Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kunikida Doppo clenched his teeth as he glanced at his watch. 18:24.
He had a really busy day at work today, with a few client meetings, a few new papers, and it was already late. He had also seen Ranpo quieter than usual today, occasionally glancing at Dazai’s empty desk while continuing to eat his snacks. Dazai wasn’t at his desk today, yes, he had left at a random time in the afternoon (It was actually exactly 5 hours ago) saying he had work to do and hadn’t come back.

So it was easy to say that today’s work had stretched far beyond the expected hours, and he’d reluctantly taken on some of Dazai’s paperwork as well. But the strangest part was that Dazai still hadn’t returned, and didn’t even showed his face, which he usually does. Kunikida continued to think, rhythmically tapping the ground with one foot.

He was the last one left in the office, and even his shadow—cast from the dim lamplight across his desk—seemed to grow restless. Kunikida thought to himself.

“Of course… Probably crawling somewhere. A bar, or—”

The sentence died in his throat, cut short by instinct. Like a thorn piercing his chest, the thought arose uninvited: What if Dazai didn’t come back this time?

Without hesitation, Kunikida shoved his notebook into his coat pocket and rushed out.
He knew that, every second with Dazai was like a silent negotiation beneath a well-worn mask. The mask...

He always wore a mask that includes a glance which whispers “I live today, but tomorrow—who knows?”
A smile laced with mockery, concealing the aching desire to vanish from this earth. So that he can keep up with others...

As he walked through the streets of Yokohama, Kunikida let his mind narrow to one likely place—that stream.
But no, Dazai wasn’t there. Not this time.

A flicker of panic licked at his chest. According to his schedule, he should’ve already found him within the next five minutes, and if he...

He clung to the hope that it wasn’t too late… He had to believe it wasn’t too late.
He broke into a light run, scanning his surroundings, heading toward a bridge where trains passed less frequently.
That bridge overlooked the river Dazai always wandered near, loitered by, lingered around—and most likely, considered jumping from.
He had to be there. If he wasn’t…

He was there, indeed.
But he wasn’t wearing that usual mischievous grin.
Either Kunikida had arrived too late—or something had truly shaken him. There was a chilling stillness between them, like silence hanging beneath rust-stained steel.

Dazai sat on the stones near the tracks, under the bridge, head bowed.
Kunikida, breathless from running, paused before speaking—his anger still coiled, yet unsure whether to pounce or retreat.

On Dazai’s knees rested a single sheet—not a notebook, not a file, but paper. A letter, perhaps. A farewell. Kunikida couldn't help but think negatively at this point. He shaked his head as he didn't want to think about any of this at all...

Dazai slowly lifted his head.
Kunikida could see his eyes shine golden brown, though the man’s gaze was still fixed on the water. He had barely moved—just enough to seem present. His eyes reflected the stream’s glint like a shattered mirror, fragmented but yet still endlessly hollow.

“Kunikida… What a coincidence,” he sighed.

But it was not the sigh of annoyance nor exhaustion.
It was the breath that escapes when one almost smiles, but forgets how.
A sound that crumbles under the weight of weariness.

“Shut up,” Kunikida snapped, though his voice wavered.
He meant to scold him—stern, concerned—but the fury faded before it found its footing.

Dazai murmured the kind of phrase he would normally say with a grin,
"Isn’t today a beautiful day? No clouds, clear skies. The water’s lovely—perfect, even… for someone looking to die."

“Enough!”
Dazai flinched slightly and tucked his head between his knees again, looking utterly drained.

Kunikida crouched beside him.
The scene was so far from ordinary, he struggled to find the words.
He glanced at the letter clutched in Dazai’s lap. He recognized the handwriting—it was Dazai’s.
The language seemed to resemble a diary. He subtly tried to read the visible lines on the torn sides of it:

"This world has no need of me. I only..."
The rest was smudged, pressed tight beneath Dazai’s hand.
Was that tearstains? Or blood?
In the dim bridge-light, with rippling reflections, he could not tell.

“What… did you do?” Kunikida asked—not with accusation, but necessity.
If he could understand, maybe he could choose the right words as the next step.

Dazai said nothing. He simply raised his head again to gaze back at the stream.
The bandages under his shirt were visible, wrapped in haste. They actually seemed to be damaged,
and Kunikida knew Dazai rarely exposed his arms or glanced at them.

