Chapter Text
In all honestly, Dazai wouldn’t be able to tell you what he thought of Poe. Since his first appearance, he barely stood out, opting to stay in a corner while Karl, his raccoon, showed which one between them had more social skills. Dazai chuckled every time he saw that the older man was more awkward interacting with the agency than a literal animal, whose kin were known to be feral.
Since then, Poe’s appearances became more common, dropping off manuscripts for the other to review, and to the entire agency's shock—getting Ranpo to do his work for once. He swears he could see Kunikida staring at the American man with such admiration that Osamu was almost blinded. He’d already managed to win over the person who’d been silently against his visits so quickly, and by doing something that seemed like second nature to him. This had intrigued Dazai, he remembers putting his hand up to his mouth to cover his giggles, but also to contemplate if Poe was worthy of his interest. The master detective of the agency seemed to take note of that.
(He’d like to bring attention to Ranpo leaving him a note before he left work that day, ‘If you’re into Poe, don’t be! This is a threat, not advice.’ After that, he reassured Ranpo he didn’t want Poe in that way, partly because it was true and partly because he didn’t want to know what the genius detective might have done to him if he didn’t. Dazai didn’t fear much, but he’s had to deal with a share of jealous, lovesick fools more times than he cares to recount, and he does not want to get on the bad side of another one.)
Months had passed since Poe’s introduction and the agency had to deal with a certain rat alongside terrorist allegations so astounding that Dazai was sure no one would have believed if it weren’t for the book. Speaking of, Dazai was amused to see how much the American writer helped out the agency during the whole conundrum, it’s almost like he was an honorary member. After the whole vampire outbreak ended and things started to calm down—well as calm as things usually were in Yokohama— Dazai was relieved everyone was safe. As much as he was confused by his own emotions there was one thing he knew, for some reason, the world made it so that Dazai Osamu cared about the agency and the lives of others. He’s sure that in some other timeline, he remained in the Port Mafia and his wounds only opened further until they consumed his body and overtook his every aching thought. What if—
No. Dazai decided that this life was enough for him, and he couldn’t dream of it any other way. Today was a regular day in the office, everyone was back to work and yet seemed much more calm and relaxed. Everyone except Ranpo, that is. He’d been buzzing with excitement since around ten minutes ago. And to no one’s surprise, it was because Poe was dropping off another manuscript. Osamu never knew what made Ranpo await each and every manuscript as if it were the only oasis in a desert blistering with scorching heat. Ranpo seemed to solve it quickly yet kept reading. Dazai wasn’t much for reading, something he and Ranpo agreed on, well, until Poe that is.
As tempted as Dazai was to see how well this man must’ve written to put the greatest detective in the world on the edge of his seat, he felt awkward asking. Ew, Dazai feeling awkward? Disgusting. And while he may have been able to search for the books on his own, he didn’t know Poe’s full name, and if he used a pen name then Dazai was screwed for sure. Dazai just never saw the need to learn the man’s name, everyone always called him Poe, or other nicknames used to mock Ranpo. His favorite being, 'Ranpo's retirement plan'. Maybe he’d learned it while they were dealing with the Guild but he forgot it soon after once the threat was neutralized. Dazai wasn’t used to calling people by name, usually nicknames or monikers. He knew names were very important to humans and acknowledging and saying them made him feel a weird sense of humanity that he wasn’t used to. While he was doing much better than a few years ago, old habits die hard.
Plus, it’s not like he's ignorant of the written arts, he has a certain author whose poems he likes.
Back when he was a teenager, he used to read some macabre poems, not often but now and then he’d find a dark book to distract himself from the endless incessant buzzing of his brain. And from Mori’s disgusting face, of course. He’d kept this habit, although even less frequent after the agency’s warmth and kindness were enough to distract him from the overwhelming thoughts his brain mustered up every millisecond. It was times like these when Dazai envied simple-minded people, his entire life, he’d been used because he was smart. He was an invaluable player in a sick and twisted man’s game of chess simply because of his brain. The same brain that made him unfeeling and inhuman, the same one that made him understand things far too early and caused him so much pain. He hated pain, oh so much.
