Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All in all, his life could’ve been worse.

It’d been interesting, at the very least. He had a modest upbringing, lived… not as modestly. That wasn’t to say he lived with any particular excess – not material anyway, more often than not disillusioned by the perceived stability. Despite this, he lived to meet a great number of incredible people and he didn’t regret that one bit. 

People were endlessly fascinating. Some certainly left their mark more than others. 

The fading light of the sun illuminated the entrance to the dim alley he’d crawled into for shelter. Yokohama would be shrouded in gold as though rejoicing in his exit. Somewhere, someone was sure to celebrate the news.

He knew this was coming. It was only a matter of time. 

Recently, Ango had spent a lot of time wondering about death. 

The fear of death left him resistant to an old friend’s musings in a time that felt like a life ago now. It was about to be. Possibly several lives ago, if every major job he took counted as a new one. 

Yes, his life had certainly been interesting. Threats to peace in Yokohama seemed to appear every day, and in the aftermath of the apocalypse, efforts to revitalise the city were moving along steadily. Perhaps too steadily, as though there was a force somewhere out there working in their favour.

Chief Taneda awoke shortly after Amenogozen disappeared. The surgery was a success, recovery in time with the Yokohama efforts. Against odds, Ango was belatedly congratulated for taking charge by the chief himself, which was really the first sign that the end was near for him. They both knew it wasn’t his plan, after all. Even if it did help save Yokohama.

People were always thought more fondly of in death. This line of work didn’t lend itself to long mourning periods. Those he worked alongside would surely learn the truth quickly. Perhaps those in higher ranks would be told outright, though he was unsure if Murakoso or Aoki would be informed of the truth.

A bullet was an interesting choice but ultimately the least conspicuous. A car crash could start an investigation – eyewitnesses, newly-working cameras, license tracking. The more trails there were to follow, the easier the lie to unravel. A stray bullet, a lucky shot– 

The sound of the gunshots outside the alley where Ango is hiding is sharp, like cracks of thunder splitting through the tense silence of the city. The first shot rings out with a high-pitched crack , followed by a brief, muffled pop that echoes off the distant walls. A sharp, metallic zing as the bullet whizzes through the alley, cutting the air and sounding awfully like the whisper of death. 

Then the rhythm falls into an irregular pattern, stuttering in quick succession and reverberating through the streets beyond the mouth of the alley – reverberating through his chest as he huddles in the shadows. There’s a brief silence broken only by the faint ringing in his ears, as if the world itself is holding its breath for just a second before the chaos restarts.

In the distance, the harsh scrape of tires on pavement and the echo of boots pounding against the ground grow louder. Sirens wail somewhere far off, but the gunshots continue, relentless and sharp, like a heartbeat in the night.

Oh, they were making an affair of this. There was no joy in that realisation. What excuse would they use? An insurgence from a power looking to control the city? The lingering false narrative of the Agency being a terrorist organisation? They would be playing with embers rather than sparks, it wouldn’t be difficult to frame them again, the memory remaining for many people in Yokohama although that same force was at play.

One they couldn’t explain. Acceptance that the city-wide hysteria had been for nought, and that the Hunting Dogs were to blame. The government. Which, in the scheme of things, wasn’t exactly untrue. Desperate to avoid war, world governments surrendered their military power to Fukuchi. Really, it wasn’t that unexplainable, but those with power seek to keep it, thus the Special Operations Division remained unsettled.

Ango’s heart seized, gritting his teeth and pressing harder on the wound in his abdomen. Sweat beaded along his hairline, the steady waves of pain increasing and leaving him shaking.

This wasn’t good. 

No, because this was most certainly the plan. They must’ve been waiting for him to seek out this old friend. He’d slipped up. Knowing there were eyes and ears in every wall, yet throwing caution to the wind and forgoing an arranged private meeting in place of a spontaneous one – it really was his fault.

Fitting, Ango supposed wearily, that he was his own downfall after dooming so many others in pursuit of the greater good. His every move, every decision, had led to this moment, trapped between the consequences of his choices and the burden of his own complicity.

It was a cruel irony, really. Occurring so close to the Agency, the situation could be used as a cover, a convenient excuse. The government could claim they'd received anonymous intel about an impending threat to the reformed Agency. They wouldn't even have to acknowledge the Port Mafia, not when their focus was split on so many other fronts – and they wouldn’t have to acknowledge them given the shadowy organisation’s own current internal concerns . 

And Ango? He'd be the perfect scapegoat. The one caught in the crossfire. The excuse for him being there though… there would have to be some implication that Ango was a part of the group sent to tail the imaginary insurgents. Meaning those who worked in proximity to Ango likely weren’t shooting those guns or driving those cars. 

What a bother… if only the pain wasn’t making it so hard to think. The Special Division was known for purposeful action, but the government knew how to make accidents happen, yet he couldn’t think. 

No, he needed to warn Dazai. Maybe he already knew – suspected, at least – but Ango couldn’t leave the finding of his body to chance. The Division had to know that Dazai wouldn’t settle for the stray-bullet answer, that he’d look into his death… not because he cared, but because losing an ally like himself would make his possible future plans harder.

If he wasn’t in so much pain, Ango would laugh at Dazai’s disdain. He did not like Chief Taneda. Ango couldn’t help but be reminded of the younger Dazai Osamu, complaining in an amber-lit bar about every small inconvenience. 

His eyes drooped, unable to hold the cough that left blood trickling from his lips. For the pain he’d caused in life, this was probably a mercy, but still. It hurt. It really did.

There was no subtle way of contacting the man. If the Special Ops reached his body first, which they likely would, they would track any communication, be it coded message or call. Even if they couldn’t trace the communication directly to Osamu, there would be no other person Ango would contact as he dies hopelessly on hard concrete.

Yes… the hard concrete he was staring at. One second there was no blood there, the next there was. His body convulsed… he must’ve been coughing. Fuck, this hurt. It wasn’t as though Ango hadn’t survived something similar before, but there was no-one to help this time.

Fuck it. Let the Division shit themselves over Dazai’s involvement. He didn’t expect to be avenged or assisted – even if the other found it somewhere in himself to forgive his hand in Oda’s death, there wouldn’t be time to reach him–

Oda… 

A strange calm swept over him, pain secondary to the vision of red hair and the smell of whiskey. He should’ve been panicking over the realisation that if Osamu tried to reach him, there was a good chance he would also catch a ‘stray bullet’. 

Helping Dazai all this time… had it been penance for killing his best friend? Had it been for the memory of their nights spent together in Lupin? Covering it as an asset to the government if anyone asked why he vouched for the Black Wraith of the Mafia – why had he really done it?

To assuage his own guilt? 

Darkness curled at the edges of his vision. Ango always knew he would die alone, but it was dreadfully cold.

The blood seeping through his fingers was warm though. Slick and wet, he couldn’t be able to type if he tried, now was the time to make his decision. Call or text. 

Make a decision, Ango, Dazai whispered in his ear. 

From the fragments he’d pieced together, Oda chose his path with unwavering conviction. Having felt unworthy of the future he’d dreamt of without his children, the fight against Gide was no battle. 

Oda's memory now lingered in the minds of fewer and fewer – now, just one more person faded into the mist. No, Dazai couldn’t get too close. Osamu mustn’t find him; to do so would undo everything he’d envisioned for the futures of his proteges. That Akutagawa Ryuunosuke… Atsushi Nakajima. One a deadly force, the other, an orphan who fought with only his will and a shred of hope to keep him from breaking. 

A mafioso who didn’t kill? How did he manage to tame the violent force he’d created? And a child, once protected by nothing but Dazai’s own reputation and his twisted tricks. Would it be a stretch to guess he’d gifted them to each other?

Donning a tan coat to live closer to the light, it seemed like something Oda would want for him.

Oda… haunting their narrative, a shadow that stretched the length of their foreseeable futures. A cold, unforgiving Mafia boss, and a face for government action, all of it redirected to Ango’s own. Yes, he had killed him. He had killed… his best friend.

