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i.
There is something beautiful about the lines running across the palms of Chuuya’s hands. Dazai thinks they could trace them for hours, committing every last millimeter to memory, and still not be fully satisfied. Chuuya’s fingers are calloused, though the skin is soft and warm. It resembles how Dazai imagines it feels to have a home. Something constant, something to go back to, something that grounds you and shelters you and tends to your wounds. Something that holds you when the rest of the world only wishes to spill your blood.
Of course, Dazai rarely is granted an opportunity to truly appreciate Chuuya’s hands. He won’t allow contact for too long, always pulling away as if he’s been burned by their touch. He may as well have been. Dazai’s touch can never be innocent.
But in moments like these, when Chuuya’s energy has been sapped from Corruption, he doesn’t argue. He lets Dazai hold his hand, running their thumb over the lines of his palm, admiring the beauty.
Chuuya’s eyes slipped shut a while ago, and Dazai assumes he’s since fallen asleep. All the better for them, really, because it means they can freely trace out the scars encircling his wrists and arms—the lightning bolt-shaped lines spiraling out from the epicenter of his hand.
An hour ago, they were covered in blood. The skin gave way under the pressure of Corrupting and bright red began seeping through. Dazai scrubbed it all away themself, but only because Chuuya was too tired and refused to lay down in bed with so much blood caked on his skin. They almost let him crash on the floor.
But then he would have complained about the pain even more tomorrow, and Dazai didn’t want to deal with that.
Chuuya looks peaceful like this, they note absently. Their thumb finds rest in the center of Chuuya’s palm, and they press down just hard enough that it triggers an instinctive reaction; Chuuya’s fingers curling inwards. Almost like he’s holding them back.
It’s close enough.
It’s more than they deserve.
Dazai’s touch is a weapon; they were not made for nice things like hand holding. But for as long as Chuuya is unconscious and unaware, they can pretend they could be something worth embracing. Skin-to-skin, no bandages or gloves in the way, Chuuya left vulnerable in the wake of Dazai’s touch. It could be beautiful.
It’s sort of just sad.
Dazai brings Chuuya’s hand to their lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, far too soft for someone like them. Far softer than they should be capable of.
Then, they drop his hand and leave the room. They need to do something to cancel out the tenderness. They’ll rearrange Chuuya’s bookshelf again, to keep themself busy. To keep themself away from Chuuya. To keep themself from falling in any deeper than they already have.
ii.
Kunikida writes a lot.
This is one of the first things Dazai notices about him. He always, always, has his notebook with him, and he is constantly scribbling in it. Notes, reminders, to-do lists, schedules, ideas to improve the Agency, recipes, etc, etc, etc. It’s mostly boring stuff, mundane stuff, human stuff.
It’s fascinating!
The list of requirements for his future spouse is Dazai’s favorite, of course, because it is entirely impossible that he will ever find someone who fulfills every single one of the fifty-eight items on that list. It’s kind of hilarious. There’s definitely something deeper going on there—a lack of true attraction to women, or a lack of attraction in general, maybe—but Dazai doesn’t want to speculate too hard. Kunikida should figure that one out on his own.
He doesn’t just write in his notebook, though. He has post-it notes scattered all over his desk with reminders and notes, and he leaves notes for others as well. Budget inquiries for the clerks, shopping lists for Yosano, encouragements and compliments for Ranpo…
And recently, reminders to eat for Dazai.
They pluck the most recent sticky note from their desk. It’s pale yellow, and in Kunikida’s near-flawless penmanship, says, Lunch at 12.
They look up, grinning, “Aww, Kunikida-kun, are you asking me on a date?”
They’ve done this bit before, but it still makes Kunikida’s cheeks color every time, so they’re going to run the joke into the ground. Over at his own desk, Ranpo cackles, as usual.
“You know damn well it’s not a date,” Kunikida snaps, after he’s taken a moment to regain his composure. “Now shut up and get to work!”
Dazai does shut up, but they have no intention of doing any work. Not so early in the day, at least. They plop themself into their chair, crumple up the Post-It note into a ball, and drop it into their desk drawer with all of the others. They should just throw them away, probably. They don’t know why they keep them.
(They do. But they could never admit it.)
Once that task has been completed, their gaze drifts back to Kunikida. He’s already scribbling something in his notebook—amending his schedule, maybe. Making concessions and planning out “what-if”s and formulating back up plans for when Dazai inevitably ruins something. They don’t particularly care what he’s writing; that’s not important.
What’s important is the way his hands look while he does it.
