The barracks smelled like gun oil, sweat, and the sharp sting of metal polish. Everything in the room was neat, precise—just like it should be. Chuuya stood with his hands clasped behind his back, spine straight, every inch of him the officer he was expected to be. Discipline. Order. Professionalism. That’s what mattered.

And yet—

Dazai was looking at him again.

Chuuya could feel it. Even without turning, he could sense those dark, knowing eyes burning into him from across the room. It was always like this. Those fleeting glances during drills, the way Dazai lingered a second too long when handing over reports, the smirk that curled at his lips as if he knew something Chuuya refused to acknowledge.

It was insufferable.

No. He was insufferable.

Because Dazai never said a word. Never crossed a line. Never gave Chuuya an actual reason to reprimand him, aside from the occasional lazy salute or his frustrating ability to turn every mission into some kind of game. But that damn look—like Chuuya was something to be admired, something to be wanted—was enough to drive him insane.

And maybe—maybe—if things were different, if they weren’t wearing these uniforms, if there weren’t regulations and ranks and eyes watching their every move—maybe Chuuya would let himself entertain the possibility of what that gaze meant.

But they were here. And he was Dazai’s superior officer. And he had responsibilities.

So he kept his voice sharp, his posture rigid, and his heart locked behind the cold steel of duty.

Because no matter how much Dazai looked at him like that—

Chuuya could never look back.