Ah… he felt so weak. Perhaps it was too late to send a message after all. Osamu was the type to see through everything, the type to analyse every detail until the truth was laid bare. He would have already suspected that the government had their eyes on the Agency long before Ango's death sealed it. 

People tended to think kinder of the dead. His job in the Mafia had been to memorialise those dearly departed, perhaps it earned him something of a less gruesome death than he deserved. Even if he did believe his life’s actions to serve the good of the majority, he wasn’t without his regrets.

Maybe in death, there was forgiveness, peace. Would Oda be waiting for him in a dimly-lit bar in the afterlife? 

No… probably not. There was nothing after–

Dazai stared at his phone. Going through official channels had never really been Soukoku’s style.

HQ attacked, the message read. So the bullets were for them, both of them. A cover for something. 

Then: Probably internal, lmk.

Dazai’s lips pulled into a deeper frown. Coincidence, huh?

All present members of the Agency were currently upstairs, Kunikida and Kenji peering down to the lower floor to check for any forced entry, but mostly for bombs. Smoke, gas, explosives, but nothing as of yet. His eyes trailed to Yosano, her head perilously close to earning a good snipe.

“No plates on the vehicles,” she edged her head out of shot, presumably to follow the path. “They look old but I can’t see through the windows.”

The government immediately jumps to mind, but it could be any one of the darker forces operating in Yokohama. Or some start-ups. Both the Mafia and the Agency being attacked at the same time was interesting.

“They’re getting out, four people, all hoods.”

There’s someone down there. 

“They’re not shooting anymore,” Atsushi muttered from his crouched position against his desk. 

Dazai typed a quick reply – Here too, they got someone – before pocketing his phone and edging towards the door. Without Junichirou, there was no adequate cover to get close enough without becoming target practice. Lucky them to avoid this, given he and Naomi finished their cases earlier in the day. That seemed too good to be true.

“They went to the alley at the top of the street, should we chase?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Kunikida had already informed law enforcement and the sirens were approaching from a distance. Hopefully this gang was sloppy enough to leave some form of evidence behind. Their route could be tracked by cameras throughout the city. It was an easy fix until it wasn’t, but that was yet to be seen.

Atsushi left with Yosano, Dazai migrating to the window to cover while his partner continued guarding the door. He’d have to weasel information out of the mafioso in the near future, but he was well-enough informed that Chuuya had just arrived back from the North, having done an old ally of the Mafia a favour. Work never ceased for wicked hatracks, it seemed.

“I’ve let the President know– Dazai!”

The brunette tested the car’s rear windows and tires with a carefully aimed gun through the window, shattering the glass with no problem, but the car revved to life and floored it down the street. Kunikida’s footsteps thudded against the stairs, Dazai quick to follow, hesitating at the door to stare at the pen holder on his desk now rolling on the floor, eyeing the small hole in the hatched metal.

“Kunikida!”

It was a small relief that his partner hadn’t blundered out into the street. They needed to make contact with their coworkers quickly. “There’s a sniper.”

The blond’s face contorted in confusion. “You’re sure it wasn’t a lucky shot?”

“No,” Dazai said quietly. “There’s still someone on the street.”

Kunikida cursed under his breath, his hand curled in a white-knuckled fist resting on the doorframe. Dazai put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him in check. The last thing they needed was a reckless charge into a sniper’s line of sight. “How do we know they haven’t already left?”

"We can't chase them down blindly," the brunette stopped him, voice steady. He could already hear the faint echo of approaching sirens, but the possible sniper's presence made it clear that they weren’t going anywhere at that moment. “Let the cops do their job when they get here.”

Kunikida turned back to Dazai, eyes hard. “So we wait?”

Dazai’s fingers flexed around the pistol in his hand, the metal an anchor to his thoughts. He searched the room for something to throw out the door, though the front of the building would likely cop another a single shot in the same minute as the first. “Stay here.”

Sweeping upstairs again, he crouched to pick up the ruined pencil holder. The pieces would fit together soon enough, he was sure. Dazai moved swiftly and without a hint of hesitation. Broken pencil holder in hand, the bulk sharp and jagged in his hands, he threw it at the window. The bullet that followed gave him all the information he needed.

The detective was following the bullet’s trajectory when he was met by Kunikida’s manic expression. Right, the metal did make a sound hitting the ground – not nearly loud enough for a body, although–

“You idiot,” Kunikida hissed, hands balled in the brunette’s lapels. He’d had the know-how to keep them out of direct firing range, at least. A wooden desk was better protection than nothing. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“We have less than a minute to get to the alley,” he said, grasping Kunikida’s forearm in a silent reassurance. “They’re a good shot. We go now or not at all.”

A very good shot. It’d probably take less than that to manually cycle the bolt if it was a bolt-action rifle. They were the easiest to get hold of lately. Run-flat tires weren’t the most rare either, and Dazai had definitely hit a tire.

Kunikida’s eyes flicked between Dazai’s steady grip and the chaotic urgency in his expression. The tension in the air was palpable, thick with the pressure of the seconds slipping away. With a huff, the blond dropped his hands, eyeing his partner for instruction. 

Well, if it was up to Dazai… “If I find the bullet, I’ll know for sure what rifle it is. They'll be fine.”

The latter wasn’t impressed. “Does it matter if it can kill them?”

True. “In the event of that happening, I’d rather us not go with them if possible, Kunikida-kun.”

He ought to do more to take that horrible look off his partner’s face. After all, if the man’s behaviours bordered on excessive before, the obsessive part had taken precedence since the apocalypse. Dazai could see the worry and panic for what it was. 

“That’s a first for you,” Kunikida muttered, somewhat upholding their usual banter. Neither acknowledged that it… wasn’t really.

Their search was cut short by the loud sirens outside, singing the police’s arrival. While that didn’t necessarily mean they were safe to move, they were quickly found by officers and escorted outside with the proper precautions. 

Neither of them were shot in the head, which they chalked up as a win for the evening, though the usual lamenting sat on the tip of Dazai’s tongue. Kunikida studied the front of the building upon their exit, the look in his eyes making it obvious that he’d already planned what to do about the damages for the morning. His footfalls were heavy, urgent, and Dazai picked up his pace to match.

They were met with Atsushi first, crouched some distance away from the mouth of the alleyway, puking. The blond was quick to be at his side, his hand easily finding purchase on the weretiger’s back in a blatant display of protectiveness – or, as Yosano had deemed it, the Mummy Instinct. It was endearing to watch, though it would be more so if Dazai didn’t recognise it as the crippling anxiety response that it was.

Things had been… terse between himself and Kunikida both for a short while after Fyodor’s defeat. Despite Mori’s insistence that he was in no rush to recruit an Agency member, having had it made very clear to him that Yosano-sensei would not be going, the blond was assuming a lot of responsibility over his coworkers as though all of them would slip from his grasp. Empathy wasn’t something the brunette liked to parade around, but there was an ache that came with watching the despair dim previously bright eyes.

Dazai wasn’t initially counted in that protective bubble. Not until a few weeks of stepping around each other had passed had Kunikida found him alone and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug that he definitely didn’t deserve. 

The memory reminded him of his deep disdain for Mori. He balled his fists in his coat pockets and averted his eyes from his coworkers, suppressing the rising urge to comfort both of them. He wasn't a creature designed for that purpose, though.

“Minoura-san,” he hummed distractedly, wandering closer. The man really deserved more attention for his steadfast belief in Ranpo, but the brunette remained floating for a few moments longer. 

“Will there be a day that goes by where I don’t hear from the Agency?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” he said cheekily. “Was there anything left to find?”

The detective seemed weary, and the set of his shoulders was an easy read. The poor man obviously hadn’t had any rest in many hours. “Nothing. The kid sprinted out to hurl and your doctor was already inspecting.”

