Chapter Text
It was common knowledge that Dazai Osamu was a prodigy.
He could read and write before he could walk. By eight years old, he had memorized the entire Oxford Dictionary. By eleven years old, he had published a collection of essays on the plight of the human existence, and by sixteen, he could write theses that would take graduate students years to complete.
Dazai Osamu could do almost anything. What he could not do, however, was speak French.
Now, normally, this would not be a problem. He went to school in Yokohama, a city that spoke almost exclusively Japanese. The occasional English speaker would pass through, but that was all. There were certainly no French speakers in Yokohama, so why would Dazai waste his time learning something he would never use?
Because Odasaku had shipped him off to Sorbonne University, Paris, and he didn’t understand anyone.
Dazai adjusted the messenger bag over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes as he attempted to locate his Art History class. It was certainly in this hall, but this was a very large hall with droves of students filing in and out of classrooms, and that made it difficult to see what was where, even for someone of his considerable stature.
“It can’t be far,” Dazai mused, frowning. “Maybe I’ve passed it."
When his favorite professor back in Yokohama, Oda Sakunosuke, told him to try taking advantage of the study abroad program offered there, Dazai had not been thrilled. Sure, Paris was one of the art capitals of the world, and Odasaku had told him that it would be good for him to be surrounded by other creative people (artists, he'd said with obvious implications that Dazai pretended to ignore), but he liked Yokohama and moving to a new place for his second year of college sounded like more trouble than it was worth. He would much rather stay in a place he knew, with people he knew, speaking a language he knew.
Odasaku was convincing, though, with all his talk on the wonderful opportunities for Literature students in Paris. And Dazai may have been able to refuse him on account of such short notice, but that was when Yosano told them both that she was going abroad to study with her girlfriend for the year, and she would be happy to help him out.
It only escalated from there. She’d convinced Ranpo, her best friend, to come along with his American boyfriend, and then Atsushi was asking to tag along, and then Kunikida decided that Yosano would lose Atsushi at some point and get him shipped off to Switzerland, and suddenly everyone was going to France like it was some kind of family vacation.
It took exactly nine and a half days of being assaulted with talk of grand Parisian adventures before Dazai decided to pack his bags too. At this point, he was starting to regret that decision.
“This is ridiculous,” he huffed, spinning around once, twice, in search of the right number. “Why does this place have to be so big—"
Oof.
The impact was startling, but the force wasn’t enough to send Dazai falling to the ground. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of the person currently sprawled out on the glossy floor amongst various papers and a few pens. He wore a plain white button-down, collar left open just enough to be tantalizing, and simple navy trousers. Dazai assumed the pair of black sunglasses on the ground were on the stranger's head before they’d bumped into each other. Very chic.
“Oh,” was all Dazai could think to say—he tried not to smile, even though the stranger looked a bit funny sitting on the ground like that, classy dress or not. “Apologies. I didn’t see you.”
Surely he didn’t speak Japanese, but maybe he would understand the apology anyway? Dazai really should have planned further ahead when he decided to do this.
The stranger immediately began gathering the escaped materials, head bent so Dazai couldn’t see his face. He did have an unruly mane of red curls, though. They caught the sunlight streaming in through the window, and Dazai couldn’t help but think that they looked a bit coppery, or a bit like fire. How odd.
“Regarde où tu vas,” the stranger snapped, closing up his bag. [“Watch where you’re going.”]
The stranger had a very attractive voice, Dazai realized. It was low and husky and the way his words flowed together was impossibly smooth. Dazai didn’t have a clue what he was saying, but he wouldn’t mind hearing it again.
“Connard,” the stranger muttered, and that didn’t sound very nice. [“Asshole.”]
“You bumped into me,” Dazai told him (rather uselessly, probably), and extended a hand between them.
The stranger stared at the offer for a moment, and then he clasped Dazai’s hand. He was heavier than Dazai expected, and as he hauled him up, he also found him much, much shorter.
“You’re like a shrimp!” Dazai exclaimed. The stranger was at least a head shorter than he was, possibly more. ”Or a little slug! Did you drink enough milk when you were…”
He looked up to meet Dazai's gaze, clearly still upset, and Dazai nearly choked on his words.
The stranger was gorgeous.
