Paris in the Rain

The scratching of the pen as it makes circles and lines across the surface of the paper is a familiar, soothing melody that lulls him into stark concentration as he leans over his desk, bright, amber eyes narrowing as he makes yet another strike across a far off answer, an arching, blonde eyebrow quirking up his forehead as his mind wanders to the whined complaint the student whose paper he is marking off will likely make. But that isn't his problem; his job is to provide them with the tools necessary to write and solve such equations, to pester and goad them about whether or not they understand, to explain things as logically and forthright as possible.

If they choose to ignore all of these things in favor of staying out late, parties, and booze, it isn't any of his concern, and he certainly isn't going to pull sympathetic punches. If one was going to enroll in college courses, certainly one wanted for higher education and a better lot in life. Why they threw it away for "the college experience" he would never know.

A dull ache begins to throb between his shoulder blades and he winces, straightening in his chair as he realizes how close he had let his body slump over the desk in his moment of concentration. From this new distance he can't quite make out the messily scrawled answers on the page and a moment of astonishment settles over him.

His glasses. When had he taken them off? He scans the cluttered surface of the desktop with concern, reaching out to collect the small stack of already graded papers in his hand and lift them, revealing glass lenses folded on top of neat wire frames. A sigh of relief escapes him as he reaches for them, flicking his wrist to open them as he lifts them to his face, settling them on the bridge of his sharp, pointed nose.

Concentration momentarily broken, he takes a moment to retrieve his cellphone from the drawer to his right, tapping the button and causing the screen to light, 4 new messages emblazoned before him in bright text. Reluctantly, he traces his unlock pattern across the screen, resisting the urge to throw his phone back into the drawer and slam it shut.

I should at least make sure it's nothing urgent. He's fairly certain it isn't, but it would be just his luck that it would be if he chose to ignore it. Tapping the mailbox icon on the screen, he only has to read the first letter of the highlighted message thread before the phone is out of his hands and back from whence it came.

"Not today." Bringing both of his hands to his face, he pushes his glasses atop his head, rubbing small circles against his eyes with his palms. "There's too much work to be done."

Though his classes were done for the day and he had none the following, he had planned to stay and get all of his grading done right there at the university, as he always does. However, as he reaches for his pen once more he recognizes the distinct feeling that is slowly settling over him thanks to the momentary break in progress.

Glaring down at the papers before him, he becomes acutely aware of the dull ache emanating from the back of his head. He abandons the pen and reaches back, nimble fingers finding the elastic band that holds his straight, blonde locks in a well collected ponytail, tugging it down and pushing it onto his wrist, releasing his hair from its hold. He runs through the locks before massaging the back of his scalp with the pads of his fingers, a grunt of frustration and relief escaping him as the soreness at the back of his head begins to subside, his brain beginning to swim as his eyelids lower a fraction at a time.

He's so exhausted.

"Just a bit more." He shakes his head, hand leaving his hair and coming to rest on the desktop, pen just outside of the brush of his fingertips.

Summoning his willpower with a determined sigh, he scans the remaining questions on the page before him, only to be interrupted by four crisp, cheerful knocks as they rap against the door. With a groan he reaches back to his hair, gathering the strands carefully before pulling the elastic up his wrist and wrapping it around the ponytail three times, parting it down the middle and giving it a quick tug before rising, moving around his desk to get the door just as it swings inward.

"Are you alive in here, Kunikida-sensei?"

A sharp inhale escapes him as the teasing tone breaks into the room. He can make no mistake about which of his colleagues has intruded upon him, the sing-song tone is as boisterous and forward as its owner, Dazai Osamu, the primary philosophy professor.

For a brief moment he considers ducking under his desk, but as he can already feel the pierce of mischievous brown eyes on his face he abandons the notion and settles for using a middle finger to slide his glasses up his nose, which earns a soft tongue click from Dazai.

"You didn't respond to my messages, what else was I to think? Naturally I assumed you'd gotten buried beneath piles of failed tests and worksheets, so I rushed to your rescue."

As he speaks, Dazai gestures flamboyantly, tossing his head, brown waves swaying dramatically, arching and waving his arms; Kunikida's eyes catch on the packages in each of Dazai's hands and he scowls, crossing his arms.

"You rushed to my aid with takeout in hand?" He doesn't attempt to hide the incredulous tone that has crept onto his voice, though he does attempt to hide the growling of his stomach as the smell of food fills the air.

Dazai merely shrugs, striding across the spanse between them and setting the packages down on top of the stack papers closest to the desk's edge, only to have them snatched up and handed back to him unceremoniously.

