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“…sixth month in a row now.”
Kunikida muttered to himself, loudly, ink and frustration racing across the pages of the notepad he’d recently slapped onto his desk. Atsushi looked up from his own, watching the heads of his fellow colleagues - the ones that had also endeavoured to make it in on time - pop out from behind desks, filing cabinets, paperwork, and—in Kenji’s case—a potted tomato plant.
Of course, outbursts from the blond were not at all unusual, especially so early in the morning when his list of duties was at its longest. Hence Ranpo’s distinct lack of interest in the commotion — the usual reaction.
But today felt different. Something had squirmed guiltily in Atsushi’s stomach at those specific words, and he shifted uneasily in his seat as his eyes continued to watch the man curse under his breath.
Atsushi heard himself sigh, the growing sense of foreboding now building in his gut made his shoulders sag until his brace slipped off his shoulder. It wasn’t a guilt he held personally—or more specifically, nothing came to mind that he felt he should feel guilty about. No, his stomach was telling him that whatever this potential guilt was, was being worn on behalf of someone else. Someone he cared deeply for.
Regardless, it pulled just as heavy between his ribs as if it was his own, not least because he had a feeling he’d be dragged into the realm of Kunikida’s displeasure just by association.
He’d only ever seen that expression, or the deep canyon now growing between his senpai’s brows, when it was directed at another person — the driving force behind the blond’s constant migraines.
Atsushi had left the dorms that morning without Kyouka in tow, instead leaving behind a small pile of blankets and hot water bottles, shiny black hair peeking out from between thick folds of bedding. She hadn’t said a word, and Atsushi hadn’t dared speak in case she’d finally managed to get some sleep — but he knew enough to assume Kyouka was in the throes of her monthly suffering. He’d made a mental note to check on her during lunch break, which would also give him the chance to drop off some painkillers and an obscene amount of sweets.
By Atsushi’s count, this was the sixth time she’d taken a day off in the same amount of months...
“…sixth month in a row now.”
All in all, he didn’t quite understand what Kunikida’s problem was, if that indeed was part of his problem. Still, the canyon — now accompanied by a large vein, affectionately referred to by the Detective Agency as “Vein-chan”— said there was something more to this than Kyouka simply taking another sick day.
The majority of the agency had gone back to work after the distraction, but Atsushi continued to bite his lip, eyes darting from Vein-chan to the phone in the blond’s hand—the buttons of which he was now smashing with his forefinger.
“There’s a pile of reports here with your name on, Dazai.” The blond spat into the microphone, “You‘d better be lying dead in a ditch somewhere, or I’ll drag you into one myself.”
Atsushi’s relief was short-lived, in the end.
Despite the calm in Kunikida’s voice, even Atsushi couldn’t help but notice the subtle tremors of rage behind each syllable, as if the words had come booming down from the heavens above. And it seemed to everyone that Dazai was one wrong answer away from putting the whole agency at the mercy of one of Kunikida’s bad moods.
Oddly enough, Atsushi found himself more worried about Kyouka again — for reasons that he couldn’t quite fathom. Perhaps it was the phantom echoes of the old headmaster’s boots, as the blond paced the office; the implication of anger alone, directed towards those he wanted to protect.
Or, less grimly, his new detective instincts sniffing out potential danger.
He was distracted from his worries by the sounds of his other senpai at the end of the line, groaning like he was indeed on death’s door, as Kunikida had hoped.
The blond scoffed.
“It’s no good Kunikida-kun,” he heard the brunet push out between deep breaths, “there’s blood everywhere, I can’t move— I’m not… gghhhhh…”
Astushi’s heart stopped. His body swayed into the desk before he even realised he was standing. He somehow found enough awareness to drag heavy, numb feet — one in front of the other — to be by Kunikida’s side.
With shaking hands, Kunikida pulled out his notebook again, putting pen to paper before calmly asking the brunet for more details.
“Where are you? We’ll be there as soon as we— wait, are you alone? Was it them?”
The line crackled as Atsushi gripped the bottom of Kunikida’s waistcoat, leaning in to listen closer to the tiny speaker, while the ghost of Dazai’s breaths on the other line dragged into a rasp.
“Futon… dorm, I’m in real trouble Kunikida-kun,” the dying man managed to say, and Atsushi’s mind flashed to the worst. Kunikida obviously had the same thought, because he clicked his fingers to get Yosano’s attention and gave a single nod. Yosano’s lips thinned into a single line, her arms folded awkwardly like she was trying to hold herself, and Atsushi couldn’t decide which of the two to grab first. All he knew was that he wasn’t going to sit idly by and wait at the office while his precious mentor painfully achieved the very thing he’d promised since the first day they’d met. The very thing that everyone here had worked painstakingly hard to prevent.
