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“Odasaku! What would you have to say to me if I joined a cult?” A voice brisk if cryptic inquires over the phone.
“Dazai.”
Mechanically, Oda puts him on loud speaker, the way he does these days, Port Mafia executive calling. His apparitions has become commonplace, as such stir less and less flurry in ADA office rooms while still providing somewhat of an exotic break in a daily routine.
That’s not to say Oda’s colleagues are turning complacent. It’s still Demon Prodigy on their doorstep, posing as a concerned citizen with an occasional tip, riding shotgun along their most capable agent, nullifying powers of rouge and deadly ability users in the nick of time. All for the benefit of the Port Mafia, yet at the same time serving ADA’s agenda by ricochet.
They are waiting for the other shoe to drop, of course they are. But as long as lives are being saved, can they really cut it short?
“Then what if a rival cult kidnapped and enslaved me to work in a mine so that I could dig my way down to hell in order to set satan free?”
Oda has read his bible. Satan was a legitimate cause for concern.
Understandably, Kunikida’s eyebrow sets off in a nervous series of twitches. Yosano pulls a face.
Ranpo pivots in his swivel chair lost in thought, then nods to himself and pops a candy into his mouth.
Oda considers the matter carefully. Always does, where Dazai is concerned.
“Is it urgent?” He asks.
There’s a short pause on the other end, a drawn breath caught on a hitch. In between the silence, Oda can make out faint two-bar rubbing sounds on repeat. Looking out the window, he notes the rain is getting heavier.
“Not too urgent, no,” Dazai drawls like it took him a moment to stitch his thoughts back together. “I’m not good with physical labour, you see. Or any kind of work, for that matter.”
An audible crack carries from about where Kunikida stands. The man pencils in a dentist appointment in his journal.
“I see. We should count our blessings,” says Oda. “I need to make a quick stop at the curry joint first.”
“Freedom Restaurant?” Dazai perks up. “Sure. I can pick you up from there in an hour.”
“Drive safely.”
“-How--”
Oda hangs up and strides to a coat stand.
“When did you two even manage to come up with your own code language?” Yosano muses watching Oda slide into his jacket.
“What code language?”
“Is that my umbrella?!” Kunikida barks at the door swinging shut behind his colleague.
As forecasted, the rain turns out a fleeting shower. By the time Dazai arrives at the curry joint, all clouds have dispersed like torn cotton wool revealing the squeaky-clean blue radiance above, breached by a faint rainbow glow.
There’s more than the usual uproar around the Freedom Restaurant when he drives past in his freshly stolen Lamborghini Revuelto. Much as the flashy purple bodywork of the car arrests attention, a lively quarrel erupted only moments before over a wicker table set up outside for what seemed like a kinder party, so Dazai slinks by easily. He takes note that the number of the usual underage inhabitants doubled for the time being.
Dazai makes sure to drive a good distance away so as not to be followed by the curious bunch. They wouldn’t be let out too far when it meant heading back on their own. Oda must know it’s him but Dazai blinks the lights as he drives by anyway.
Passenger door fly up to let in the approaching guest.
“Hello, Odasaku!” The mafioso chirps brightly. “Get in.”
So Oda does. Slides into his seat without a hitch. Like he doesn’t notice Dazai sitting there stark naked beside him - no clothes, no bandages, no nothing barring that slick purple shell of a car he’s in. There’s no inflection in the detective’s voice when he answers,
“Good to see you, Dazai.” The engine revs up. “You’re not wearing a seat belt.”
Neither staring nor evading the plains of bare skin in his field of vision, Oda holds Dazai’s gaze the way he tends to do, easy if attentive. It draws out a smile from the younger man, not quite hidden under a slight incline of his head.
“No need for that,” Dazai says as they take off fast. “As long as we keep our hands to ourselves, we’re safe, right?”
“I suppose.” Indeed, Oda skips such safety measures as per usual.
Soft music like warm liquid fills the space between them. Careful planning on par with deft hands allowed Dazai to plant his own bluetooth in the car hours before stealing the vehicle. Hopefully the playlist is to Odasaku’s liking.
Following a moment’s pause, Oda knits his eyebrows, as if at odds with his own musings.
“What?” Dazai takes notice. “What is it, Odasaku?”
“Somewhere along the road, this ends up with you touching yourself right under my nose in some obscure ice cream parlour while people shoot at us.”
Dazai chuckles. Spreads his hands in a mock gesture. “I can no more help thinking ahead than you could switch off your own premonitions. What can I say, the possibility is out there!” He slants a glance with a glint of mirth. “Why, would you be more upset about not being able to touch me or strangle me?”
Oda ponders it briefly. “It’s a moot point,” eventually he decides. “I would be able to do neither.”
“Pfff"
A corner of Oda’s mouth quirks up. “I’m not one for hypothetical questions, Dazai.”
The young executive can’t help but reflect that smile.