He had skin as pale as a porcelain doll’s, and there was a faint scattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks, so faded Dazai wouldn’t have noticed them if not for the sunlight. He had high cheekbones that sported a pale pink flush—from what, Dazai couldn’t imagine. His jawline was sharp enough to cut stone, and then there were his eyes.
The left was a rich honey-brown, sticky and sweet and mesmerizing, and the right was blue. Raging, thunderstorm blue, like lightning on a violent ocean. Leaping, crackling blue. He would make the most beautiful painting.
The stranger stared at him with a peculiar look on his face. He did not speak.
Suddenly, Dazai was pulled back into the reality of the situation. While he was busy drooling over the person he’d just knocked to the ground, his Art History professor would be starting her lecture and he was missing it.
“Ah… I should be going.” Dazai let go of the stranger’s hand (it was surprisingly calloused) and bobbed his head. “Dazai Osamu.”
The stranger gave him a blank expression. “Je ne parle pas japonais, idiot.” [“I don’t speak Japanese, idiot.”]
Right. This was France.
Dazai gestured to himself. “Dazai,” he repeated. “My name. Dazai Osamu.” He tapped his chest.
Something like understanding flitted over the stranger’s face, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. His lips turned down in a scowl as he cocked his chin up, adjusting the bag over his shoulder. “Nakahara Chuuya,” he said in that same low voice— god, this was killing him. The stranger gave Dazai a once-over, and then he side-stepped him and continued down the hall without another word.
Dazai could only blink dumbly, watching red curls disappear into the throngs of students. The stranger— Chuuya, because he now knew his name—had measured right up to the rude French stereotype Yosano had told him to throw out the window (despite being so short). He was rude, haughty, and utterly disdainful despite Dazai’s sincerity. He could still see those mismatched eyes.
Well, shit.
***
“Il faut creuser pour trouver ces informations ; elles ne tombent pas du ciel,” the professor was saying, tapping the cover of the book she held repeatedly. “Ne soyez pas paresseux.” [You have to dig for this information; it won't drop into your lap. Do not be lazy.]
The rest of the students were nodding and scribbling in their notebooks as the professor continued to talk, but Dazai could only stare blankly as he attempted to decipher all her prattling. He thought he might stand a chance if she didn’t speak so fast, but all the words bled together and Dazai couldn’t catch a single familiar sound.
This was his third class of the day, Seminar in Literature, and it was also the third professor he could not understand. He planned to speak to all of them during their office hours, but there was no time for that today—Mondays were always busy, and he had a lunch date with his favorite fellow exchange students that afternoon.
He should have invested more time into Duolingo.
“Excuse me,” Dazai whispered, turning to the person sitting next to him. It was a girl, probably a year or two younger than him, with blonde hair tied up in a neat bun.
Immediately, her eyes widened. “Tu parles japonais?” she asked, brow furrowed. ["You speak Japanese?"]
Dazai sighed. “I don’t speak French.”
“Are you from Japan?”
He blinked. The girl looked like she might be Japanese, but this was France. He didn’t expect her to speak Japanese and definitely not that well. “I am,” he replied, momentarily disarmed. That's a pleasant surprise. “Are you?”
The girl nodded. “Moved here when I was in high school. You?”
“Studying abroad for the year.”
Her lips popped into an ‘o’. “Really? From where?”
Dazai could not help but be surprised. She was much different from the stranger he had run into earlier. Certainly friendlier. “Yokohama."
“No way! That’s where I’m from!” she exclaimed, earning a few looks from nearby students. The professor prattled on in the background, and he couldn’t pinpoint a single recognizable word. “Wait a minute, you said you didn’t speak French, right?”
Dazai turned his attention back to her and nodded.
She looked at him incredulously. “Then what the hell are you doing here? You should be taking a French class!”
“I just want to know what the professor is saying,” Dazai replied, patience wearing thin. “I don’t need a lecture.”
The girl stared at him for a moment. Two moments. Three. And then, without warning, she burst out laughing, hand flying to her mouth to stifle it. (It didn’t work very well). “Oh my god,” she gasped, shaking her head. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a while. You really can’t understand her?”
Dazai could only shrug sheepishly. “Nope.”
“And you didn’t think to learn anything before you came here?”
“It was a bit of a last-minute decision.”