“We’re on our way,” the blond confirmed, gathering his jacket and pulling open a drawer filled with spare dormitory keys. Yosano fled to her office, and Atsushi suspected she was on her way to pack a bag of essentials. “Where’s the injury?” Kunikida pressed, just before the line crackled again, almost as if the man’s fingers were swiping around the microphone, struggling to keep a firm grip.
Atsushi heard Dazai groan again, laboured, into the receiver.
“Oi, stay with us Dazai—!” Kunikida barked, panic edging into the firm grasp he usually had on his composure as he half ran out the door. Yosano was hot on his heels, whilst Atsushi followed right behind them. His belt tail tickled his legs as he quickly moved—reminding him to use them. “What the hell happened?”
Even from a short distance, Atsushi heard it. The pause, the deep breath, the fourth or fifth bitten-back groan. His mind was a haze of red, soiled bandages and the silver points of anonymous sharp objects. From what he understood, such things were banned from his dorm, and the agency members themselves often did sweeps of his space to ensure he adhered. But this was Dazai, it was all just routine without substance, a way to keep up the pretense that they had any semblance of control over the brunet’s fate.
Child’s play for the man who made it his business to do exactly as he pleased, and a mere delusion of the agency. Something to help them sleep at night.
Kyouka would understand if he didn’t come check on her.
Another groan, bathed in static. The weretiger ran faster, swallowing the stairs whole with each leap. Just ahead of Kunikida.
Another deep breath—the end, pitching into a wheeze. He could hear the panting of his seniors behind him, feet slamming against each step in a frenzied, frantic rhythm. One, two. One. One, two. One, two, three. One.
Followed by a quiet croak, the missing piece of the puzzle.
.
.
.
“Cramps.”
The echoing slaps of feet on laminate came to an abrupt halt, just as Atsushi felt something whiz — dangerously close — past his ear. The remains of Kunikida’s phone shattered into fragments as it rebounded off the stairwell wall and onto the floor.
Looking back, Atsushi was enthusiastically greeted by Vein-chan; its reappearance sudden and wholly expected. Yosano swore, dragging a hand down her face, her eyes closed in misery.
“Call the mortuary, Atsushi,” the blond managed to say, uncharacteristically calm after several minutes of breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. “Tell them they’re getting a new body before lunch.”
*
Kunikida had calmed down some, and over time it appeared to Atsushi that the blond’s bold footsteps had taken on fresh purpose. It wasn’t long before Atsushi found himself, once again, struggling to keep up with his senpai’s far-longer strides, trotting behind him without running outright.
Despite the fact that Dazai wasn’t in any immediate danger—well, danger, or lack thereof, was open to interpretation, given the damning twitch in Kunikida’s eyelid—Atsushi’s heart sank with fresh worry upon hearing the words “the two of them” and “every fucking month” escaping the blond’s lips in vicious repetition every few minutes. His jaw was set into an intimidating square, his focus laser sharp. It wouldn’t have surprised Atsushi in the slightest if the man had forgotten he was there entirely.
They were on their way to the dorms. Atsushi hoped with all of his tiger power that they were only visiting Dazai’s room. The last thing he wanted was the blond bursting into their dorm without warning, causing Kyouka further pain or stress.
Too soon they found themselves standing, side by side, in the empty doorway to Dazai’s room. His futon was neatly made, and not a scrap of furniture or decoration was to be seen; it was as if the whole thing had been hollowed out, stripped of its purpose as a place for living. It would have been alarming if Atsushi hadn’t been well versed in the peculiar nature of his mentor’s preferences.
The space, forever empty, felt far emptier today without its occupant — who had been dying in that very bed not ten minutes ago.
Kunikida sighed loudly. Frustrated, but not surprised.
Atsushi couldn’t blame him.
.
A few doors away, Atsushi felt his face flush with disbelief as the dormitory he shared with Kyouka was also inexplicably empty. The man beside him seemed to scan his expression carefully, checking for evidence of complicity, while all Atsushi could do was stare in genuine, open mouthed shock.
“Kunkida-san, I don’t understand—” he began, but Kunikida silenced him with a light hand on his shoulder.
“Neither do I,” was the short reply. Atsushi shuddered as the warmth slowly withdrew, the blond pushing his glasses further up his nose before slipping his pen and notepad from his breast pocket. “But we’re getting to the bottom of this… today.”
With that, he turned on his heel. He’d said it with such confidence that it had left Atsushi without any room for doubt, and the concern he still held—steadfast and close to his heart—seemed to weigh heavy, pressing into the rest of his abdomen as his legs remained rooted to the spot.
Despite his grip on the doorframe, a small part of him felt like he’d missed a step and was falling through obsoletion, without a familiar hand leaping out through the shadows to catch him as he fell. What quickly followed was a sharp pang in his chest, one that admonished him for not knowing, self-assurance stripped bare in light of the fact that he hadn’t noticed the pattern himself.
Hadn’t been told.
The weretiger frowned as he swept the room with his gaze one last time, not that he needed his enhanced sight to confirm what he already knew, before locking the door behind him and jogging towards the blond’s fast retreating back.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
The city sparkled today.
