Chuuya sat stiffly at the long banquet table, hands folded neatly in his lap as silver gleamed under golden candlelight. The air smelled faintly of roasted lamb and spring flowers, but none of it calmed the churn in his chest. Across from him sat an empty seat—meant for the boy who’d just arrived from Japan, the prince promised to him since they were children.

Osamu Dazai.

He hadn’t even seen him yet. Only whispers: that he was quiet, sharp-tongued, strange. That he’d tried to run away from the arrangement more than once. That he hated France, and by extension, probably hated Chuuya too.

Wonderful start to a lifelong bond, Chuuya thought dryly.

The double doors creaked open.

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but the boy who entered looked far too calm for someone dragged halfway across the world. Dazai walked like he didn’t care where his steps landed, like nothing around him was worth more than a fleeting glance. Dark hair, darker eyes. Pale skin untouched by the Parisian sun.

Their eyes met. Chuuya sat up straighter.

Dazai’s gaze was unreadable. Distant. Disinterested.

No bow. No smile. He barely acknowledged the King and Queen of France before sitting beside Chuuya with a sigh, like the weight of the world had followed him across continents.

“I thought you’d be taller,” Dazai muttered.

Chuuya clenched his jaw. “And I thought you’d be more polite.”

Dazai didn’t respond. He looked bored already.

Chuuya turned to his wine, trying not to show how much the words stung. This wasn’t what he’d wanted either, but he’d hoped—maybe foolishly—the prince would try. That maybe they’d figure out a way to make the alliance tolerable.

Instead, Chuuya felt like a pretty ribbon tied around a political deal.

Still, he glanced at Dazai from the corner of his eye.

He looks tired, Chuuya realized. Lonely, even.

Maybe this wouldn’t be easy. Maybe they’d hate each other.

But Chuuya wanted to understand him. Even if Dazai wanted nothing to do with him.