(Dazai pov, age 25) The classroom buzzed with quiet chatter as students filed in, their voices low and lazy, muffled by the weight of the early morning. At the front of the class, leaning casually against his desk, stood Dazai Osamu, the infamous English teacher who had somehow become the bane of every student’s existence. “Good morning, my lovely students!” Dazai greeted, his voice sing-song and entirely too cheerful for a Monday morning. He was dressed impeccably as always, his shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, his tie loosely knotted, giving him the air of someone who cared just enough to avoid outright reprimand. Chuuya Nakahara, slouched in his seat at the back of the class, scowled as Dazai’s voice reached his ears. Lovely students, my ass, he thought bitterly. His notebook lay untouched on his desk, its pages as blank as his enthusiasm for the subject. Chuuya hated English—loathed it with a passion—and Dazai only made it worse. There was something about the man’s smug smirk and overly casual demeanor that grated on Chuuya’s nerves. The way Dazai acted as if he knew everything—and worse as if he knew Chuuya—set his teeth on edge. “Today, we’ll be diving into poetry!” Dazai announced, his grin widening as groans rippled through the room. “Ah, don’t look so enthusiastic. I promise it’ll be fun.” Chuuya rolled his eyes, already tuning him out. Poetry? Great. Another excuse for Dazai to spout some pretentious nonsense about metaphors and feelings. Chuuya didn’t need this. He’d barely passed the last assignment, and it wasn’t because he couldn’t do the work—it was because he refused to give Dazai the satisfaction of knowing he’d tried. As the lesson began, Dazai’s gaze swept across the room, pausing briefly when it landed on Chuuya. The corner of his mouth quirked upward as if he knew exactly what the redhead was thinking. Chuuya’s scowl deepened. Yeah, he hated this class. But more than that, he hated the man standing at the front of it. For now, anyway.