Kyouka felt the ends of her kimono kiss the tips of her toes as she fought to keep up with her tall companion, a light breeze rippling playfully through the spaces in her skirt and sleeves.
The heat, not too overwhelming despite the cloudless sky, cast a thin haze over the buildings and trees lining the parks. Like a film of shimmering dust, it brought everything it touched into soft focus; the world aglow, now, overflowing with an almost effortless radiance kept hidden before today.
The man ahead walked easily, each step unconcerned and free — silhouetted by light. She couldn’t help but notice that he was quietly chuckling.
“What’s funny?”
“Oh, nothing,” he hummed, though he’d been smirking all morning.
Although she didn’t probe further, she had a strong feeling that someone, somewhere — probably Kunikida — was likely suffering on the other end of that smirk.
“So what are we doing today, Kyouka-chan?” Whether he was changing the subject for her benefit, or to stem the fresh wave of chuckles she knew he was still holding back, she didn’t know. “Your turn to pick, remember?”
.
.
She’d given it a lot of consideration.
Last month he’d bought them both tickets to the Cup Noodle museum, which turned out to be a lot more fun than she’d imagined. Being honest, she’d initially shown some surprise at Dazai-san’s chosen activity, though watching her senpai excitedly select a quadruple portion of crab flavoured fish cakes (and nothing else) during the design-your-own cup room, had gone a small way to shed some light on the decision.
He’d walked the little bag home with a spring in his step that she’d never seen before, and she and Atsushi had shared her own creation later that night, without revealing where she’d sourced the strange new ramen flavour.
She smiled faintly at the memory.
After being refused entry into the noodle park, the brunet had momentarily vanished, returning with a grin and assurances that actually, “You aren’t too old to enter after all!”
Not only that, but the entire park had just happened to be empty that day; it had all been a simple misunderstanding.
It had been funny, pretending to be a noodle. Even funnier watching Dazai-san, with his long and thin limbs, do his best impression of one alongside her. The ‘oil angels’ they made in the virtual fryer were probably the oldest and tallest angels she was sure the place had ever seen.
Ever since that day, she’d turned it over in her mind, pondered and researched — attempting to come up with a plan for their next outing that would be just as good as that day had been.
Marine Park was out, they’d done that already. Dazai-san had even trusted her to drive while he’d dozed in the passenger seat. She’d learnt afterwards that that day had followed a particularly gruelling investigation, and even at the time she’d recalled not seeing Kunikida-san or Dazai-san in the several days leading up to it.
With that in mind, she’d half-expected their plans to be rescheduled for another day, and of course she would have understood, that’s just how things go. Yet, despite the odds she’d already pitted against them, she’d received a text the night before, instructing her to pack for the beach.
He’d met her at the car the following morning, with ice creams in his hands and purple bruises beneath his eyes, matching a worn and ragged smile.
Even so, he seemed to breathe easier by the sea.
It was for that same reason that Chinatown was out...
Sea Paradise was out…
Tokyo was out…
That really had only left one place that she’d always been keen to go again, but hadn’t had the chance to repeat the experience yet. And with today’s visibility, it seemed like the perfect time. Her only hope was that Dazai-san hadn’t ridden it so often that the whole thing would bore him senseless.
Luckily, her suggestion was met with enthusiasm. “A good book is always good, no matter how many times you read it,” he reminded her, and she supposed there really was some truth in that.
It may have been an obvious choice, she thought, a garish disc on the pointy edges of the city of Yokohama. The centrepiece of the skyline, or at least the part still bathed in light, and the thing most foreigners tended to think of whenever they pictured the city they both called home. But still, she hadn’t been back since her day out with Atsushi, an experience she’d wanted to replicate ever since, and Dazai-san seemed pleased with the plan.
*
It was crowded for a Wednesday. Was it Golden Week? Perhaps if she attended school, she’d know.
The information area was cool inside, with only a smattering of people here and there, the real difficulty came when heading back outside and into the belly of the park itself. The stalls and vending machines that flanked the streets of Cosmo World were packed with people making the most of the gentle weather. Because of the higher than usual foot traffic all working up an appetite, the place smelt like a hearty amalgamation of the various fried and sugary snacks on offer, and Kyouka’s stomach began to growl mournfully.
“Hungry?” Dazai grinned, placing a hand on her shoulder and steering her between other pairs of shoulders and prams. She clutched her stomach as it made another cat-like whine.
“I didn’t have breakfast, there wasn’t any time after Atsushi left,” she admitted, chancing a glance up at her colleague, who was busy stretching his neck to scan the various food stalls above people’s heads, calculating something behind dark eyes.
“Ah! Say no more,” he said eventually, turning to face her with another wide smile, “we’ll grab something after we ride the clock, hm? No point in eating now if there’s a chance it’ll come back up again,” he laughed, like the risk was low. Like he was being overly-cautious.