From the sounds of it, he was casting no suspicion on any Agency members, which was still a welcome change despite Minoura so kindly being on their side against the world. Dazai cast a glance down the alley, Yosano in a diligent conversation with another officer. The area was now lit with LED torches, casting both white and new shadows on the wall, and showing fresh red splatter and other matter. 

The brunette cocked his head slightly to get a better look. If the police officer thought it was odd or inappropriate, he didn’t comment. 

“Officer Hisashi is getting the rundown from your doctor now, what about your perspective? You detectives always have something out of left-field to propose.”

While it wasn’t particularly enthusiastic, the request was genuine. The coordinated attack on both the Agency and the Mafia was enough for Dazai to suspect some element of government involvement, perhaps even the police department. Dazai knew a liar – Minoura was not one, so without any involvement himself and the possible presence of bigger fish, the brunette figured leaving that part out would be more beneficial for their dear cooperator. 

He did mention the tires though, and the model of the cars. At least they’d be able to connect them if the vehicles got dumped. They parted ways with amiable words and curt nods.

“Mm, we appreciate all your help. I’ll join Yosano-sensei, if you don’t mind.”

“Knock yourself out,” Minoura muttered. “Just don’t disturb the scene too much. Ranpo gives me a damn headache with that…”

“Do get some rest tonight,” Dazai said gently, watching Minoura stalk towards their building to check for any stray bullets, radioing an officer who appeared from nowhere. Kunikida was still with Atsushi, and with no desire to interrupt what was surely comforting for both of them, the remaining detective approached the crime scene.

It wasn’t the cleanest job, Dazai thought, pondering the order in which the events occurred.

Two shots.

The first thing he noticed was the nature of the bloodstains. The victim was struck… once in the chest – likely a deep wound, but not a fatal one if treated quickly enough. The blood pooled at the base of the wall, indicating a collapse. The lack of spattering tells him the shot wasn't a direct kill – it was designed to incapacitate, perhaps to force the victim into submission. A wound, not a death sentence.

Then, his gaze shifts to the wall. It's unmistakable, the trajectory telling him everything he needed to know. That’s… 

“Brain matter,” Yosano said grimly to the sound of Atsushi still throwing up elsewhere in the vicinity.

It wasn’t meant to look like a suicide, at the very least. Given the height and run-off, the headshot was indeed second, hitting the victim when they were low against the wall. There was no telling which of the gunshots that echoed in the street were the two that took this person’s life. How terrible.

Or maybe it was an accident, and the first target was missed. Or the victim was running, and–   “They’ve taken samples, so we should know who it is by the morning if they’re on record.”

Yes, that sounded about right. He watched the woman bring her hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn and felt bad for the poor soul whose death location was almost enough to put a tired lady to sleep.

They’d know more in the morning. Dazai was… unmotivated tonight. Kunikida’s approach betrayed nothing but his own fatigue. Rebuilding after the end of the world was tiring, you know?

“I’m sending Atsushi back to the dorms,” he said in a voice that he likely hadn’t snapped out of when talking to their resident weretiger. It was smooth and low, no abrasive or rough notes. It was kind, and selfishly, the brunette let the warmth flow over himself. Dazai knew when he was going to spiral, he’d been forced to live with himself for long enough. 

“You better not be planning to go back into the office tonight,” Yosano scolded. “Nearly being shot at once is enough.”

Kunikida’s expression went flat. “Says the one who ran out during an active shoot-out.”

“I can heal.”

“That’s not the point.” 

Ah, yes, with all due diligence, Dazai zoned out of that conversation in favour of taking in Atsushi waiting for them. For all his growth, for all the terrible things the boy had witnessed, it was somewhat comforting that he wasn’t unaffected by it. Kunikida’s guilt and Atsushi’s fear was very different to Yosano’s acceptance and his own indifference.

Mori, he supposed, was an underlying factor. Bastard. 

“Are you alright, Atsushi-kun?”

He nodded, still looking a bit green. His lower lip was slightly red, bleeding where the tiger’s fangs pierced it. Not the worst nervous habit to keep, but an obvious one. Some sense of alert returned at being joined by familiar company. “I wonder what really happened. You have an idea, don’t you?”

“Sharp as ever,” Dazai rewarded the observation with a weighted hand on his protege’s – was he? – head in approval. “I’ll find out tomorrow if I’m correct.”

Atsushi accepted it without complaint, and the group set off together towards the dorms. Yosano slapped Kunikida for trying to lock up himself, coming to the compromise of leaving the keys with the police present and organising to pick them up the next morning; Atsushi watched on with obvious relief and it was then that the brunette decided it was time to grace everyone with a pointless discussion to distract them on the way home.

“Die Hard is definitely a Christmas Movie, Kunikida-kun! You can watch it at any time of year!” 

“Thank you for the report, Chuuya-kun. I do have a matter to discuss with you briefly if you have time.”

It was a kind consideration from a morally-questionable man but the executive was in no position to think much further than that. He was looking forward to going home and resting given that the sun was rising quickly, but if the matter was brief, it couldn’t hurt much. The redhead had taken to overseeing every-and-all operations returning to normal after investigating the attack. 

Kouyou had just arrived back from the West and Mori needn’t leave his office for something Chuuya could easily handle. There were suspected aiders in the dungeons already and it was a good reminder to the sub-executives he had join him of how to handle such an event.

God, he couldn’t wait to get home and unwind. A glance at the clock would be rude but it was definitely past six in the morning, the mafioso could feel that much in his bones. 

“Sure, boss.”

“As you may or may not be aware,” Mori’s eyes were sharp, knowing, “–the Agency was attacked at the same time as us. Though it may have appeared to be coordinated, intel suggests otherwise. A mere coincidence, it seems.”

Or a set-up. One of us was the real target, and the other was used as a cover. If one group was aware of another attack, they could’ve planned their own offence at the same time to throw us off the trail. Neither organisation would come to aid the other.

“I have, however, been informed that there has been an unexpected development. One that may be connected.”

Chuuya frowned. Unexpected…? That could mean anything.

“I’m not one to speculate your particular feelings on this matter, but the Division of Special Powers made an amendment to the traitor Sakaguchi Ango’s record early this morning. I had our informant look into this as soon as contact could be made–”

Chuuya’s eyes widened.

“–and it would appear that Ango’s file now reads deceased.”

Oh, shit.

The redhead took a careful breath, finding that he needed to swallow… something down.

The boss continued, gracing his executive with a few moments absent of observation by focusing his attention on the unopened letter in front of him – it was clear enough that Chuuya had no idea and therefore no part in whatever plan had killed such a valuable asset. 

“Given the attack on the Agency and the coincidental timing, I expect that Ango was somewhere nearby the Detective Agency late last night, and that whatever attack befell them was not for them, but rather for him.”

Another measured breath, and a slow nod. A blink– one too many to be unnoticeable, but Mori still wasn’t looking up. 

“If we are to believe that, both the Agency and the Mafia have lost a valuable asset. Our informant isn’t in a senior position nor does he have near half of the knowledge Ango possessed about the Division and how it operates–”

Past tense… how the hell…?

“–so while this is a significant loss, I do believe our informant can continue to operate without suspicion.” 

His mouth felt pretty dry. This was pissing him off. It took a few moments longer to realise Mori was likely awaiting a response or acknowledgement of some kind. “Whatever you think, boss. I’ll follow your orders.”

Seemingly satisfied with the response, Mori straightened, raising his eyes to meet Chuuya’s. 

“The Agency may be compromised for the foreseeable future. We would do well to remain respectful at this time and leave them out of missions where possible.”

A polite way of saying not to bother them for a time undetermined – an open-ended silence. Mori extended the same consideration after Fyodor’s defeat, having waived his deal with Fukuzawa in gratitude for Yosano saving his executives. Hirotsu had needed to be closer to death and the redhead’s heart was in his throat at the thought of– Chuuya wondered if Mori knew about… 

Anyway. 