Her laughter finally began to calm down—Dazai felt like he should have been offended, but even he could admit that the situation was a bit comical.
“Shit, that’s hilarious,” she said, shaking her head. “ Hé, Gin, écoute ça.” Dazai watched as she leaned over to the person at her left; a dark-haired girl with a mask over her mouth. “Lui il,” she gestured to Dazai, “est venu du Japon pour étudier pour genre un an et il sait dire que dalle en français. A quel point c'est ridicule?” [“Hey, Gin, listen to this. This one’s come here from Japan to study for a year or so and he doesn't know a lick of French. How ridiculous is that?”]
The girl pressed her fingertips to her lips (that’s what Dazai assumed, since he couldn’t see them) and chuckled very quietly, though she did not respond.
“This is Gin,” the girl told Dazai. “I’m Higuchi. It’s nice to meet you…”
“Dazai.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Dazai.” Higuchi gave him a toothy grin. “Listen, how about I just write you a summary of the lecture after class? You’ll have to figure everything else out after that, though.”
This time, Dazai’s smile was a bit more genuine. “That would be much appreciated.”
“Kay. Now shut up or I won’t have anything to write,” Higuchi chirped, turning to face the front of the room again.
Dazai could not help but chuckle at the ridiculousness of this entire ordeal and follow Higuchi’s attention back to the professor.
The rest of the morning went by quickly—Dazai assumed this was because he could doze off for most of his classes since it was difficult (impossible) to understand anything in them. He had at least two classes with Higuchi thus far, but he had yet to see the red-haired boy again. Chuuya. Nakahara Chuuya.
It was nearing one in the afternoon when Dazai sauntered up the steps of Les Antiquaires, full of lively chatter and waiters flitting to and fro. It didn’t take him longer than a moment to find the right table—he just followed the noise.
“And there’s the devil himself! Glad you decided to show your ugly mug, Dazai.”
Yosano was waving from one of the larger tables, seated with the rest of the Japanese students (and Poe). There were already appetizers littering the table, and Dazai could see that Ranpo’s plate was covered in empty snail shells as he dug into yet another.
“I’m sure you all missed me terribly,” Dazai chirped, taking the empty seat between Kunikida and Atsushi. There was one other near Yosano.
“Not at all,” was Kunikida’s predictable reply.
“Sure took you long enough." Ranpo was grinning widely—something about it was suspicious. “We already ordered, Yosano got you the crab. Got caught up?”
Dazai chuckled at that. “Well, it’s difficult to explain to your professors that you can’t understand them when they can’t understand you.”
He would have to use Google Translate and email them this evening. Maybe they could even give him transcripts for the lectures. How funny would that be?
“That so. Nothing else?” Something in Ranpo’s eyes gleamed, and Dazai had the strange feeling that he knew something about his run-in this morning.
“No,” Dazai told him with a perfectly complacent smile. “Nothing else.”
Luckily for him, Atsushi could never hold his tongue for very long and swooped in to save the day. “So, Yosano,” he began eagerly, eyes wide, “you speak at least a little French, right? ‘Cause of your girlfriend and everything.”
Yosano grimaced. “Well, not nearly as well I think I do. Kouyou makes sure to tell me that.”
“I certainly do my best.”
The voice came from behind Dazai, and he spun around to see a tall woman towering over him, wearing a knowing smile as she looked around the table. Her accent was heavy and Dazai could smell her perfume; very expensive, he would guess.
“Mon trésor, you decided to join us,” Yosano chuckled, eyes following the woman as she took the seat beside her. Yosano gave her a brief kiss on the lips before turning to the rest of them. “This is Kouyou,” she said, wrapping an arm around the woman’s waist. [“My treasure.”]
“C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer,” the woman, Kouyou, told them with a polite smile. “I have heard much about you all.” [“It is a pleasure to meet you.”]
“This is Kunikida, Dazai, Atsushi, Ranpo, and Ranpo’s American boyfriend, Poe,” Yosano rattled off, pointing to each of them.
When Kouyou’s eyes landed on him, she arched a brow, looking almost confused. “Dazai?”
Dazai gave her an easy smile. Perhaps Yosano had told her some particularly defaming stories about him? He wouldn’t put it past her. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he replied smoothly.
