Dazai hates how good Chuuya looks— a common white off-the-shoulder tee doesn't deserve to accentuate him like that!

He's trapped with Chuuya's annoying beauty for 12 whole hours. Sometimes their business extends beyond just Yokohama, Japan. Sometimes their enemies are in a whole different time zone— Paris, specifically.

Dazai despises how happy Chuuya looks! Just because it's currency Paris fashion week, and Dazai might've given into a strange feeling inside him and bought his way in doesn't mean he should grin so!

He especially hates how whenever Chuuya moves, the leather of his stupidly tight pants shift against Dazai's own covered leg. He hates how fashionable he looks, even when he's been given explicit instructions to pipe down.

The take off is fine, boring as Chuuya is flipping through a fashion magazine with a frenzied excitement, occasionally whispering a soft 'oh' of delight.

Though he basically devours it, he becomes bored soon, as Chuuya does. Dazai's contented to be left to his thoughts about anything but Chuuya, but the man has never been the quiet type.

"What kind of models do you think they'll have? French ones, obviously— but what type?" Chuuya chatters, grin still buoyant.

Dazai sighs fakely and loudly, earning a few strange looks, "Pretty ones, hopefully."

Chuuya scowls at him and bats his shoulder lightly. He takes a long sip from his coke and gives Dazai an equally loud and fake sigh.

"Idiot. How are you not excited? It's 2016 Paris Fashion Week!" Chuuya pauses and looks him up and down, eyeing his rag-tag black suit critically with a small smirk, "Eh, I suppose you aren't that into fashion..."

Dazai grits his teetn and doesn't blush at the way Chuuya eyed him for a second there— this bastard is too dumb for his own good.

"Practicality over beauty," Dazai snipes, shooting Chuuya an annoyed glare and a snarky tone. He's definitely not hot all over.

Chuuya giggles, rolling his eyes playfully and touching his fashion magazine feverishly with a dreamy look, "You can have both, fish, you just suck at fashion!"

They bicker inconsequentially, exchanging— in their minds, pleasantries and semi-friendly chat.

Hours pass like waves against a shore, and they fall into a sleepy lull, Chuuya snoring and dancing in and out of sleep while Dazai stares at him from the corner of his eye— if the roles were reversed, Chuuya would do the same; that sappy romantic.

Dazai feels a flutterly feeling bubble up his his liver, strange, usually its just alcohol poisoning. This isn't that. He brushes it off as anger at tge sight of Chuuya's head thrown in a arch, drooling a little and creaking his neck so badly he's sure he'll have severe neck pains when he wakes.

Dazai didn't touch him— Chuuya's head fell into his shoulder naturally! Why would he want to touch that freak? He's only letting him stay for some peace and quiet. This really, truly angers him. Definitely.

Chuuya wakes groggily at some point to pull his love lock back into a Chuuya-esque ponytail, bangs stowed away behind his little pierced ears.

Dazai hates how good he looks— a common ponytail doesn't deserve to make Dazai curse aloud.