It was an awful lot of consideration for the feelings of a traitor – feelings said traitor would vehemently deny he was capable of possessing, but regardless of how hard he scrubbed at blistering hands or clawed at raised lines to tear thin skin, Dazai was not the unfeeling sociopath he claimed to be.

And even if, for the sake of the argument, he were, which he wasn’t, that would still be a fundamental truth. It didn’t change the fact that the brunette understood what it was to be unsettled, to feel the weight of something sharp and unspeakable pressing into him.

Well, Chuuya didn’t want to think about it, but there was no association he could draw any stronger between himself in this situation than that between two old friends – ex-friends, Dazai would lead people to believe. The redhead knew better, though.

Of fucking course the Agency would be compromised – land of the bleeding hearts that it was. 

Even if that shitty fish managed to keep it off his face, that sweet-eating dork would clue it out instantly, and he highly doubted that the Agency would knowingly leave one of their own to grieve alone. He wondered who would be the one to break the news.

Remain respectful.

“Though, I do not say that to overshadow your own feelings on the matter.”

A debt owed and repaid. There’s nothing left to say. “I have no feelings.”

It should’ve been offensive that Mori looked more amused than dubious, but he accepted his answer. Chuuya had the distinct feeling that he’d indulged his boss. “And if you do, you are free to have them.”

Ango memorialised them. All of them, eventually. Even if he was a triple-crossing son of a bitch. 

“You may return in three days’ time, otherwise I encourage you to have some rest. The work will be far from over when you return.”

The mafioso frowned. “I can work.”

“Of course you can,” the man clapped his hands together. “I’ll see you in three days, Chuuya-kun.”

Three days… sounded good. He could do a lot in three days, like spend the entire first one asleep. If he told himself enough, he was convinced he would believe it. He did believe it. 

He did. He would sleep like he deserved.

Pausing, the redhead turned around halfway to the door. “Boss?”

“Chuuya-kun.”

“Are you asking me to look out for that bastard Dazai?”

The smile was not sharp, nor pitying. Knowing. Accepting. “I don’t need to ask that of you.”

Chapter Text

The body was heavy. Blood sticky on his hand. It was dark. It was a bullet. It was survivable.

…

…

…

Kunikida frowned. “President… you want me to tell him, is that right?”

A minute passed before Fukuzawa looked up from the paper on his desk. It’d been delivered from the Port Mafia, alleging the death of… of… 

“Kunikida.”

He straightened.

“Why do you think the Port Mafia delivered this information to us?”

…

…

…

The sound of wet coughs filled the air, gurgling cruelly as blood filled his airways. Crimson red ran from his lips, heaving a breath before hissing and jolting against his will. His body shuddered in Dazai’s arms, but he’d live. 

…

…

…

After some consideration, the blond responded: “I believe the better question is how they got access to this information.”

“It’s no stretch of the imagination to believe that the Mori still has agents stationed within the Special Abilities Division. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to get information if there were higher-ranked officers,” Fukuzawa paused, eyes flitting over the page again, “or perhaps Ango Sakaguchi was riding a high enough profile to attract attention at different service levels.”

That’s right. Usurping the chief had clearly not been forgiven, even if the outcome was very obviously a positive one. The ends justified the means, but to what end? His death? 

Had he expected it?

“I’m rather asking why they would personally send an executive to deliver this news.”

A low hum from the back of Kunikida’s throat was the acknowledgement, but the answer seemed obvious. One of the more obvious of this confusing situation. His tone was flat. “Email seems like a poor choice.”

The President spoke like he hadn’t heard. Green eyes drew to the finger lightly tapping the desk. “We’re yet to receive the results from the police.”

…

…

…

Yes, he… he would survive. Dazai knew what death looked like. Ango didn’t look like a man who was dying. An utterly pathetic one quivering under the unyielding grip of a skeletal hand around his throat, the one making him cough, sure, but not a man who was dying.

Except that isn’t what happened. 

…

…

…

“Sending executive Nakahara is…” Kunikida considered his choice of words, “personal.”

“I agree,” the silver fox said eventually. “While I can’t be certain of the degree to which the Mafia was involved with Ango, this does seem like a courtesy.”

Nakahara Chuuya was deployed as a warning – usually if he made an appearance, it was too late. Such was his reputation. Stoic, calculating and powerful, Chuuya was the message, and in the Mafia, violence or the threat of it was often, if not always, the answer.

His arrival didn’t feel like a warning of any kind. He was quick to demand – it was softer than a demand – but he didn’t ask, merely holding up the manila folder and speaking the words ‘It’s urgent, for your President’ into existence, which was more than enough to put the admin in the office on edge.

The mafioso was received, leaving barely a few minutes later, leading them – Kunikida, he didn’t quite have the impression that he and the President were equal in this conversation yet – here, being informed of Ango’s change in status, connecting the dots himself. A special agent killed right next to the Agency. 

There was a likely explanation. An explanation, Kunikida was sure. He just didn’t know what it was yet. “He must’ve been here to pass on information.”

“I believe he’d find a way to communicate to us if he was unable to do so through official channels. No doubt Dazai would be able to decipher it if that was the case–”

That’s right. This was about Dazai. 

…

…

…

No. Ango was dying. In his arms. A fatal wound, far kinder than he deserved for the double-crossing and the triple-crossing and every other betrayal of trust and authority, but it was there. He was bleeding out from it.

Dazai, however, was not bleeding at all. That didn’t explain the heaviness of his chest and the muted struggle to take a breath at the mere sight of the blood dirtying the ground, the wall, his clothes and his hand.

…

…

…

“–but he didn’t leave anything,” Fukuzawa continued, “or we haven’t found it, at least.”

“Nothing was found in the alley by the police.” It could be a misunderstanding. Ango might’ve been dead, yes, but it might not have happened so close by. “We should wait until we receive the results. If there was anything else to know, they would tell us.”

They should’ve been received by now. He shared a long stare with the President before announcing his thoughts, wishing they weren’t true, and yet... “The Division may be suppressing the local police force.”

“It’s very possible,” Fukuzawa agreed. He was very agreeable today. 

That was not good. “President?” The man stared impassively, giving nothing away. How unnerving. “The truce has held long enough for executive Nakahara to know Dazai doesn’t arrive at the office until eleven, two hours past his reporting time for the workday. Do you believe he intended to arrive and leave before Dazai got to the office?”

“I do.”

“And that Mori sent him with the intention of…” he paused, toying with the words in a mutter before voicing them at an audible volume, “potential emotional support?”

Chuuya, and emotional support. Dazai, and emotions. The blond suppressed a shiver just thinking about it, though he held no positive feelings himself about the current situation. There was nothing ideal about his partner’s grief, but he would have to go through it. It would appear that the Mafia boss had decided whose job it was to look out for… his old prodigy.

Or something.

…

…

…

It was happening too quickly. Calling Yosano might take too long, for some reason he didn’t know where she was. It wasn’t close by, for sure. An ambulance would be much the same. This was very much the end for Ango, retching – he’d never liked the metallic smell of blood, always preferred to step over it – and groaning, shaking hands barely brushing Dazai’s own holding the wound.

What a horrible idea Dazai had, wiping his reddened hand on Ango’s vest and patting his own chest, searching… searching? Oh, shit.

…

…

…

“The circumstances are not without suspicion, but I cannot think of a reason for Mori to lie about this,” the President said seriously. “There’s no foreseeable benefit. His executive didn’t specify the grounds on which he was passing on the information.”

The blond furrowed his brows. “He didn’t answer?” Because the question had obviously been asked.

“No. He insisted he was only a messenger today. Tomorrow, he didn’t specify. Seemed to make himself laugh by pointing that out himself.”

Yes, Chuuya was well aware of his own strength, influence and position. He delighted in combat, or so it seemed. Was he planning on fighting Dazai out of a stupor this very second? Even in the wake of the end of the world and the personal complications it brought, Chuuya seemed like an unlikely choice to comfort Dazai.

