Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dazai wakes up at 5 AM when the world is still soft and blurry. When he blinks,  the warm colors of the sun can be spotted spilling through his window and pooling on the floorboards. It's a beautiful day to die. 

Dazai, 5:03 AM

I won't be at work today Kunikida-kun~~~~

Try not to die of boredom without me!!!!! >O< 

Kunikida, 5:10 AM 

Since when do you wake up so early? 

And don't you dare think about slacking off! You're lazy enough as it is so you should at least try to show up to work, Dazai. 

 

Dazai takes a trembling breath before he replies. 

Dazai, 5:15 AM 

Kunikida-kun needs to stop being so serious!! You're no fun (ᗒᗩᗕ)

Try not to miss me too much ( ˘ ³˘) ♥

Kunikida, 5:16 AM 

And stop with the emojis. It's unprofessional. 

Dazai forces himself to move out of his bed. The sun already rose completely and his room is awash in a spectrum of warm colors. Dazai wants to melt into the warmth and pretend that it’s the warmth of his mother, Odasaku, hell, even Mori. He’s just so goddamn lonely. 

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Dazai downs a leftover glass of sake. His fingers weakly grasp the cup, and suddenly he doesn’t have much energy to do anything anymore. He gracelessly finds a position on the floor and stares at his reflection on the glass. Dazai hates how he looks. 

Dazai hates himself. 

It’s a beautiful day to die. 

There are colorful pills in a bottle in his coat pocket. Dazai reaches in, pops off the cap, and downs 20 capsules. He doesn’t know what they’re for. He realizes he doesn’t care. He just wants to 

d

     i 

        e.

Kunikida, 4 PM 

Are you actually not coming? 

… 

I can’t believe you. 

 

Kunikida, 4:13 PM 

Why aren’t you answering me? 

Dazai 

Stop it. 

 

Kunikida, 4:20 PM 

Fine. Be like that. 

It’s not like I’m worried. 

 

Kunikida, 10 PM 

Dazai? 

Dazai stop ignoring me. 

… 

Fine, you got me, I'm worried. 

 

Kunikida, 10:25 PM 

Ranpo said you look tired yesterday. That’s not an excuse to cut work. 

You better come to work tomorrow you lazy ass. 

… 

Goodnight, Dazai. 

Spoiler alert: Dazai didn’t die. 

He knows he’s still alive because he fucking feels it. He feels the dissolving pills in his stomach, the way that it makes the world twist and turn until he can’t see straight. The bile that’s threatening to make him gag is made ten times more acidic by the chemicals he swallowed several hours before. Suddenly, the world tilts on its axis and Dazai feels his throat constricting and oh god he’s choking he’s dying he can’t fucking breathe what the fuck what the fuck- 

A harsh, stuttering gasp rips its way from the mess that is his throat and tears past his lips. It sounds so unbelievably pathetic, and Dazai wants to chew another dozen pills because of it. 

A wave of nausea churns in his stomach and, despite his vision swimming more than it has ever swam before, Dazai lurches to his feet and gags violently into his kitchen sink. His entire body is trembling and his eyes are burning. In the back of his mind, Dazai almost wants to laugh at how ridiculous his current situation is. He can’t even die properly without messing up. His entire life is just one big messed up joke. 

“Stop it stop it stop it stop it - just let me die already.” Dazai whispers. He doesn’t know who he’s pleading to. 

Dazai coughs violently once again into the sink when the vicious pills twist his stomach into painful knots once again. He slept through the entire day and has only been awake for about 30 minutes, but he’s already so tired. In the back of his mind, Dazai laughs at how tiring overdosing could be. It was supposed to be a quick death. 

It takes another hour for the pills to stop waging war against his stomach. Dazai crumples to the floor and doesn’t get up. 

Incoming call: Kunikida Doppo (7 AM) 

Call declined. 

 

Incoming call: Kunikida Doppo (7:15 AM)

Call declined. 

 

Voicemail from: Kunikida Doppo (7:18 AM) 

 

Dazai plays the voicemail on his phone. 

Don’t you dare slack off today, Dazai! 

If you aren’t in the office by 9 I’m personally coming to your house and dragging your lazy ass there myself. 

If you leave me to do all your paperwork I’ll kill you!!

…

Atsushi missed you yesterday, you piece of shit. You owe him. 

Dazai finds that he owes a lot of people, these days. 

His head throbs from its crooked position on the floor, and his body feels as if it got run over by a truck, but Dazai has debts to settle; and so he painstakingly peels himself off of the floor and gets dressed. 

– 

Dazai’s standards for appearance are pretty low. He never considered himself attractive, but even he can tell that he looks like shit. He looks like a corpse, literally. 

His skin was so pale it was almost translucent, and the deep bruises underneath his eyes were painful just to look at. Well, it seems fitting since he almost died last night. Almost.

Dazai hates the word almost. 

Almost good enough, almost smart enough, almost dead enough. But not enough. 

He puts on his best smile, forces some light into his eyes, and walks out the door. 

– 

‘KUNIKIDA I MISSED YOU~~” Dazai squeals as he barrels into Kunikida, arms open comically wide as he tries to hug his partner. 

Ranpo is watching Dazai with barely concealed suspicion and a mix of something else. Concern? Maybe, but Dazai doesn’t know why anyone would have the heart to be concerned for him. 

Kunikida shoves him off and gives a little humph, but lets a reluctant smile peak through nonetheless. 