She didn’t disagree with his suggestion, but she did wonder whether Dazai-san had forgotten the details of her entrance exam. If crashing a drone into the Guild’s whaleship hadn’t upset her stomach, then surely a slow moving Ferris Wheel wouldn’t come close.
She didn’t feel like arguing, though.
The queue for the little cars died quickly and before long, they were both stepping into their own glass carriage and settling into their seats on either side, the compartment swinging a fraction as it acclimated to their weight. Although the entire ride was estimated to last only fifteen minutes, the ascent felt nice and slow, as it had last time — what she hadn’t wanted was the whole thing to be over as soon as it had started, not when this was something she’d looked forward to since her first tour of the city with Atsushi.
The seven and a half minutes it took to rise above the Yokohama skyline, like dawn reaching out over morning, gave ample amount of time to enjoy the moment for what it was. This time with Dazai-san.
She scanned the roofs of various buildings, connecting the dots of landmarks she knew and saying their names out loud like she couldn’t help but recite them, all while tracing the corners and paths back to the curved penthouse window and red-brick walls of the building they called home. Spotting it, she leaned right up to the window, her nose bumping against the cool, tempered glass and her fingers drumming close to her face.
“Dazai-san,” she pointed, and watched as her coworker slowly shifted closer to her side to follow the direction of her gaze. With the light as bright as it was, she couldn’t quite tell if he was squinting or frowning, as his eyes finally met the ground.
“Hey, would you look at that? Still intact! Kunikida-kun didn’t blow up after all.”
Kyouka giggled, eyes still fixed on the Armed Detective Agency headquarters. Truthfully, she already felt guilty for any trouble that may arise if the rest of the agency ever found out. They’d been so kind to her, extending a warm hand and an ocean of grace - even as she fumbled forward, with arms outstretched and toes still dipped in darkness.
And Atsushi…
It felt wrong to keep this from him.
Would he understand? That Dazai-san was the only one who could understand?
.
Speaking of.
Reaching the top of the ferris wheel, Kyouka noticed that Dazai’s complexion had drained such that what remained was now a beige-green blur. Even his features, usually larger than life, seemed to shrink away below the slightest of frowns. It reminded her of the way thin slices of onion looked when hidden beneath clouds of miso soup.
Right now, he seemed very interested in reading the safety card tacked to the inside of the car, lips pursed into a slight S-shape as his Adam's apple bobbed with the strain of holding his focus firmly away from the window. He hadn’t said much the entire ride, and the reason was suddenly staring her right in the face: pale green and sickly looking.
If she’d known, she wouldn’t have dared suggest it.
He caught her looking, having been much too slow to tear her eyes away. Of course he would have felt her gaze; she wasn’t exactly being subtle, and any self-respecting mafioso, or ex at that, would have recognised the feeling before the other had had a chance to witness anything at all.
“It’s different when it's a mission. There’s no time to comprehend these things,” was all he dared say, before snapping his lips tight shut again. A response to the question that must have been written all over her face, she assumed.
Yet still, he smiled. Clearly forced, she thought, but kind.
Always kind.
She smiled back, a little embarrassed, before allowing her attention to snap back to the world outside the window, the rhythm of her heart tripping over the sudden change in cadence. No words exchanged.
It was funny. Sometimes, when she spotted it in the right light, his smile would make her think of her mother’s, like something was gently pulling her in but, also, pushing her away—until she stood a clear arm’s length away, leaning in— a depth there that she couldn’t fathom and would never reach. It usually made her heart still at first, familiar arms squeezing her chest tight for just a moment, until the absurdity of it all eventually made her giggle into her knuckles.
He was very strange.
The light today, three hundred and sixty nine feet above ground, was particularly revealing, a photograph she was sure she’d treasure — no, protect, this time — for as long as she could.
She’d protected it, ten minutes later, when her senpai was throwing up into a bush on buckled knees, and she’d protected it again when she returned from the vending machine with the sugariest, most electrolyte filled beverage she could find.
He’d thanked her, smiling, and she’d wanted to protect it.
/)/)
( . .)
( づ♡
Their search hadn’t been too difficult, but it had taken them a reasonable way across the city, and Atsushi’s feet were starting to hurt. The murderous look in the older man’s eyes, however, had been enough to make any would-be complaints die in his throat. Not that he wouldn’t have had the sense to keep his mouth shut anyway. Atsushi knew better.
In theory, it wasn’t too hot of a day, and by all accounts it was actually very pleasant — but the relentless rushing around was making him sweaty and uncomfortable. Not to mention, the tension radiating from the man who’d dragged him fruitlessly from landmark to landmark —felt uncannily like the waves of heat you’d get from a faulty warehouse generator.
For Kyouka’s sake Atsushi hoped they’d never find them, in which case Kunikida couldn’t prove a thing either way. But three gruelling hours of this had been enough for his attitude to pivot, until all he truly yearned for was to find his two colleagues quickly, and with as little fanfare as possible.