So he had to be there for something else. The ‘tomorrow’ perhaps. He would be there…

Kunikida stopped, felt himself still. Fukuzawa’s eyes flashed with recognition but he didn’t utter a word, allowing his detective the quiet to process whatever realisation he’d come to.

Chuuya would be there tomorrow, whatever it looked like.

…

…

…

It wasn’t there. Why wasn’t it there? Why?! Dazai stared at bulging eyes – it appeared as though Ango had just realised his situation. His eyes were wide as he stared down at himself, shocked by his own blood as more expelled in a mist from a cough. For a few moments, moments too long, the brunette froze, watching and feeling it occur.

Death. Final moments. Final gasps. Panic, acceptance– no, resignation. Shock leeching away, leaving only anguish in its wake. Physical, mental. The skeletal hand was taking Ango’s instead of his. Unfair. Unfair, unfair, unfair. Because Ango didn’t want to die. He was scared of death. That’s how Dazai rationalised his actions all this time. Fear. Not evil. Stupid.

…

…

…

The world would keep turning without Ango Sakaguchi in it.

…

…

…

Ango was an asshole. Dazai was pretty sure he said it out loud because the body in his arms stilled, only to lurch as the pressure he returned to the wound became punishing. Because they weren’t there. The photos weren’t there. There was nothing, nothing, for Ango to hold onto in death. No happy memories of Bar Lupin.

Only pain. Regret. Dazai had regrets. Ango must’ve. Men had regrets, and Dazai didn’t have any photos to comfort the man who didn’t deserve it. He wouldn’t have been able to use his ability with Dazai holding him anyway. But he’d let go, because he always had to.

…

…

…

It was an acknowledged fact now, one that Kunikida had hoped to refute but there was just too much evidence, that Chuuya knew Dazai Osamu very well. Better than the Agency in some ways.

…

…

…

He let Oda go. He let the Mafia go. He’d let himself go, planned contingencies for a world he may not have survived to see continue, but they hadn’t been needed. Leaving the Mafia had been necessary. He hadn’t had a choice with Oda. If only he’d fought harder to leave Mori’s office, the one towering above the city, lording itself over citizens who didn’t know the evil and necessity that lay within it.

But he hadn’t let the pain of betrayal go, he didn’t think. It didn’t feel that way right now.

…

…

…

That was to be expected. Something about… ties that bind. What was a good man? Was Dazai a good man? Or was he, as Chuuya sneered, falsely masquerading in the Light? The blond had his own suspicions after world’s end, had since decided – loosely – that the brunette at the least deserved the chance to keep trying to be one. That’s why he’d been accepted to the Agency to begin with. The capacity to do the right thing. 

…

…

…

He thought about the night at Bar Lupin after Ango’s betrayal, Oda to his right. He thought back to the genuine surprise and muted pain in Odasaku’s once-expressive eyes at the first insinuations of his friend’s betrayal. The flicker of hope that it wasn’t true. That wish extinguished, gaze buried in a glass of whiskey as Dazai – Dazai, him this time – told him to leave, waited for him to do so, chancing a glance at the man beside him to see the hurt visible in his stoic expression. Grief… it didn’t suit Odasaku one bit. Not then. Not ever.

…

…

…

“What conclusion have you come to?” Fukuzawa’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Kunikida cleared his throat, unapologetic about however long he’d been silent for.

“How much do you trust the Port Mafia boss?” With Dazai went unsaid. It wasn’t accusatory. Kunikida was curious. “Enough for us to leave Dazai alone when he finds out?”

The silver fox looked older in a matter of seconds. “No. Stay with him, but let him leave.”

…

…

…

Dazai had nightmares about finding Odasaku. Holding Odasaku. About his final words, memorised with his genius brain, but the same brain that couldn’t parse the intricacies of the dead man’s speech, losing touch with its intonation, only identifying its emphasis. Dazai was forgetting his best friend’s voice. Ached… to know what it might’ve sounded like reading his novel. The brunette would’ve listened forever. 

…

…

…

That, Kunikida could do. He did that everyday. He let Dazai leave everyday, because he obviously needed it. And he was a good worker, when push came to shove.

…

…

…

Did Ango remember what Oda sounded like? If he didn’t, he would’ve heard it if Dazai just had a fucking photo. But he didn’t make a habit of carrying around such precious memories everyday lest they wore down to nothing with how often he would check they were there. Fractures of an old life, a few pieces he cared to bring with him. He could offer no peace.

…

…

…

Outside the door, he could hear more voices. The twins had arrived… with Kenji. Atsushi would be there soon. Yosano was going to meet Ranpo with the police, but she was likely pulling him by the ear out of bed. He wondered if Dazai would walk in and feel something amiss. He wondered if Dazai and Ango had been sincerely close. He wondered.

…

…

…

Now Ango was choking, horrible sounds filling the air. Hacking. Was Dazai gripping him tighter? Was Dazai breathing harder? Was Dazai speaking? Asking? Talking? Shaking him for an answer? Why? What are you doing here? Why is this happening now?

…

…

…

What grief would Dazai wear? What form would it take? What ‘Dazai Protocol’ would Kunikida be following from his notebook? One recognisable, he hoped. For Dazai’s sake. That was his partner, after all. He’d take the day, Dazai would take the dusky twilight for himself, and Nakahara Chuuya would take the night.

…

…

…

Ango Sakaguchi died in his arms with fear in his eyes and air left in his chest. Dazai felt it leave.

…

…

…

“I can tell him,” Kunikida said slowly. “But I feel you are the better choice.”

Fukuzawa considered this, then nodded. “Very well. When he arrives, send him in.”

…

…

…

Except that didn’t happen.

Atsushi was better when he arrived at work. Like Dazai, he was curious about what occurred the previous night. He was already working when the brunette waltzed into the office ten minutes past eleven. Dazai observed him for a few moments from across the room. 

Oda would like Atsushi. Not just because he was an orphan. Because he was inquisitive. Because he lived by a code. Because he tried. Plain and simple. And he probably would’ve been a cute kid too, abuse notwithstanding.

The world became a little less saturated at the thought of Odasaku. His mood from yesterday had worsened, and he’d barely had the strength to lift a bottle of sake to his lips to stop the shakes. He hadn’t drunk all of yesterday, after all. He was slightly intrigued by what the results could be. It was enough of a boost to get him off the futon. Ranpo obviously already had a clue, having gone straight to the police. 

Kunikida said as much when the brunette stared owlishly around the office, otherwise occupied by Atsushi working, and Kenji neatly stacking papers at his desk. He waved a cheerful hello and shot off into an explanation about a dream he’d had that night, giving Dazai the excuse to avoid work for a little longer.

When he did eventually sit at his desk, grinning at the tense skin around Kunikida’s squinting eyes. Something was pissing him off. Or someone. Probably him. What a treat to see, in any case. He leaned his chin on his hand and watched Atsushi with what was probably a more vacant look than he’d intended. Whatever, he needed more sake. “Atsushi-kun~ What set you off?”

Atsushi took a minute to glean what Dazai was referring to before his mouth made a little ‘o’. Predictably, his lips drew towards the ground, putting his pen down like the discussion deserved his full attention, which it didn’t, because Dazai didn’t deserve his attention. There was certainly a terseness remaining between them, but even if he did get a few punches in the face for saying things that definitely warranted that and more, Atsushi still looked at him like he was worthy of being alive. 

“Uh, mostly how scared that person must’ve been getting gunned down like that.”

Empathetic Atsushi. Odasaku definitely would’ve liked you. 

“I guess we’ll know what happened soon,” he continued slowly, as if picking up on Dazai’s delayed processing. “There isn’t much that gets past Ranpo, even if there isn’t any decisive evidence that we can see.” Paranoia, most likely, but he had to give his protege – not anymore? – some credit. 