Kouyou ran her eyes up and down him once, and then she looked back to Yosano with a smile. Dazai watched her, eyes narrowed, and couldn’t help but wonder why she looked so familiar. He’d seen pictures of her, of course, but there was something strange about her that he couldn’t place. Besides, they hadn’t met before this. How odd.
“Merci d'être allé,” Yosano told her girlfriend with a smile. “I know you’re busy.” [“Thank you for going.”]
Dazai watched Kouyou’s lips twist upward into an amused smile and frowned. That was not familiar. Perhaps he had damaged some nerves after trying too hard to understand his professors this morning.
“It’s venue, Akiko. ‘Merci d'être venue.’” [“Thank you for coming.”]
Yosano chuckled at that, leaning in for another kiss. “Merci d'être venu, ma caille.” [“My quail.” (French endearment)]
“You two are disgusting,” Ranpo told them, playing with Poe’s hand from where it rested on his shoulder.
Dazai sighed, shaking his head. His friends were very smart, very capable people, but sometimes he wanted to smack them upside the head. Gently.
“So, Kouyou, how did you and Yosano meet?” Atsushi asked, blinking big eyes. He looked so interested, almost laughably so.
At that, Kouyou chuckled. “My little brother had landed in some trouble and needed stitches. I was lost and Akiko happened to find us. She fixed it all up and when she wrote me instructions on how to take care of it, her number was written on the bottom.”
Dazai knew this story well. Yosano had gushed to him about it just twenty minutes afterward, blushing like a schoolgirl.
“Hey, you say that like it’s a ridiculous thing to do,” Yosano said with a pointed glance, to which Kouyou arched a brow.
“It was ridiculous. That’s why I called you.”
“Do you have any other family? Siblings?” Kunikida asked her. Straightforward as ever. “Or is it just you and your brother?”
To her credit, Kouyou gave him a very polite smile. “No, I have two brothers, one elder and one younger, each by a year.” She paused for a moment. ”Speaking of which, Paul should be here soon. He’s not usually late, but his schedule can be—“
“Toutes mes excuses pour mon retard !” The voice echoed throughout the restaurant even amidst all the commotion—it was very deep. [“My apologies for being tardy!”]
It was difficult to distinguish the voice from all the others in the restaurant, especially combined with all the footfalls of busy waiters, but Dazai could tell the person was relatively young. One of Kouyou’s brothers?
“Ah, tu as réussi à venir,” Kouyou replied, looking at someone over Dazai’s shoulder. [“Ah, you made it.”]
The stranger moved to sit down between Kouyou and Kunikida, and that was when Dazai got a good look at him. The man was tall, firstly, and quite lithe from the looks of it. He wore a fedora— aren’t the French supposed to wear berets? —and, unlike Kouyou, his hair was a very pale blonde, braided away from his face at the hairline. His eyes, too, were different from Kouyou’s; they were a very dark brown.
At first glance, they didn’t look a thing alike. But when Dazai examined them further, he could see the resemblance. The same pronounced cheekbones, the same harsh lines in the nose, chin, and jaw. The same lip shape.
“Bonjour, Akiko. You look well.” Now that the man was closer, Dazai could hear the low timbre of his voice. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“You too! Glad you could make it. Everyone, this is Paul Verlaine, Kouyou’s older brother.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Verlaine said, bowing his head. “Please forgive my Japanese, I’m a bit out of practice.”
“Your Japanese is loads better than these idiots’ French, let me tell you,” Ranpo said, gesturing to the rest of the table. Yosano chuckled at that.
“Bonjour, Paul.” Kunikida held his hand. " C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer. Je m’appelle Kunikida Doppo.” [“Hello, Paul. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Kunikida Doppo.”]
His pronunciation was very poor if Verlaine's amused expression was anything to go by, but Dazai was surprised to see that even Kunikida knew more French than he did. That was the second time he’d heard that phrase today and he still didn’t understand a word of it.
“C'est un plaisir, Kunikida.” Verlaine reached out to shake Kunikida’s hand firmly, which prompted the others to make their introductions. Dazai only watched, though—he didn’t have any interest in his friend’s girlfriend’s older brother, and he seemed stuffy anyway. [“It’s a pleasure, Kunikida.”]
“We won’t wait on our other guest,” Verlaine said, looking toward Kouyou. “There are apparently other matters he needs to address.”
