Chapter Text
“Oh, mon Dieu,” Chuuya muttered, snapping Dazai out of his reverie. His lips were still tingling, his hands still gripping the back of Chuuya’s jacket, and the Eiffel Tower was still glittering beside them in all its over-the-top glory. He felt like a god. [“Oh my god.”]
Dazai frowned. “Hm?”
“Le projet,” he whispered, horrified. [“The project.”]
Dazai stared at him for a good five seconds, and then he felt all the color leave his face. “Shit.”
Chuuya gripped his wrist before he could say anything else, and suddenly they were racing back the way they’d come, down the moonlit Paris sidewalks which were far too thin for Dazai’s liking.
Not that he could think about that right now, when Chuuya had told him he loved him and they kissed in front of the Eiffel Tower like every cheesy rom-com he’d ever heard of.
“Dépêche-toi, idiot!” Chuuya called over his shoulder, and Dazai could hear the smile in his voice. “Mets tes longues jambes à contribution, veux-tu?” [“Hurry up, idiot! Put those long legs to use, would you?”]
“Forgive me if I’m not used to so much exercise in one day,” Dazai huffed, but he continued to chase after Chuuya with their hands intertwined, and time seemed to twist and loop around itself after that. Dazai had no idea how long it took for them to arrive back on campus, just before Chuuya dragged him up a preposterous amount of stairs and stopped in front of door A51.
“Nous sommes tellement stupides,” Chuuya muttered as he unlocked it, shaking his head and chuckling despite it. [“We’re so stupid.”]
Dazai didn’t know a few of those words, but he knew nous and could easily figure out the rest. “We were occupied,” he replied, and just because he could, he reached over and pressed a quick kiss to Chuuya’s cheek.
To his delight, Chuuya’s ears became slightly redder.
Despite all Dazai might have imagined about the space Chuuya lived in, what he found was not what he had expected. Things were relatively neat for any college student and especially for someone so hotheaded as Chuuya. There were a few miscellaneous items on tables and hanging out of drawers—records, hoodies, hair ties, bracelets—but it was much more put together than Dazai had imagined.
Regrettably, Chuuya gave him no time to look around. The moment they stepped inside, he was being dragged into a little nook that seemed to serve as Chuuya’s bedroom. He immediately noticed the collection of band posters on the wall: Alice in Chains, like Chuuya’s T-shirt, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, AC/DC, Van Halen, Aerosmith, and Audioslave were all there in varying degrees of blue, red, or black. He liked grunge, then. And 70s rock. Somehow, Dazai thought that made sense.
“Hé, arrête de fixer et ramène tes cul ici.” Chuuya’s voice wrenched him from his thoughts and he blinked, finding Chuuya seated on his bed with his laptop in his lap. [“Hey, stop staring and get your ass over here.”]
The next few hours were spent building a PowerPoint on the Eiffel Tower. It was obviously their best bet since at least half the class would be doing the same thing so hopefully, their professor would get so sick of it that she would stop paying attention and just give everyone an A.
And Dazai could safely assume that he had been at least a little bit in love with Chuuya since the second he saw him, but now he knew he was past the point of no return because Chuuya made the project fun. They laughed at stupid things and took far too long to do very simple tasks, but it was more fun doing schoolwork than Dazai had ever had.
And oh, Chuuya was lovely when he laughed.
“C'est ridicule! Sommes-nous censés savoir ce que cela signifie? Je t’emmerde!” he exclaimed, looking disbelieving at the article in front of them with the widest grin on his face. [“That’s ridiculous! Are we supposed to know what that even means? Fuck you!”]
“Tsk tsk, that’s not very nice, Chuuya.” Dazai was just assuming, of course, but he did catch the ‘fuck you’ at the end thanks to Higuchi’s teachings.
“Je t'emmerde aussi!” [“Fuck you too!”]
It took them nearly three hours of screwing around, panicking, and dedicating themselves to their research before they finally scrapped together something presentable (literally). It was choppy and disorganized, sure, but at this point, they were both too tired to care.
Dazai flopped backward onto Chuuya’s tiny bed, staring up at the indecipherable ceiling as Chuuya sighed from next to him and pushed his red curls out of his face. “Dieu merci que est terminé.” [“Thank god that’s over.”]
