Chapter Text
(Before the hospitalization.)
Dazai had always been good at hiding things.
It was easy, really. A joke here, a lazy smile there—if he kept the mood light, no one would dig too deep. No one would ask why his apartment remained dark even during the day. No one would notice how his hands trembled when he wrapped fresh bandages over old wounds. No one would question why he gave away his food or stayed out all night with nothing but the bitter taste of alcohol on his tongue.
No one would ask because he made sure they didn’t have to.
But lately… lately, the mask had been slipping.
The exhaustion had settled deep in his bones, heavier than usual. Every step felt like wading through water, every conversation like running on autopilot. He smiled, laughed, made snide remarks—but the moments in between felt hollow. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a full night’s sleep. Maybe a week ago. Maybe longer.
It didn’t matter.
Nothing really did.
And yet, he kept going.
Because that’s what he was supposed to do, right?
The Armed Detective Agency needed him. Kunikida needed someone to annoy. Atsushi still looked at him like he was someone worth admiring, for some ridiculous reason. Ranpo saw through him more than he let on, but as long as Dazai played the game, Ranpo let him pretend.
But pretending was getting harder.
The nightmares had been bad recently. Worse than usual. Old memories clawed their way into his skull the second he closed his eyes—Mori’s cold voice, Odasaku’s bloodied hands, the echo of things he couldn't undo. They followed him, pressed against his ribs, filled the empty spaces inside him.
And in the quiet, there was nothing left to drown them out.
So he stopped trying to sleep.
That had been his first mistake.
The second was thinking he could keep going like this.
The day had been unremarkable. Just another mission. Just another report. Just another day of pretending.
But something felt off.
He wasn’t sure if it was the weight behind Kunikida’s irritated glances, or the way Atsushi hesitated before asking if he was okay. Maybe it was the exhaustion pressing against his skull, making it harder to think, harder to breathe.
By the time evening rolled around, his body felt like it wasn’t even his anymore—just something he was dragging along, a puppet on worn strings.
He knew what he needed.
Just a little pain. Just enough to ground himself, to feel something real instead of this endless, aching emptiness.
He went home, if only because he had nowhere else to go. The apartment was cold, untouched, like a place no one actually lived in. It suited him just fine.
The knife was in the drawer where he always left it.
A familiar weight. A familiar comfort.
The first cut was shallow, just enough to sting. His fingers were steady, practiced.
The second was deeper.
He kept going and going. He was in a trance.
The next—
He miscalculated.
Or maybe, deep down, he hadn’t.
Blood welled up too quickly, trickling down his arm, staining the bandages already wrapped around him. He pressed a hand to it, but the world had started to blur at the edges, tilting in a way it shouldn’t.
Ah.
This was bad.
He tried to stand, but his knees buckled beneath him. He hit the floor, the sound muffled against the thick silence of the room. His breaths came fast, too fast, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
It was strange—he had done this so many times before. So why did it feel different now?
Why did it feel like he had gone too far?
The edges of his vision darkened, swallowing the room whole.
The last thing he thought was—
**Maybe this time, I won’t wake up.**
Then—
Nothing.
.
Dazai never intended for anyone to find him.
That was the whole point.
But in the end, it wasn’t his choice.
It started with Kunikida.
The day had already been frustrating enough. Dazai had skipped half his work again, left reports unfinished, and vanished before Kunikida could properly yell at him about it.
Typical.
By the time evening came, Kunikida was pacing in his office, glaring at his phone. He should’ve let it go. It wasn’t unusual for Dazai to disappear for a night or two, and he always waltzed back in like nothing happened.
But something didn’t sit right this time.
Dazai had been off lately. More than usual. The jokes had been the same, the dramatic gestures unchanged—but there had been a hollowness to them, something just beneath the surface that Kunikida couldn't place.
And now, for some reason, his gut wouldn’t let him ignore it.
He tried calling.
No answer.
Tried again.
Straight to voicemail.
Kunikida scowled. Fine. If Dazai was ignoring him, he’d make it someone else’s problem.
A quick message to Ranpo, Yosano, and Atsushi confirmed that no one had seen him.
That was unusual.
Dazai liked to disappear, but not without leaving behind breadcrumbs. A trail of chaos, a half-written report, an empty coffee cup at the office. Something.
But tonight, there was nothing.
That was when the worry truly set in.
Atsushi was the one who suggested checking Dazai’s apartment. Kunikida hesitated—Dazai was private about his personal space, and they had never been inside. But his gut was screaming now, and he had long since learned to trust it.
So they went.
Dazai’s apartment complex was as unremarkable as the man himself pretended to be. Old, quiet, the kind of place people didn’t ask questions.
They knocked. No answer.
Kunikida called again. Nothing.
Atsushi looked uneasy. “Maybe he’s just—”
Kunikida didn’t wait. He tested the door handle. Locked. Without hesitation, he stepped back and slammed his foot against the wood near the lock.
The doorframe splintered.
The second kick sent the door flying open.
The smell hit them immediately.
Copper. Sharp and unmistakable.
Kunikida froze for half a second before bolting inside.
The apartment was barely furnished—just enough to function, nothing more. But none of that mattered because Dazai was on the floor.
Blood pooled beneath him. His skin was too pale, his breathing shallow. One hand was loosely pressed against his arm, as if he had tried to stop the bleeding but hadn’t had the strength. His shirt was soaked.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then—
“Dazai!” Atsushi was the first to reach him, dropping to his knees and shaking his shoulders. “Hey! Wake up!”
No response.
Kunikida was already on his phone, voice tight. “We need an ambulance. Now.”
Yosano, who had followed behind them, cursed under her breath and knelt beside Atsushi. She pressed her fingers against Dazai’s throat, searching for a pulse.
Too weak.
Her jaw tightened. “We need to stop the bleeding.”
Atsushi ripped off his scarf, pressing it firmly to Dazai’s arm, his hands shaking. “Why—why would he—” His voice broke, but he didn’t stop. “He always jokes about it, but I didn’t think—”
Kunikida swallowed back his own emotions. “We’ll deal with that later.” His voice was sharp, but not unkind. “Right now, we keep him alive.”
The minutes stretched, agonizingly slow, until sirens filled the air.
Dazai didn’t stir when the paramedics arrived.
Didn’t react when they lifted him onto the stretcher.
Didn’t wake when they called his name.
Atsushi clenched his fists. “He’s going to be okay, right?”
Yosano didn’t answer immediately. She just watched as Dazai was carried away, her expression unreadable.
Then, quietly—“I don’t know.”
Kunikida exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Then we’ll make sure he is.”
And they followed.
Because no matter how much Dazai pushed them away—
They weren’t letting him go.