“It’s not that blonde girl, is it?” Kouyou asked, frowning. Dazai thought she looked a bit like a condescending mother when she made that face.
“According to him, they’re ‘just friends.’ If I can help it, it will stay that way.” Verlaine was frowning the same way. It was amusing, Dazai thought, considering this little brother was evidently a college student and likely an adult. “Schoolwork, allegedly. Something pressing.”
“Are you quite picky about your siblings’ tastes in partners, Paul?” Dazai asked him, leaning forward and propping his chin in his palm. Verlaine looked over at him for the first time and arched a brow.
“They deserve suitable companions," was the curt reply. "As most of us do."
Dazai heard the distaste beneath those words clear as day. He didn't say anything, though, and instead leaned back in chair with a grin. "Then what ever were you thinking keeping that one around?” He gestured to Yosano and that had the table erupting in laughter, Yosano included. Verlaine didn’t look very amused, but Kouyou was chuckling quietly from behind her hand
Right on time, a young man Dazai assumed was their waiter came around with a tray, plopping their dishes down one after the other as the laughter around the table calmed down. Dazai watched, eyes wide and unblinking, and the waiter set down a metal tripod with one large crab right in front of him, sitting on small ice cubes.
“Bon appetit,” the waiter told them before heading off again, stopping to chat with a fellow employee for a moment or two.
Dazai half thought he would drool. This looked delightful.
“So, how long will you all be studying here?” Kouyou asked, sharp eyes rounding the table as they all began to eat.
“Just for the year,” Ranpo told her without looking up from his third plate of escargot. That cannot be healthy. “As long as Akiko. Unless she’s got some reason to stay longer,” he added with a pointed glance and a grin.
“And what do you like most about Paris?”
“The food,” Ranpo answered with his mouth full, earning noises of agreement from the others.
It was quieter as they all began eating, but that didn’t last long. “So,” Kouyou began, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin, “what are you all studying here?”
They went around the table with their answers. Ranpo was a Literature student and Poe studied Creative Writing (and no, those were not the same thing). Kunikida was focusing on Design, and Atsushi was the resident starving artist.
“And you, Dazai?” Kouyou asked.
“Literature,” Dazai said with a shrug. He was not terribly passionate about his major, but he was good at it. Reading, analyzing, impressing simpletons with big words. He thought he might want to try being an artist someday, but that was really just a childhood fantasy. The empty, untouched sketchbooks he shoved to the bottom of his suitcase years ago could attest to that. And he had no interest in living on nickels and dimes until he died.
“I see.” Kouyou studied him for just a moment before looking away. “Interesting.”
Dazai didn’t say much for the rest of their meal, but he did enjoy watching the others chat. Kouyou was an interesting character in person—perfect for Yosano, too. They balanced each other out, chaos and calm. Verlaine, too, was interesting, but because something about him seemed familiar. Both him and Kouyou, but Kouyou was only because she looked familiar , and that was probably because he’d seen about a thousand pictures of her. Verlaine, though, had a certain way about him that was odd. Like his gaze was inexplicably heavy.
Eventually, Dazai had to bow out on account of class. He bid his farewells, told Kouyou and Verlaine that it was nice to meet them even though they barely spoke to each other, and made his way back out with the promise to Venmo Yosano for his meal later.
He walked into his French History class knowing full well that he wouldn’t understand a word of it, so he opted to get there a bit earlier and sit near the back of the lecture hall. Higuchi wasn’t in this class, so he wouldn’t get a scratchy summary of the lecture, but maybe he could interpret some of it. Being a genius with reading body language had its benefits sometimes, he supposed.
The door opened just behind him and Dazai didn’t turn to see who it was. Apparently, though, he didn’t have to. The chair beside him was pulled back and, without a word, the stranger plopped down right next to him, plopping a beaten, sticker-covered laptop on the table.
Dazai made to turn to the side— perhaps this person spoke Japanese? Surely they would be at least half as generous as Higuchi was? So far, the French seemed like very nice people.
But when Dazai looked up, he was met with a pair of piercing, mismatched eyes.
His heart stuttered.
Chuuya’s lips were parted slightly, and his eyes were blown wide. He was sitting with his elbow propped up on one knee and that pair of black sunglasses pushed up from his face, but a few curls escaped them and Dazai had the sudden urge to push them back to better see his chiseled face. Chuuya stared, looking just as surprised as Dazai felt—neither of them moved.