He holds the pen expertly, his strokes both quick and precise. He can make even the tiniest kanji perfectly legible, with nary a smudge in sight. It’s rather impressive, Dazai must admit.
His fingers are long, too. Longer than Dazai’s, and long in a way that fits his hand and the rest of his body. Dazai’s fingers are too bony, too skinny, too haphazardly attached. Kunikida’s are strong, and handsome, and may or may not have starred in a fantasy or two when Dazai couldn’t sleep at night. But admitting that aloud would be going too far, even for them, so they keep that secret to themself.
Dazai has not spent much time studying Kunikida’s hands—certainly not as much as they would like—but they are similar to Chuuya’s, in the sense that they are warm and his fingers are calloused and his grip secure in a way that can only be described as homely. Dazai aches with the want for Kunikida’s hands on them—on their wrists, their arms, their own hands. Their legs, their thighs, their chest. Their throat. Every inch of marred skin hidden away beneath layers of bandages, traced over by Kunikida’s expert touch.
They want it so desperately that their lungs hurt.
They tear their gaze away from Kunikida’s scribbling, staring down at their own desk instead. It’s dangerous to fantasize, but they can hardly help it. Especially when Kunikida’s hands look like that.
“Dazai?” he asks, snapping them out of their rumination.
Dazai jolts, slightly. They force their gaze up to meet Kunikida’s, painting a smile across their face. “Yes?”
“Work,” he insists. “Stop zoning out; you’ve got reports that were due two weeks ago.”
Their smile turns dry. They pluck a paper off of the stack on their desk at random and pretend to read through it. That seems to appease Kunikida for the moment, though they’re sure it’s only a matter of time before he realizes they still aren’t actually doing anything.
Their gaze flits back up to his hands. Flipping through the pages of a packet of paperwork. Their mouth goes dry.
It’s going to be a long day.
iii.
“Owwww,” Ranpo whines, squirming in an attempt to get away from Dazai. “Ow, ow, ow!”
Dazai merely tightens their grip on his wrist. “This is your fault,” they remind him. “You decided risking an injury yourself was the best way to catch this guy.” They continue dabbing antiseptic on the cut across his palm. This should be Yosano’s job, but she’s on a case in Takasaki with Kunikida, which apparently leaves Dazai as the person in the Agency with the most medical knowledge.
Yet another curse left on them by the mafia. Yet another reason they can never truly be worthy to walk in the light.
“You could have just gone to the hospital,” Dazai points out.
“I hate hospitals,” Ranpo replies immediately. “You know that. I know you know that; you’re not half as big of an idiot as you pretend to be. Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m making conversation. To distract you from the pain.” Dazai can hear the irritation creeping into their voice, but they don’t quite have enough energy to care. “Since you’re being such a baby about this.”
“Well sorry I didn’t spend my teenage years getting shot at.”
Dazai freezes.
(They had an unspoken agreement, not to mention Dazai’s past. Or so Dazai thought. But maybe Ranpo has just been holding onto their secrets in anticipation of the right moment to expose them. Maybe Dazai should have run the moment Ranpo recognized the truth of their prior occupation.)
(Really, it was always only a matter of time before the others found out too and Dazai was politely forced to leave.)
“I mean—”
“Don’t,” Dazai interrupts darkly.
Ranpo falls silent.
Dazai tosses the antiseptic cream aside, exchanging it for bandages. They take Ranpo’s hand in theirs, and—
their breath catches in their throat. Their touch is supposed to be a weapon.
But to Ranpo…it’s nothing.
This was the exchange: Ranpo knew Dazai’s secret, and Dazai knew Ranpo’s, and they both kept quiet. They were forced to trust the other with the threat of exposure looming over their heads like storm clouds dark and heavy with rain. Someone was always going to snap with the first bolt of lightning and crack of thunder.
Dazai touches Ranpo, and they feel nothing.
Ranpo’s hands are smaller than theirs, with pudgy fingers and nails clipped short. A few have traces of nail polish lingering on them from when Yosano painted his nails two weeks ago. His skin is soft, uncalloused. There’s a small scar on the side of his thumb.
The Agency’s princess, Dazai thinks, recalling Yosano’s teasing nickname for him. It fits. His hands are pretty, befitting of royalty. Dazai would hold on for longer if they could, but it’s clear Ranpo doesn’t deem them worthy. Dazai doesn’t believe themself worthy either.
They wrap the bandages quickly, expertly. They could do it with their eyes closed at this point, but they keep their gaze trained on Ranpo’s hand, trying to commit as much of it to memory as possible before they pull away. The mole on his ring finger, the hangnail on his pinky, the lines crossing his palm, now mostly covered by pure white gauze.