“Fair,” he easily concurs. “They are a cheap cope-out. Still, the basic premise may not be hypothetical at all. Me acting like a pest. You taking it out on our opponents.” He shrugs. “The tactic has its merits.”
“You would think that.”
Dazai grins. “Yes.”
The car worms its way through a winding road looping round the wooded hills. Dazai has been driving crazy, clearly eager to test his new toy’s limits to the rising beat of the music, however Oda’s ability has yet to set off. Six to seven seconds’ warning notice is way more than they need to prevent whatever calamity might be brewing ahead, so Oda relaxes into his comfy seat and lets himself enjoy the ride.
“Why can't I take you there?!” Dazai shouts out loud and demanding with the music, tinkles of laughter lacing his voice as he bounces slightly in his seat.
Occasionally, he turns to Odasaku with a lopsided grin, sticks his splayed hands out in an inviting gesture for him to join in.
Choosing rather to remain a charmed into silence audience, Oda props his head on one hand, elbow resting on a windowsill hump. Not that that would deter Dazai in the slightest. With a bout of silvery laughter, he carries on by himself.
“Why does your heart withhold?”
“Where to?”
“Odawara city,” Dazai says as he puts his foot down, entering a straight section of an empty road. “I’ll brief you in on everything but first let’s hear about that emergency of yours. Sounded like quite a drama over there.”
“It was just a visit from Sakura’s new friends,” says Oda. “Not quite like transferring cults.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
The ride smooths out gradually, soft low engine hum turning deceptively slumberous.
“Mafia use their means to elicit information from people,” Oda picks up after brief pondering. “I hear you in particular have it down to an art form.”
“Hm.”
“But I gotta say, the ability to silence those you’d rather not have talking is just as important.”
“And I can picture that being your art.” Dazai blinks. It’s striking, really, how just the thought of cold indifference coming from Odasaku has him itching to crawl right out of his own skin.
He cocks his head in musing. “But if so, I wonder why you’d let me get away with all the shit I say.”
“Who says I’d let you get away?”
Brown eyes snap to Oda’s own peering gaze full with deliberate intent and only a glimmer of tease, and it is a rare sight to behold when the young mafia executive falls short for words. Empty promises ring a rattling noise, so Oda counts it a win having found that indeed, he is capable of clamming up Dazai, if just for a fleeting beat.
“Why would I wanna tone you down, Dazai?” Gently he counters. “I like the way you talk.”
Dazai takes a small breath, colour rising in his cheeks. He looks about to say something to that last remark at least but then he frowns, like whatever he’s come up with doesn’t quite fit. Again the words won’t come out, and once that registers with him, they give way to a long huff of silent laughter, a helpless hiss.
“But you wanted to know about the commotion back at the curry place.” Oda picks up.
Dazai slants him a glance, shaking his head slightly. “No one like you, Odasaku.”
“I’m just a--”
“Sure you are,” Dazai cuts off. “Sorry, I interrupted you. What about that fuss?”
“Shortly before your call, I got a bat-signal from Sakura. It was hard to make sense of her words over the phone; she was sobbing. Apparently, Katsumi had been teasing her new friend at the party. Badly. Let’s call that girl Rumiko.”
Dazai hums.
“Rumiko has recently presented as an ability user. She can manipulate the temperature of nearby objects.” Oda can practically see scenarios set off like racing horses behind Dazai’s calculating eyes, the weighing of threats and potential uses of the child. “Her parents are smart people who didn’t need long convincing to arrange for flying Rumiko out of the country. Hence the farewell party today.” Imaginary horses collapse. “I wouldn’t set up a child on a fork for the mafia, Dazai.”
The mafia in question pouts. It’s disgustingly pretty.
“Pending her departure, I spoke with Rumiko and advised her to keep low until then, so as not to attract attention to her ability. For the most part she’d succeeded, but she did reduce Katsumi’s lego shuttle into a colorful oil spill yesterday. Since then, relations have grown tense in the abode over Freedom Restaurant, and a civil farewell party was slipping out of reach. However, everyone was still determined to go through with it since dorayaki was on the menu.”
From a deep side pocket of his black denim cargo pants, Oda pulls out a sizable paper-wrapped bundle.
“Odasaku!” Dazai shouts out delighted, a sparkle of glint catching in his eyes. “Port Mafia smugglers should only be this useful!”
With a quiet rustle, Oda unwraps the boon and sets it between their chairs. Faint aroma of the cake still a bit warm has Dazai shoot out his hand on automatic and munching away in no time.
“Crumbs will bite into your skin.”
“It can’t be helped.”
Oda checks the glove compartment for any piece of rug - no luck. He wonders if such exact occasions where the reason why old times’ gentlemen carried napkins. Biting his lip, dejected, Oda pulls off his beige hemp t-shirt to throw it over Dazai’s lap.
