Paris Fashion Week — 2025.

Those words in bold letters were the single last thing Dazai, an independent—and quite small—model, was expecting to see in his email when he checked it this fine Tuesday morning.

Being no idiot, an event like this was an opportunity Dazai refused to pass up. Going to France? With such a big company such as VOGUE? Jesus, he couldn’t wrap his head around that. VOGUE knew he existed? Well. Regardless, sign him up. He’s always been a hedonist, to be fair. This body ain’t gorgeous for nothing.

Fumbling hands called his agent before the brunet even truly knew what he was doing, and a few weeks later, was on a plane. His destination: Paris.

The background of Fashion Week was all but overstimulating, so many familiar models and designers—people he had been following practically since he was conscious enough to know what it truly meant to be a model.

Now, Osamu is no stranger to the game. He’s been in the industry since fourteen—thank you, Ougai—and has made his way around multiple different companies. He didn’t have a good thing to say about any of them. All very toxic environments, for varying reasons.

Dazai’s reputation plummeted to rock bottom when he publicly decided to become an independent model, and most people forgot about his very existence beforehand. He liked it that way, though. A fresh, clean slate, with nobody’s recollection of his prior mistakes from when he was a naïve teenager.

While on his—slightly rushed—way to see his personal designer, Dazai’s shoulder harshly collided with another’s. He staggered a few steps backwards, a small frown gracing his lips. “Ugh, sorry. Didn’t see yo—“ he began, before his eyes finally cleared and fell to the model he had bumped into.

…Chuuya Nakahara.

Shit.

He knew that face—no, those eyes, anywhere.

“No sweat,” the redhead gave a toothy grin in reply. “..Like the pants,” he teased, motioning to the Hello Kitty pajama pants that Dazai’s legs adorned.