“Atsushi was about to break into your house to find you.” Kunikida scolds, swiping at Dazai’s hair. 

Dazai sticks his tongue out and waves a little at Atsushi, who’s staring back at Dazai with eyes filled with relief. The moment is broken when a stack of paperwork is lobbed onto Dazai’s desk, with a very angry-looking Kunikida glaring at him. 

“If these aren’t done by the end of the day, I’m following you home and watching you do it myself.” Kunikida stomps off without waiting for Dazai’s reply. 

Ok, he can do this. It’s just paperwork. Dazai can do paperwork. He inhales, he exhales, and lets his mind float away while his body stays staring at the reports in front of him. 

– 

Dazai dreams of hoisting a gun up to his temple. The cool metal soothed the savage ache in his skull, and he finds himself leaning into the weapon. He unlocks the safety and fires. 

Except, there’s no relief. He’s still breathing. There’s no pain. 

Dazai lets his eyelids flutter open, and he immediately wishes he could snap them shut again. 

Oda is standing in front of Dazai, arms outstretched in a pitiful attempt to capture Dazai’s attention, and there is a hole in his head with blood leaking out of it. 

– 

“Dazai, wake up!” Kunikida screams for what seems like the hundredth time. 

His partner is dead asleep with his head buried in his arms, but his shoulders shake and apologies spill past his lips. It almost looked like he was praying. Then, the screaming started. Raw, awful sounds that Atsushi flinched at and caused Ranpo to glance up curiously at. Kunikida just stared. 

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry Odasaku. It should’ve been me it should’ve been me why didn’t he take me instead-” Dazai’s shoulders shake harder as his nightmare intensifies. 

Kunikida jostles Dazai’s shoulders once more in an attempt to rouse him. 

“Dazai!” He yells. 

Dazai’s back snaps upright from its hunched position on the desk and his eyes fly open. His pupils are darting around frantically and his breaths come in trembling gasps, but he’s awake. And for Kunikida, that’s all that matters. 

Consciousness returns to Dazai in increments. He registers how his hands won’t stop shaking and how he’s dizzy from hyperventilating, but there’s no blood-stained Oda in front of him, so he’ll count that as a win. Actually, no. He takes that back. Kunikida is standing in front of him. A panicked, confused looking Kunikida. And Atsushi. And Ranpo. And Yosano. 

Shit. 

Chapter Text

They were staring at him, mouths open and eyes wide. Dazai can’t remember a time he fucked up so badly. There was that time where Dazai failed to execute a mission properly when he was still under the command of Mori, he remembers the feeling of a blade slicing through his skin and the unbelievably pathetic screams he made. 

“Dazai?” Kunikida is the first to speak. 

Dazai forces his lips to quirk upwards in what he hopes looks like a smile. He doesn’t know how he’s getting himself out of this one. 

“Ah, Kunikida-kun doesn’t know what to say?” He laughs, “Don’t worry! Just a silly little dream of mine.” 

Dazai pushes himself out of his chair and forces down the nausea that swells with the sudden movement. Maybe he wasn’t as recovered from his overdose as he thought he was. 

“Forgive the little trouble I caused,” Dazai says with a twirl. “I guess I’ll be going now! Maybe I’ll find a beautiful lady to commit a double suicide with~” 

He thinks he’s getting away, or at least he hopes. He brushes past a shocked Kunikida and a hopeless Atsushi while pointedly ignoring Ranpo’s gaze. He’s almost at the office’s doors, the sunset paints the streets of Yokohama in deep, warm oranges and yellows. It’s stunning, truly. Dazai hopes that when he dies, he’ll come back as a sunset as pretty as this one. 

“You’re shaking,” Ranpo remarks. 

Dazai forces himself to calmly turn around and smile. His hands rest on his hips and he tries with all the energy he has left in him to not fuck this up. 

“Really?” Dazai tilts his head to the side. 

Ranpo seems unimpressed. “Yes, really.”

Well, this is awkward. Dazai is staring at Ranpo and Ranpo is staring at Dazai and it’s like a staring match and oh my god Ranpo’s calculating gaze reminds him so much of Mori because they both do their absolute best to strip Dazai down to his very soul oh my god Ranpo knows about the pills and the killings and how his soul is black holy shit he can’t do this- 

And there’s hands on his shoulders and back, guiding him down to the floor as Dazai’s knees turn to jelly, and he lets out a sob that sounds so pitiful because he can’t remember a time when someone touched him this lovingly. He’s just so fucking tired. 

“Dazai, what’s wrong?” Kunikida asks. 

Dazai stares at his legs where they lie splayed on the ground. His back is resting against Kunikida’s chest, and his partner’s arms are wrapped around Dazai’s shaking frame. 

“Why are you like this,” Dazai replies in lieu of an answer. 

Kunikida makes a confused sound and tightens his grip on Dazai’s torso. 

“Like what?” Kunikida’s so goddamn patient with him that it makes him sick. 

Dazai closes his eyes and lets his head lean back against Kunikida’s chest. His stomach is in knots from the pills and the only thought in his head is how much this life exhausts him, how much it takes from him. 

“Why do you care?” Dazai rasps out. “Why can’t you just let me go?” 

His voice is fading. The energy slowly bleeding out from his words and body. A scuffle at his side makes him open his eyes again. Oh, Ranpo is kneeling next to him. 