Which is why he knew they’d both picked up on Kunikida’s stiffness. Not that it was difficult to see. He was also nursing a cup of tea that smelled like Naomi’s quote-unquote special tea for emergencies, meaning it was a crisis.

Especially because he hadn’t put it down. Luckily for Dazai’s curiosity, he knew that Kunikida was a frequent bathroom user when he drank tea, mainly because it seemed to be one of the rare things he possessed no self-control for once he’d started. That was a newer habit of his, but noticeable enough to catch the brunette’s attention. He waited for the man to stand and leave before pestering Atsushi again.

“Mm, how long has Kunikida-kun been like this?”

Unsurprised by the question, Atsushi looked thoughtful. It wasn’t an expression he’d dare wear in front of Kunikida, lest he be accused of daydreaming and losing focus. “He was already working pretty hard when I got here and Naomi was filling his cup. She and Tanizaki didn’t leave that long ago, actually. Kunikida was a bit snappy that they hadn’t left on time for their case.”

Because they were worried about him. “Ah, Kunikida is allergic to care, that’s no surprise.”

Atsushi gave him a once over, face morphing in a way that made Dazai scowl because he knew the conversation was about to be turned onto him, and– “You look like shit.”

Dazai blinked, his chuckles growing to an outburst of laughter that caught Kenji’s attention. It took him a few moments to recover, waving him off. “We’re not talking about me.”

“Kunikida said you nearly caught a bullet last night.”

“Yes,” he didn’t deny, settling into his chair properly after having bent over his knees. “A shame that it didn’t stick.”

Unimpressed, Atsushi leaned over and checked how much tea was left in the cup. “I think he’ll need another pot at some point. Especially if you’re planning on being this annoying.”

“Ah, Atsushi-kun!”

The possible conversation was cut off by Kunikida returning, returning… hm. He’d definitely splashed his face with water, skin shiny and the tip of his collar looked slightly wet. That was absolutely an alert.

Dazai stood, ignoring Atsushi’s eyes following him as he approached the man who appeared to linger a little longer than necessary on his step to meet him.

“You got the results?”

The blond shook his head. “Not yet. Ranpo should be back soon. The President wants to talk to you.”

Had he wet his face to hide sweat? Had he resprayed cologne to mask perspiration? Had he practised his deep breathing before leaving the bathroom? His face didn’t give Dazai much to work with but it was uncomfortable. It was closer to an expression he’d wear when the kids weren’t around, and a quick glance at Kenji confirmed that he was pretty occupied humming to himself.

Dazai hummed a light acknowledgement, patting his partner on the shoulder as he passed. Not too hard, not too light – nothing that would shock him, yet the blond still twitched at the contact.

Maybe he was pissed about the previous night. Atsushi seemed to think so.

“Dazai,” he was greeted by Fukuzawa as he poked his head around the… open door? “Come in.”

That felt more ominous than it should have. The detective nodded respectfully and closed the door behind him. “Shachou.”

Oda and Ango were something. Dazai could sense it. He could feel the gratefulness flow off them both in waves when he sat between them after being the one late, acting as a flesh wall so they didn’t have to face whatever was going on. They’d had two years to get to know each other. It seemed like so much time looking back on it.

The redhead was a reserved man. He didn’t give much away, so drawing unexpected responses from him was addictive. Dazai didn’t have much of an issue admitting to himself – only himself – that he craved it. He wanted the eyes. He wanted his friend to look at him. Oda thought he was an asshole and still made sure alongside the bartender that Dazai never consumed something life-threatening. Oda didn’t approve of his choices but never disapproved of him. 

Ango was… something like that. He was much easier to draw reactions from and much easier to tease. On the rare occasions that his reservations about alcohol disappeared, his inebriation sat pink on his cheeks and ears, like Chuuya. He was logical but not unemotional. Not smooth enough to hide his fondness for their times together in the bar.

Much less efficient at hiding his latent affection for Odasaku. His gaze would linger and he seemed almost incredulous at most things that left the other’s mouth, even if they weren’t that interesting – which, to Ango’s credit, most of what left Oda’s mouth was interesting. He was so affected by the man in comparison to how much Oda let on.

Oda spoke about his feelings like poetry. It would flow from his lips easily, monotone yet still effective in getting the message across. His opinions sounded like stories. He had lots of those too. His affection was much harder to look at, because Dazai saw it coloured by confusion and eventually betrayal. 

Dazai hadn’t wanted to believe it either. He knew something would happen, something always did, but he’d prepared a dead heart for the possibility when it came to pass. It was simply impossible to prepare for holding your best friend in your arms as life slipped away.

“Before we start, I’d like to remind you that you are under no obligation to remain in the room if you feel you must leave.”

‘Who was it?’ That’s what he was thinking the moment those words left Fukuzawa’s mouth. Who could it be that such a blatant offer was on the table? 

Thinking back on Bar Lupin was painful on a good day. There were some things he didn’t let himself think about for too long. Like Ango never quite looking Oda in the eye when he laughed. Fidgeting with his fingers while leaning on the counter, occupying them with a glass when applicable. There were pauses and stutters in those smaller movements where something else wanted to live.

And Oda. Odasaku, with seemingly limitless patience – enough for his own antics – face easing of tension when the light caught glass lenses and Ango’s attention was solely on him, hanging onto every word, noticing things like… like the way the eventual traitor’s voice lifted at the end of a sentence, oftentimes uncertain even when stating facts, like he was afraid of being heard too clearly. It made sense now, how mousy the man had truly been.

“We received word from the Port Mafia earlier in the day. I’m sure you are already aware of the attack on the Mafia’s headquarters.”

“Yes, sir.” An unfortunate slug had kept him reasonably informed.

They orbited each other while trained for impermanence. One had tidy shirts with very few creases and too many rules; the other had drawn-out silence and shaver burn, perpetually suffering from a five o’clock shadow that made a tiny redhead full of rage jealous whenever mentioned. They still spoke like friends could, about shitty movies and boring missions; exciting ones too, and on sombre nights, Dazai sat in silence to learn how the war left things broken in short sentences and loaded pauses. 

Dazai saw it. Heard it. Knew it.

The redhead’s fingers would hesitate in tracing the condensation on his whiskey glass the deeper Ango fell into his own day’s recount. The traitor’s spine straightened when Oda said something kind without thinking, usually by accident – sometimes sparing a grin in spite of himself. He never said it was a mistake, either, regardless of whether it was directed at Ango or Dazai.

None of them did touch often, but watching Oda brush a hand against Ango’s shoulder in passing, or Ango steadying Oda’s wrist as he pours a drink after one too many, something rattled deep in the hollow of his ribs. Dazai should’ve looked away, it was the polite thing. He wasn’t polite. Because blue eyes soften and brown eyes avert. And Dazai wonders, not for the first time, what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of such a gaze without Death looming. What it would be like beyond knocking shoulders and knees.

To be something still enough, good enough, permanent enough, to deserve it. Oda didn’t look at Dazai the way he looked at Ango. He wanted to tell them to stop pretending, once upon a time – that the world was cruel enough without making each other suffer by staying quiet. It didn’t sound like something Dazai Osamu would say, though, so he never did. 

Not overtly enough to not be taken as a joke between men that infiltrate the solitude of a single-man pity party at a well-hidden bar. He didn’t envy their restraint. But maybe he’s not the one to talk when he hides behind bandages. So he drank. He jokes, and watches them not fall in love, over and over again.

Dazai knows that fear. It lives in him, too. A dull, constant thing, like the itch under bandages he never takes off.

“The Agency received Executive Nakahara–” and he stopped listening, embarrassingly. That was one person down. What was more embarrassing was how tense he’d manage to make himself between the President’s pauses without even realising.

Losing his touch… at least if it was about Chuuya, that much was inconsistent. Stupid carrot. 