Dazai chuckled. He understood the sentiment. “We’re quite the superstars. Today has been quite the day.”
He felt Chuuya’s gaze on him and looked over to meet his eyes. The moonlight trickling in through the window made his blue eye look like molten silver and lit up the edges of his hair in a similar fashion. He looked like some kind of angel, or perhaps a magical faerie of some kind. Any sort of ethereal being, he supposed, as long as it wasn’t an elf. They were far too tall.
“Hey, Chuuya?”
“Hm?”
“Can I draw you?”
It was a question Dazai wanted to ask for months now, but the moment had never been quite right. He and Chuuya were always doing something, running around Paris under the pretense of project research and there was hardly a moment of stillness between the two of them.
Now, though, everything felt just right.
He saw Chuuya’s brows furrow, perhaps trying to decipher the sentence, and Dazai couldn’t help but chuckle. They truly had just confessed their love for each other hours ago and still couldn’t properly talk to one another.
He held up his flat palm and fashioned his other hand as if he were holding a pencil, scribbling imaginary lines for a second before pointing directly at Chuuya.
It only took him a moment to understand, and Dazai delighted in the genuine surprise that overtook his expression. It was often the other way around with the two of them, and Dazai figured it was about time he started getting his revenge.
Perhaps he’d have to ask Chuuya to pose for him in the nude sometime.
“D'accord,” Chuuya breathed. [“Okay.”]
That was a word Dazai knew from his class. He smiled and pulled out the little notebook and pencil set he kept in his pocket—he never left home without them. Chuuya leaned back against the wall, one leg bent in front of him on the bed and the other serving to prop up his arm on his knee. It was a relaxed pose and Dazai liked it very much, so all he asked of Chuuya was that he tilt his head to the side slightly.
Dazai started with Chuuya’s legs. His pants were looser around his ankles and calves, but when he was seated like this, they became very tight around his thighs. Dazai had to remind himself to stay focused as he added the wrinkles of the fabric.
Silence settled over them after that. Chuuya was a very impressive model, sitting perfectly still with the exception of his lashes fluttering now and again, and Dazai felt himself slip into what could only be called a Zone. It was not a familiar experience, but with Chuuya it happened so naturally he hardly noticed. One moment, he could hear the sound of thunder overhead and the beginnings of rain pattering on the roof, the rustle of his shirt fabric when he moved his arm, and the next moment he didn’t hear anything but the scratch of his pencil and the sound of Chuuya’s steady breathing.
Dazai hadn’t noticed this until just now, but one of Chuuya’s shoes had apparently been discarded by the door while the other was still firmly on his foot, a well-worn black Converse shie. He chuckled.
“Quoi?” [“What?”]
Dazai looked up and found Chuuya watching him with a faint smile, looking both confused and amused. He studied his face for a moment, the way the light hit it just so, the way he found himself drowning in those features, and then he blinked and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, chuckling when Chuuya huffed.
After he finished his bottom half, Dazai began with the shirt. Chuuya had discarded his jacket, so he was left in his holey Alice in Chains tee. Dazai had to admit that it was terribly sexy, him sitting there in a loose shirt and loose jeans (except where they hugged his delicious thighs) and his hair cascading down one shoulder like an autumn river. He didn’t think there was a finer sight in all the world.
Dazai paid special attention to the design on the front of the shirt—this would not be his most detailed drawing, but he would not have it be chicken scratch either. This was Chuuya, after all.
The folds and wrinkles in the fabric were easy enough since most of them were hidden by the low lighting, and then Dazai moved on to Chuuya’s arms.
Chuuya’s physicality was deceptive, Dazai thought. He was such a small person so one would assume he was also very slender, but that was hardly the case. The lean muscle of his arms was highlighted by the low moon, casting ripples each time he shifted even slightly. Dazai did his best to capture it, he truly did, but sometimes some things simply weren’t meant to be preserved on a stagnant page.
Still, Dazai thought he’d like to spend the rest of his life trying.
