Work Text:
"You're fired."
These words, spoken out of Kunikida's mouth, left him dizzy, staring at the agency's floor tiles, not able to meet anyone in the eye. They echoed, and echoed in his mind, until they were all he could hear.
"We can't keep ignoring your tardiness. We can't keep ignoring your alcoholism. We cant keep ignoring your suicidal remarks. We can't keep ignoring that you throw yourself into the river every chance you get. We cannot keep ignoring you stepping in the office hours late, intoxicated." A pause. "And most of all. We cannot have someone who would put another's life in danger. We are the Armed Detective Agency. We protect people."
He tried to lift his eyes and meet anyone, anyone and read in their eyes that this is a joke because this has to be a joke. This has to be a joke.
This has to be a joke.
To be a joke.
A joke.
Joke.
Stupid, silly, joke.
Right?
"From this point forward, you are not considered a member of the Agency. You have one day to evict the dormitory. Get out."
Get out.
Get out.
Disgrace. Abomination. Mistake. Brat. Maniac. Idiot. Lunatic. Disqualification of a human being. Demon.
He bit his tongue, and fought back the river, the seas of tears ready to spill from his eyes. He felt powerless again. He kept his head down, so no one would see his eyes, ready to cry. Atsushi, Kyoka, Kenji, Junichiro didn't deserve to see that. No one did.
"I-"
He didn't finish the sentence. He couldn't. He shouldn't. He fleed the office, hands shaking in his pockets as he quickly made his way towards the entrance. He heard someone mumbling 'He was in the Port Mafia after all' as he opened the wooden door. The door he'd be happy to meet every morning and sad to close behind him every time, because it gave him at least a little bit of a purpose. He closed it behind him.
For the last time.
He stumbled onto his two feet as he hurried down the stairs, into the cafe. The familiarity of this place hit him, and he froze on his tracks. That small, unbalanced table was where he Kunikida used to buy him coffee. The small, and to others insignificant, shop, smelled like home.
He pushed himself out, on the street. He heard the door close.
He was out.
People kept passing at the edges of his vision, that started to fill with black spots. He could taste the blood, the metallic taste signifying that his tongue was bleeding. He walked faster and faster, almost running towards the dormitory. His thoughts were incomprehensible.
Upon reaching it, he fidgeted with the key trying to open the old, rusty door, and entered the room he called his. Which had barely any proof that anything, much less a person, was living there. Because no one was living there. No person was living there.
He grabbed a bag and threw inside the few things he owed, in a rush the cause of he didn't know. Some rolls of bandages, one or two pieces of clothing, his gun and a pillow all laying around, victims of his laziness and dissoragazation, and zipped the bag closed with a little more force than nessesary. His hands were trembling, and his stomach was minutes before emptying everything on the floor. He chugged down one or two bottles of sake that were still untouched and his vision started to tilt a little to the side. Perfect. He locked, but left the key under the doormat. Kunikida would definitely find it. Not him. The key.
No one from the agency would find him.
And so it is that two hours later he found himself in a corner of a shady bar, with multiple glasses of strong whiskey empty before him. Loud music was playing, shaking the dusty table, and people were moving smoothly to the rhythm. He doubted his ability to think clearly or stand though so he remained seated, asking for more and more rounds until all of his sorrows were drowned in whiskey and forgotten forever. Also, preferably until his liver decided that enough was enough and failed, earning him a nice death he desperately wanted right now. Because, what was really there to live for? If he couldn't save others, how could he bear living in the world Odasaku left behind?
How could he find something to live for?
His vision swam and his legs were shaking, but the bartender was staring at him while whiping glasses, clearly annoyed by him staying there so late while the rest of the people there were starting to leave. So, intimidated as he was, he decided to play his final card.
His vision was blurry as he tapped his screen, not calling a random client by millimeters.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Dazai it's four in the morning if it is something stupid I swear–”
"Chibi...n bar... Can you.. M'pick up?"
“... Where are you?”
"Dunno..."
“Okay, okay. Y'know what. Stay put. I'm coming to kick your ass for waking me up at four am.”
"Nice... Chibi's really, re'ay stong..."
Beep.
He actually managed to stay put and wait for Chuuya, who appeared within twenty minutes in his car. He pulled up and got out, wordlessly dragging Dazai in said car. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes shot draggers at every moving thing. He put him on the passenger seat, and drove off.