“I’m…”

Ah, hesitation. That didn’t seem good. Fukuzawa looked uncomfortable, even. That could mean–

Mori. It could mean Mori. Mori gave him complicated feelings too. Not for the first time, Dazai wished he knew how to comfort people as effortlessly as he’d seen around him.

Odasaku listened with his whole body. Ango’s attentiveness came in the form of a near-constant stream of questions. Dazai feels a world away sitting between them, and right at home. Especially amongst laughter – Ango’s laughter was… square. Choppy, short chuckles that could trail off into something akin to a giggle but not quite. He’d only ever heard that man giggle on the edge of delirium. He’d left Oda to take care of Ango that night.

Oda said he’d been in an apartment back then, but during the Mimic Conflict, he’d been in a hotel, begging the–

Something was shaken loose in all of them in laughter. Dazai felt as a part of something as he could without Chuuya or a metallic smell present.

A manila folder was emptied of its contents, and Fukuzawa held it in his hands with a grim expression. “Would you like to read it, or would you like me to tell you?”

Dazai felt something cold on his neck. A shiver, perhaps. It was a question of the brunette’s confidence in his own reactions. Could he suppress one? It seemed more likely that he’d have to. 

Sipping his whiskey reminds him that the tongue in his mouth can, in fact, move. He thanked the bartender for the top-up, though it was a bit belated. Did Ango, even at the end, study his ghosts in an effort to coax something real and concrete from the memories? Does he dream about Oda the way Dazai does?

There were a few nights where contact felt surreal – simple things like Odasaku’s hand lingering just a second too long on his back, his head, his shoulder, disappearing as the conversation flowed like it hadn’t meant anything at all. It probably hadn’t. The brunette was definitely just starved for physicality. Hell, it was one of the four things that Chuuya didn’t mock him for. 

The paper mocked him. 

Dazai watched them enter together one day. Ango leans in to murmur something to Oda, something low and serious. Oda smiles, eyes crinkling just at the corners. There it is again, that look. Dazai feels it like bruising beneath his bones. Odasaku never said anything outright, but he knew about that too.

He didn’t react with panic the day he found Dazai hunched over the bathroom sink, sleeves rolled too high, blood pooling in the bend of his elbow, trying to bleed out the parts of himself he couldn't stand. Not like Ango, fretting over every tiny detail. The brunette supposed… a time-telling ability made it a bit easier to handle some things.

It meant just a little bit that Oda couldn’t see a future from Dazai, exactly, but still treated him with care. He just moved. Calm and measured. 

One time, Dazai’s half-conscious on the floor, cheek pressed to tile, and Oda crouched next to him without a word; wrapped a towel around Dazai’s wrist like they’re not surrounded by the thick metallic smell of failure. He didn’t hold him down like Chuuya would’ve, nor curse and drag him to his feet. He doesn’t say, ‘ You bastard, what the fuck were you thinking?!’

Doesn’t give him anger, or control, or affection framed as frustration. He just holds the towel there. Just waits. No pressure. No pity. Just… care. It hurt.

Dazai stared at the paper.

“You really need better taste in lost causes,” the younger man told Oda and Ango one day. Every time he watched fondness leak into Oda’s expression, he felt it all over again, like he mattered. And he wanted, God, Dazai wanted. 

It’s how he knows this night will probably end contacting Chuuya. Familiarity. Warmth. 

Because Chuuya delivered the news. Was he angry that Chuuya didn’t tell him personally? 

Why didn’t Chuuya tell him? Why is the piece of paper doing it instead? Why did you follow this order? Where are you, Chuuya?

Ango understood. Ango understood him too. To a degree. As much as he could. Dazai fucking hated it. He was sad. He expected to lose Bar Lupin and he did and it didn’t hurt any less, even with time.

He knew Ango watched him just as closely as Dazai watched him. He was a very observant man. A very clever one. One didn’t need to spell much out to the man for him to understand. As a triple-spy, being observant was his job. Noticing Oda sliding his whiskey to Dazai arriving late and limping before he’s taken a sip.

“That’s not good,” Dazai says. He sounds like an idiot. Ango Sakaguchi is dead. 

There was a kind of mercy in the way Ango didn’t ask certain things – he doesn’t say ‘ I know what you’re doing when you disappear for days,’; doesn’t mention the fraying edges of Dazai’s coat or the burn marks on his sleeves; he once moved a glass ashtray just out of reach, wordlessly, as if to say, ‘ I know what you’re thinking. Please don’t.’ He starts ordering more food than he eats, acting just the mother hen that Chuuya was, the beasts.

Dazai remembers not too long ago, being asked by Ango, Ango Sakaguchi who is now dead, how he figured everything was about to end. It’d taken a considerable amount of time in hiding to understand what he’d been picking up on during those last few nights drinking together amiably. 

Ango sat as if he was mourning something that hadn’t happened yet. And then it did. He must’ve struggled with this terrible feeling in Dazai’s chest too, bleeding him out with no physical evidence. The detective hadn’t expected this to hurt so much.

…

The bartender cuts him off half an hour later, and Dazai is almost black-out drunk. Almost, because he does need to get back to the dorms, or at least be savvy enough to call someone who might deal with him in this state. The detective occupied himself for a minute, carefully measuring out half of the rest of his whiskey for Oda’s glass, and the other for Ango’s. His eyes prickled. Huh.

He pushed himself up soon after he was satisfied with a final, overly-joyful farewell to the barkeep, preparing himself for the chill of the night.

Except the chill didn’t come. Because Chuuya was waiting for him.

Chapter Text

Chuuya did something to his brain that was a lot harder to hide when nearing the point of falling over. Harder to hide than falling over, because at least one expected someone so drunk to be stumbling around. Anyone who knew Dazai like Chuuya did – and the list was now a person smaller – knew not to expect much from him, mainly because he’d completely deny anything that happened whether he remembered it or not. 

Yes, very few people knew that Dazai was a sentimental drunk.

With his mental faculties impaired, he was quite… chuffed with himself for still figuring out the mafioso smoking outside the bar. His jaw was set but the scowl wasn’t any more scathing than usual. It didn’t look like it hurt to uphold. He did blow the curling smoke out of his nose though, which he usually avoided.

When cerulean eyes landed on him, the warmth from his fingertips spread further up his arms, pulsating against bandages wrapped too tight, under his collar and throughout his chest. Attention-starved is how he felt. Excited. If Dazai had a tail, it would probably be wagging.

The mafioso didn’t say a word when he pushed himself off the wall, flicking his cigarette into the bin without needing his ability and– ah, everything was impressive when he was like this. Such a lovely sight reminded him of why he was an alcoholic. 

This little bit of childish joy made the shakes from waking up worth it. How kind of his long-term something to indulge him. He didn’t try to speak, Chuuya could do that for him too.

Three strides were long enough to be nearly chest-to-chest with Chuuya, who merely tilted his head back to look up at him. There was a complaint about neck pain somewhere in there but it wasn’t vocalised. Not yet, at least. He also didn’t complain about the brunette’s proximity, accepting that their inappropriate closeness was… just was. 

Slowly, Dazai raised his hand. He felt the silly grin spreading across his face. He felt his lips tremor under the weight of it, burdened by the thoughts he was trying to leave behind in the bar. Couldn’t Chuuya just take them away?

His hand landed with more force than intended on the older man’s head, who narrowed his eyes as if saying ‘What’s your damage?’

His liver and kidneys were the answer to that question. 

Instead of responding, Dazai plucked the hat off his head and settled it on his own, using both hands to adjust it. The inside of it was warm because the mafioso was a furnace on the best of days; if not a little tight, because Chuuya was tiny on the worst of them. He ran his finger along the brim, toying lightly with the chain.

Chuuya probably would’ve decked him if he was sober. As it was, the redhead just followed the movement with his eyes. It was an important chain, after all. 

Chuuya understood grief. Chuuya understood him, as well as a person could. Because Chuuya was a person, and Mori was… something else. It took a certain kind of person to see humanity in Dazai because it wasn’t there.