“You... you're very pretty, Chuuya,” he murmured, moving on to the hands. Chuuya had lovely hands, rough and calloused and very different from his own pianist fingers. He made sure to capture their exact likeness.
He doubted Chuuya understood him, but he apparently gleaned the sentiment enough to flush a pale pink. Dazai smiled.
He then began on Chuuya’s collarbones, his broad shoulders, his neck, all the way up to his face. This was where he started to worry he would not do Chuuya’s beauty proper justice. Especially without any color, he could not capture the way the moonlight reflected from his eyes or lit up his proud cheekbones in such a soft silver, and that was a terrible crime.
Dazai huffed. “You are a terrible model, slug, do you know that? You’re making this far more difficult than I’d like it.”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes.
It was difficult to do this when so much of Chuuya’s face was in shadow. Dazai scooted closer on the bed, enough that their knees were knocking and they could share breath. He analyzed every inch of Chuuya’s face, every crease and dive, every proud peak. Chuuya’s eyes followed him, burning into his skin, but Dazai didn’t mind. For the first time in a long while, he felt remarkably grounded while he worked.
Chuuya’s face came together surprisingly neatly on the page. It was not in the detail Dazai would like to do one day, but for now, it would do. Once he was at least half-satisfied with it, he moved on to the untamable mane that was Chuuya’s hair, copper curls dipped in silver.
Most of the time, the hair Dazai drew was very straight and plain, so figuring this out was a bit of a challenge. It took him a few tries to get something that truly resembled the real thing, but when he looked to Chuuya and back at it, he was surprised by how close it truly was. Perhaps he was not so out of practice as he thought.
“As tu fini?” Chuuya asked softly, and Dazai hummed as he studied the page. Never as ethereal as the real thing, but he supposed it would do. [“Are you done?”]
He handed Chuuya the page, who moved for the first time in many long minutes to grab it. Dazai studied his expression as his eyes flitted over the page, scrutinizing every inch, but he was not prepared for the sudden wide smile that overtook Chuuya’s face.
“C'est incroyable,” he muttered, shaking his head before looking up, and Dazai nearly lost his breath at the sheer joy he saw there. “Tu es incroyable.” [“That’s incredible. You’re incredible.”]
Dazai scoffed at that. “This is hardly—“
“Osamu.”
He shuddered at the sound of his name on Chuuya’s lips.
Chuuya leaned forward, cupping his cheek with one hand and holding the drawing with the other, and smiled. “Merci.” [“Thank you.”]
That was a word Dazai knew. He stared for a moment though, momentarily tongue-tied before he could bring himself to speak. “It’s nothing,” he breathed, completely and utterly hopeless.
Chuuya grinned and captured his lips in a kiss.
It surprised him, but Dazai wasted no time in dropping his pencil and notebook to twine his hands about Chuuya’s waist. Their kiss at the Eiffel Tower was gentler, sweetened by the disgusting sappiness of the moment and the fact that nothing had felt real until after the fact, but this was different. It was more intense, almost desperate, and Dazai found himself helping Chuuya pull off his shirt before he could think.
Not that it mattered. He couldn’t expect himself to be anything but dizzy and drowning in the feeling of Chuuya’s lips against his.
Dazai ran his hands over the newly exposed skin while Chuuya began leaving marks along his neck, letting out a low noise when he felt the gentle scrape of teeth just over his pulse point. It only took another moment before Chuuya was tugging Dazai’s own shirt off and discarding it somewhere before running his hands over Dazai’s chest, his ribcage, his back.
“Magnifique,” he murmured, almost to himself, before Dazai pulled him in for another desperate kiss. [“Beautiful.”]
Dazai hummed in reply, and as the minutes ticked by, they tangled themselves together like their bodies were already intimately familiar. It was hungry and needy and effortlessly passionate in a way Dazai had not yet experienced, and he felt like he was doing everything for the first time again with the way his gut felt pleasantly warm and his blood sang.
It was as if they had known each other all their lives.
***
“Osamu. Hé, Osamu. Osamu!” [“Hey.”]