His sleeves were also damp too. As though he hadn’t stepped into water—but fallen, and hurried back out, soaked and shivering.
There was a concerning trace of red on his wrist—just an old wound, Kunikida insisted to himself.

“Ah. You noticed,” Dazai said softly. “Didn’t expect that kind of reaction.”

“You—idiot! Why would you…”
Kunikida’s voice trailed off.
He wanted to yell, but… Dazai was smiling.
Not out of amusement. Not to deflect.
This smile was pure pain, quietly worn like a scar.
Kunikida couldn’t bring himself to add this weight to his own shoulders.

“I’ve always been like this, Kunikida. You’re only just now opening your eyes.”

“I was worried about you,” Kunikida said at last, his throat tightening.

Dazai tilted his head, regaining a shade of his usual irony.
“I’m just a line in your notebook, and judging by the sky, your scheduled concern for me expires in… what? A few more minutes?”

“Maybe…” Kunikida muttered, lowering his gaze. He felt guilt, but remembered himself that this was not what he intended just a timeline thing, but no.
Behind his glasses, the familiar storm of anger dissolved into something else—something he couldn’t name. There was a little bit of guilt too but, that was not it, it was a broken warmness that he kept hidden.

“Maybe I care more when you’re not in the notebook.”

Silence fell again.
The chill of the stones, the stillness of the concrete—it all wrapped around them like winter. About 10 more minutes passed, normally Kunikida would drag Dazai somewhere and return to the program once he was sure he was okay, but they both knew he shouldn't think about that today... They didn't do anything or talk for a while, but just sit aimlessly...
Then, quietly, Dazai rose.

“And yet here you are. You’ll probably drag me somewhere soon.”
He knew that he isn't going to do this today, but couldn't help to say it. The depression in him was no longer hidden—it spilled freely from his voice.

“I came here to tell you you can’t die here..."
"What a cliché" Dazai spoke as he were whispering somethinf to himself, not out of a sickening feel, but just out of habit let's say. But suddenly something he didn't certainly expected happen.
"Come on. I have a surprise for you.” Kunikida said.

Dazai blinked in mild surprise.
Actually if this was a trick, it was pretty effective to Dazai,
since life might not be worth living…
But Kunikida hated surprises and straying from plans.
Which meant—this had to be planned, or a special event...
Or it was something even rarer: a genuine exception.

Either way… Dazai’s curiosity stirred, for now. And this was more than enough for living today.

Dazai seemed taken aback for a moment.
He gathered himself with idle grace — haphazardly shoving his loosened bandages into the fold of his shirt, straightening his trench coat with a careless tug — and rose to his feet, once again, a little bit more proper this time. Life, he often reasoned and talked about with no meaning included, was hardly worth living, yes; yet Kunikida detested all surprises and deviations from plan with a rigidity that bordered on. Thus, either this had been preordained in some silent ledger of his, or he was—rarely—allowing an exception as he thought just now. In either case, Dazai’s curiosity, dormant and dusted with apathy, stirred just enough to spark and rose. That ember, flickering, was sufficient reason to drift along for a little while longer—long enough to find himself walking once again beside Kunikida, through streets that cools in the dusk after the dawn.

Time to time adventure to adventure...
but for now, it was Dazai to Kunikida, or the other way around...

Wandering, experiencing once again, the walks that they are silent yet thought of each other in a telepathetic way maybe— was worth the time...

They walked for aproximately 17 minutes— as Kunikida counted. And by the time Kunikida brought him home, sunset had long bled out across the city—a time of day when Dazai was usually already being rescued. He was unusually silent. No relentless chatter, no petty provocations, or even no unbearable nudges. And in that quiescent air, Kunikida came to an odd realization: he preferred it when Dazai was being infuriating him.

Once inside, Kunikida promptly washed his hands and disappeared into the kitchen. Before long, he returned with quite efficiency, indicating him to take a seat and producing the first aid kit—one he always kept attentively stocked with extra bandages specially for him. Opening the familiar box with the dull reverence of habit, he asked Dazai to remove his shirt. The wrappings were in disrepair; the bandages on his arm would need to be completely redone.