“Because you came in this morning looking like death itself. Because your hands won’t stop shaking and you didn’t annoy Kunikida as much as you usually do. Because you didn’t come in to work yesterday. Because you look like you’re in pain, and my guess is that you probably did something to cause that pain. Because we care about you.” Ranpo says all in one breath. He doesn’t break eye contact with Dazai. 

“Caring about me?” Dazai laughs. It’s a sudden, cruel sound. He can feel Kunikida stiffen from under him. “Caring about me ends in tragedy, Ranpo.” 

Ranpo’s eyes widen, just a fraction. Dazai guesses that he wasn’t expecting such a forward response, so he marches on. He breaks out of Kunikida’s grip and forces himself to his feet, glaring at all of them with an intensity that would’ve made Mori proud. 

“You don’t get to care about a monster. That’s not a privilege you’re entitled to. Only monsters care about other monsters.” Dazai spits the last part out. 

Ranpo looks unfazed. “So you think you’re a monster? Is that why you were screaming? Is that why you look so desperate to get rid of us?” 

“Stop it!” Dazai screams. He thinks anger is the only thing keeping him from crumpling to the floor right now. Anger at himself. Anger at Ranpo and Kunikida for not letting him go home and die.

Ranpo sees right through his performance. He takes one step closer to Dazai, motions careful and slow as if he was approaching a wild animal. “You’re not good with emotions. You turn them all into anger because that’s the only thing you know how to feel, Dazai. You’re not scaring any of us away.”

Dazai was tired, god, he was exhausted. “You should be scared.” 

“Why?” Ranpo pushes, taking another step forward. “You’re one of our own. Why don’t you tell us what that nightmare was about? You’ll feel better.” 

“I don’t want to feel better.” Dazai says blandly. 

“We’ll work on that.” Kunikida whispers from behind Dazai. He can feel the idealist’s hand on his shoulder, a comforting presence that he’s so unfamiliar with. A monster like Dazai doesn’t deserve comfort. 

“I don’t want to.” Dazai repeats, uncomprehending. 

Ranpo’s gaze is piercing. It penetrates right through Dazai and collapses the barriers he’s built around himself. “That’s okay, we’ll work on that too.” 

Dazai sighs. 

He stares at Ranpo.

He feels Kunikida’s thumb rubbing circles into his shoulder. 

He sees Atsushi from the corner watching this all unfold. 

He’s such a burden, making them all worry like this. 

“Thanks,” Dazai begins, then twirls out of Kunikida’s grasp and bolts for the doors. “But I think that’s enough socializing for today~~~~ I’ll see you tomorrow!” 

Dazai gives a little wave and slips through the doors, ignoring the shouts from behind him.

Chapter Text

Damn, Dazai feels like shit. His head is throbbing and the world is blurring together in a spectacular display of pale lights. Vaguely, it reminds him of an impressionist painting. Monet’s works, perhaps. Dazai doesn’t understand how on earth his dry ceiling is managing to blend itself into such a complicated scene for his eyes, but at least that’s a sign the meds are working. 

He hasn’t been to the Agency in 3 days. As much as Kunikida says that he’s lazy, Dazai honestly doesn’t recall a period where he missed more than 2 consecutive days at work. Regardless of his smarts, the Agency doesn’t need someone like Dazai. Someone that brings the rest of the members down, someone that instilled that look of pure terror and concern in Atsushi’s eyes just a few days prior. Dazai will be damned if he lets his own darkness take the rest of them down with him. 

The Agency is in shambles. Literally. Kunikida’s hair is tousled from sleepless nights, and he’s not quite sure where his glasses went. Atsushi’s eyes are red from crying and his hands are raw from where he picked at them. Even Ranpo looks distressed. 

“Are you sure you don’t know where he lives?” Kunikida asks Ranpo for what feels like the third time. Ranpo can’t blame him, they’re all worn thin by Dazai’s concerning disappearance. 

Ranpo pinches the bridge of his nose. “No. The idiot wiped all his data from our records. Of course I don’t know where he lives.” 

Kunikida’s eyes widen in panic. They’re all fucked if Ranpo doesn’t know something. Then, Ranpo’s eyes sharpen for a brief second. There’s a flicker of something akin to hope in his eyes: an angry, stubborn hope. 

“What is it?” Kunikida pushes. 

Ranpo sighs, and his expression almost looks pained. “Do you still have Nakahara’s number?” 

Dazai’s been stewing in his own misery for God knows how long before the knocking starts. Aggressive thuds that seem so familiar to him, yet he can’t seem to place. The sound leaks into his bedroom and assaults his ears, despite his best attempts to ignore it. Dazai decides to take a vow of silence. It’s best if the Agency doesn’t know he’s here. 

Dazai’s eyes slip close and he’s almost, almost asleep before a substantially larger and much more concerning sound of fist-on-door reverberates throughout his tiny apartment. He cracks one eye open in interest. There’s a violent shade of red hair that comes into view. Oh. Oh shit. 

“Chuuya?” Dazai murmurs, pushing himself upright so that his back leans against his bed frame. 

Chuuya stands with his arms crossed and a strange expression in his eyes, glaring at Dazai like there’s no tomorrow. 

“Your shitty Agency called and told me to look for you.” Chuuya says bluntly. 

Dazai laughs and jumps out of bed, hoping that the movement has more energy than he feels. He fixes Chuuya with a glare that would’ve made Mori smile with pride at the monster his protege has become. Chuuya knows better than to blanch at the expression Dazai shoots his way.