Dazai’s eyes snapped open and he immediately groaned at the sunlight that assaulted him. He threw his arm over his eyes and turned away from it and from Chuuya’s hands, which gripped his other arm and shook it ferociously. “You can't let me get even a lick of sleep, can you? That’s cruel, you know, especially considering—“
He cut himself off. Chuuya’s hands vanished.
“We have school,” he whispered.
Chuuya nodded.
Dazai leaped from the bed, uncaring that he just had to wear his clothes from last night, stole Chuuya’s toothbrush, and splashed his face with water before stumbling out to where Chuuya was frantically making a pot of coffee, wearing nothing but his boxers.
Just because, Dazai stole a kiss from him on his way to find his shoes, delighting in the surprised little mmph! Chuuya let out. “You’re unfairly sexy in the morning, you know that?” he called over his shoulder. It was a true test of his willpower to be able to see those delicious abs so soon after waking up and right before they had to be in class. Dazai huffed at the unfairness of the situation.
“Tu pourras flirter avec moi plus tard, abruti,” was Chuuya’s reply. [“You can flirt with me later, dumbass.”]
Dazai attempted to scour the little kitchen space for any sugar to put in his coffee (it took him a good two or three minutes because there was absolutely no organization to be seen), and by the time he finally found some, Chuuya was already stumbling out fully dressed (unfortunately) and looking very presentable.
Dazai blinked. “How did you do that so fast?”
Chuuya frowned. “Hm?” He looked down at himself. “Quoi?” [“What?”]
He was dressed in his usual fashion and glittering with all kinds of jewelry as if he wasn’t practically naked just minutes ago.
Dazai shook his head and decided it would be a waste of time to try and understand such sorcery. “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head.
As luck would have it, their French History class was also the closest class to Chuuya’s dorm room. They raced downstairs as quickly as they could (which was faster for Dazai than for Chuuya, amusingly), and when they threw open the classroom door, the first student to present had barely opened his mouth.
All heads turned to them, naturally, but Dazai ignored that and slipped into his seat beside Chuuya, conveniently close to the door. He tried very, very hard to stifle his laughter.
As expected, nearly half the presentations were about the Eiffel Tower, and Dazai could hardly contain his glee at the fact that they were going third to last. They would be the nail in the coffin to drive home their professor’s clear boredom after hearing the same five facts spit back at her, but they wouldn’t linger in her mind too long to make her look close. He couldn’t have asked for anything better.
“So, in conclusion, the Eiffel Tower was incredibly influential by showcasing French industrial ingenuity and reinstating pride in the country.”
The class applauded as they took their seats and Dazai let out a short, relieved sigh. Presentations were such a drag.
Chuuya held up his fist as they sat down, sporting a toothy grin. His hair was slightly more unruly than usual, one of his necklaces flipped around, his collar crooked.
Dazai bumped his fist and grinned back.
***
Ever since Dazai drew Chuuya that rainy night, he hadn’t stopped pestering him. Draw this, he would say when he pointed to a strange-looking flower growing up from the cobblestone road. Draw them, he would say and gesture to the old couple sitting on the bank of the Seine, humming an old tune only they now knew. Draw me, he said often.
And Dazai did. The months passed, fall gave way to winter, the semester wore on, and he filled tens of hundreds of pages with Chuuya. A quick sketch while they ate lunch at a cafe, a detailed portrait he made Chuuya sit for hours for, a simple eye or hand on the corner of an unimportant page. It became muscle memory, tracing those sharp angles and planes onto paper. He usually just used whatever pencil he had on hand, but then Chuuya bought him a far-too-nice set of charcoal and he started using that, too. He took up pastels again after that, and then watercolor, and then he painted a large portrait of Chuuya in acrylic, doing his very best to capture every lick of fire in his hair and every fleck of gold in his eyes.
Then, he started taking art classes. Entry level at first, since everything he knew was what he figured out for himself, but that got boring and he was given permission to join the advanced classes. He took live drawing and graphic design and studio art and even tried photography, though he didn’t find that nearly as interesting. And when he was finished, he would find Chuuya and blab to him about everything he had learned, all he had seen and done and screwed up, and Chuuya would laugh and kiss him senseless, whispering sweet French nothings in his ear.