And now that they were this close, Dazai could see the jewelry.
There were at least eleven rings on his fingers, catching the light from overhead as he flexed them. He had ear piercings too, at least three on each ear, but it was hard to tell with his long hair in the way. He wore necklaces that rested against his chest (his visible chest, since the first three buttons of his shirt were undone) and bracelets too, all shiny and sleek and lovely against his porcelain skin.
“Dazai Osamu,” Chuuya murmured, blinking once and drawing Dazai’s attention back to his face.
“Nakahara Chuuya,” was Dazai’s breathless reply, but he hardly registered saying it when Chuuya said his name like that, like some kind of precious secret to be shared in the sheets.
Chuuya’s lashes fluttered, and he stared for a moment longer, and then he spun around to face the front of the room, spine straight and perhaps a bit pinker in the cheeks than before. “Idiot,” he murmured, so quietly that Dazai couldn’t tell whether he was talking to him or himself.
Dazai opened his mouth to reply—tease him a bit, perhaps, because Chuuya looked lovely in pink—but he didn’t get the chance.
“Bonjour et bienvenue dans l'Histoire de France !” the professor began, standing at the front of the room to survey the students. "Vous pouvez m'appeler Mademoiselle Moreau. Commençons.” [“Hello and welcome to French History! You may call me Miss Moreau. Let's begin.”]
Chuuya stared straight ahead as the minutes ticked by, listening intently to the professor talk and occasionally typing out notes, and Dazai opted to watch him instead of Miss Moreau. Those freckles on his cheeks stood out more in this kind of lighting, and his top lip dipped into an impressively sharp Cupid’s Bow.
If Dazai was counting correctly (he was), it took about twenty minutes before something happened. The professor said something—what that was, of course, he didn’t have a clue—and then Chuuya’s eyes widened and he looked over at Dazai, just for a moment.
Then, everyone began shuffling around, and Dazai was left looking around blankly to figure out what in the world was going on. Voices began to fill the classroom as the students started discussing… something, and Chuuya was still looking at him with a most peculiar expression. Disgruntled, maybe? Dazai couldn’t tell.
“Are you going to say something or just sit there and stare?” he drawled, arching a brow. How do you say that in French?
Chuuya gave him an unamused expression in return. “Je pensais t'avoir dit que je ne parle pas japonais, idiot.” [“I thought I told you that I don’t speak Japanese, idiot.”]
Dazai sighed at that. “You must realize by now that I don’t know what you’re saying.” He knew perfectly well that Chuuya didn’t know what he was saying either, but oh well. “What did the professor say?”
Chuuya gave him a blank expression.
“Professor,” Dazai tried, pointing to the woman at the front. Chuuya nodded. “What did she say?” He tapped his lips, watching Chuuya’s gaze flit from his lips to his eyes to his lips. His cheeks became pinker.
Dazai huffed. This was clearly not working. He grabbed a pen and tore a page from his notebook instead, ignoring the considerable weight of Chuuya’s gaze. “Okay, let’s try this,” he murmured to himself, scribbling an offensively terrible rendition of their professor in the center of the page. Then, he drew a speech bubble with a large question mark in the center before handing the pen and paper to Chuuya. “So?”
Chuuya scanned the page. He looked amused for a moment, clearly stifling a snort as he began to sketch his reply, and Dazai almost had the heart to be offended. His drawing skills were fantastic.
It only took a moment before Chuuya handed the paper and pen back to Dazai, who looked over it with a bit of apprehension. What if he had to write a twelve-page essay? In French?
According to Chuuya’s drawing, though, he wouldn’t have to. The paper displayed two figures Dazai assumed were the two of them, judging by the hair sloppily drawn onto them. They were sitting at a desk with papers and pens all over it, but in the center was a computer with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it and some little squiggles resembling text. Next to that was another drawing. It was of the two of them again, standing in front of a large screen with the same picture on it, both holding sticks that pointed to random places on the screen.
And then, written at the top in what was admittedly very nice handwriting, was: “Un mois.” [“One month.”]
Un. Dazai knew that word. He could count to three in French, and that meant “one.”