Dazai complied without comment, his movements oddly serene. Kunikida, thinking Dazai might anticipate discomfort if he looks right at the sight of his scars, averted his gaze. The wrappings on Dazai’s wrists seemed to be recent, but frayed; beneath them lay a patchwork of wounds. Most bore the faded signature of time—relics from his mafia days, no doubt. Some had scarred over entirely, some still whispered of pain. A few... had only just begun to bleed.

“How many times have you done this?” The words slipped from Kunikida’s lips unbidden—he had meant only to think them, meant only to mourn in silence for the man before him.

Dazai turned his gaze away, offering the barest shrug. “I’ve no reason to keep count.”

Anger bloomed, quiet and controlled, behind Kunikida’s ribs. He hated to see people like this, especially his partner Dazai, yet he felt like he couldn't do anything about it. Instead, he busied himself—unsteady hands working to wrap fresh bandages without letting his eyes linger for more.
Dazai leaned back against the wooden edge of some classic furniture, eyelids fluttering shut, he murmured, “please be gentle.”
His voice was a breath, not a sound.

Kunikida looked at him again, to his admirable face- that now is quite tired, properly this time. He hadn’t been sleeping good for a long time—that much was clear. No matter how diligently Kunikida checked on him, he could not monitor every hour of rest, every meal. And as the thoughts that this thinking opened that follow each other like a chain, for a fleeting moment, made him felt responsible for the entirety of Dazai’s life. The thought of this, intrusive and dangerous, was swiftly extinguished. These ideals... they were meant to shape his own life and save others, but not claim another’s, this was true. Dazai was a part of them, a part of his life, yes—but only a part, not a whole right?

Yet behind Dazai’s offhanded words, Kunikida heard the echo of exhaustion carried for years. He wrapped the bandage slower than he’d meant to. His fingers trembled with a fear of not being able to control whats beyond his reach. Dazai was shaking a little bit too...

This man... his partner, his torment...
His breaking point.
He felt compelled to pierce the oppressive silence with words, perhaps in the hope that through dialogue, he might better grasp the fluctuating feelings of his partner.

“Dazai,” he murmured after a pause, his voice subdued.

“If life holds no meaning for you... why do you choose to remain with us?”

Dazai opened his eyes. At first, a flicker of surprise crossed his face, just like the one right before he come here, then a faint smile appeared. Kunikida sensed he might have overstepped. But he also told himself that he couldn't come up with a better thing to say, at that second.

“Because, in some way, we’re all clinging to life... you shout because you’re holding on. And... I’m still in the same place... also, I want to see if I can shatter someone’s dream... or do something... to be good for the sake of goodness... or...”

His voice trailed off. As Kunikida continued the dressing, Dazai had spoken more rapidly than expected, and with a weary sigh, he closed his eyes once more.

“Are you... an idiot?” Kunikida asked. He wanted to be his usual self, but he also wanted to try his best to not get angry at this deeply broken brunette.

Dazai gave a slight grin, his spirits not fully restored, yet appearing somewhat better.

“Very much so...”

Kunikida finished the bandaging. Instead of performing the usual final check, he abruptly withdrew his hands. He sat down where the bed was before, which he had earlier moved aside to make space—now close to Dazai.

“I wasn’t trying to fix you, this was never my intention, I try the best I can so I just saved you daily, within the limited time I seemed to have..." he fellt like he was finding excuses to look like he is not caring, he immediately changed his tone; “But... I just... don’t want to see you destroy yourself like this anymore, you are never a burden, I love taking care of you but...” Oh god, now he knew he definetely ruined the talk, the moment and his partner's mood. He couldn't come up to think for a better phrase but he simply didn't.. It felt like the atmosphere was now quite heavy, and both were ready to rot.

Dazai turned to him. After the earlier grin, his face had calmed, now showing a hint of anger and tension, yet still bearing the inexplicable fatigue of a low mood of his.

“And what about you? You’re constantly battling your own ideals. Aren’t you tearing yourself apart with the dream of a perfect person, ignoring the real world?...” Dazai didn't want to hurt him too... so he too simply stopped saying stuff.

Dazai really hoped he hadn’t crossed a line— cause now once again, he had spoken more openly than intended.

They both crossed the lines that they never wish to but, they didn't say anything to recover it too... They both found each other great the way they are, yet it was inevitable that the tacit thoughts they share needed to be voiced, unless now, they were going to hurt themselves, and the other...