The blood doesn’t seep through more than the first few layers, so by the time Dazai has finished, there’s no evidence of the wound apart from the bandage itself.
Their touch lingers just a moment too long, and then they let go of Ranpo’s hand. Their eyes are still tracing the curve of his palm as they mumble, “You should have Yosano-sensei look at it once she’s back. She’s better at this stuff than I am.”
Ranpo shrugs. “I trust you,” he says lightly. Like it’s easy. Like there aren’t a thousand reasons trust and Dazai should never exist in the same sentence. Like poison doesn’t seep from their fingers, like it isn’t far easier for them to kill than to heal.
“You shouldn’t.”
“That’s not your decision to make.” Ranpo hops down from the infirmary bed, then grins up at them. He procures a piece of hard candy from his pocket, grabs Dazai’s hand, and presses it into their palm. “As a thank you,” he explains, and then skips back out to the office.
A thank you.
When Dazai pops the candy into their mouth, it also tastes like an apology.
iv.
The metal around Dazai’s wrist is cold, even through their bandages. It burns like dry ice, heavy with the weight of—
138 counts of conspiracy to murder,
312 counts of extortion,
625 counts of assorted fraud.
The numbers would make anyone else’s head spin. Dazai doubts they’re high enough. They can only be accused of what there was evidence left behind for. How many of their crimes simply have not yet been traced back to them?
Escape is not a possibility. Of course, Dazai knew this would happen—they purposefully distanced themself from all the other Agency members so none of them could be privy to their long overdue arrest. So none of them would hear just how much blood truly coats their hands.
Soon, you will descend into the depths of fear, the Hunting Dog said, glee trickling down over his words like honey. He reminds Dazai of the sadistic parts of themself they have tried so hard to burn away. The parts that have now been dredged up from where they were buried six feet under next to Oda’s corpse.
Dazai hates him.
But the searing hatred turning their stomach is half-directed at themself.
The Hunting Dog takes Dazai’s hand in his, and immediately jolts as if he’s been shocked. The first step he takes after that is the first Dazai can hear, as if No Longer Human is dragging him down. It should offer some sort of vindication—the knowledge that he is suffering just as Dazai is.
Instead, Dazai bites back an apology so fiercely their tongue begins to bleed.
They fix their gaze on their hand, wrist encircled with a band of metal, the Hunting Dog’s fingers digging into their skin. His nails are sharp. Dazai wishes he would press harder.
His hands are pale, delicate, beautiful. Certainly not hands that belong to a soldier. They are too pretty for the cruelty laced in his voice; too soft for someone who gets off on the suffering of others. The rage twisting Dazai’s stomach is morphing into nauseating envy.
The Hunting Dog’s grin widens, sinister. He leans in closer, breath warm against Dazai’s ear as he reminds them, “I can hear your jealousy too.”
“Your ears must be deceiving you.”
He is so close. Dazai wishes he would bite them. Anything to inflict the pain they deserve in this moment; anything to distract from the cool, smooth, fingers wrapped around their own marred and bony hand.
Instead, he huffs out a laugh. “If only we had met sooner. I think I would have liked you.”
If they had met sooner, Dazai thinks they would have torn each other apart.
“If only,” they repeat dryly. Maybe in that other world, his hands are ugly too.
v.
Warmth seeps through Dazai’s chest, glowing golden like evening sunlight. It’s the peaceful moments like this that they are most grateful for. The moments where they are safe in the privacy of Chuuya’s apartment and they can lower their guard, relaxing into the safety of their partners. It’s domestic in a way that once made Dazai’s skin crawl, but now, after months of trying to keep this happiness at arm’s length for fear of it slipping away, they have finally begun to settle into it.
They’re finally starting to believe this is something they could keep.
Even with their past out in the open, Kunikida hasn’t run away. Even after leaving him in the night and cutting all contact with no explanation, Chuuya was willing to patch things up. Even on Dazai’s worst days when they can’t imagine ending the night anywhere other than the bottom of a river, Kunikida and Chuuya stay by their side and remind them that the sun is merely hidden behind the clouds; not gone completely.
There will always be bad days. Dazai knows this. They can’t walk without aid from a cane, and a permanent hollowness resides inside their chest, and they will never be deserving of the light and the humanity they submerge themself in. But it helps, to know that Kunikida and Chuuya will both kiss their cold lips after pulling them from the water.