Not a single word was spoken during the ride. Chuuya kept staring straight ahead on the road, barely acknowledging Dazai, who was getting more and more ready to throw up by the passing lights. They ended up on Chuuya's front door and Dazai, who had gained a little bit of his ability to move and wasn't completely intoxicated, leaned against the doorframe as Chuuya rushed them both in. The house was exactly the same as always. He took a few wobbly steps and crashed on Chuuya's couch, immediately sinking in because it was so soft. Classical Chibi luxury. Chuuya dissapeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water, which he handed him. Dazai drank it out at once, the cold water soothing his throat, and Chuuya took a seat beside him, but left just enough space between them.
"What happened?"
"Nothing!" He replied out of instinct. Cheerfully. But, for once, his face couldn't keep up with his clowning. It remained stoic. He had failed as a performer. It is true then... An actor did dread most the audience in his hometown. Or, in this occasion, the people who knew him best.
"What. Happened?" Chuuya repeated, more persistent, staring at him.
Pause.
"I- I got fired. From the Armed Detective Agency. Today, or perhaps yesterday.... What time is it?"
"Still four, dumbass. And why did you get fired?" He groaned and cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing like gunfire in the otherwise silent house. Dazai laughed, his mind was always more at ease when he was drunk.
"Yeah, don't kill them. I made a mistake. I- Atsushi walked in on a torturing session... I was trying to extract information, it was crucial, and- I had locked the door, of course, but Atsushi used too much force... Broke the door down... I think I traumatized him more..." He laughed bitterly. Chuuya remained silent by his side, nodding a little.
"But hey!" Dazai exclaimed loudly. "Don't you hate me too? Why do you listen to me? Let's just drink! You have whiskey?"
"What I feel for you can't be limited to the word hate, stupid mackerel. You're my partner. Insufferable, sure, but you're my partner." Chuuya explained as Dazai got up to find the whiskey, and fell on the floor instantly. He pulled him back on the couch. "And no more alcohol for you."
"Oh, come on! If you give me just a shot, I'll give you a kiss, how does that sound?"
"No. You're going to sleep, idiot. Now."
He shot up, but his vision suddenly rotated 180°. He stumbled forwards to regain his balance, while Chuuya followed him. He fell on the second couch and laid on his stomach. He couldn't figure out why Chuuya had two couches, given that he's so tiny. What does he even need them for?
"What do you think you're doing?"
"This couch is more comfortable." He turned his head around. "Night."
"Yeah, no."
What? "Why not? Won't my doggie let me sleep in peace? Bad doggie."
"Shut up and follow me. Ain't no way I'm having you wander at night to raid my house off everything that contains liquor in some form, just because you 'woke up' at four am you weird motherfucker. You're coming with me. My bed."
He obligedand and followed Chuuya, dragging his little bag with him, to the latter's king sized bed. Sleeping on it was definitely better than sleeping on the couch... And it's not like they hadn't shared a bed before... Why was his face suddenly burning up a little?
He pulled himself together exactly the same moment as Chuuya opened the lights, by forcing his heart to stop pumping so fast. Chuuya had, in the meantime, opened his closet (which was almost the size of his hou- former house) and tossed him some clothes, suspiciously his size. "Since you'll be staying."
"Excuse me?"
"You don't have a house, no?" Chuuya turned and looked at him.
"... No."
"Then you'll be staying. I'm going to change. In the bathroom." He said, leaving. "Tsk. Don't get ideas, pervert."
"Thanks." He murmured, as Chuuya closed the door, and changed quickly. He also changed most of his bandages. Most of his previous dizziness had gone away by now, and memories started reappearing. How someone called him a 'worthless bitch'. Didn't know why he remembered that. How his phone lit up much. How many drinks he had, but that's a number too large to repeat out loud. How some women tried to flirt with him, before realizing he was completely wasted and not worthy of their time.
His phone lit up much.
He rushed to check it, not sure what exactly he was expecting. Perhaps that it was all a dream?
Certainly not that.
The user 'Fukuzawa' has blocked you. You won't receive any calls or texted messages from this number.
The user 'Kunikida' has blocked you. You won't receive any calls or texted messages from this number.
The user 'Kyōka' has blocked you. You won't receive any calls or text messages from this number.
The user 'Ranpo' has blocked you. You won't receive any calls or text messages from this number.
The user 'Atsushi 🐈' has blocked you. You won't receive any calls or text messages from this number.
You won't receive any calls or text messages from this number.
Never. Ever again.
He stared. Blinked. Rubbed his eyes even, but to no avail. The bright letters remained unchanged. They had all blocked him. He rubbed his eyes again, perhaps it was the exhaustion playing tricks on him? No. They had all blocked him. Chuuya found him in the same position, sat on the floor, when he returned minutes later. "What happened?"