"Not there."

"Eh? It's not like the students would know the difference between our stains and their own." Dazai's laugh is cut short by a withering look. "Fine, fine. Courtyard sound good?"

He turns, glancing sideways at Kunikida, who hasn't moved since he rose from the desk.

"You're dragging me away from my work, you know. Not only that, you're doing it through manipulation and peer pressure."

"Naturally."

"I genuinely question you and your ethics, Dazai-sensei."

"That is a large point of my purpose in this establishment." Dazai winks, rolling his shoulder toward the door, a gesture for Kunikida to quit dragging his feet and take a breather.

_____

"You really ought to think about doing something fun on your nights off." Dazai speaks through a mouthful of curry, wincing visibly shortly after, from what Kunikida can only assume is the feeling of his own teeth biting into his tongue.

Kunikida rolls his eyes, taking the time to chew and swallow his own food like a civilised human before answering.

"You mean every night? I don't teach evening classes anymore."

"It couldn't hurt you, you know." His eyebrows waggle playfully and Kunikida has to put all of his willpower into stopping himself from backhanding the man.

"I'm thirty-two years old, Dazai."

"And good looking. Yet you're so absorbed by your work, you have no love life to show for it. It's a tragedy."

Kunikida grits his teeth, sincerely considering shoving Dazai backward and into the fountain they're seated on. But he doesn't; never does, probably never will.

"I don't see how my love life is any of your business."

"Mmmmmm, I suppose it isn't, but I take an interest anyway." Dazai sets his takeout box down beside him on the lip of the fountain, legs swinging as he fixes Kunikida with a curious gaze. "Do you ever do things that aren't work related?"

A snort escapes Kunikida, disbelief written on his face as he shakes his head. He looks away from Dazai and focuses instead on the parking lot at the very edge of the courtyard.

"I do plenty of things that aren't that someone like you would laugh at and deem 'work'. Each of us is different, and your attempts to quantify and qualify what I do in my spare time are shockingly closed minded for a philosophy professor." His voice has begun to raise and tremble, anger and annoyance at the current topic of their conversation warming the blood rushing through his cheeks.

Dazai doesn't answer right away, and that makes him even angrier. Idiot could at least finish what he started. In the corner of his vision, Dazai shifts and raises a hand to tuck a few strands of brown behind his ear, revealing black, blue, and yellow along the junction between the end of his ear and the start of his jaw. Kunikida feels his upper lip curl, Dazai's sidelong glance mimicking the self satisfied smirk on his lips.

"That reaction alone is enough to tell anyone who's half decent at reading body language that you want something more than what you have. You're not as satisfied with your singularity as you pretend to be." His tone is soft, sympathetic even. It makes the hair on the back of Kunikida's neck prickle.

"I don't need sympathy or advice from a playboy like you." Raising from the side of the fountain, Kunikida strolls across the brick walkway to dispose of the remains of his takeout in the nearest trash bin, the feel of Dazai's smug eyes on the back of his head driving the thought of plunging Dazai himself into the bin to the forefront of his mind.

If only professionalism wasn't so important to him.

"Whatever you say." Dazai pushes himself onto his feet, threading his fingers together and bringing his arms over his head in a lazy stretch, taking the hint that the conversation has neared its close. "Heading back to grading hell? I'll walk with you."

Kunikida shoots him a look hard and cold enough to affix a lesser man to the spot. Dazai merely shoves his hands into the pockets of his khakis and grins back, nose crinkling.

"No, I think you've sufficiently derailed my plans for the day." It's practically a snarl. The back of his head has started to pound, there is no point in going back to his desk now.

"Fine, fine. Forgive me for worrying that you work yourself to the bone." Dazai's eyes roll lazily as he sweeps past Kunikida, nudging him gently with his shoulder as he does. "Just give it some thought."

Kunikida already knows from the words swirling about his brain that that won't be a problem. He narrows his eyes before rolling them as he shrugs, not bothering to follow Dazai with his gaze as he glides away in the direction of the lecture hall.

The courtyard seems eerily silent without the infuriating presence of his colleague. Kunikida allows himself a sigh, temples beginning to throb as he considers what to do with the rest of his afternoon. He reaches into the pocket of his green vest, noting the frustrated tremble of his own fingers as they close around his keys.

Perhaps the gym. His bag was packed and sitting on the passenger seat of his car; he had fully intended on going as a treat for getting all of his work done. Yes, that would help clear his head.

