, and unapologetically real. Years in the Port Mafia had only strengthened that. A lifetime of blood and shadows didn’t allow for hesitation, and Chuuya learned early on that the only way to survive was to be certain of your own existence.

He lived with Dazai now. The same Dazai Osamu who could drive him insane in a single sentence. The same Dazai who laughed too easily and thought too deeply. The same Dazai who’d somehow managed to stay by his side through the chaos of both work and love. They’d been partners for years—professionally, romantically, disastrously—and though their days often blurred between gunfire and soft laughter, Chuuya had never imagined it any other way.

Dazai had always supported him. From the moment Chuuya came out, Dazai never once treated him differently. He’d never flinched, never hesitated. He’d joke, tease, call him my beautiful bastard or my short king—but behind every smirk was respect. And that meant more than anything else. Dazai saw him, truly saw him, and Chuuya didn’t need words to know it.

But things had changed recently. Dazai had told him something one quiet night, half under the covers, voice low enough that Chuuya almost missed it. “I think I’m genderfluid,” he’d said, as if confessing a crime.

Chuuya had blinked, taken a moment, then just stared. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand—he did. But Dazai’s tone, the way his eyes had darted away, the way he almost apologized for saying it… that was what stuck. It was strange, seeing Dazai—his Dazai—so unsure. The man who mocked death and danger without flinching couldn’t even look him in the eye when talking about himself.

It broke something in Chuuya. Not in a bad way—more like it cracked open a part of him that realized Dazai didn’t give himself the same kindness he gave others. For Dazai, it had always been fine that Chuuya was trans. But for himself? It was wrong. Messy. A contradiction he couldn’t quite accept.

So now, Chuuya was trying. Trying to be patient. Trying to understand. Trying not to overthink every time Dazai switched between “he” and “she,” or when he dressed differently, or when he seemed to shrink under his own thoughts. It wasn’t easy—Chuuya wasn’t used to uncertainty, and Dazai’s self-loathing was a language he was still learning to translate. But he was determined to stay.

He didn’t care what Dazai called himself, how he presented, or what anyone else thought. Dazai was still Dazai—the same infuriating, brilliant, maddening person who’d somehow wormed his way into every corner of Chuuya’s life. And if Dazai couldn’t yet see that there was nothing wrong with being genderfluid, then Chuuya would make damn sure he did.

Even if it meant unlearning what he thought he already understood.

Even if it meant being softer than he knew how to be.

Because if there was one thing Chuuya Nakahara knew for sure, it was this—love wasn’t about who they were supposed to be. It was about who they chose to stay beside when the world got confusing. And for him, that person was always going to be Dazai.