The universe must have taken pity on him around the fifth hour, because not long after he’d begun toying with the idea of suggesting a gracious defeat, the blond had yanked his arm half out its socket to pull them both behind a tall tree. It only took Atsushi a couple of painful seconds, while his arm throbbed in protest, to understand why.
Although he was, in the end, genuinely dismayed to have finally caught up to the prey they’d hunted since morning — he was selfishly quite grateful to be given an opportunity to sit down in the shade and rub his aching feet.
Glancing up he noticed Kunikida, the tips of his shoe and right shoulder pressed into the tree trunk, barely peeking his head around its thick body. He wore an expression that looked like all of his Christmases had come at once, and his notepad and pen had reappeared from his breast pocket so fast that Atsushi wasn’t totally convinced they hadn’t been in his hands the entire time to begin with.
Atsushi chanced a glance, crawling a little through cool grass and dandelions to get a reasonable enough view.
And there they were. Dismay turned quickly to fondness as he stared at their backs, seemingly at ease and enjoying a rare moment of peace.
There was something incredibly… cathartic about seeing them there, simply existing in the same space, without the burdens of the agency’s four walls and closed doors. No blueprints or guesswork or plans. No lives to save, no sacrifices to make.
Just the sun, the sea, a park bench.
A man and a girl.
But there was something else too, and he didn’t want to acknowledge the small niggle of this ‘something’ that he couldn’t ignore, rotting guiltily in his own stomach. He had nothing to be guilty for, not outwardly anyway, but the thought echoed just as relentlessly as it had this morning.
He was clearly practised in the art of guilt, his body well versed in remorse. Often, it sensed the crack of a whip before an act of wrongdoing was even a thought. And this guilt was starting to give off a smell, the haunting scent of leather and broken, acrid skin. Even without his tiger senses, he would have felt it.
He sighed, retreating back to his hiding place, his head reaching back to softly bump the cold wood. He needed to air out whatever this feeling was before he brought the stench home with him. It wouldn’t be fair. Kyouka had certainly done nothing to warrant this feeling. A feeling that, despite having never felt before today — or not like this, anyway — he was finally raising his eyes to acknowledge.
Eyes, tinged green just slightly, stared right back.
Is this how he felt?
Funny that he’d recognise the emotion he disliked the most, from the person he struggled the most to see eye to eye with. Jealousy and loneliness came hand in hand, and this whole thing was making him feel just a little more alone.
That wasn't to say he didn’t immediately recognise it as just another one of his many, many weaknesses, festering dormant, but growing more repulsive all of the time — because he did. This was something he’d need to stamp out, fast. Knowing that didn’t make it any easier though.
He hugged his knees tight, while Kunikida's attention remained trained on the other two, completely oblivious to Atsushi’s turmoil.
They shouldn’t have come here, this was wrong.
And with that realisation, Atsushi was suddenly overcome with an overwhelming urge to march the man beside him back the way they came.
That was until, a small voice piped out over the wind, just audible enough for Atsushi to peel his forehead off his forearms to listen.
“Dazai-san… ”
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
Dazai hated throwing up, but some of the best things in life were worth the price you paid to have them.
His legs still felt like an ineffective heap of skin, bandages, and jelly as he took his first wobbly steps after the wheel, concentrating as much force behind his muscles as he could muster to steady himself in front of Kyouka’s furrowed brow. He just hoped he hadn’t tainted the moment with his dreadful bile.
He’d promised her food after their trek around the sky, and so that’s how they came to be by the edge of the sea and Minatomirai, sitting on a park bench with a pile of strawberry-filled crepes between them. The choice of food had been a guaranteed crowd-pleaser, given his companion. He’d offered her various other things, other cuisine options, even the choice of going further afield for a bite if that’s what she wanted — but it seemed to Dazai that his little colleague’s attitude to her favourite foods were firmly in the “if it ain’t broke” camp, and Dazai was more than happy to give her exactly what she wanted. It's not like he could judge either, in fact he could have bet his next paycheck that a certain redhead was restocking his cupboard with canned crab as they spoke.
They sat together on the warm metal — breeze still pleasant, sun still on the cooler side of comfortable — contemplating the border of the horizon and the sea. He was hungry enough to eat now, and Kyouka seemingly more so, her legs swinging in contentment as she broached the corners of strawberry and cream.
It hadn’t been long ago that Dazai remembered the small detective looking upon sweets and other desserts with fascination, as if all of her senses had been dulled by duty and the monotone voice at the end of the phone, like shadows, before her life had suddenly been thrown into technicolour. That saturation, the sweetness that filled her life now, had been as close to foreign concepts as was possible back then. Now, she consumed both with gusto and without hesitation. As skilled at enjoying herself as she was at holding her own in battle.
The agency really was just a rehabilitation home for stray dogs, which was ironic given the boss’ affinity with felines. Though, as difficult as it was to describe — their work far easier to show than simply tell — the daily activities that consumed their working days were anything but low-level dog work, and the variety that came with such a career was one nobody could sniff at.