Ah. A presentation. They had one… something to do it—month, maybe? Mois started with an ‘m’ too, didn’t it? It was probably on important French landmarks if Dazai had to take a stab at it, since this was French History.
Chuuya was watching him with narrowed eyes, flitting about his face as if to dissect his expression. Dazai wasn’t sure what he thought he’d find, though. He handed the paper back to him, adding a question mark next to mois.
Chuuya chuckled at that, bending his head low to begin drawing again. Dazai thought he felt his heart beat a bit faster at the sight; Chuuya, head tilted down, bangs obscuring most of his face save for those damning eyes of his, red lips still quirked up in the barest smile.
God. What was he going to do?
Eventually, Chuuya looked up again, and Dazai averted his gaze so he wouldn’t be caught staring. The paper and pen were slid toward him, and Dazai found himself looking at a rudimentary drawing of a calendar with an arrow pointing to the final day. A month, then. They had one month to pick a historic French landmark, create a presentation, and perform for the class.
Before he could say anything, though, the professor cut them all off. “Vous n'aurez pas beaucoup de temps pour travailler sur vos présentations ici, vous devrez donc trouver du temps en dehors des cours. Ce travail comptera pour une grande partie de votre note, ne l'oubliez pas !” she said, and Dazai watched Chuuya’s eyes go wide. He looked… irritated? Apprehensive, maybe. ["You won't have much time to work on your presentations here, so you'll need to find time outside of class. This will count for a large portion of your grade, so don't forget that!"]
“What?” he asked, and immediately, Chuuya’s gaze snapped to his. It was always heavy, Dazai thought in his minimal experience. Why was that?
“On doit faire ça hors de la classe," was Chuuya’s reply, but his expression turned from apprehensive to annoyed the moment he stopped speaking. He must have realized that I can’t understand a word, Dazai thought with mild amusement. Chuuya was cute when he was frustrated. ["We have to do this outside of class."]
He took the paper from Dazai again and scribbled for a moment before handing it back. Dazai found himself looking at the pair of them once again, but this time sitting at a table with coffee and papers. It looked like it was outside.
Dazai frowned, looking back to Chuuya. How was he supposed to know what that meant?
Chuuya gave him a blank stare, but Dazai didn’t budge. Wordlessly, he handed the pen back, and Chuuya sighed before taking the paper. When he was done, he handed Dazai a drawing of what looked like a classroom with a large ‘X’ right through the middle.
Ah. No allocated work time. They would have to arrange meetings outside of class to get this done.
What a shame.
Dazai leaned toward him, chin propped in one hand, and Chuuya’s brow furrowed as he watched. “Are you trying to ask me out on a date?” Dazai asked with a smirk. “That’s quite the roundabout way to do it, you know.”
He expected Chuuya to flush—at the proximity, perhaps, or the eye contact, or his tone of voice—but he was very, very wrong.
Instead, Chuuya’s lips spread into a smile, and he ducked forward so that they were nearly nose to nose. “Est-ce que tu essaies de me séduire en me regardant comme ça, Dazai ?” he murmured, grinning like a cat and speaking in that low, rumbling voice of his that made Dazai want do to unspeakable things. [“Are you trying to seduce me by looking at me like that, Dazai?”]
He swallowed hard. One person should not have that much power, he thought and looked away. He felt Chuuya’s eyes on him for a moment, even as the professor resumed speaking nonsense, and then something slid across the desk to bump his arm.
Dazai looked down. It was Chuuya’s phone.
“Ton numéro,” he told him, gesturing to the new contact open on the screen. “Pour le projet.” [“Your number. For the project.”]
Dazai stared at it for a moment, and then he let out a little sigh before taking the phone. Today was testing him. He inputted the number, texted himself (using a bunch of random keys, since the keyboard wasn’t in Japanese), and handed it back to Chuuya, who handed him his phone in return.
He didn’t add a name to the contact. Of course.
Dazai grinned and inputted something of his own, then, looked up to see Chuuya watching him with narrowed eyes. Dazai showed him the screen with an innocent shrug. “Slug,” he told him. “Since you’re so small.” Chuuya’s eyes narrowed further. He certainly didn’t understand what Dazai said, but his tone conveyed more than enough.
Dazai gave him a wink, turned back to the professor, and pretended to pay attention for the rest of the lecture.