Eventually, he began to understand those French nothings, too. Taking French I was complicated and very confusing, but Dazai had the best memory of anyone he knew and got the hang of things quickly after that. He started French II and used Chuuya as his personal practice machine who, in turn, used Dazai as a Japanese practice machine. It was clunky for them both, learning to speak to each other that way, but they understood each other so well without words that they hardly ever needed them. Dazai knew what Chuuya was thinking in just one glance, or could at least come up with a few educated guesses.
He had art back in his life. He had Paris. He had Chuuya. Only a year gone, and there was little more Dazai could ask for.
“So… you’re not coming back with us?”
He shook his head, ripping off another piece of the baguette. “I’ll stay one more year, I think.”
“Why’s that?”
Dazai let out a short breath. “I’ve decided to enter the art program.”
Yosano looked surprised for just a moment, and then her expression melted into a warm, wide smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He hummed.
“And I’m guessing Chuuya had absolutely nothing to do with this?” she added, and though Dazai was intentionally avoiding looking at her, he could imagine the smug smirk she was wearing without a problem.
She was correct, of course. Dazai had finally convinced Chuuya to sit nude for him, and after he finished and Chuuya had drawn him close, hands on his collar and lips only a breath from his, he’d whispered so softly: “Be an artist.”
It had shocked him into stillness for a moment, because for a moment he could actually see it, and then he gave Chuuya a smile and a wink. "Only if you'll model for me."
Chuuya had smirked at him, lips curled up in that devastating heartbreaker grin, and he hummed: "After I get booked for Chanel."
And really, what on Earth could Dazai say to that?
“Absolutely not,” he replied, popping a slice of gooey brie onto his bread and giving Yosano a disgustingly pleasant smile.
She only laughed. “I get it. Hey, and listen—“ she cut herself off and Dazai was surprised by the feeling of a hand gripping his. He looked up to find Yosano watching him with that warm look back on her face and that constant playful glint in her eyes. “I’m happy for you. I really am.”
Dazai allowed himself a rare gentle smile. “Thank you, Akiko.” He leaned back and ripped off a bit of his bread, letting out a long sigh. “Frankly, I think you’re the only one.”
“Oh?”
“Your girlfriend and her brother still hate me,” he whined, lolling his head backward. Perhaps hate was too strong of a word in Kouyou’s case, but certainly not for Verlaine. Every time they had dinner together or ran into each other in a park, Dazai felt like he was being eyed by a giant mother hen with the urge and the means to pluck out his eyes and feed them to him through his ears.
Yosano laughed at that like the cruel person she was. “They’ll come around eventually. It took me a while to get Verlaine to warm up to me too, y’know.”
“How long was that?”
“Eh. Three or four years.”
Dazai groaned.
“Don’t be such a baby! If I were him, I’d hate you too.”
“That’s very reassuring, thank you.”
“Anytime, hon.”
They were not sentimental people, so they spent the rest of their last lunch date (for now) talking about the future. Yosano would go back to Yokohama in a few days and graduate so she could go even more broke on even more medical school. She would go into orthopedic surgery and maybe, when she made enough money to pay back all her debts and got tired of fixing up people’s bones, she would become a therapist and work with jaded teenagers like she used to be. She would come and see Kouyou whenever she wanted, and they would terrorize Verlaine together. She would terrorize him and Chuuya, too.
Dazai had some trouble admitting it at first, but he wanted to change his degree and go into art. He would stay in Paris for as long as Chuuya would let him, and he would draw and paint and starve like all the greats did. Chuuya would become a model like he always wanted and he would be Dazai’s muse (whether he liked it or not). He would visit Yokohama often and take Yosano out to a park or something since they’d both be too broke for anything else. He may or may not live a long time, but he would live a lot.
“Thank god I convinced you to do this, huh?” Yosano swirled her glass of wine around, watching the passersby from their little table nestled amongst all the others at the little cafe. ”You’d probably be dead in a ditch somewhere otherwise.”
Dazai threw a piece of bread at her and rolled his eyes. He couldn’t stifle his smile. “Yeah. Whatever.”
***
The raindrops pitter-pattered on the roof as Dazai stared up at the ceiling, running his fingers through Chuuya’s hair. It was too dark to see anything now, but he could feel the steady rise and fall of Chuuya’s chest and the ghost of his breath on his collar.