Reports being the only exception. Nobody liked reports, except maybe…
“Has Kunikida eased up any?”
He’d teased it out of her, after a few of these monthly outings. It had been difficult for her to admit, Dazai knew, as someone who measured their own worth on their ability to follow orders. The Port Mafia, especially in the capacity with which Kyouka had found herself existing, had merely taught blind subordination to its younger members, their efforts focussed on moulding them into the perfect weapon with steel grey attitudes to match. Hollow and cold. Indifference had been a virtue and was to be encouraged at all costs.
These things were difficult to unlearn; it was true. Even Dazai, who had benefited from a four year head start on his own deprogramming, found it so. But really, it was the replacement that was the tricky part, not the removal. Building the skills necessary to be a good detective, for a good agency, and with good people, was an uphill battle for those who came from darkness.
When you’re used to being a mere puppet, those skills of accountability aren’t something you can learn by simply wanting. The rigid, mental governance demanded of Kyouka by a man who spent his whole life living by ideals and the documentation of such, and mostly for the sheer love of it, was a much harder transition than anything else. It made sense that she couldn’t share these specific struggles with Atsushi.
“Yes,” she answered after some consideration, lowering the crepe and lifting her eyes to the water, before thickly adding, “Thank you”.
She hadn’t had to say much that day, but it had been enough for Dazai to have a serious conversation with the blond. Their tempers had reached heights they hadn’t for a long time, and Dazai would be lying if he said he didn’t get a kick out of it. But the point he’d been making had been infinitely more important than manufacturing entertainment levels of friction with his partner. Kunikida had seemed to realise as much.
Dazai leaned back, slipping a hand into the pocket of his trench coat and waving the other breezily, gazing up into the sky.
“Don’t mention it,” he said, and he meant it, “you’ll be able to fight your own Kunikida battles some day, and sack off the reports like I do.”
He leaned forward again, grinning so she could see it.
“Besides, Kunikida-sensei just likes playing teacher to kids that aren’t going to argue back — he could do with a reality check from time to time, don’t you think?”
From the angle his head was at, he could just about see the sides of the girl’s mouth twist a little in wordless agreement, and Dazai let his head fall back again, fighting the urge to laugh.
She ate the rest of her crepe in silence, and Dazai nibbled at his own. He suspected the extra portion that Kyouka had ordered, and which currently lay wrapped up in a bag untouched, would be going straight into the stomach of a certain tiger once she returned home.
Eventually she finished, picking at the paper wrapping and looking a little more tense than she had a moment ago, like she was weighing up something unpleasant in her mind — cornered by a need to speak that was at odds with a stronger desire not to. Her legs had stopped swinging.
“Kyouka-chan?”
She jolted, oblivious to having momentarily zoned out, “huh?”
“Something on your mind?”
She bit her lip, all the while absentmindedly tearing at the piece of cardboard in her hands. A short sigh was the only thing to break the silence, her head dipping a little to look at the floor as she spoke, hesitation and regret palpable.
“Dazai-san… do you ever miss it?”
Oh.
It wasn’t an unexpected question, in fact it was a completely fair one. And who else could she ask? The two of them, alone in the world, were the only two to have ever wriggled free from the claws of sin and shadow and into the light beyond the Mafia. The only two to have ever done so and lived to see another day, jaws and pulses intact, anyway. As such, there was a severe lack of research on the topic, nothing to refer back to and nothing to help them navigate their way through unknown waters. Dazai had a significant lead, but such small numbers meant totally distinct experiences. Checking in was essential.
“Miss what?” he teased.
She grimaced, nervous, and although Dazai didn’t want to leave her hanging, he also made no effort to rush his response.
Truthfully, his answer was no, and in some ways it really was as simple as that. But he also knew that in other ways, the answer wasn’t quite as clear cut as a simple binary response. He could hazard a pretty good guess as to where her mind was taking her.
He sunk further into the seat, one leg over the other and arms outstretched on either side of him. Somewhere behind them he heard the swoop of a pair of birds landing in the branches, chatting away. Two— no, three, different pitches of chirping lending a unique melody to the droning, orchestral backdrop of the wind and sea.
“I miss people,” he eventually said.
The white noise seemed to swell, holding its breath, before abruptly cutting to a thick silence. Just enough time passed, the words hanging suspended in the air between them, for Dazai to note the flicker of understanding that dawned on the girl’s face.
“Oh… I miss him too.”
Dazai blinked, his turn to understand.
And— oh, he could forgive her for assuming. They weren’t exactly subtle about their fascination with each other. That relationship had transcended the Mafia and all of the pain that had come with it. But, unusually, he hadn’t been thinking of the redhead. It was true, he’d missed Chuuya, but that was past tense, if anything he saw him as often as he liked now, and by choice. Dazai’s, not Chuuya’s.