Dazai thought Kunikida, with his ideals, always found a way out, or created it, how admirable...

And at the same time Kunikida thought, the deepness of Dazai's personality was unmatchable with anyone that exists.

Kunikida was momentarily breathless.

For the first time... Dazai spoke so directly and unfiltered...

For the first time... he was more beyond the mask he usually wore, voluntarily, and to him.

Kunikida begun to think about the past between them...Dazai typically donned a mask when speaking with everyone. This mask was still himself but reflected his more optimistic side and cheerful thoughts, concealing his darkness. At least, since Odasaku’s death, it must have been this way, Kunikida thought. How did he know this? Because every certain time of the year, at the same hours that he checked on Dazai, he would find him murmuring in front of his grave.

During these periods, the darkness within would consume Dazai more, leading him to be seen lazier than usual. Some days and hours, he wouldn’t even show up at work, wandering aimlessly through empty streets, watching the trees, drinking copious amounts of whiskey to the point of being wasted, then going home and collapsing into bed without even bothering to change his clothes, which Kunikida takes care of mostly.

And Kunikida would take this situation to heart. Deep down, Kunikida was an emotional man. In fact, most of his ideals were about suppressing this emotionality and having a mechanism to control himself on the path to achieving something more ideal and appreciatable to him, thus preventing foolish decisions that may occur.

And right now, the ideal (the plan) was, as always, to save Dazai by following his program—but this time, he wanted to do it in an unexpected way. He was going to make sure of it this time. There were many reasons for this—the most important being that this was Dazai. It sure wasn’t someone else that wanted to kill him, that he is going to need help saving him from or something, It was his own thoughts... and Kunikida wouldn't be able or want to seperate him from that, since it was him too, for sure. Saving him shouldn’t just mean preventing him from drowning or dying, but giving him something worth living for at least making him want to live today, everyday.

Though Kunikida didn’t show it, he was deeply contemplating this matter, almost everh single second. He always feared that if he didn’t act now, it would be too late, yet he didn’t feel prepared for this situation.

And at that moment... one leaned in, the other remained still.

Kunikida gazed into Dazai’s eyes.
But instead of that usual half-mocking, half-absent smirk, Dazai returned the gaze from calm to with an expression void of pretense—only a hollow, quiet curiosity remained in those eyes.

Kunikida felt an impulse stir within him—perhaps to act, to speak, to offer something that might mend what was broken, perhaps to bind Dazai’s wounds not merely with bandages but with hope he may give.

Yet to do so would mean straying from his ideals, and that, too, had its own weight.

He reached out, gently cupping Dazai’s chin in the thoughtful manner of a man lost in contemplation.

“Dazai... just know... know that I care, okay?”
The words were unadorned. Honest. Kunikida found this embarassing in this situation but didn't find time to get flustered.

Beep beep...

Dinner must have been ready.
The rice cooker in the kitchen announced its completion, breaking the silence.
Kunikida moved swiftly—he prepared a plate for Dazai: a portion of rice, a bit of crab too.
He had remembered, of course—he had taken note of the things Dazai liked.

Not a minute passed before he returned, tray in hand, setting it carefully before Dazai.
The latter observed, not without suspicion. Where would this lead?
Kunikida, already known for his discipline and concern "had" a surprise, and now was behaving with an unusual tenderness.
And Dazai, unable to decipher the limits of such care he just gave, found himself mix up the words he was going to say, inwardly.

Kunikida sat after he placed the tray on the table, then watched silently as Dazai ate in slow, measured rather small bites.
His stomach gave a quiet rumble, which the blond man pretended not to hear.
He thought to himself that even a few bites might help restore something of his uniquely spontaneous spirit.
After all, he hadn’t eaten at all today.

Kunikida leaned forward, his elbow resting upon the table, a soft sigh escaping him as he pressed a palm to his forehead and closed his eyes for a moment.
Then—he felt it. A breath, warm and quiet, against the side of his neck.

“Kunikida, are you tired?... Did I ruin your plans?”
Dazai’s voice was gentle and more similar to his dailly tone, as he drew closer.
When his eyes met Kunikida’s, there was something unreadable within them—no malice, no jest, only a question that trembled on the edge of something deeper.

