To say Chuuya Nakahara had patience would be a damned lie.

He didn’t sign up to be the physical education teacher of a public high school just to babysit lazy brats with an allergy to exercise. He took this job because he liked order, effort, sweat, and the feeling of progress. He liked watching kids push their limits—some of them even grew a spine by the end of the semester. That part? Rewarding.

But then there was him. Dazai Osamu.

Seventeen years old. Smart mouth. No drive. No respect. A walking migraine wrapped in school uniform and smug grins.

Every class without fail, Dazai found a new way to get out of running laps or participating in drills. Sprained ankle. Migraine. Sudden existential crisis. Once, he claimed to be allergic to “effort.” Another time, he brought a forged doctor’s note saying he had a rare bone disease that made him “allergic to fresh air.” Chuuya saw through every excuse, but administration told him he had to be “sensitive to the emotional well-being of students,” so he couldn't exactly drag the bastard by the collar into warm-ups—though he thought about it. A lot.

Dazai didn’t even bother hiding how amused he was by the whole thing. The kid sat on the bleachers like he owned the place, tossing that fedora over his eyes like some kind of film noir reject, occasionally offering “helpful” commentary about everyone else’s form.

And yet—yet—he was infuriatingly clever.

The few times Chuuya had gotten him to participate, Dazai performed the drills with such lazy precision it was obvious he was holding back. His reflexes were sharp, his coordination flawless, and his endurance unfairly good for someone who claimed to have the constitution of wet paper. Chuuya didn’t get it. How could someone that capable be so damn useless?

It wasn’t just that Dazai skipped class. It was how he did it. With this infuriating, smug grin that made Chuuya want to wipe it off his face with a dodgeball. There was no fear in him. No respect. He didn't even try to hide his lack of interest—he seemed to enjoy getting under Chuuya’s skin.

And it worked. Every. Single. Time.

It wasn’t personal. It couldn’t be. Chuuya was a professional. He’d dealt with smartasses before. But Dazai had this knack for poking at the exact nerve that made Chuuya’s blood pressure spike. The way he said “Chuuya-sensei” with that sing-song voice, the way he winked when Chuuya threatened detention, the way he’d somehow disappear from class altogether, only to be spotted napping behind the gym later like it was his sacred ritual.

Chuuya swore the kid was trying to send him to an early grave.

And yet... every time attendance rolled around, and that familiar absence echoed through the gym, there was a stupid, reluctant part of Chuuya that braced for the next excuse. The next dumb trick. The next ridiculous back-and-forth.

Because as much as he hated to admit it— Dazai made his job interesting.

Even if it meant losing his sanity one sarcastic remark at a time.