No. “Miss” was present tense. She couldn’t have known.
“That'll make his day,” Dazai smirked, leaning into his knees and watching his small companion blush magnificently behind her bangs, “but be prepared for him to chew your arm off to arrange a catch up, the doggie exec doesn’t let things go that easily, I’m afraid.”
The way she immediately stopped picking at the remains of her crepe wrapper, said she was happy to hear it.
“But, enough about me,” he continued. “What about you? I’m assuming you didn’t ask just to hear my take?”
Her fingers, twisting and yanking at the soon to be confetti on her knees, went right back to work. Her eyes darkened. She looked worried, petrified even, to open her mouth and say truthfully what was currently haunting her. He took a tiny hand in his own, and noticed the way it trembled.
“Kyouka-chan? There's no wrong answer, you know that right?” He said softly, clocking the brief flash of terror that flitted across her expression before she successfully managed to hide it, “Choices are important, more so than our desires and preferences, if you ask me.”
Swapping a life of certainty — and yes, of violence too, but Kyouka had been strong enough to hold her own — for the nobler, yet far more uncertain, pursuit of its end. That had been a choice, and a brave one at that.
And threats still surrounded her anyway, still loomed over her shoulder, or else engaged directly by grabbing at the ends of her hair and kimono. They just took a different shape now. Who else was more acquainted with violence than the child beside him? The cell phone she’d absentmindedly thumb — or still grasp, with fingers bone white, when the wind changed too quickly — was evidence enough.
“To miss a part of your life, even a part that causes you deep regret — which I know it does,” because I carry it too, “doesn’t make you a bad person. Wiser, if anything.”
But he knew her answer even before she timidly shook her head; it was as clear as the swirl of the ocean was, reflected in sparkling eyes as she gazed out over the water. Eyes without shine less than a year ago; eyes that had been raised from the dirt, a phoenix from ashes grown in darkness rather than flame. Much like a weed.
Dazai always preferred wildflowers anyway; weeds were often beautiful too, in the right environment. Those that loitered near his favourite tree, stoic and sharp, stretching in well-worn grief to the sky above, brought him great comfort. They lay on the outskirts of everything, yet always, they kept him company in a way that Dazai couldn’t. The light suiting them as much as the shadow ever did, if not more.
He and Kyouka were probably more similar than he’d first thought. The idea made him even more determined to help.
“It’s not just the hatrack though, is it? When was the last time you spoke to her?”
Even as he said it, and without naming her specifically, her tall image glided into view. Sipping tea, and fixing the chopsticks in her hair, a disapproving look in her eyes that methodically roved the face of the fifteen year old before her.
“I don’t want to bother her.”
Dazai snorted without meaning to.
“Impossible”, he said, because it was true. Truthfully, he didn’t know why Kouyou hadn’t reached out to her treasured protege in recent weeks, but he suspected they were both thinking along similar lines. Darkness shrinks before light, and all the light wants to do is share its warmth.
Her office must have been quiet that first year, after he defected; she was probably glad to reach the end of an entire week with all of her delicate teacups still intact. He felt a little bad about it now, given the fate that had been in store for her. Another soul lost to a world she could never reach.
Kyouka had never smashed her teacups though. She didn’t even come close to fitting the definition of “bother”, not like Dazai had.
The girl's hands twisted on her knees again, her lip being chewed within an inch of its life. “I’m happy now,” she admitted. “Happier than I’ve ever been…”
She turned away suddenly. As a result, the rest of the words were pulled away in the opposite direction by the breeze, but Dazai caught the gist, “... I'm selfish.”
Huh.
Now that, Dazai was not expecting. He let his eyes widen, indulging in the genuine reaction the girl beside him had managed to elicit. With the surprise, his voice faltered, and before he knew it he was kneeling before her, one hand clasped between both of his cold ones. That way she had to look, had to acknowledge the words for what they were.
“And?” He asked simply, “Isn’t everyone?”
Dazai smiled, keeping pity firmly to the side, as that wasn’t what this was. This was the work of the good, the very thing the girl refused to recognise living inside of her — as naturally as it did within the friend she felt least worthy of knowing. His smile was an acknowledgment of the irony.
“Do you think Atsushi-kun doesn’t have hopes and dreams? Is he selfish for choosing to fight for them, rather than give Akutagawa-kun his, hm? His own head on a platter?” He stood up, maintaining his grasp with her hand in his, and pulled her up from the park bench. She hopped a step towards him for balance. “Life is give and take. You give a lot, Kyouka-chan; missing your friends doesn’t mean you’re selfish, or unhappy at the agency. It certainly doesn’t mean you don’t belong with us, either.”
Dazai picked up the bag, containing the safely wrapped up crepe, and handed it to the girl now following his every move, eyes rounded and glassy. “It’s okay to take a little.”
He watched her arm fall, knuckles white around the handle of the carrier bag, before patting her on the shoulder and turning away to look back at the sea, leaving her to ponder his words.
