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Chuuya Nakahara genuinely loved getting his hair done.
He wasn’t vain—not exactly—but he liked the feeling of someone fussing over him. He liked the warmth of a blow dryer against the back of his neck, the tug of fingers combing through shampoo-slicked strands, and the clean, soft, perfectly-styled curls that came out of it.
It was almost… meditative.
Or at least it used to be.
Before him.
Before the single most irritating, loud-mouthed, overly touchy, overly familiar hairdresser on the entire goddamn planet.
Dazai Osamu.
The first time Chuuya walked into Salon Étoile, he had an appointment with one of the senior stylists—some quiet woman named Hana. Chuuya liked her. She didn’t talk much. She didn’t touch more than she needed. She didn’t flirt with every warm body that walked in.
But Hana was “suddenly unavailable,” and the receptionist chirped:
"We’ll have Dazai take care of you today!"
Chuuya’s immediate instinct had been to turn around and leave.
And maybe he should have.
Because Dazai Osamu—lean, tall, curly-haired, wearing a smug grin that could curdle milk—strolled out from behind the curtain with scissors twirling around his fingers like a circus act.
“Ahhh, so you’re the new client,” Dazai purred, eyes glinting with mischief even before Chuuya sat down. “Aren’t you a cute little thing?”
Chuuya nearly walked out.
But his roots needed fixing, so he tolerated it.
Barely.
He endured Dazai humming off-key, making comments about the “bounciness” of his hair, the “softness” of his curls, the “prettiness” of his blue eyes.
“You’re a real fiery type, huh?” Dazai teased, massaging shampoo into Chuuya’s scalp like he was trying to hypnotise him. “Bet you punch people for fun.”
“Bet I punch you if you don’t shut up.”
But Dazai only laughed.
Like he always did.
Infuriating.
Inescapable.
Persistent.
And—annoyingly—very good at doing hair.
Which meant Chuuya kept coming back.
And Dazai kept taking every damn appointment of his.
Every. Single. One.
“Appointment under Nakahara!”
Chuuya walked in with the confidence of someone who thought today might be different. Maybe Hana was finally back. Maybe Dazai was sick, or injured, or fired, or dead—
No such luck.
Because out from the back room came the nightmare himself, with that same crooked grin.
“Chuuya~! My favourite client.”
Chuuya’s eye twitched.
“I didn’t book with you.”
“Oh, but fate booked you with me.” Dazai wiggled his fingers. “Come on, sweetheart. Your throne awaits.”
“Tch. Drop dead.”
“Later, baby. I have hair to do.”
Chuuya would die before admitting it, but—Dazai gave the best scalp massages he’d ever experienced.
The problem was that Dazai knew it.
He leaned over Chuuya in the reclining shampoo chair, fingers stroking into auburn curls, movements slow and deliberate. Chuuya felt his shoulders loosening despite his best efforts. A quiet sound—half sigh, half groan—escaped him.
Dazai paused.
Then whispered, way too close to Chuuya’s ear:
“Well, well… didn’t know you could make noises like that.”
Chuuya choked on air.
His ears went so red Dazai laughed for a full thirty seconds.
“I swear,” Chuuya hissed, “I am going to drown you in your own shampoo bowl.”
“My, my. Romantic.”
During trimming:
“You’ve got really soft hair.”
During blow drying:
“And you smell good. Expensive cologne?”
During curling:
“Your hair holds shape beautifully. I bet you’re high-maintenance.”
While styling:
“Does your boyfriend like when you wear it pushed back like this?”
Chuuya slammed his palms on the armrests
“I don’t have one.”
Dazai’s grin widened like he’d just won the lottery.
“Great. Leaves the position open.”
“I AM GOING TO SET THIS PLACE ON FIRE.”
“Try it. I bet you’d look cute in handcuffs.”
“WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!”
Chuuya finally snapped.
He marched into the salon, slammed his hands on the counter, and demanded:
“Give me ANYONE but Dazai.”
The receptionist glanced at the schedule.
“Oh! Sure! Hana’s free today!”
Victory. Pure, glorious victory.
Chuuya felt tears prick his eyes. He was saved.
Then—
A hand slid onto his shoulder.
Warm. Familiar. Evil.
“Well, unfortunately,” Dazai said, appearing like a demon summoned from hell, “Hana actually just went home sick.”
“She was fine five seconds ago!”
“Yes, and then she realised I needed your appointment.”
“You WHAT?!”
Receptionist: “Sorry, Nakahara-san. Looks like Dazai will take you.”
Dazai: “Fate is REAL.”
Chuuya: “I’m going to kill myself.”
The thing no one understood—not even Chuuya—was that Dazai was actually… nervous around him.
He covered it with teasing. With banter. With a ridiculous persona.
But every time Chuuya came in, Dazai checked his schedule three times. He prepared the tools he’d need hours early. He practiced cute ways to say good morning in the mirror (he never used them). He bought new hair masks just because Chuuya “might like the smell.”
He was stupidly, hopelessly, pathetically smitten.
And Chuuya?
Chuuya would rather die than admit he liked the way Dazai’s hands felt in his hair. Or the way he sometimes caught himself smiling at the mirror after leaving. Or the way he waited for Dazai’s stupid, terrible flirting.
They were both disasters.
It was fate.
Or poor decision-making.
Or both.
Chuuya came in late one evening, the last appointment before closing. His hair was a mess—he’d been stressed, pulling at it, weather ruining it. Dazai took one look and frowned softly.
Not smugly. Not teasing.
Just… gentle.
“Rough day?”
Chuuya sat in the chair, arms crossed.
“Don’t feel like talking.”
Dazai nodded.
Quietly guided him to the shampoo bowl.
Turned the water warm.
Ran fingers through tangled curls.
No flirt.
No jokes.
Just soft, slow care.
Chuuya’s shoulders dropped. His breath shuddered. His eyes closed.
The silence felt strangely intimate.
Halfway through blow-drying, Dazai whispered:
“You know… I only steal your appointments because I like seeing you.”
Chuuya froze.
Dazai’s voice was light. But honest.
“Like—really like seeing you.”
Chuuya swallowed.
“I… don’t hate when you do my hair.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Shut up. I’m thinking.”
Dazai chuckled.
Then—softly—Chuuya added:
“You’re annoying. And loud. And flirt way too much.”
A pause.
“But… you’re good at what you do. And you’re not… terrible to talk to. Most of the time.”
Dazai’s eyes widened slightly.
“Is that your way of saying you like me?”
“No. It’s my way of saying maybe I don’t entirely despise you.”
“Oh, Chuuya. Be still my beating heart.”
“Don’t push it.”
But his cheeks were pink.
And Dazai looked like he’d just gotten everything he ever wanted.
Chuuya was gathering his coat when Dazai, suddenly shy, said:
“Hey… want to grab coffee? Off the clock?”
Chuuya pretended to think.
“Do I still get my discount if we date?”
Dazai sputtered. “W-Wait—wait—date?! So you do like me—?!”
Chuuya smirked.
“If you shut up for five seconds, I might consider it.”
Dazai shut up. For the first time in history.
Chuuya linked their arms.
“Let’s go, hairdresser. Try not to trip over your own feet.”
Dazai muttered, “I’m in love,” under his breath.
Chuuya pretended not to hear.
(He absolutely heard.)
Dazai still took all of Chuuya’s appointments.
Chuuya still complained.
Dazai still flirted shamelessly.
Chuuya turned red every time.
And somewhere between the teasing, the shampoo bowls, the hair dryers, and the scissors—they became something warm.
Messy.
Ridiculous.
Soft.
Two absolute idiots in love.
The salon never stood a chance.