Work Text:
"Dazai-san, everyone is going out to eat tonight if you'd like to come?" Atsushi says, standing in front of his desk. Dazai pulls his attention away from the report in front of him and looks up towards his protégé. When he had come in today—only an hour late—he had experienced the joy of Kunikida nearly having an aneurysm when all he had done was sit down and start working. His partner has been paranoid all day and it's everything he can do to not laugh.
He leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together in his lap.
"Is this going on the Agency's bill?" He asks with a grin, already knowing the answer.
"Of course not!" Kunikida's timely response comes from behind Dazai. "After all the resources we put into defeating Dostoevsky, there's no budget left for such things!"
Dazai waves a hand lazily. "In that case, I'll pass." For some reason he has less interest than usual in spending time outside of work with his colleagues.
Atsushi frowns and pulls out his little coin purse, eyes focused as he counts through the meager change.
"I-I could cover you?" He says like he's not really sure if he can actually afford it.
"Don't spoil him!" Kunikida butts in and Dazai pouts theatrically. He spreads his arms wide and tilts his head to look back at Kunikida.
"But don't you know that having someone treat you to a meal once a week improves your complexion!" he cries out, an arm across his forehead as if he can hardly believe the cruel fate that has overcome him.
He's already sure of the response he'll receive. Then based on your face you've never been treated to a meal in your life, said in a haughty tone that shows he doesn't believe Dazai's fake life tips for even one second.
"Is that so? I suppose I could see how…" Dazai frowns as Kunikida scribbles in his notebook, oddly put out by the lack of an explosive reaction. Usually he takes enjoyment in how easily Kunikida falls for his more benign lies. It feels like there's a line of thread wrapping around his body, cinching so tightly that it becomes hard to breathe. He sucks air into his lungs quietly, calm and blank on the outside, but working up a panic inside himself. It's been a semi-regular occurrence ever since he escaped the prison after not expecting to leave it alive. Every so often he gets this sensation that something is wrong and loses his grasp on the outside world for a moment or two as he has to put all of his effort into drawing one breath after another.
"I lied," he tells Kunikida through the fog he's working through and the hands that grip his neck allow him to come back the rest of the way. He grins as Kunikida shakes him, his awareness suddenly back in full force. The fingers around his throat are so hot they burn but it's better than the way he couldn't feel himself existing inside of his own skin just seconds earlier.
Kunikida finally lets him go with a huff and brushes down his clothes. It's getting close to the end of the day already, but Dazai doesn't think Kunikida has ever left early from the office even once and is unsurprised when he sits back down despite the way Atsushi looks anxious to leave.
They're the only ones in the agency today—Yosano has started working part-time at a nearby hospital and Kyouka and Kenji have been working through some formal education which Dazai doesn't see the point of; he's never gone to school and he turned out completely fine. The workdays are long and quiet now without the hustle and bustle of a full office and case load, but there is a certain amount of pleasure that could also be found in the peace. He wants to go home and indulge in a glass of whisky, maybe some canned crab to go with it.
Sooner than expected the work day is over and everyone packs up their things—Kunikida's bag divided into the perfect sized sections to hold his belongings. Kunikida and Atsushi go out the door first, Dazai waving them off with a smile. Atsushi pauses in the doorway for a moment, his gaze lingering on Dazai's face before smiling in this trembling way that hurts Dazai's chest and makes the threads draw closer.
Finally back home Dazai takes a moment to drop down onto his futon as he lets the staved off exhaustion from the day seep into his body. There hadn't been that strenuous of a workload, but he's been feeling on edge for some time now—as if something will happen soon, their carefully made peace pulled down around them. He sighs as he lays there, staring up at the ceiling at one particularly inviting rafter that looks worn from the amount of times he's slung a rope around it.
Grimacing as he sits up, he runs a hand through his hair and tugs at the end of his bandages, debating on whether he wants to take them off. He decides against it and stands, planning to make good on his promise to himself of whiskey and crab.
He analyses the day in the back of his head as he mindlessly opens the can and a bottle. He tries to look for any clue as to what is making him so skittish, any sign of some kind of impending doom, but there's nothing at all. For all that he can tell it had been a completely normal, boring day. So normal, in fact, that it was almost an anomaly on its own. He fills his glass and sets the bottle back onto the table with a soft clink.
He takes a sip then grimaces as the taste pulls him out of his mind.
He almost drops the glass at the sight of what's inside.
Instead of the amber drink he had been aiming for, his whiskey glass is filled with a deep red. A wine.
He didn't even know that he had wine here, can't remember ever having bought it. He stares at the drink for a long, long time before finally huffing and turning to dump it down the sink. The taste of sake or whiskey is much more preferable.