“Will you stop me?”

Kunikida removed his glasses, carefully, as though the weight of the moment demanded naked honesty.
His voice was low. “No.
But this isn’t a game, Dazai.
You have to take care of yourself. Or else I…”

He stopped. He had meant to say I will take care of you, but the words died in his throat.

The ceramic bowl gave a gentle clink—Dazai took his last bit of rice, and had finished eating.
Kunikida made to rise from the table, but before he could fully straighten, Dazai leaned forward and rested his head against Kunikida’s shoulder.

“Dazai…”
But the other was already asleep.

His tired body, finally fed, had surrendered.

Kunikida carefully pulled the bed back into place.
Then, with the tenderness of one handling something irreparably fragile, he gathered Dazai into his arms and laid him down.
He drew the blanket over him, ensured no dangerous object remained nearby—nothing he might use to turn against himself in a darker hour.

He had never seen Dazai asleep like this before.
Yes, he had often seen him with his eyes closed—during idle afternoons, during melancholic silence.
But not like this.
Not truly asleep.

His face, in repose, seemed somehow softer.
Almost purely elegant, but in a messy way.

Kunikida allowed himself to believe that perhaps some part of the exhaustion that had accumulated behind this all could finally melt away.

He collected the dishes orderly.
He changed his clothes to comfier ones.
And then, he sat at the edge of the bed, his bed, that Dazai sleeps in.

For a moment—
The world ceased to exist.
There were no files on his desk.
No missions awaiting them.
No dreams of death for Dazai.
And not a moment Kunikida himself, stresses about sticking to his own plans, ideals...

Only the warm hush of the room and the rhythm of their breathing, in this vaguely cruel yet comfy late evening.

With gentle fingers, Kunikida brushed the strands of hair that had fallen across Dazai’s face.
His hand lingered.
Then paused at the wrist—where old scars whispered of a war still being fought in silence.
“Does it… hurt?” he whispered, though the words seemed more addressed to the hushed air than to the man beside him.

Dazai, drifting somewhere between sleep and consciousness, offered a faint hearty beautiful smile—bitter and fragile, like glass on the verge of shattering.
“It always hurt,” he murmured, feeling cosier. “Now… it somehow feels more real.”

Kunikida recoiled, his hand pulling back as if burned. He had touched him with the comfort one offers the unconscious, forgetting, for a moment, that Dazai, though exhausted, was still all too aware.

“If that pain is real,” Kunikida said, his voice laced with unease, “then so am I. And I’m ready to do all I can to help you.” this didn't felt like the right words he searched for too, but it was in the boundaries of what he meant to say.

Though, he hadn’t quite thought through what those words might imply. His face, typically so composed, now bore a strange expression—an uneasy blend of resolve, quiet frustration, and reluctant hope. It was the look of a man trying to stand still in a windstorm of emotion.

Dazai’s vacant eyes, which had until now seen nothing due to his nap, flickered for a moment. He studied that expression, like one would an unfamiliar painting that inexplicably stirred something in the soul.

Then—he laughed, a laughter. Genuinely candid, as if the ice had cracked and something warm seeped through.

“You look ridiculous, Kunikida. Like a lost poet pretending to be a soldier. The man of ideals you're saying…”

Kunikida allowed himself a quiet smile, letting his confusion dissolve like mist in morning sun in his partner's eyes.

It seemed Dazai was retreating behind his usual mask—but Kunikida saw through it. No, he wasn’t taking a step back to masking again.

In the moment, Dazai bore both his darkness and his light that he always carries, with stark honesty this time. It was as though the yin-yang emblem on Kunikida’s vest had sprung to life: the dark tangled within the light, the light stained by shadow. This was undoubtedly the truth, this was Dazai.

Once trapped in the mafia, Dazai had buried his kindness beneath the cruelty of his own. Now, within the walls of the Agency, he fought to suppress the shadows that lingered in his soul beneath the kind and fun side that shines through.

This man, who wore jest like armor, carried more emotional weight than he ever let on. Kunikida had always admired that—how Dazai, even while wrapped in contradictions, found equilibrium between his past and present.

People called him lazy maybe, but they never saw the wars he waged within like Kunikida did.

Yes, he was lazy Kunikida also said it on daily basis—on paperwork, on chores, on meaningless tasks.