Wasn’t… but he had told Chuuya many years ago how human the grieving process was. Perhaps he was returning the favour after all these years.

“C’mon bandages.”

The world spun as he leaned back slightly to see… Chuuya walking away. Huh?!

Thankfully his words were sharp and not slurred. Or maybe that’s just how he heard them. “Hey! Slug!” 

“Hurry up.”

Dazai’s breath caught in his chest. He hadn’t even moved his arm from his side and yet it already felt like Chuuya had slipped away. He’d never slipped away, that was Dazai’s job– Odasaku’s job, that day. Devastation tore through him, illogical and overwhelming. Rooted to the spot, rotting from the inside wherever the warmth had touched, not again–

“What’re you doing?”

Oh. Those eyes were looking at him. At him? Dazai made himself dizzy checking around him unless Chuuya was looking at someone else. He’d kill them. Oops.

“Yeah, dipshit, I’m talking to you.”

Oh. That was okay then. Chuuya was talking to him.

Clearly he took too long formulating a response because the mafioso scoffed and marched back towards him, grumbling like music to drunken ears. He was being pulled along.

Then he was draping himself across strong shoulders. He wasn’t shaken off.

He tried booking it towards the road a few times, Chuuya caught him every time. That’s why he did it.

He kept doing. Kept running ahead, looking back, because it felt mean to leave Chuuya behind. But the redhead seemed to know when he was running for real and running for the sake of control. Discerning.

Then Dazai kept stopping directly in front of him. That earned a few shoves. He hit the ground sometimes too. Chuuya pulled him up from under his arms, cursing under his breath with no anger. That was nice of him.

At some point, Dazai brought his face closer, breathed in Chuuya – his cologne, the scent of his skin, cigarettes, hair products… had he been to work? Didn’t matter. He wanted to choke on the smells until he passed out. Being awake was getting a bit harder. The brunette distracted himself by trailing his eyes over constellation-like freckles, over sharper angles he barely had enough time on a regular day to appreciate, over the pink… aw, that was cute.

Chuuya’s eyes bulged as if saying ‘shut it,’ and the thought drew an unstoppable giggle out of him.

“You reek,” his partner eventually said, referring to the alcohol. What else would he be referring to? The stench of death that seemed to follow?

… Oh. He didn’t want Chuuya… that wasn’t…

He jolted away from the flick to his ear, whining before he remembered himself. “What is your problem, tiny man!” It wasn’t a question.

“Christ, you’re out of it. Hurry up.”

“But walking is so hard,” the detective complained. He slipped his arm between Chuuya’s, who shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled him along without so much as another word.

Chuuya was so nice. And pretty. Yeah, definitely drunk.

.

.

.

“I’ve got the next two days off,” he said suddenly. 

Dazai blinked once, then twice. His instincts were telling him to be a twat about it. They were close to the dorms? Dazai recognised where they were, just a bit. Chuuya waited the entire walk to say that? The asshole-ish remark didn’t pass his lips though, only: “Ah?”

“Just… you know where to find me.”

Chuuya said it like it didn’t matter. Nevermind that it sounded so normal, like the mafioso and the detective belonged in each other’s spaces. Yes, everything was so romantic in this state of mind. The headache when he woke up wouldn’t be, nor when his mind ran wild. He’d spent the night distracting himself with Odasaku, barely allowing himself to think about his own…

“Why didn’t you come and tell me yourself?”

The mafioso shifted, drawing in a deep breath, uncaring that Dazai’s eyes flickered with some life behind them to watch the movement of his chest. “Wasn’t sure how you’d take it.”

The brunette pouted. An honest answer, how boring. He’d hoped the redhead would grovel. “You embarrassed me in front of my boss.”

“You did that by yourself, don’t blame me,” he muttered, huffing. A few seconds of silence passed before the other nudged his head into his upper arm in a way that was only cute because he was short. “Would you have preferred that?”

No use in hindsight, yet… “Mm, could’ve used a drinking buddy, is all.”

The words registered and Chuuya tripped over his feet, his eyes widened, shoulders taut as they raised like his hackles but it wasn’t anger. Not frustration either. Confusion? That he’d be allowed close to Dazai at a time like this?

Didn’t he understand that of his old life, Chuuya was really the only thing he had left to hold onto? 

“I forgive you,” he said lightly, nudging him back with too much force and they staggered, betraying his inebriation. At least Chuuuuyaaaa would look drunk too. Betraying too much altogether because since when would he say something like that? But he did, unwinding his arm from the redhead’s and wrapping his arm around the other’s shoulders. Dazai relished in the way the redhead froze under his hand. “Thanks for walking me back, slug.”

“Come bother me or whatever,” he said as he spotted Kunikida near the gate to the small complex. “I’m not going any further. You can walk that far.”

The offer wasn’t as easily ignored as the brunette was sure Chuuya would prefer. Covering it up with the hope that Dazai would fall over and give him something to laugh at wasn’t enough.

Dazai felt lost again, when he drew away. Like Chuuya was going again. He’d blame the next few minutes on being drunk.

“You can’t go.”

With his arms wrapped around Chuuya, he remembered why he was scared. How death followed him. How obvious of a target his partner would be. How only a fool would doubt his power and for every fool, there was someone smart. Waiting. Planning. Scheming.

The arm that circled around him was foreign. It tickled. It burned. The brunette tightened his grip, tighter again on the mafioso’s next exhale. It felt like the first time he caught someone – he reached and someone was still there, and was trying to tell him so.

Dazai didn’t count the seconds or minutes as to how long he stayed there, clutching Chuuya like a lifeline. Holding his partner to his chest. It didn’t matter that they didn’t initiate contact like this– god, things felt a little better against the rising bile in his throat when the redhead’s other arm came around him too.

Soukoku didn’t hug. It didn’t feel weird. Just different. Just right. Just what he needed. Maybe this was their next step. Maybe they didn’t need to–

No. 

Chuuya’s fingers pressed into his sides, dragging his thoughts away like he knew the spiral that was about to begin. But he couldn’t stop it when he gave him away, to Kunikida. Kunikida, who knew first, it seemed, that Ango Sakaguchi was dead. The President told him? Yeah, that sounded right.

Did the rest of the office know now? Would Ango have a funeral? Where would he want to be?

Dazai only realised he was whining lowly when he realised one of his partner’s hands was rubbing his back. How… domestic. He curled into the other further, obviously. What else was he meant to do? Let go?

He didn’t remember pulling away. He dropped his forehead to the top of Chuuya’s head when he realised the absence in his arms. His fist balled loosely out his sides, he was so tired. Tired. Why couldn’t the slug carry him to bed? 

“You’re so fucked up,” the mafioso said quietly. Dazai hummed in agreement. He could’ve just given the slug his hat back, but this felt better. Somehow, it was still staying on his head.

When they eventually depart, Dazai stumbles a few times while looking back, checking that Chuuya is still there. He holds onto the hat to make sure it doesn't fall off. Something swells in the mafioso’s chest at the sight of something Dazai tried so hard to hide – that he did look back. He did think about the past. 

He did check for Chuuya. Had Dazai’s heart hurt too, in those years apart, especially the first, turning to check over his shoulder and finding no-one there?

That’s why the redhead stayed, considerate that he was, until Kunikida wrapped his own steady arm around Dazai and led him out of sight. At least the asshole would wake up embarrassed with his new wardrobe addition: Chuuya’s own hat.

Was it a ploy to have Dazai crawl shamefully – shamelessly, it was Dazai Osamu he was thinking about – to his apartment to return it?

Well, he’d done him the favour of not checking his expression as they walked in silence. He ignored the tears… but maybe Dazai… wanted him to wipe them?

Chuuya frowned, spinning on his heel. No, that wouldn’t be the case. He wasn’t even sure that Dazai knew he’d been crying. He was silent, no wracking sobs or gasping breaths. 

They could deal with the rest tomorrow.

Tomorrow.