“Yeah?” Dazai chuckles. “Tell them that I’ll call Fukuzawa later and hand in my resignation letter.” 

Chuuya narrows his eyes. “You’re quitting?” 

“It’s for the best.” Dazai says coldly. 

Chuuya thinks this situation is so ridiculous he could laugh. For once, he’s grateful for his ability to predict Dazai. 

“And then what?” He snaps. “You quit, and then what? Mori’s going to find out, and he’ll drag you right back to where you started.” 

“That doesn’t scare me.” Dazai shoots back. “Don’t pretend like you thought I was made for the light, Chuuya. You and I both know this ends in blood.” 

Dazai’s more than awake now. The fog that settled over his vision when he lay motionless in bed is long gone, replaced with a high he only ever got in the mafia. He feels alive arguing with Chuuya. There’s a quiet feeling of adrenaline that simmers underneath his skin. The entire time with the Agency, he’s tried so hard to be good, so hard to be the kind of man that Oda wished him to be. Dazai is a fool for thinking that he could’ve passed as a good person, and him lashing out at everyone near to him only proved it. 

Chuuya fixes him with a look. “I know it doesn’t, you shitty mackerel. It scares me.” 

Dazai flinched. “It scares you?” 

“Yes, you dumbass! You think any of us liked seeing Mori use you like that? You come back from your meetings with him looking so fucking empty. You want to leave your life at the Agency for him? You were lucky to get out the first time, and Mori will kill you before you have a chance to get out a second time,” Chuuya snaps, taking a step forward. 

“Well then let him kill me.” Dazai retaliates, looking as if someone struck him. “Let him kill me. It’s not like you ever cared when we were partners.” 

Chuuya glares at Dazai, long and hard. “Mori can do worse things than kill you, Dazai.” 

Dazai scrubs a hand over his face, runs it though his hair, and lets it fall listlessly to his side. Chuuya closes the gap between the two of them and places both hands squarely on Dazai’s shoulders. 

“Wow, never knew you swung that way.” Dazai huffs, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

“Shut up, shitty Dazai.” Chuuya whispers. And if his voice cracked, well, Chuuya is going to pretend like that didn’t happen. 

He shakes Dazai. Once. Twice. Three times. 

“Get your fucking act together, Dazai.” Chuuya demands, voice filled with a strange fire. “You don’t care about yourself, I get that. But your Agency cares about you. Don’t make them worry like this.” 

“They’re not my Agency.” Dazai mumbles, flicking Chuuya in the forehead. 

Chuuya steps back. “Fuck you,” 

Dazai smiles, brilliant and cold and hard, but it’s warmer than before, so Chuuya will take that as a win. 

“Fuck you too~~~~” Dazai chirps. 

The two boys stand there for two more heartbeats before Chuuya hands Dazai his phone. 

“Call them?” Chuuya asks. 

Dazai closes his eyes. “Yeah, okay.” 

Chapter Text

Ranpo’s eyes snap up as soon as the Agency’s communal phone starts ringing. Nakahara’s number. 

“Nakahara?” Ranpo snaps. His breathing is slightly off kilter, and his hands might be shaking just a tiny bit, but he trusts Kunikida and Atsushi to not mock him for it. It’s not like they’re any better off. 

“No,” comes a small voice. Ranpo’s breath hitches. 

“Dazai?” Ranpo whispers. He finds Kunikida’s gaze and holds it. This might be the only time where he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do. He hates it. 

“Yeah, um,” he can hear Dazai inhale shakily. God, he sounds so young. Ranpo then realizes that Dazai is young. Too young. “Sorry, I- God. Fuck me. I’m sorry for storming out like that, ok?” 

“Yeah,” Ranpo keeps his voice quiet. “Yeah, it’s okay. You’re okay.” 

Kunikida steps forward, and Ranpo puts Dazai on speaker as acknowledgement. Atsushi is staring at the phone as if it were a ghost. 

“It’s just-” Dazai breaks off again. Ranpo can hear the desperation and frustration that’s so clear in the younger man’s voice. “I’ve never been good at emotional stuff. Except anger. Anger I’m good at and, um, yeah. I’m sorry that that’s the only thing I’m good for.” 

Ranpo can hear the voice of Chuuya on the other end, probably yelling at Dazai for apologizing for something so stupid. 

“Dazai, it’s okay. None of us are mad. Come home, ok? We all want to see you. Kunikida hasn’t done his paperwork since you ran off.” Ranpo encourages. 

“I’m sorry.” Dazai sounds like a fucking child and it makes Ranpo’s heart shatter into thousands of tiny pieces. 

“You say that a lot.” Ranpo whispers back. 

“I feel it a lot.” There’s no malice in Dazai’s voice, and maybe that makes it worse. Ranpo doesn’t know. 

There’s a sniffle in the corner, and Ranpo realizes Atsushi started crying. 

“You shouldn’t.” It’s Kunikida who speaks this time. Ranpo almost blanches at how soft the idealist made his voice. Being gentle was never Kunikida’s forte, but it seems that he stands corrected. “You don’t need to apologize to us, Dazai. If you want to make it up to us, then come back.” 

“I want to,” Dazai says quietly, fiercely, “but I can’t. You make me feel things and I don’t like it. I need it to stop. Now.  I’m not supposed to feel.” 

Another noise sounds from Dazai’s end of the line. There’s a scuffle, and Dazai cries out indignantly. Crunchy static assaults the Agency member’s ears as there’s an obvious fight for the phone. Dazai’s quiet sigh of resignation is a sign that he lost the battle. 