The red swirls down the sink like a sea of blood. He dumps the whole bottle out, some expensive brand that he doubts he could've afforded in the first place. He can only stand watching the colour for so long until he forces himself to turn on the tap and dilute the stream.
"Dazai-San? Dazai-san!" Dazai jolts as someone grabs his hand and pulls. He almost stumbles over the curb, but manages to keep upright. As soon as he has his balance back the weight of Atsushi's hand around his own becomes all too apparent. He wrenches away with wide eyes, Atsushi's fingers hadn't felt quite right in his own. No one else's have since he was fifteen.
"Are you… are you alright?" Atsushi asks tentatively, watching him carefully like he might wander back out into the same street that he'd just been saved from. It's now that Dazai finally realises just how heavy he's breathing, like he can't draw in enough air. He feels cold all over, his body stiff in a way that he can't seem to lessen. He's just staring at Atsushi uncomprehendingly and unconsciously flexing the hand that had been grabbed.
He wets his mouth, his lips suddenly too dry as he tries to get a hold of himself. His voice is too raspy at first so he clears his throat and tries again.
"Ah, how unfortunate for me that you pulled me from the path of an oncoming car." Dazai tells him, but he has trouble creating the same inflection that he usually uses when talking about suicide. Atsushi frowns, looking distinctly unhappy with the answer.
"I thought you didn't like pain. Usually you go for something more sure-fire." Dazai's smile threatens to fall, but he's able to catch it before it does. His bandaged arm brushes against his coat. Pain… Maybe he would've been fine either way whether the car killed him or not. It feels like he's been looking for any possible chance, lately, to dole out punishment onto himself, but he can't figure out why.
"I'm always ready to try out a new method!" He's taking in deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. Atsushi doesn't say anything but the disapproval is rolling off of him in waves. Concern too.
Atsushi rubs his palms on his pants then twiddles his fingers against each other, gaze stuck on his hands.
"I'm not—not very good at this kind of thing but, uhm, if you ever want to talk about—"
"I'm always perfectly fine, Atsushi-kun. No need to worry yourself over me," he says, brushing off Atsushi's words. He doesn't even know what he would talk about if he were to accept the offer. Not that he ever would, he'd sooner kiss a slug.
Dazai presses a hand to his chest as pain lances through him uncomfortably.
"Dazai, would it kill you to work for a single day of your life?" Kunikida's voice says from his desk. Dazai just leans back in his chair, huffing.
"If you want to spend your life chasing after rules and regulations that will amount to nothing then be my guest, but leave me out of it." He sounds a lot… meaner than he had meant to. Cold and serious, not even a hint of playfulness. The office has practically stopped, staring at him. For all that he plays and annoys he's never said something callous to these colleagues just for the sake of hurting them. Until now. All of their normal attitudes have been getting on his nerves. It feels like they should be acting differently. He's acting differently so why aren't they? He slowly sits up as if he's a prey animal caught in the sights of a predator.
"Just because you're grieving, it doesn't give you the right to be cruel." Atsushi says harshly from the doorway, fixing a surprisingly lethal glare onto him. Dazai's brows jump up.
"Grieving?" He asks. He can't particularly think of any way that he's been especially sad about something or even angry. He knows what grief feels like—had dealt with it the two years after he left the mafia, still deals with it now, sometimes. But lately he's just been more cold then usual, as if the sun is no longer enough to warm his skin. A little more empty, maybe? But that's simply a regular occurrence.
Dazai doesn't like the speed at which Atsushi's glare drops.
"Your friend died."
I killed him, Dazai doesn't say.
"Oh please. I'm glad he's finally gone. Y'know I'd been thinking for years about how to get rid of him. He's always been such a thorn in my side. Always yelling, stupidly throwing himself at enemies despite my orders. Some dog he is… was. He's always so brash… and bright. It hurt my eyes to look at him. I'm glad I don't have to deal with him anymore."
"Dazai-san… you're…" Atsushi touches his own face and Dazai mirrors the action, jolting when his fingers come away wet. Is he—is he crying? He stares at the sheen of his fingertips, unable to understand what's actually happening. He's not upset? He doesn't think he's upset, at least. So why—
"I don't understand." Dazai says, eyes boring into Atsushi. Now that he's aware of the tears all he can feel is the way they keep sliding down his cheeks. Atsushi jumps like he's been slapped, his expression disbelieving and full of surprise.
"You were… you were friends weren't you?" He says, like it should be obvious as to why Dazai is crying.
"Partners." The response is immediate, tumbling out of his mouth without a thought as if he can't stand their relationship being referred to as anything less. He doesn't like that. Doesn't like that he's out of control right now, his body doing things without his permission. He feels detached from his skin on a good day but this is an entirely different level.