But never, never where it really mattered.

Even in his yearning for death, even as he drifted daily further from the world’s touch, something inside Dazai kept calculating, kept planning, kept trying to see a future for himsef, others and the world—whether he wanted it or not.

And now, the one who stood before him—the man he could call the very embodiment of balance in all its facets, the comrade who was more than just a colleague, perhaps even a true partner for him—was smiling. That smile, gentle yet persistent, seemed to reach out to his darkness, as if hoping to absorb it, to soften it.

But it failed.

Most likely, Dazai had stumbled upon something—a memory or a fragmented thought—that recalled past torments, or worse, reawakened them. Some shadowy echo had stirred within him, pulling him backward. But it didn’t matter to Kunikida. He was perfect.

No, those were not ideals they spoke of, but they were, without question, real in fact. His ideals had never been merely abstract—rather, they were attempts to cast internal balance outward, to weave order from the chaos both within and around him, both Kunikida and Dazai. Yet when those ideals fell short, when they failed to manifest in harmony with the world, he would find himself spiraling—overthinking, agonizing, enraged even—so that he could simply function.

But this was not one of those times. No, this moment was completely raw and purely immediate. It held no pretense. There was only the quiet presence of the other. And that other was the only one for him, Dazai.

He could not allow himself to linger in silence too long. Silence, prolonged, would not draw Dazai into light; rather, it risked surrendering him further to the darkness that had always waited and loomed just beyond his skin. Another step into that abyss, and it would not be redemption he reached, but the loss of him entirely.
If his ideals stood in the way of a real, tangible act—of something truly human—then perhaps, like people, ideals too had breaking points. And perhaps it was at this very point that he allowed himself to stray from some of his values, choosing instead to act.

—“If your pain is real,then I am real too. And I am ready to do everything I can to help you.”—

“And not just for today or before too,” he added after these thoughts and a breath, as though sealing a vow.

A silence settled once again between them, not cold or uncomfortable this time, but something softer—like the quiet that blankets a room after a storm has passed, when the air is heavy but calm.
Dazai smiled sincerely, as he slowly placed his hand on Kunikida’s hand next to his already. A peaceful sigh was heard from both.

“You’re still here.” He said.

“...and I still want to give you a hope and keep you alive, partner.” Kunikida smiled.

Kunikida could not always voice his thoughts, not in their rawest form. Yes, he could recite his principles, quote his codes with unwavering certainty. But the depth of what he truly felt—those currents that ran beneath his rules—those were not things he could share so freely.

Kunikida swallowed, an unconscious effort to steady the storm within. In that moment, desire, need, and even ideals had faded into something quieter—thought, laced with compassion. To touch Dazai’s body was not merely to make contact with another; it transcended longing. It was to feel him—to be overtaken by a calm, a depth of understanding that defied articulation, yet settled into him like a gentle weight upon the soul. Kunikida wished not just to hold him, but to envelop him with his presence entirely. And perhaps… perhaps this embrace, here and now, could be his first true moment of dwelling in the present.

Dazai slowly straightened. The distance between them—barely two handspans—seemed at once trivial and immense. Wordless silences had encircled them all day, yet their eyes carried on quiet conversations of their own, exchanging fragments of unspoken truths. Kunikida reached out, clasping Dazai’s hand where it still rested atop his own. Dazai’s eyes were rimmed with red. He had never known how to cry, nor how to offer his heart in words—neither of them had. And so, as they fell into each other’s arms, the breath they released was long and trembling, as if it had waited years to escape.

Dazai’s voice emerged, clearer now, though still trembling.
“I… wanted to get lost.”
And finally, the tremor in his voice gave way. His eyes brimmed with tears, silent but unmistakable.

Kunikida looked at him, his gaze tender, pained with worry. He could no longer wait to understand—to reach him. With a careful hand, he cupped Dazai’s cheek, grounding him in the moment, silently asking for his truth.

“And now?”

Dazai’s voice came soft, like a secret slipping between the cracks.

“I want to be found now.”

There was nothing to say.
Only a breath shared in silence—not the silence of absence, but the kind that settles only when the soul becomes too full to speak.
Not emptiness, but density.