“Listen up, you bastards.” Chuuya’s voice is the exact opposite of Dazai’s. Strong, commanding, and confident. 

“Hello, Nakahara.” Ranpo says blandly. 

“The mackerel doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Don’t listen to his bullshit about not coming back, because he’s going back if it’s the last thing I do with my life. Before you ask, I don’t care about him or your Agency, got it?” 

Kunikida coughs. “Of course, thank you for your help. Dazai means a lot to us.” 

“Don’t thank me. It would just be really fucking inconvenient if I had to watch the idiot bleed out on his floor. Dry cleaning is a bitch to pay.”

Kunikida slams his hands on the table at the crude words. “Don’t say that!”

Mock gagging noises can be heard from Chuuya. “Stop treating Dazai like he’s a fucking flower. He’s not. He’s not fragile like some child. He’s fragile like a goddamn bomb.”

A pause. 

“Expect him to come in early tomorrow. 9 AM.” Chuuya says. 

The line goes dead. 

Chapter Text

Dazai is 15. Just a boy. And he’s doomed. 

He wakes with a gasp. Chuuya has long left his sorry excuse of an apartment and now Dazai is fending for himself. The ghost of Mori and the people he slaughtered circle around him, their claws digging into the soft skin of his neck and strangling him. He reminds himself to breathe. 

Dazai fumbles with his phone and winces at the slew of texts from the Agency before glancing at the time: 11 AM. 

Well, shit, he’s late. 

– 

Dazai breathes in deeply and walks through the Agency’s doors. Immediately, all conversations cease and he’s met with greedy, analyzing, sharp eyes. 

No, he reminds himself, they’re just concerned. You’re not with Mori you’re not with Mori you’re not with Mori- 

“Does this mean I don’t need to do my paperwork?” Dazai blurts. It’s a cheap shot, a pathetic one, but it’s the only thing he can come up with given his foggy brain. 

Kunikida sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, but doesn’t make an attempt to ridicule his partner or throw books at him. Dazai finds himself missing the familiar anger. 

“You wish,” Kunikida grumbles before heading over to Dazai and punching his arm lightly. “Welcome back.” 

Dazai smiles. A cracked, horrific, broken thing. But it’s a smile nonetheless, and the Agency members visibly relax at the sight. Dazai isn’t sure whether to be grateful or shattered that they’re falling for his ruse. Again. 

He drifts to his desk and settles himself into his typical daily routine: stare at paperwork, don’t do the paperwork, ask Atsushi to do the paperwork, cry when Kunikida tells Atsushi to not do his paperwork, and cry some more when Kunikida yells at him to not slack off. 

Dazai smiles to himself. His act is progressing nicely, and it’s almost as if nothing had happened 2 days prior. He can’t tell if he’s relieved or heartbroken that the Agency is buying his performance. 

His charade continues for another couple hours - fingers typing, pencils scratching against paper, mind foggy. He throws a winning smile to the Agency as he starts for the door, a sigh of relief almost at his lips before Ranpo, fucking Ranpo, grabs his arm. 

“Hm?” Dazai keeps his smile on his face, no matter how hard he wants to let it slide off of his mouth. 

Ranpo narrows his eyes. Tuts. Then releases his arm. Dazai wants so desperately to bolt for the doors and away from the prying eyes of Ranpo, from the Agency. He’s tried to kill himself a dozen times before, why is this instance so different for them? 

Ranpo slaps a piece of paper into Dazai’s open palm. The latter tilts his head in question. 

“Call me,” Ranpo’s voice is low so that the others don’t eavesdrop. “Call me if it happens again. That’s an order.”

Dazai laughs, bitter as nightshade, and accepts the paper. There’s a hole in his chest where his heart should be, where sadness and agony and anger ought to be twisting his insides into painful knots. Instead, he feels nothing. Absolutely nothing. He feels nothing as Ranpo shoves him out of the office with mock playfulness, he feels nothing on his way back home, he feels nothing as he enters his apartment and slides down the nearest wall into a miserable heap on the floor. 

There’s nothing left in him. Dazai cannot make his anger beautiful. Dazai cannot transform his pain into poetry. He remembers one time, after a particularly harrowing attempt on his life, where Chuuya forced him to take up painting as a hobby. His canvases ended up bloody and battered, spatterings of blacks, reds, and bruising purples decorating the board. Needless to say, it was a messy affair – replete with tears and furious strokes and manic laughter. Also needless to say, the hobby didn’t last. The mafia ran out of canvases for Dazai to destroy. 

He wants to sob, scream, let his tears break out of his chest and run rampant down his face; but being raised by cold eyes taught Dazai not to cry. The tears remain unshed and his chest remains tight with misunderstood sentiment. 

He doesn’t dare to call Chuuya. The mafioso would fuss, and Mori would suspect something amiss with his continued absence. But god, Dazai wants to break things. He wants to throw things, scratch at his walls, tear at his skin – he wants to break himself. 

Memories burn behind Dazai’s eyes and he can still hear the sounds he made as he was under Mori’s cold knife. He can still remember how he writhed underneath the blade and how he twisted his body to get away from Mori. Most of all, he remembers coming back. He remembers knowing exactly what was going to happen the instant he stepped into Mori’s office, but he willingly escorted himself back into his mentor’s poisonous grip each and every day. 