"...right. Either way he was important."
"Was he?" Dazai asks, a desperate edge to his voice and the question genuine. Atsushi fixes him with a look filled with sorrow, as if he's grieving in Dazai's stead.
"Oh, Dazai-san…"
With a jolt Dazai remembers where he is. Sitting in the middle of the ADA office with tears running down his face. He can't even remember the last time he cried, barely can recall the sensation. He doesn't like the way it feels now, shame and humiliation filling him at the concept of being seen like this. Never. He's never had such a break in emotion in front of another person. He almost had, in front of Odasaku, but not even… his breath gets caught in his throat in a sob.
"I have to go," he forces out, surprised his voice doesn't tremble. Atsushi only nods and moves out of the way as Dazai flees, not daring to look at anyone else's face.
He quickly walks the streets, doing his best to not call attention to himself, but it's difficult to avoid when the tears won't stop falling. Fortunately, the trek to his dorm from the office is short and he closes the door behind him with trembling hands. He fumbles his way to the kitchen and pours himself a drink, ignoring the couple drops that spill from his unsteady hands.
He doesn't want to think about it, but he can't stop himself. Flashes of memories flying through his mind, the look on his face barely above water sticking the longest. He had almost… he had almost regained himself at the end. Dazai wonders if he had even heard his goodbye or if only Fyodor's ears had been privy to his words.
He sinks to the floor against the kitchen cupboards with his glass in one hand, the bottle in the other. He throws back drinks that send heat running down his throat, but it still doesn't recreate the feeling that he sometimes had around his partner. A warmth that spread from his chest down to his fingertips, making him feel oh so incredibly human. He longs for it again, no one else has ever given him that same feeling and yet he can't even identify the emotion attached to it. He had always looked to someone else as a guide for what to feel and how to feel it, but now he's floundering without that guidepost. How is he supposed to know? Do people just figure this out on their own? He doesn't see how they do.
He gulps down another drink.
He just—he just wants to touch him again. His hair was always so soft even if he complained about it every time Dazai ran his hands through it. And his ability. Oh his ability made No Longer Human sing in his veins. For brief moments not a voracious void, but something quieter, like the aftermath of a storm where the sky clears and nature once again plays its song.
But he won't be able to do that again. His body left behind in a cold prison. He doesn't even know if the mafia had retrieved him. How could he not know? What kind of a partner is he if he doesn't know his whereabouts at all times?
He wants to go on another mission together. To feel that rush of adrenaline that runs through his veins as his orders are followed without even needing to be said. A silent communication between them, a perfect team. There's nothing else quite like it, that feeling. Of being so so understood.
He wants. He wants he wants he wants.
What does he want?
What does he…
Oh.
Oh.
Oh.
"Chuuya," he sobs into his empty dorm, not expecting a response. He drops the glass and bottle to the floor, the remaining drink spilling onto the tatami. The heels of his hands press into his eyes, trying to stave off the tears that have returned with a vengeance. How can his body even hold so much water? What is he supposed to do? He doesn't know what to do. There's nothing he can do.
There's no fixing this. No way to back out of this plan. Chuuya is gone and that's that. He's not going to reappear in a few days, glaring at Dazai because he let Corruption go on for too long, he's not going to show up at their joint meetings between the Mafia and ADA anymore. This is it. This is how things are now and Dazai has no one to blame but himself.
He was perfectly fine just a few days ago. A few days ago Chuuya hadn't mattered as much as he seems to now. It had been too easy to rig the trap that ended up killing him, even easier to not lift a finger to help him. Betraying Chuuya's trust one last time.
He probably died thinking that he really hadn't meant anything to Dazai. And Dazai… he wasn't so naive as to believe that there was no connection between them, but nothing like this. This horrible ache between his ribs that won't go away no matter how much he presses at it. He finally knows why he hadn't felt quite right lately. Atsushi was right. He was grieving. Heartbroken.
He hadn't even known how closely he held Chuuya to his heart and now it's too late for the realisation. Lost time. He had lost four years with him because of his own actions. Lost the rest of his life with him now for the same reason. Could there have been a life there? Something to strive for? To beg for forgiveness in the hope for something more? He doesn't know what to do with these feelings now. There's no way he can just live with them, now knowing what they are. But it's all he can do. He can't cut them out, can't forcefully make them go away. All he can do is live with the memory.
And he had cut the thread all by himself. No goading needed. Just him. The way he had been feeling strangled and tied up was a lie. Those threads are loose now, no longer pulled taught by the person on the other end.
And there's no going back.