Dazai pauses mid-bite, a little wide-eyed. Steals a sidelong glance, then mutters something to the sound of “appreciated”, frankly there’s no telling as it’s mostly muffled in more cake he stuffs his mouth with.
“In the end,” Oda carries on with the story. “I only pointed out to Rumiko how she could easily cut short the unpleasant conversations. Next time Katsumi teased her, he found his tongue glued fast to his glass of lemonade abruptly cooled down to arctic temperatures. What you witnessed was the chaos that erupted once he’d realised his problem wouldn’t go away with any simple tactics.”
“Scary.” Dazai gulps down a bite.
“To be fair, Katsumi-kun had repeatedly asked for an introduction to the arcane arts of the Armed Detective Agency.”
“Asked explicitly?”
“...That, too."
Dazai steers his eyes back to the road ahead. Dusting his hands off the crumbs swiftly, he turns to shuffle through the playlist in search of smoother tunes as they cut across the vast greenery.
“So, what’s in Odawara City?” Oda asks.
Dazai ponders it a moment before his mouth stretches on a smirk. “I know of an obscure ice cream parlour.”
Several trees swish past before Oda stifles the low chuckle pooling in his chest. He settles on a noncommittal hum.
“There’s also an old distinguished family whose son was murdered by a cult, his family signet ring stolen. I was hoping you could return it to them.”
With that, Dazai fishes a small item out of a door pocket where he'd found it and lobs it to Oda. The other man catches it in one hand, turns the gleaming metal in his fingers, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the distinct crest pattern.
“Why don’t you do it yourself?”
“It’s not superficial when I call the Kumamoto a respectable family. They don’t exactly get along with the mafia. You, on the other hand, will be most welcomed. More so returning their property, when the killer who had taken it has just been eliminated.”
“Where’d you get them?”
“At an onsen. I might have joined an organisation briefly only to arrange for a private meeting between its leader and the head of a rival cult. While the scope of their activities didn’t overlap with the Port Mafia directly, we found them to be a hindrance more often than not. That rival group had the entire resort booked for the occasion, with the monitoring ordered to be physically dismantled, which turned out convenient. The only problem I encountered was that nothing was allowed to be brought in, but I made use of an electrical ice crusher from the bar. Plunged it in soon as the both men have soaked in the water. I hadn’t even dipped my foot beforehand, which was wasteful; it’s a nice resort. Alas, I was on the clock.”
Dazai shrugs. “They wouldn’t let me in with the bandages on.” He says it without a hitch, yet Oda can read the haste in it loud and clear. “Nor could I get back the way I had entered to scoop up my clothes. But on the upside, no one will be the wiser as to what happened for a long time yet.”
Oda summons whatever brief acquaintance he’s had with the layout of Lamborghini cars. The pause throws Dazai off a little, and soon he jumps into conclusions.
“I know this detour may not seem all that worthwhile to you--”
“When did I say that?” Oda cuts off. With a slight frown, he reaches under his seat, fumbling for a hidden compartment.
“What I mean is, while ADA doesn’t involve itself in politics, frankly that’s just shortsighted. You will have the Kumamotos gratitude, and one way or another you may benefit from the connections. Certainly no tarnish will befall your beloved agency’s name from liaisons with a family like that.”
Oda lets out an exasperated sigh while feeling up the space under the both seats now.
“What are you doing?” Dazai asks. “Eject seats in Lamborghini are just an urban legend, you know.”
“Don’t think about your partner when on a job with me.”
The line delivered with grave seriousness startles a snort out of Dazai while still turning him a little giddy, a bit coy.
“Not in a million years.” He shakes his head with a soft smile. “But it is true that my dog has trained me to be a bit fidgety, I guess.”
At last, Oda retrieves a car emergency kit from the compartment behind the seats.
Dazai’s eyes lit up. “No way! I looked for it all over the place.”
Upon inspecting the packages’ contents, there are three pristine rolls of bandages inside.
“Thank you,” Dazai says, quiet and soft, and leaves it at that.
Blue twilight shades cast over the vibrant day ebbing away by the time they arrive at the gate of the Kumamoto residence. It’s a remote location, nestled between a small hill and beech forest, so Dazai will probably use it to put on the bandages before continuing on the road. Oda squeezes the signet ring in his hand, hoping it would suffice to buy him a change of clothes from the grateful owners since Dazai opted to drop the car nearby. He’d drive around in search of obscure gravel roads in the woods whilst Oda paid a visit. Train station a walking distance away, they could go back to Yokohama together.
Oda steps out of the car, shirtless. Breathes in the breeze spilling from the forest after rain. Overhead, first silvery dots gleam out of tentative blue softness. Unhurriedly, he parades in front of the slick hood of the car while Dazai lowers the window to pass him the shirt in dire need of shaking off.
“Don’t drive yourself off a cliff while I’m away.”
“No fun.” Dazai smirks, and Oda leans in to gently but surely kiss that smirk off his face.