The heaviness returns with a vengeance. It sits on his chest and crushes his lungs. Dazai distantly tells himself to breathe. He lets his eyes slip shut and a choked sob falls past his lips. Dazai wants to stop, to end this. 

“Ranpo?” When did Dazai even dial his number? 

“What is it?” There’s no careless introduction, no light humor in Ranpo’s voice. “What happened?” 

Dazai forgets how to speak. He feels the words crumble to sand in his mouth and god, he thinks he’s forgetting how to breathe. 

“Dazai? Did you take anything?” Ranpo’s voice is quiet, shaking, and urgent. 

“Fix it, please,” Dazai whispers. 

“What?” Ranpo genuinely sounds confused. Wow, that’s a first.

“Me–” Dazai breaks off with a louder sob. It tears past his throat and how the fuck is he even crying when no tears are forming in his eyes. 

“Dazai,” Ranpo soothes. Sympathy sounds strange on Ranpo. “Don’t cry,” 

“I’m sorry. God, I’m so fucking sorry for every joining the Agency, Ranpo. You have no idea how bad of a person I am.” 

“Dazai,” Ranpo repeats, “you’re not a bad person for the ways you tried to kill your sadness.” 

“I’ve hurt people,” Dazai says blatantly. 

“I know. We know.” Ranpo says. 

“I didn’t want to.” 

“I know, Dazai, I know.” 

“I didn’t want to.” 

“We know,” Ranpo repeats again. 

Dazai’s crying in earnest now. He raises a shaking hand to his mouth to muffle the sound. 

Ranpo stays on the call with Dazai for the rest of the night, and if both of their eyes are red the next morning when they walk into the Agency, nobody says anything. 

Chapter Text

Ranpo and Dazai get closer after The Call. Ranpo starts leaving sweets strewn across Dazai’s desk (although he of course complains and accuses Dazai of stealing them on his own). The two sometimes stage escapades and run out of the office to a coffee shop whenever the other Agency members aren’t looking.

The members start to notice their odd dynamic.

“What happened between you and Ranpo?” Kunikida asks nonchalantly, as one does when they try to ask a monumentally important question.

Dazai looks at his partner.

“Don’t play dumb with me. Ranpo keeps looking at you and you won’t even glance his way,” Kunikida pauses, then winces, then visibly pales. “Don’t tell me you to are-”

Dazai never once thought that he was capable of blushing. Even when he and Chuuya had to finesse their way through hotel rooms with only one bed, or when they had been handcuffed together for 24 hours on a mission gone wrong, Dazai had never once blushed. That’s why it takes both him and Kunikida by surprise when Dazai’s entire face flushes a deep red.

Dazai slams a hand over Kunikida’s mouth and shakes his head.
He feels Kunikida smile against his palm. Dazai flinches backwards and coughs awkwardly, removing his hand.

“Um, no. We aren’t. Nothing like that.” Dazai internally slaps himself. Mori would shake his head in disappointment at his display.

Kunikida grins harder, and Dazai can’t remember a time where his partner looked so giddy.

–

Sometimes Dazai wonders why he can’t be normal. When his heart palpitates and his hands shake, he wonders what the point of everything is.

He was 6 when he first killed someone. Mori picked him up from the streets and shoved a gun in his hands. He took him in on the condition that Dazai would fire at 2 children tied together with rope, sitting pathetically on the cold stone floor. Dazai breathed in, breathed out, then fired.

Deep down he always knew that he was a selfish monster.

Before, it was Chuuya that would talk his head off in an attempt to bring Dazai back down to reality. Now, Dazai wasn’t sure who he had, if he had anyone at all. He could call Ranpo, right? But the older agency member ought to have been tired of his constant nagging by now, and Dazai didn’t want to burden the genius further.

Dazai wished he could just disappear.

–

“Dazai?” Fukuzawa raised an eyebrow at him. “Ranpo tells me that you’ve been faring worse than usual. Is there something wrong? Something you want to tell me?”

Dazai frowned in confusion. Has he been obvious? Mori taught him how to use makeup to conceal his dark circles when sleepless nights became the norm. He told Dazai everything he needed to know about pretending to be human.

He turns to face Fukuzawa, a tight smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“No, President. Nothing’s wrong, and I’m sorry if I gave the wrong impression to you and Ranpo.” His voice is clinical, detached, all pretense and plastic. Just like Mori taught him.

Fukuzawa levels Dazai’s gaze. The president reminds him of Mori. Dazai hates it.

“Is there something else, President?” Dazai is careful to keep his voice stable, to keep a smile on his face.

Fukuzawa doesn’t say anything, he just keeps his gaze trained on Dazai.

“President? Dazai urges.

“What was the first thing Mori ever said to you, Dazai?” Fukuzawa asks calmly.

It was a random question, one that Dazai didn’t prepare for. He takes a breath to slow his racing heart. It’s beating so fast that Dazai’s chest hurts, his heart hurts, his world hurts.

“Not to bleed on his floor.” Dazai deadpans.

Fukuzawa raises an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“He took me in when I was on the streets. The first thing he told me was not to bleed on his floor after we entered his apartment.” Dazai repeats, staring at the President.

There’s a silence that lasts for far too long. Fukuzawa is staring at his tea that’s long gone cold, and Dazai sits with his hands clasped limply on his lap. Finally, Fukuzawa speaks.

“Was life with Mori hard?” The President asks again, and his voice is so still, so kind, so earnest.