Poetry would take his mind into someone else’s, he’d be able to see the world either grim and twisted or grandiose and magical. He’d always opt for the former, especially a certain poet’s works. While unaware of their real name, he knew they went by the penname E.A.P.
Their way of conveying dark, gruesome thoughts into beautiful words never failed to astound him, then and even now. They wrote in a way that expressed how familiar they were with these topics, how it seemed to be ingrained in their soul, so much so that Dazai could see himself in their works. Once Dazai found out about them and their poetry, he craved more, he ignored the knowing glances from Mori, and how more works would show up in his executive office. He felt like a giddy schoolboy reading action novels made for children, he could feel shame and embarrassment crawl up his spine. But far outweighing those emotions was disgust, fear even. How could someone inhuman like him be feeling these emotions due to poetry? How could someone who lacked humanity so much that at the fresh age of 15 was able to murder without a moment of hesitation be feeling at all? He was scared and confused, now, Dazai was many things, but he was never scared nor confused.
You aren’t a child, you aren’t even human, give up these foolish feelings and embrace the coldness and death that awaits you, where you belong, he told himself, trying to convince anyone who would listen that he was no longer human. Despite how much he hated facing his humanity, one which he kept adamantly denying, he kept reading. There was something comforting about the gruesome works of the author, for some reason it made Dazai feel less alone.
He couldn’t get himself to stop and somewhere from that pit of disgust, somewhere deep, there was hope. Hope that had sprouted from meeting Odasaku, and Ango as well. Hope that maybe, just maybe, he could finally live—no! His life has no meaning, what was this parasite of hope trying to inflict upon the Demon Prodigy?! Dazai was the youngest executive of the Port Mafia, he was the boss’s right-hand man, his life was thrown away to survive in the underworld and he had no right to hope for a better life. He chose this, because he needed to find a reason to live, since contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t want to die. But his life has been stripped of reason, there was no need for him to exist. And until he finds one, he’ll never be human.
But just as the Demon Prodigy was about to spiral further into his morbid mental issues and most likely have a mental breakdown, a common occurrence, he noticed a new book appear before him. One of the poems. Signed E.A.P. This time, it wasn’t from Mori, the poem came along with Oda’s soothing voice.
“I saw you reading these a while back, I got news a new one came out and decided to get a copy for you.” The words came with fondness and a gentle pat to Dazai’s head, ruffling some of his hair. The only things Dazai could remember after that were hugging Odasaku, and shouting excited words of gratitude, and that excitement was genuine for once.
When Dazai finally snapped out of memory lane, he could see Ranpo running out of the office and tackling the poor man who stood at the door. After laughing with Yosano, and in turn, getting scolded by Kunikida, he decided to go back to work.
He ended up getting the brunt of Kunikida’s punishment as a result of his slacking off, meaning Dazai had to stay late to finish all his work. Not his ideal way to spend the rest of the day but for some reason, Dazai felt safe staying back and doing his work. The same sort of comforting feeling as that day when Odasaku gifted him the poem. As if he was right where he was meant to be. And for the simple reason of feeling closer to Odasaku’s memory, he decided to stay for another minute or two.
And barely a moment later came rushing through the agency doors a frantic Poe. He looked around the room, a familiar anxious look that seemed to be forever implanted onto his face. And in the fraction of a second that it took for him to recognize Dazai, he’d already been apologizing for barging through the entrance like that. Dazai was fairly impressed at how fast Poe had collected his bearings and went straight to his polite self.
“A-ah, apologies, Dazai-san. I seem to have forgotten my notebook, is it ok if I enter to retrieve it?” Poe tilted his head when he’d asked that question, Dazai almost teased him like he would’ve done to Atsushi but decided to keep the jesting to a minimum. Considering Poe was six years older, not close to Dazai, and might tell Ranpo which would be annoying for the ex-mafioso. “I’d known you’d most likely stay in the office late but assumed you would have returned home by now,” oh? Now that was interesting, Poe had been able to deduce that far?
And in a way unexpected and frankly almost unbefitting of Poe’s usual attitude, “I-if anything has been holding you up then I’d l-like to be of assistance to you. I’m no Ranpo, but I’m sure I can help!” He said while holding a notebook, when had he recovered his lost item and drifted closer to Dazai?