Dazai leans their head on their hand, kicking their legs up behind them, happily watching as Chuuya and Kunikida sort through Chuuya’s nail polish collection and discuss which colors they should pick. They want to do something nauseatingly romantic with it. Dazai wonders if they’re planning to force them to join in.
They hope not.
(No—they desperately want to be allowed to join.)
“Oi,” Chuuya snaps his fingers, drawing Dazai’s attention to him. “You’re not getting out of this. Pick a color.”
Dazai’s heart soars.
They pull their face into a frown, groaning. “You’re so demandinggg, why can’t I just lay here and watch?”
“Quit being such a lazy ass,” Kunikida grumbles.
Dazai breaks out into a grin.
They pick a color at random, which ends up being a pastel pink that they aren’t even sure why Chuuya has in the first place. A gift from Kouyou, maybe. It doesn’t look like it’s ever been used.
“You’re obnoxious,” Chuuya says through a fond smile. Dazai’s heartbeat stutters uncomfortably. They want to kiss him, but that would be too obvious, so instead they just wink. Chuuya flips them off in response, and Kunikida sighs affectionately.
Chuuya paints Kunikida’s nails first, holding his hand tenderly. They tremble slightly in Chuuya’s grasp, because they haven’t really stopped trembling since Yosano restored them. But Chuuya works carefully, meticulously, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he furrows his brow in concentration.
It’s mesmerizing.
Dazai cannot tear their gaze away.
Chuuya’s hands are much smaller than Kunikida’s, his skin a shade darker and more visibly scarred. But despite all the blood Dazai knows they have shed, they also know them to be grounding and gentle and warm. Both Chuuya and Kunikida have such beautiful hands.
Dazai still feels out of place touching them.
Kunikida’s fingernails are all painted red—except for his thumbs. One thumb is purple so dark it appears almost black, and the other is pastel pink.
The colors look good together, Dazai thinks, though they’ve never been one to care much about that sort of thing. Maybe it only looks nice to them because it’s Kunikida, and there is an unbearable beauty in his hands. Though they shake, though they falter, though they’re weakened, though they still appear slightly off, now missing a few moles and the scar on his left ring finger where Katai accidentally stapled him when they were ten, Dazai is still enraptured by the sight of them.
If anything, knowing all they’ve been through and how it is a miracle he still has them at all makes them even more fascinating to Dazai.
Chuuya’s hands, too, have changed since the time when Dazai had committed every millimeter to memory. There are new scars, and the old ones are faded, and they are more sure of themselves now. They have learned to live on their own, without Dazai’s fingers to keep them company.
Once Chuuya finishes, he brings Kunikida’s hands to his lips, pressing careful kisses to his knuckles. They look at each other in pure adoration, and then Chuuya turns that very same expression towards Dazai.
“Your turn,” he says.
Dazai doesn’t even bother pretending to be annoyed. They hold their own hands out obediently, wishing they were half as exquisite as their partners’.
+ i.
Several hours later, Chuuya is asleep on Dazai’s shoulder, drooling onto their shirt. On their other side, Kunikida is transfixed as he watches the foreign film Chuuya put on. Dazai was paying attention to the movie, for a while, but it’s painfully boring and they’ve already seen it before because it’s been one of Chuuya’s favorites since he was sixteen.
Besides, they’ve found something much more interesting to fix their gaze on.
Chuuya has an arm wrapped around Dazai’s, their fingers tangled together and resting on Dazai’s lap. Dazai’s other hand is caught in Kunikida’s, laid out on the couch between them, and his grip tightens whenever something shocking happens on screen.
Dazai’s fingernails are all pretty pink, with the exception of their thumbs, of course. The hand in Chuuya’s boasts one red nail and the one in Kunikida’s has purple, offering a delightful contrast of color.
As if binding them together.
Dazai has never particularly liked their own hands. They don’t fit right, they don’t look right. They are a weapon stripping one’s power away, forcing vulnerability with each touch. They were not meant to hold fragile things.
But neither Chuuya nor Kunikida are so easily broken. And when they take Dazai’s hands in theirs, they do not flinch upon first contact. They allow No Longer Human to render them defenseless, to peel away part of their souls and expose the soft underbelly of their hearts. They offer trust Dazai still has trouble believing they deserve.
Dazai has never particularly liked their hands. They have spent their entire life studying the beauty in everyone else’s while the sight of their own has only ever filled them with disgust and despair.
However…
Wrapped up in Chuuya and Kunikida’s, nails expertly painted to match theirs, Dazai can almost begin to see the beauty in their own hands, too.