Dazai doesn’t know why he answers. He doesn’t know why he ignores the voice in his head that sounds eerily like Mori that screams at him to lie, lie lie lie lie. To protect himself. To protect Mori. To protect the Mafia.

“Yes.” Dazai clears his throat. “Yes it was.”

Fukuzawa makes a sound of approval. “Thank you for telling me the truth, Dazai.”

“What is the purpose of this, President?” Dazai’s head feels like a fishbowl. Heavy and thick and water-logged.

“The Agency isn’t the Mafia, Dazai.” Fukuzawa says gently. “We don’t punish you for telling us the truth.”

“I know,” Dazai whispers.

Fukuzawa stands up, and Dazai unconsciously flinches backwards. The President walks to where Dazai is sitting and kneels in front of him, forcing Dazai to meet his gaze.

“Then,” Fukuzawa says, “you should know that you can tell us if you feel uneasy. You can tell us the truth.”

“Okay,” Dazai’s tongue has never felt so heavy. “Okay.”

Fukuzawa stands to his full height once again, and extends a hand to pull Dazai off the couch. He claps Dazai on the back and smiles.

“See you tomorrow, Dazai.” It sounds like a promise.

“See you tomorrow, President.” It sounds like a promise Dazai is willing to keep.

Chapter Text

Mori watched Dazai make his way back to his apartment from the Agency. The sun’s rays softly dimmed into a dark shade of orange as it descended behind the quaint buildings of Yokohama. The shadowy scenery perfectly concealed Mori’s silhouette as he inconspicuously leaned against a coffee shop and observed his former right hand man.

He notices with a perverted sense of delight that Dazai’s eyes don’t look any brighter than when he left the Mafia all those years ago. If anything, he muses, they’ve gotten darker, more unhappy. Unhappiness is good. It’s something Mori can work with; something he can seize and manipulate so that his victims lose sense of all that surrounds them.

Mori knows that Dazai’s been away from the Mafia for far too long. It’s only fair that he forces his hand and makes Dazai pay a well overdue visit sometime soon.

–

Dazai knows he’s being watched. He sees the silhouette of a man leaning against a building, but there’s several things wrong with the picture he’s observing:
This man must be new to town. Dazai’s seen almost everyone in their street, it would be unusual if he hadn’t noticed the man before.
The man is wearing a mask and eyeglasses. Usually, Dazai wouldn’t be suspicious about a stranger’s fashion choices, but it was dark out - even more so now that the sun had fallen behind the buildings - and there was no need for eyeglasses. The mask could have passed for acceptable if it was not for the fact that this man obviously wasn’t sick. He was alert and looking for something. Someone.
The way he carries himself seems awfully like someone he knows.

Dazai walks faster. He makes 3 unscheduled right turns to try and throw the person off his track. Unfortunately for Dazai, it’s obvious the man is still intently watching his movements from behind his sunglasses. As much as he adores the idea of suicide, being kidnapped is a less than an ideal way to die. He gives up on finding a discreet way to go back to his apartment. On edge, he hails a cab and tells the driver to take him anywhere - anyplace - away from here.
–

It’s well past midnight and Dazai thinks that enough time has passed for him to make his way home. The driver had dropped him off at a local bar, and Dazai had spent the past 4 hours loitering near the bathrooms hoping that he remained out of sight.

As he makes his way back to his apartment in the dead of night, he can’t ignore the way that his skin still prickled with uneasiness, or the way that there was a primal instinct in the back of his mind that told him to run as fast as he can just like how he ran away from Mori when he was younger just like how he ran away from Oda’s dead body just like how he ran away from-

Dazai inhales. He exhales. He gets his keys. He unlocks his door. He crosses into his house and locks the door once again. He locks it again. And again. And once more for good measure. He inhales. He exhales.

Dazai slides down his door and sobs.

–

He calls in sick to work. He’s too afraid to leave his house, afraid of the eyes that might be trained on him as soon as he walks out the door.

It’s pathetic, really. An ex-mafioso being reduced to a shaking shell of a human, ridden with anxiety and a chronic case of shaky hands. Embarrassing. Absolutely shameful.

There’s two extra bottles of sake in the fridge. Dazai downs them both in the hour.

–

“Dazai?” The president’s voice sounds distorted through the cellphone.

“Yes, President?” Dazai’s surprised at how steady his voice sounds.

“Are you alright? You haven’t come into work for the past couple of days. Kunikida is worrying himself sick.”

“Haha~” Dazai chokes out a laugh, “Kunikida? Worried about me? Ah, you flatter me President. The day Kunikida worries about my wellbeing will be the day that I actually do my paperwork!!!!!”

He can hear Fukuzawa chuckle on the other end.

“Alright then. Are you sure you’re alright?” Fukuzawa calmly asks.

“Yes~~~~ tell the others not to miss me too much!! I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

“Good to hear. Take care, Dazai.”

Fukuzawa hangs up the call, and Dazai feels lighter than he has in days.

Maybe he actually will show up to work tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Mori frowns from behind the door. It’s been days, hasn’t it? And yet Dazai has yet to exit his apartment door. Mori chuckles to himself, had he really scared Dazai that bad? 

He brings a gloved hand to the wooden door frame and knocks. Once - twice for good measure. He can practically hear the boy stiffen on the other side of the door. The sound of shuffling footsteps reaches Mori’s ears, and the clinking of locks and gears follows soon after. 

Mori knocks again, smiling to himself. 

“Who is it?” Dazai asks. 