“Alors tu as vraiment décidé de rester, hein?” [“So you really decided to stay, huh?”]
Dazai hummed. “I couldn’t leave my dear slug to suffer all by his lonesome, now, could I?”
That earned him a playful slap on the shoulder and he laughed, pressing it into Chuuya’s hair.
“So cruel,” he murmured. “Perhaps I shouldn’t stick around after all.”
Chuuya snorted. “Bon. Comme ça, je n'ai pas besoin de voir ton stupide cul tout le temps.” [“Good. Then I don't have to see your stupid ass all the time.”]
“Oh, Chuuya, you know I can’t focus on anything when you talk like that,” Dazai groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes and ignoring the feeling he got that Chuuya was certainly smirking at him with that awful glint in his eyes, the one that meant he was about to be tortured.
“Je t'aime, tu sais,” is what he heard instead, and Dazai removed his arm to find Chuuya watching him with a crooked, pretty smile. [“I love you, y’know.”]
He smiled. “Je t'aime aussi, chéri.” [“I love you too, darling.”]
***
The day Dazai said goodbye to his friends was bittersweet.
There were smiles all around, warm goodbyes and warmer embraces. As expected, there were no tears from Ranpo or Yosano, but Atsushi was an absolute mess as he clung to Dazai like a child to his father.
“I’m gonna miss you so much!” he sobbed, clutching the back of his shirt and soaking his shoulder with tears. “It’s not gonna be the same without you, Dazai, it’s just not!”
“I’m not going off to the gallows, Atsushi,” Dazai chuckled, ruffling his hair. “You’ll see me in a few months.”
“You promise you’ll call?”
“Every day if you like.”
Atsushi nodded and sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve as Kunikida took his place. He set his hand on his shoulder and gave him a very stern look, like some sort of condescending mother. “Don’t make any more stupid decisions than you already do,” he said seriously. “Don’t burn down the dorms. Don’t drown in the Seine. Don’t fall off the Eiffel Tower.”
“No promises, Kunikida,” Dazai said with a wink. Kunikida rolled his eyes, but then he gripped Dazai’s shoulders and pulled him into a quick, tight hug.
“Call,” was all he said, and Dazai hid his smile in his shoulder.
Yosano bid her farewells to Kouyou and Verlaine, giving them each a kiss on the cheek before bending Kouyou into a sweeping dip and practically devouring her for a few uncomfortable moments. She ruffled Chuuya’s hair, much to his dismay, and promised him she’d miss him. She ruffled Dazai’s hair too, and when she smiled, it was like pure, toothy sunshine.
“I won’t miss you though, idiot.”
Dazai bobbed his head and grinned. “The feeling is mutual.”
She winked, blew him a kiss, and then kissed Kouyou one last time. “Alright everyone, we’re gonna be left behind if we don’t leave now!”
The troupe gathered up any last-minute items and began filing out, shouting their goodbyes over their shoulders while Verlaine, Kouyou, Chuuya, and Dazai waved them off. Yosano made sure Atsushi had everything, being the scatterbrain that he was, and after everyone had made it through, she turned around quick for one last word.
“Au revoir mes amours!” [“Goodbye my loves!”]
Kouyou laughed, and Dazai rolled his eyes, and they all waved back. “Au revoir!” [“Goodbye!”]
She disappeared down the hall and then it was just the four of them standing in the lobby, early morning sunlight streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
An arm twined around his waist, and then Chuuya stepped in front of him and drew them close, wearing that devastating heartbreaker smile. “Je suppose qu'il est temps d'aller en classe,” he hummed, tilting his head to the side. [“I guess it's time for class.”]
Dazai could feel the phantom hand cramps already forming and groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
Chuuya laughed, retracting his arms from around Dazai’s waist and intertwining their fingers instead. Dazai ignored the feeling of Kouyou and Verlaine’s eyes on them, ignored the tiredness behind his eyelids and the bittersweet feeling of goodbyes in his throat.
He ignored it all and tugged Chuuya closer, smiling at the glittering Paris before them.