Chapter Text
On a warm, stuffy day, Nakahara Chuuya walks into the office of the Armed Detective Agency.
There was nothing special about this day, except for the fact that it was so hot outside that sitting next to the window meant that Dazai’s glasses kept slipping down his nose due to the sweat. The office was quiet; Kunikida kept stealing glances at Dazai sitting calmly and working, but it was mostly because Dazai was playing the new mayoi game about this new age anime that the kids favoured these days. The only kid in the office was sitting peacefully in the corner, his dark red hair falling into his eyes as he obsessively played with his I-Pad. In the morning, as the kid's dad rushed him in, Dazai had asked, “Tanizaki-kun! What a surprise!”
“Ah,” Junichirou had said, “Naomi is having pregnancy troubles.”
No one asked any questions.
Now, it was the afternoon, and Atsushi walked into the office after his current investigation of a rich scumbag’s murder and declared: “Fuck the Mafia!”
Dazai raised an eyebrow. “You already are, kid.”
Atsushi growled at him and went to sit in the corner. The mafia does make the matters harder; they could have just let the ADA expose the Scumbag’s trafficking ring and no one would have to do dumb investigations paid by insistent blood money. Alas, Akutagawa was bad at people.
Kunikida kept accidentally poking his eye while trying to pull up his non-existent glasses. Kunikida wears glasses for one day and forgets that he wears contacts rest of the time. Dazai still finds the ability to see his partner’s full cheekbones funny while talking to him, regardless of how much the grandma who is married to Kunikida loves seeing him in contacts.
Ahem, not a grandma, just… older. By like a decade. Its fine, it was much weirder with the Tanizaki couple anyway. What floats boats, and all.
It was a very normal day, so it wasn’t unexpected that a random person walked into the agency. Work was booming, and they got new cases everday. As much as Dazai would never admit it to anyone, he loved the newness and the pace of it.
It tugged at Dazai’s chest to see that man, though. It took his brain a while to catch up to why. He looks exactly like him. A surprisingly lifelike copy of features he had half-forgotten, despite his best efforts to keep everything in his head, in his body, in his phone, in his things. Not that anyone else knew; of all the acts he put up, the grieving widow was the most unnatural. The man was always much more vibrant in motion, of course. It can’t be him though, can it? Dazai watches as Kunikida moves to obstruct his vision, throwing a worried glance back at him. Why is Kunikida worried about him, honestly? It’s not like this can affect him. Not after.
Dazai watches as Atsushi tries to run his hands through his undercut, a nervous habit from back when he didn’t wear a ponytail. Atsushi walks up to confront the stranger, who is covered in dirt, Dazai notices. Kunikida has a hand on Dazai’s shoulder, and Dazai is being walked away, into the smaller room next to the office.
“Hello, how can we help you?” Atsushi’s voice rings out from the main room.
“Can you explain all this bullshit to me?” Says an angry, familiar voice, and oh, Dazai finds it hard to breathe, chokes on his lungs’ feeble attempts.
Kunikida’s hand on his shoulder tightens. A bubble of joy bursts in Dazai’s chest; now he can finally jog his memory on this clone, and strategize how to hunt down the government officials who dared taint this man’s memory. Maybe they made it from that fucking ability user that they killed last week who tried to go Shibusawa’s way. Maybe Dazai can play around with the clone, and figure out the minute ways that it is different from the real man. Maybe Dazai can –
“Are you alright, Dazai?” Kunikida says, uncharacteristically gently. Dazai laughs in response, the hysteria in it not very faked. It isn’t like Dazai has not accepted all that needed to be accepted. Nakahara Chuuya had died 7 years ago. There is nothing to not be okay about.