Turning on his heel, he strolls toward the lot, the thought that perhaps it would be safer for all involved for him to walk rather than drive in his current state of anger striking him as he goes.

_____

The sun shines brightly down upon him as he moves swiftly along the sidewalk, the usual bustle of Yokohama's streets subdued to a lull at this time of the afternoon. He's grateful for this fact, long legs carrying him along at a pace that would have been hindered by the crush of bodies moving against him down the sidewalk.

Dazai's words don't follow him as far as he thought they would. In fact, after the first couple blocks of storming along with red pricking at the edges of his vision he finds himself seriously considering some choice words, still mildly frustrated but willing to admit the idiot had some sort of marginally caring bone in his body.

By the time he climbs the steps of the recreational facility two by two and swipes his membership badge through the terminal on the turnstile the anticipation of his coming workout has already taken over the forefront of his mind, distracting him entirely and driving him forward purposefully.

"Kunikida-san!" A girl with long, dark hair and large eyes greets him enthusiastically from behind the check-in desk as he passes.

"Naomi-chan." He raises a hand and nods in greeting, shifting the strap of his bag to adjust it further up his shoulder.

Moving down the main corridor, past rooms walled in by glass containing various workout apparatuses, he makes his way to the locker rooms, dropping his bag to the tile floor in front of one of the benches. Taking in a deep breath he fiddles with the buttons of his vest, shaking it down his arms before moving to his cream-colored dress shirt, letting both fall to the floor before bending at the waist and unzipping his bag, reaching inside and drawing out a deep grey tank, slipping it over his head and smoothing it over his abdomen, taking a moment to consider the way the fabric clings to the defined muscles there.

His pants are next, the buckle of his belt clattering as it hits the tile, the stiff, dressy fabric replaced by a pair of black stretch shorts that hug the muscles of his thighs like a second skin, stopping just before the knobs of his knees. Lowering himself onto the bench, he kicks his shoes off before peeling off his socks. Extracting a roll of wrap from the side pocket of his bag, he begins to wrap his legs, starting midway up his calf and continuing down, stopping just before his toes. He does the same to his arms, beginning halfway up his forearm and continuing down his hand, making sure to wrap his palms up until the first knuckle.

A small grin begins to play across his lips as he shoves his discarded work clothes into his bag, retrieving his lock before zipping it up. He pulls open the closest unlocked locker and tosses the bag in, the click of the lock as he secures his bag causing his heart to start up in anticipation.

He needs this.

Padding back out into the main corridor, he begins fiddling with his hair, one hand working on removing the current ponytail holder while the other searches the small pocket along the seam of his shorts for another. He feels along his scalp as he gathers his hair up so that it will sit higher on his head, wrapping the first ponytail around as tight as he can before setting to work on wrapping the length of his locks around the base of the ponytail, securing everything into a tight bun.

By the time he is finished with this he has arrived at the room he seeks. His mind feels clear as water as he grasps the handle and pulls toward himself, the smell of chalk, mats, and punching bags striking him in the face and wafting over him like an old friend, the sound of crisp strikes meeting his ears like a soothing melody. He steps inside, eyes drifting to the source of the sound as the door swings to a close behind him, lighting on the room's only other occupant, his breath catching as he drinks in the display.

The man his vision is centered on is quite short, Kunikida puts him at a full foot shorter than his own frame of 6'2". His fiery hair is pulled into a bun as equally tight and neat as Kunikida's own, aside from the few stray curls just behind his ears. He is facing one of the standing bags in the center of the room, but Kunikida can see his face in the mirrors along the opposite wall well enough to note the piercing concentration of his blue eyes as they narrow, lips turned up at one edge in a smile so easy going Kunikida wonders if the man even realizes he's wearing one. He jumps back and toward the bag as it moves, pulling and pushing his blows, sweeping around it as if it is a live opponent, never striking the same spot twice in succession.

It is a true thing of beauty. Kunikida attempts to tear his eyes away, but finds himself cocking his head to the side, tongue coming out to swipe against his dry lips absently as he takes in each move, wondering how it would feel to spar with someone so skilled. He had never seen the man before, which wasn't really saying a lot; he frequented the gym, sure, but at very specific times of day. That being said, the idea flitted across his mind that he might enjoy changing his routine to accommodate observing such a sight again.

The sound of a throat being cleared replaces the repetitive sound of blow after blow and Kunikida blinks rapidly, the realization that he has been caught staring falling on him as the man turns from the bag to face him, chest heaving beneath a black tank that is darkened across the torso from sweat, lips parted slightly to aid his breathing but wearing the same self assured, carefree smirk.