The distance between them dissipated—not with a kiss, nor with desire’s hastened touch, but with a careful, aching embrace.
A human thing.
A yearning thing.
Kunikida held Dazai the way one might clutch a letter long thought lost—creased, weathered, marked by time, yet bearing the words one still needed to read.

He pulled him close, not with pain or hunger, but with something far older and deeper: a need to bear witness.

To say: You exist. And I see you still.

Dazai’s body responded with a faint tremble—not from cold, but from recognition. His arms came up slowly, hesitantly, as if unsure whether they were allowed to hold, whether the world would permit softness after so many sharp edges.
But he did hold him. Normally “touching” things didn’t get him easily, both in emotional way or physical but in this sensitive situations— where it wasn’t only mostly fights or punchs— he was feeling different as expected.

Kunikida, buried in his shoulder, could smell the familiar trifecta of Dazai’s days: a whisper of alcohol, the metallic dampness of the canals, and the unmistakable artificial sweetness of convenience store snacks.

He didn’t flinch.
He found comfort in that scent—odd, disjointed, yet so him.

That scent reminded him of every time Dazai showed up.

Uninvited, sometimes.
Unpredictable, always.
But present.

And in Kunikida’s chaotic order, that presence had grown to be a fixture. A truthful being . A lifeline.

They pulled back—gradually, as though separating might tear something essential. As their arms loosened, their skin met once more, forearms brushing, the fine electric contact of warmth meeting warmth. It wasn’t overt. It wasn’t even intentional.
But it was.
And it lingered.

Kunikida felt the heat rise to his face, coloring him in hues he hadn’t known his emotions were capable of producing.
Where was this going?
The absurd image of the rice cooker humming in the background, now dead silent, briefly crossed his mind like a failed attempt at grounding.
Beeps would not save him.
Not now.

He stood on the verge of something irreversible.
Yet he feared not just the fall—but the flight.

What would Dazai do?
Would he mock him? Lean in?
Would he turn cold again, disappear into his old familiar shadows?

And it was precisely in this spiral of hesitations, of “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts,” that Dazai leaned forward—not to kiss, not to pull, but to whisper.

“Thank you,” he said, so close to Kunikida’s ear that the breath of it was more real than the words themselves.

Kunikida startled.
Not from the sentiment.
But from the sensation.
That faint tickle against his skin like a stray breeze in early spring, too early to be comfortable, too real to ignore.

He flinched backward—not violently, but instinctively. His voice, when it came, was sharp in tone but caring underneath, the very voice he used on Dazai each morning when trying to wrangle him into proper hours and paperwork.

“Don’t whisper things like that out of nowhere,” he muttered, tone betraying more than he wanted. His face—ever the fortress—now bore the blush of a man whose walls had been gently breached.

Dazai laughed.
Not mockingly, but with a softness Kunikida rarely heard.
The kind of laugh that belongs to the broken.
To those who have found a moment of reprieve.

“You’re so easy to rattle,” Dazai teased, eyes crinkling just slightly, a rare mirth swimming beneath the weariness.

But in truth, Kunikida wasn’t rattled by the whisper.

He was rattled by the sincerity.

By the unguarded moment where Dazai thanked him for simply being there.

Because what if that was all it took?

What if Dazai didn’t need to be saved, only seen?

And Kunikida—who had built his life on structure, justice, ideals—felt all those constructs not to change entirely, but begin to shift.

Not collapse.
But bend.
To make room.
Room for him.
For Dazai.

Kunikida didn’t move at first. He just stood there, the blush still fading from his skin like ink in water—slow, diffused, irreversible. Even though the only sources of light were the almost non-existent light of the darkening sky and the dimness of the street lamps reflecting inside the house, his expression was understandable. Dazai had pulled back just a little, enough to give him space, but not so far that the warmth was gone.

The moment still hung between them like a question with too many answers.

Kunikida thought.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Exactly the way he always did when he had to write something important, something sacred, something true.

What could he say?

Would you like some water? Some sleep? Some... love?

No. Too direct.
Too dangerous.
Too much like a heart confessing itself when it wasn’t ready to bleed.

And yet... he’d always believed that action carried more weight than words.

He wasn’t the kind to say I love you.
He was the kind to make tea just the way you liked it.
The kind to read the book you read, that you left open on the table and mark the page you're on too.
The kind to stand by your side when no one else would.

