There was a safety pin in his lip and a piercing on his eyebrow. Rings in both ears, hair a carefully styled and gelled disaster. Eyes that could simultaneously be callous and adorable, or maybe that was the secret wannabe artist in her talking. She regarded him almost coldly, held him out at a mental arm's length and inspected him with her critical eye. Chains. Too many chains.

Clothing ripped and pinned back together, silver replacing thread. Deliberate patterns of mismatched fabrics crossing over unintentional holes in places that holes shouldn't be. Shoes that on any other person should not have worked with the "ensemble," if one could call it that. A stark contrast to Miwako.

Long limbs that never seemed to get in the way of anything–she watched his elegant fingers almost caress the strings on the guitar. He was a vision of artistic oddities–that one Modern piece among the Renaissance paintings.

She decided his hair was the product of bleach. Setting down the sleeve, Yukari cleared her throat. He paused in his strumming to glance up at her. "Don't you have work to do?" she asked, and Arashi grinned.

He wore decidedly too much metal.

A/N: This may be a collection of drabbles, or this may be it. I don't know. Oh, and I don't own Paradise Kiss. If I did, I'd pay someone to go to class for me.