He decided to respond with his usual cheeky grin, “Ah, no need to worry about me, I’m sure I’ll be fine. After all, I have great faith in fools—self-confidence my friends will call it.” All that reminiscing had him recite a quote perfect for this moment, one by none other than E.A.P. He’d make sure to get his work done soon so he could go back home and maybe read a few more poems by them. The other seemed to flush red from embarrassment for some reason before stammering out farewells and running away.
Maybe that should have clued Dazai in, but he was uncharacteristically distracted to pick up on any obvious hints.
Maybe he knows where that quote is from, or maybe Ranpo’s crush is a nervous wreck, either option could be true, Dazai guesses that both deductions are correct. With a shrug, he packs up for the day and heads to his apartment.
That night, he had scrolled online on a hunt, he was determined to find fans of his favorite poet and discuss his love for the artistry put into creating such gutwrenching works. Even though it had been seven years since he left the mafia, seven years since he stopped trying to convince the world he was unable of human emotion and that he was something else entirely, he still found it weird to admit he loved something. He supposed it was one of the ways this author was able to put a sense of unease into him while making him feel as if he were gazing into a mirror. One with cracks and imperfections yet one that was still beautiful. When he’d go into a particularly bad depressive episode, he’d read some of the poems and they’d help, they’d work wonders at grounding him somehow, not only because of his deep adoration for them, but because of the memories they held.
The memories of Oda, bothering Chuuya by reciting poems to him until he beat Dazai up, reading them when he was new to the agency; have something familiar in uncharted territory, and many more he couldn't be bothered to mention. He finds it funny how much he's grown attached to silly strings of sentences, but, such is human nature, he supposes.
(He had even tried writing some of his own, of course, they weren’t as amazing as the ones he had grown fond of after many years, but they were his, and he felt closer to the author somehow. Dazai may become a wreck if he ever meets the genius behind these masterpieces. Another new thing, since when did Dazai praise things that weren't suicide-related so highly?)
Luckily, the fanbase seemed quite large and easy to integrate into. Did Dazai feel like a Tumblr-addicted preteen with braces, going through puberty and an emo phase all at once? Yes. Did that matter when he gushed over E.A.P.’s poetry with other fanatics for the entire night? Absolutely not. He scrolled for hours on end and it distracted him from the empty, hollow feeling in his heart. One thing Dazai found out when he joined the Armed Detective Agency, or ADA for short, was that life was finally full and he truly felt as if, even for a moment, he was alive. A long time ago, he was barely surviving, and even though he’s still broken nowadays, he is happier.
Thank you, Odasaku.
Dazai kept scrolling with a smile, deciding to engage in some conversations with other fans in the comments of posts.
HONAMIHONAMISAKI! (OP): GUYS! HELP! I KEEP GETTING CALLED EMO FOR LIKING E.A.P. AND THE WORST PART IS, I CAN’T EVEN DENY THE CLAIMS BECAUSE I STARTED READING THEIR POETRY DURING MY SEVENTH-GRADE EMO PHASE—
|→ fishy_bandages<3 (Dazai): Stop, I started reading their works during my emo phase too— I WAS SO CRINGE—
|→ GeoGramps : that’s a canon event for all their supporters at this point, never have I ever met an E.A.P. fan who hasn’t gone through an emo phase…
|→ fishy_bandages<3: you’ve actually met other fans?!!?!?@wfve
|→ hoyoverse_FIGHTME: LOL, you’re genuinely so real for that
Dazai decided he would go to sleep after fixing his bandages, after a whole day’s wear and tear the bandages fell out of place and were scratching at his skin irritably. He stepped into his bathroom and took off his shirt, slowly unraveling all the bandages covering his body. The many scars underneath taunting him, as if teasing him about how he’d never truly be able to escape from his past, that it would stay on him like a stain. Most of them were scars given to him by others, gunshot wounds, and other such scars from his infamous days in the Port Mafia, he’d always hated pain and never wished to endure it. But sometimes, in moments of weakness, he’d harm himself as punishment for being weak and making mistakes, because mistakes were human nature. Dazai Osamu was a lot of things, but he had trouble accepting he was human.