"Nothing!" Chuuya didn't reply to this obviously fake remark. Because he didn't care. Of course he didn't. He was perhaps even working with Mori to ensure that he returns to the Mafia. Or he was just fed up. "What do you think, Chibikko? Should I die on this very night, or have a cup of coffee tomorrow morning?"
Chuuya sighed, as he laid under the bed covers, facing Dazai. "I can't choose for you, idiot. You're a grown ass man." He added. "I can't put you off killing yourself. You think there's nothing to live for." Said he, as resentment made its way on his delicate features.
He was angry and coming to terms with it, accepting his misfortune. Dazai had seen that look more times than he'd liked. And what kind of partner would he be if he couldn't read Chuuya in a moment? A very shitty one, which he already is so there isn't much to add. "You're... Mad?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps I am." He scoffed. "So what? It's not like you care about other people, you selfish, stupid prick." He concluded, turning around to not face Dazai, who laid on the other side. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight." He said back, his eyelids closing, heavy from exhaustion.
He woke up on the same spot, except that now sunshine was pouring through the opened blinds, bathing every corner of the room in sunlight, and birds were chirping outside. Chuuya must have gone to work because the shorter one wasn't next to him and he couldn't hear him at all. A cup of (surprisingly still) hot coffee with extra extra sugar, just how he liked it, was on the nightstand next to his bed, no doubt being placed there by Chuuya himself in the morning. He drank it silently, staring somewhere. Next to it was a note, with Chuuya's handwriting (the messy but readable one). He placed the now empty cup on the nightstand, and picked up the note. It read as following:
“Mackerel, I've gone to work. You can stay here for a while until you made ends meet. I repeat: you can. It is up to you, but I permit you. That's all. (If you're questioning, which of course you are, just stay until you find a job and an apartment. I don't mind.)
I hope the coffee killed you though.
-Chuuya”
So, he was staying. Because Chuuya offered, and he couldn't exactly refuse. And because he didn't want to touch the money he had earned by working for the Port Mafia. And because he didn't want to sleep in a bar or something again.
He rolled out of bed, groaning, and went to the kitchen. He wasn't hungry, so he skipped the breakfast and started doing random chores around the house. He washed the dishes, did the laundry and made the bed, like the proper housewife he would be until he found a job (except that he wasn't married to Chibi or something. That's just plainly disgusting.). Two hours later the house was spotless, and there was nothing left to do. A deep anxiety stirred within him, fearing having nothing to do and sit down. It was eleven o'clock, and Chuuya would not be back from the Port Mafia until six in the afternoon. Meaning that he had seven hours to make dinner (proper housewife) and find a job so he could actually leave Chuuya's house. Being there made him walk on eggshells. He could tease and know Chuuya all he wanted, but he was afraid to mess anything, even the smallest things, up. He left to grab his phone, and after searching it for three good minutes (living in a literal big closet for the past two years made him not used to living in anything that had more than two rooms) he found it.
He immediately started searching for occupations that wouldn't really look into his past. Being basically erased from history for four years, someone checking would he quite an issue. He frantically applied for almost anything that wouldn't really check his CV.
By the end of his search, he had two job offers. An assistant florist in a shop twenty minutes on foot away, or a cashier in a supermarket nearby. He applied for both, thankfully he could manage them both since they were both part time and he desperately needed the freaking money. He would be a florist from eight to two, and a cashier from four to ten. The combined payment was enough, hopefully he would be able to rent a small apartment soon.
And he was. After many interviews, paychecks, breakdowns on Chuuya's couch, days where it was painfully obvious that he couldn't live on his own, he was able to rent a small apartment on the other side of town. Through everything, Chuuya had helped him, supported him without the Mafia suspecting a thing. He held him through panic attacks, depression episodes, his first paycheck, everything without wanting something in return. To Dazai, that was new. Why would someone do such a thing without a motive? Why would Chuuya care for him that much? What did he want in return? So, he outright asked him the night before leaving the house for good.
"Why did you want to help me recover? What do I own?"
"Nothing." Chuuya replied without a hint of lying on his beautiful face. "I should be the one thanking you. The house is no longer quiet."
Quiet. Loneliness. Chuuya was... Lonely.
Of course.
Because who ever took care of Chuuya? No one, he was always the one to look after himself and others. The coffee Dazai prepared him evey morning was a common and reasonable act for him, but for Chuuya it was hope. Hope that someone cared as well.
How could he leave now?
"I... I don't wanna go. I'll miss you doggie."
For once, Chuuya didn't roll his eyes 'till he saw god at the nickname. He just looked at him. "Then don't go. Stay. You're welcome to do so."
"I am? Despite everything?"
"Yes. You're a very lovable piece of shit."
"Thanks." He laughed. They both did.
"I think I'll stay a little more this time."