Shit.

The air rushes out of Kunikida's lungs with such force that it dawns on him he has been holding his breath for some time. He shakes his head, tearing his gaze away from the man and wandering over to the shallow box in the corner, dragging his feet through the chalk, limbs shaking as he stands on one leg, then the other, swiping his hands over each foot in turn to evenly coat them before bending and taking some in his hands, rubbing it along them as if he's washing up, focusing on his own movements and attempting to force the heat from his cheeks and the outline of the man's lips from his eyes.

The sound of landing hits resumes and Kunikida is grateful that nothing is said about his momentary stupor. He focuses on his breathing as he crosses the room and faces one of the many mirrors along the wall, purposely choosing a spot where the man won't be too directly in his line of sight, choosing instead to watch his own eyes widen with anticipation behind his glasses as he does a few stretches, muscles rippling as they anticipate each move, tendons warming and softening with each repetition. He doesn't take as long with his warm up as he usually does, but he's okay with paying for it with a bit of soreness tomorrow.

Right now he just needs to hit something.

Turning to the bag closest to him he closes his eyes, dragging in a deep breath through his nose before striking against the side of the bag with the side of his right hand, spinning in place on his right leg before connecting his left ankle seconds later, his mind already miles away as he revels in the feel of the tensing of tissue with each movement, eyelids dropping to a close as he lets the frustration of the day filter into each connection with the bag.

He loses track of time, forgets even his surroundings as he throws himself into the motions.

Each breath his lungs drag in and push out, each sting that comes with his blows, all of it flows through him and from him as he darts and turns, pushing in with everything he has until he is left standing before the bag, sweat pouring down his brow and glazing over the muscles of his arms and legs. A low whistle meets his ears and he tenses; he had forgotten all about the other man in the room.

He turns, raising an arm to swipe at the droplets on his brow, eyes coming to rest on the man halfway across the room, who now sits cross legged on the floor, eyebrows raised, face flushed from his own workout.

"You're good."

There is an underlying drawl that pulls at the syllables he utters as if they are heartstrings. Kunikida's chest stutters beneath his deep breaths, his mouth opening and then closing when nothing but a breathless gasp escapes him. He gulps. His throat is so very dry, all of a sudden, but he tries again.

"Th-thank you. You're pretty good yourself."

The man hums in acceptance of the compliment, pushing himself to his feet and crossing the room to stand, right hand outstretched, before Kunikida who, for a moment, can do nothing but blink rapidly and lick his lips again.

"I don't think I've seen you around here before. I'm Chuuya." He raises his hand a touch, motioning for Kunikida to accept the handshake. "Nakahara Chuuya."

Kunikida's wits snap back into him, screaming at him like a siren until he reaches out with his own right hand, grasping Chuuya's hand in his, the sweat and chalk from both of their palms combined with the drag of the wrap producing an almost ticklish sensation against his fingers.

"Doppo. Kunikida Doppo. I don't recall seeing you before either."

Chuuya's smile widens (God, how is that even possible?), chin tilted up so that his eyes can blaze into Kunikida's, something akin to amusement sparkling deep within the blue.

"If that's the case, maybe this is fate. If you believe in such things."

Kunikida doesn't, but he thinks maybe he could learn to.

"What makes you say that?" It suddenly strikes him that Chuuya's hand hasn't dropped from his, although the handshake ended moments ago. He reluctantly loosens his own grip, letting his arm fall to his side and leaning his shoulder against the punching bag.

"I'm in need of a new sparring partner. Typically a friend of mine helps me out, but he's also a professional, and he got himself hurt in his last match." Chuuya shrugs, as if trusting a stranger to exchange blows is the easiest thing in the world. "If you're up for it, that is. Your style is flawless; I think you'd be quite the challenge."

Kunikida swears he winks to punctuate the sentence, but shakes the thought away. He had to have imagined it.

For a moment he finds himself recoiling from the offer, his gut reaction of keeping to himself threatening to take over. It was just easier. He was always so busy, his schedule was horrendous and the less people around to depend on him only to be ultimately let down the better.

And yet.

Something about the lack of effort the man before him seemed to put into all of his movements and all of his words was a comforting contrast to Kunikida's own. He found himself reaching out from somewhere within, wanting to see more, to experience more.

"Okay." He felt his own face brighten, the gleam in Chuuya's eyes reflected, he was sure, in the smile he felt drawing up the corners of his lips.

"I'm in."