Mori’s grin widens. He lowers his voice. “Delivery for Dazai from the Armed Detective Agency. I’ve been given instructions to make sure that you pick up the package, sir.” 

Usually, Mori wouldn’t lower himself to foolish acts like this. Masquerading as someone else was a mission left to novices, but Mori wants this to be carried personally. 

Dazai hesitates for two heartbeats. “Ok, leave it there.” 

“Ah, you’ll have to excuse me sir, but I must reiterate that I’ve been given specific instructions to make sure you pick this up.” 

There’s the sound of a gun’s safety being released. After all these years, Mori muses, Dazai still has the guts of a mafioso in him. 

“I appreciate the concern, but I would like you to leave it there.” There is something in Dazai’s voice that wasn’t in there before - panic? Unease? Maybe a strong sense of danger. 

“Sir,” Mori tries one last time. 

“The answer is a no. I won’t open the door to strangers. Get lost.” Dazai’s voice is much harder. 

Mori sighs, it appears he has to reveal himself sooner than he would’ve liked. He takes off his sunglasses and masks and throws them to the side, clattering onto the floor. 

“All these years, Dazai,” Mori smiles, “and you still remember to not open the door to strangers? I’m impressed. I thought the Agency beat all the good sense out of you but it seems that there’s still something left to be salvaged.” 

Silence. 

“Dazai?” Mori’s laughing now, “Dazai you know you can’t run forever.” 

There’s a large clang and the sound of screams from shocked pedestrians. Mori’s laughing uncontrollably now. 

“The poor bastard fled out his window!” He wheezed out loud. 

– 

“Chuuya, what the fuck is Mori doing at my house?” Dazai whispered harshly into the cellphone. 

“What?” The redhead’s voice is distorted through the static, but the shock still rings clear. 

“Bastard disguised himself as a deliveryman and tried to get me to open the door. Is this some sort of sick-” 

“Dazai, nobody knew he was going to do this. It’s not an official mission. He probably just wants to get a rise out of you.” 

“Get a rise out of me? Like hell, he’s been stalking me for days Chuuya, He’s been making himself comfortable outside the front doors of the goddamn ADA.” 

Dazai’s panting as he sprints to Kunikida’s apartment. He can only pray that his partner’s home. His visit is, ah, unexpected, to say the least. 

“You’ll figure it out, Dazai, you always do.” 

“Just because I figured out how to run away when I was 16 doesn’t mean I can figure out how to get a psychopath off my back.” Dazai hisses. 

“You've had 6 years for your brain to develop. There’s no way that there’s nothing left in your brain.” 

Dazai skids to a stop and hurriedly rushes into an unassuming complex. Kunikida’s apartment. Finally. 

“I’ll call you back.” Dazai mutters before hanging up. 

He sighs, straightening his coat and staring at the elevator. Time to explain this fuckery to his partner. 

Chapter Text

Kunikda is understandably confused when he opens the door to a very frazzled Dazai.

"Dazai?" Kunikida eyes widen when he takes in the sight of his partner. "Is everything ok?"

"Can we talk inside? I'm being followed." Dazai's voice is professional and detached, concise and straight to the point.

Kunikida snaps into a similar demeanor upon realizing the magnitude of the situation. As much as he cares for Dazai, there is a shared understanding that panicking and allowing emotions to cloud their exchange will only hinder strategic and logical thinking. For once, Kunikida is grateful for his ability to compartmentalize his emotions. 

"Of course, I'll make us tea." 

Kunikida triple-checks that all the locks are securely fastened in place after Dazai crosses the threshold into his house. The taller man is pale, his hands shaky, but otherwise seems unharmed. He takes a seat at Kunikida's small dining room table, staring at his reflection shining back at him on the surface of the polished wood. 

"Mori is following me." Dazai states flatly. "I saw him waiting for me to leave the last time I was at the ADA. He showed up at my house this morning posing as a deliveryman for the ADA." 

Kunikida's heart squeezes painfully. "What?" 

Dazai doesn't dignify his question with a response. 

"Did you tell anyone?" He presses. 

"Chuuya knows. He says it's not a mafia-related mission. Whatever Mori is doing, he's doing it because he personally wants to." Dazai's surprised at his own lack of emotion. When he looks up, Kunikida's eyes are staring directly into his own. "What do you think I should do?" 

"We," Kunikida is careful with his words, "are going to tell the president." 

---

The ensuing discussion, as Dazai expected, did not go over smoothly. 

"What do you mean Mori is following Dazai?" Fukuzawa's voice is measured, but the sharpness of his eyes convey the urgency of the situation. 

The three are gathered around Kunikida's table. The lights are off to prevent anyone walking on the outside to believe that there was activity in Kunikida's house, and despite the seriousness of their gathering, Dazai must admit it was funny to see Fukuzawa masquerade as a drunk banging on Kunikida's door to keep appearances that their gathering was merely a fun night between friends. 

"I mean, president," Dazai says slowly, "that I'm being followed by Mori." 

Fukuzawa is unimpressed with Dazai's redundant summary. 

"He told me that Mori waited for him outside the ADA on his last day at work. He showed up at his house this morning." Kunikida interjects after an awkward silence. 

Fukuzawa rubs his hands against his face, pressing his knuckles into the hollows of his eyes. 

"Hello!" A cheery voice cuts through the silence. Dazai's heart stops. "I have a delivery for Kunikida sent from the ADA! I've been sent instructions that I need to personally ensure that you pick it up."