He snapped himself out of the dark reverie before grabbing a fresh roll of bandages, he carefully applied them in a certain technique only he knew. He glanced at them to make sure they were perfect, not daring to look himself in the mirror before rushing to put his shirt on. He hummed as he turned off the lights, exited the bathroom, and back to where he slept. Osamu didn’t waste a second before letting the warmth of his blankets consume him, slowly allowing him to drift off to sleep.
* * *
Poe was anxious, not unlike him, but this time it was due to one of his dear Ranpo’s coworkers.
One thing Edgar could be sure of was that Dazai was intelligent, he also knew Dazai had quite a…Colorful past. Poe would never judge Dazai for that, he himself was a terrorist, and for such a petty reason as that. Although his capabilities are nothing compared to Ranpo’s, Poe isn’t stupid, he prides himself on his intelligence. Even before it was made public to him, he could tell Dazai came from a dangerous past. No one's face is made up of so many masks that you begin to question if they're a Scooby Doo antagonist and had a happy and normal upbringing.
And after finding out more about the Port Mafia, Edgar could piece two and two together. Although he's sure Ranpo deduced it faster and most likely knows exactly what place Dazai held in the mafia, all Edgar could make out in the few times he saw Dazai was that the other must have been a high-ranking member. Maybe even an executive.
He felt a sort of camaraderie with the other, although he’d never say it out loud, he used to be the same way. But as much as Poe thought about offering him advice, he was scared of Dazai. Not because of his ability, his past, or scared of his suicidal idealizations, but because he didn’t want to cross a line. They’d never even held a full conversation before, who was he to assume things about the other? It was almost funny how he was nervous about talking to someone six years younger than him, times like this made him feel pathetic.
I doubt Ranpo would ever be so scared to help someone, he thought, before shaking his head so vigorously he almost woke up Karl, who was resting on his lap. He gently moved the raccoon into his king-sized bed and changed into pajamas. He didn’t go to bed at this hour, only sleeping for one or two hours after passing out at his desk, on top of his manuscripts.
Back to his thoughts on Dazai, he wasn’t sure how to approach him. That was, until today. When he’d gone back to retrieve his notebook, he had thought Dazai left the office already. Back when Ranpo tackled him earlier that day, he remembered hearing Kunikida yelling about how Dazai was slacking off when he had so much backlog work, he took this to mean that the bandaged man would probably be forced to stay overtime. Unluckily for Poe, he had to interact with someone while he got his notebook. This came with an awkward realization. When Dazai had refused his help, he had said a quote. A quote that came from a certain Edgar Allan Poe. He thought Dazai was teasing him before snapping back to reality and realizing who he was talking to. Edgar wasn’t stupid, he could tell that some of Dazai’s masks had wavered at that moment, he had genuinely said that quote as if it meant something to him, meaning he didn't say it as a mere tease.
Something told him that even though Dazai was speaking to him, the quote being said had nothing to do with him.
He was embarrassed to find out that apparently, Ranpo wasn’t the only one in the agency who liked his work. He was shocked and excited to meet a fan, of course, but the fact it was Dazai put him on edge for some reason. Because now he knew that he had a reason to talk to the other, confirmation that they were or at least used to be in similar circumstances.
Now, Poe would never say that they were one and the same, it was clear that Dazai had gone through things that Edgar couldn’t even imagine ever happening to him, but they were similar enough that Poe knew he could help. Or at least provide the other some comfort that he wasn’t the only one.
Hopefully, Poe wasn’t crossing any boundaries, but Dazai was right at the age Edgar was when he’d spiraled into destructive habits and almost ended up dying due to his mistreatment of himself. So, maybe Poe could see the younger man as a reflection of himself, what’s so wrong with that?
You’re only doing this to feel better about yourself, I bet, you are a terrible person, Edgar. You’re an idiot who can’t even communicate, who are you to assume you can help? I doubt that man even wants your help, what makes you think you’re special?---
Karl’s chittering caused Poe to snap out of his thinking and attend to his pet. He told Karl all his thoughts to calm the other down and ended up falling asleep while hugging Karl.