/)/)
( . .)
( づ♡
Atsushi sat back again, feeling sick and ashamed.
How could he have gotten it so wrong? He wasn’t lonely, not by a long stretch; he had a family now – a whole agency full of people, who looked out for him and yes, gave him the time of day he never knew he needed and never fully felt like he deserved. That kind of gift was a priceless thing, and though he never had a penny to his name in the orphanage, if he’d have known what fate had in store for him, he would have counted himself the wealthiest kid there.
But Kyouka-chan? She'd left behind a life of darkness and servitude. There was no doubt in Atsushi’s mind that she was in the place she was always meant to be, now, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t also given things up to be here. Precious things. Relationships, people you can count on and who provide warmth in the dark and the bleak, despite the dark and the bleak, are to be treasured even more because of it.
Atsushi didn’t have friends at the orphanage, or anyone even close to that, but hadn’t he still mourned his old Headmaster’s death? Shouldn’t he have understood? Or recognised her silent pain, without having to overhear the words directly?
She wasn’t the selfish one here.
To think he’d been envious...
And yet, there was a dark stream of irony buried beneath that initial flood of jealousy. Perhaps they truly were siblings after all, vying for the attention of the people they each respected and looked up to most. And as true as it was that he’d never felt envy before today, he’d also never come close to feeling a sibling bond before, not with this much clarity.
The thought rolled giddily from his mind to his chest, lifting his heart and eventually giving way to silent fits of laughter. Each laugh he managed to swallow behind closed lips fed him like a heady painkiller — fuelling even more quiet giggles — so that eventually Kunikida turned to face him in alarm, eyebrows raised, whilst Atsushi's shoulders rubbed painfully against the cracking mosaic of trunk and sap.
That revelation, as slow as it had been to reach, seemed to wash away that ugly feeling immediately, replacing it instead with a warmth and fondness far stronger than he’d had before this morning.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
Today just got better and better.
A part of him had guessed this would happen, at some point or another, but it was still a pleasant surprise to find that today was the day it did.
The walk back along the water’s edge was done largely in comfortable silence. The small detective, trotting to keep up on his right side, walked with such a light gait that he’d have struggled even sensing her there if she hadn’t been throwing small glances his way every few minutes.
It was a good thing too, especially today. The girl was an expert in infiltration for a reason, and her virtually non-existent presence meant Dazai could sharpen his ears to focus on the two additional pairs of footsteps, following somewhere behind them on their left. From the way Kyouka suddenly tugged on his belt loop, she’d heard it too.
“Oh, that’s nothing for you to worry about, Kyouka-chan — if they’re after anyone, it'll be me not you.”
Naturally, her expression turned grave, pupils blown wide in alarm. It must have taken her a lot of self-control not to immediately turn around and send Demon Snow after their mystery stalkers, but after a few minutes of Dazai humming to fill the silence, she seemed to begrudgingly take his word for it.
They spent the remainder of the walk home discussing whatever arrangements were necessary for her to take another day off in order to visit Kouyou and the slug, so that by the end, the girl was practically skipping, plastic bag swinging from her wrist.
When all had been agreed, Dazai made sure to confirm — a lot louder than he needed to — that she wasn’t to worry, because “Of course, Kunikida-kun wouldn’t mind”.
“Why are you shouting, Dazai-san?”
It had been worth raising his voice past natural levels just to hear the faint sound of a pen snapping in the distance, followed closely by the spray of bloody ink, his lips stretching in victory. He refrained from looking directly behind them to stare the blond down, instead he put his hands behind his head, tilting his chin to the sky to fully appreciate the breeze as it slipped across his cheeks, lifting his bangs off his face as they walked.
“I was shouting? Huh…” Dazai shrugged, “It’s probably just the wind making everything seem louder than it actually is; I'm sure Ranpo-san can explain better than I can.”
She gave him a glare that said, very clearly, that she didn’t believe a word.
“But listen,” he continued, lowering his volume to within their small walking radius, “if anyone does kick up a stink about it, will you do me a favour and let me handle them? I can be pretty persuasive.”
She giggled like she knew, like she’d heard for herself just how persuasive the famed black wraith of the Port Mafia could be. Though he suspected that any rumours he’d left behind had rippled more like whispers behind closed curtains, than celebrated like folktales. Fear was a powerful thing.
Which was funny, considering his new partner had never once shown fear towards him.
.
They took the slow way home, not being in any particular rush, and besides, Dazai wanted to give Atsushi a chance to get there first. With any luck they would manage to return before Kunikida had finished washing the ink off his tie and decided to ambush them outside the dormitories.
He’d handle whatever fun came from his partner’s wrath tomorrow.
In the meantime, Kyouka seemed content at least, and Dazai was glad. He patted himself on the back for having come up with the idea of these little outings in the first place. Kouyou and the chibi wouldn’t need any convincing with regards to a reunion, that much he knew, but for now…
Atsushi could take it from here.