So he moved.

Without asking, without planning, he reached out and gently brushed Dazai’s bangs out of his eyes—those same eyes that always held too much laughter, too much shadow.

“Your hair’s a mess,” he said softly.
But the words weren’t about the hair.

It was an offering.
A small one.
But it was his.

Dazai’s expression didn’t change right away. Even though he understood what was happening to Kunikida, both of them were pretty tired and couldn’t hadle another weight, it seemed.

They listened the weather, outside for a second, like the hush before snowfall, when the world knows something is coming but doesn’t dare disturb it.

“I’ll get you some water,” Kunikida said. He turned halfway, paused, then glanced back. “And maybe something more to eat. You haven’t had anything decent except rice today, have you?”

“No,” Dazai said, a bit breathless.

His smile was captivating, this was exactly what he needed. Care.

And this was what exactly Kunikida wanted to gave him. Care? And love.

“But I have this. This is… enough.” Dazai didn’t let go or didn’t add to what he said.
Kunikida didn’t respond to that.
He simply walked into the kitchen, poured the water, and returned with it.
As he handed it to Dazai, their fingers touched—briefly, intentionally.
Neither of them let go immediately.

“You really think this is enough?” Kunikida asked. A quiet question, barely voiced, like he wasn’t sure if he even wanted the answer.

It wasn’t about water, it was about love.
Dazai’s smile wavered, and his gaze softened “It’s the most enough anything has ever been,” he whispered.

There was a pause—long, suspended—and then Dazai leaned forward, ever so slightly, resting his forehead against Kunikida’s collarbone. It wasn’t quite a gesture of affection. It was surrender.

He was tired but didn’t want to tire Kunikida, yes but not like this.
He was just letting Kunikida hold the weight of him for a moment.
And Kunikida—perpetually composed, perpetually responsible—let him.
Without question. Without hesitation.

He reached up and rested a hand on the back of Dazai’s head, fingers threading into his unruly hair. He was too sweet.
They both closer their eyes, slowly.
Not to escape.
But to feel each other.
Kunikida didn’t need to say I’m here.
He didn’t need to say I won’t let you fall.
He simply was there.
And Dazai, for the first time in a long time, allowed himself to be held and to be cherished.

They didn't want to be perfect, not perfect.
But right here.

Chapter Text

They just stood there for a while. No one was counting the minutes anymore—yet those moments, unmeasured as they were, etched themselves deeper than any hour could have.

Eventually, Kunikida laid down beside Dazai, exhaling quietly as his stare settled on the ceiling above them. His eyes then shifted to his partner, who was half-asleep, his curls spilling over the cushion. Before sleeping; Kunikida felt a need, changed Dazai's clothes in a way that reminded him of the times he used to take care of him when he went to check on him. However this time, since they were at his house, the new set he changed into was Kunikida's own spare pajamas. That way, Dazai's clothes would be washed and dried by morning, handily(Dazai didn't care to wash them during the week unless necessary in general, he would have the opportunity when the laundry was done with the agency or kunikida or any special occasion). So Kunikida also took the opportunity to both clean and fix his clothes and to make sure Dazai had a good night's sleep, which meant he had to interrupt his sleep twice and stay up for about half an hour longer than he had planned for this night. But at least it put his mind at ease and peace, plus Dazai actually looked more snuggly and comfy in his sleep too.

If he had to think about it, this wasn't how he expected the day or the thing he called "surprise" to go at all, or especially the night itself— after his usual day filled with ticking clocks and deadlines—to end. But he didn't care for now, not at this moment. This exception felt like it meant to be made.

Did Dazai expect this, though?

A fleeting thought of the odds. But Kunikida didn’t bother holding onto it. He was here, after all—Dazai was right beside, his hair still tangled from where Kunikida had run his fingers through it earlier, now splayed across both their pillows.

That was enough.

With a hopeful breath, Kunikida removed his glasses, set them beside the bed, taking a deep breath. He checked the time, it was close to midnight, settled into his bed, hoping and believing that they would go to the agency tomorrow and everything would be back to normal. Not like this didn't happen but more like the typical routine in a pleasenter way, by this Dazai would feel recovered from the day too...

But at present, it was time for them both to rest. Rest... it was the only thing right now that would allow them both to get through this day, to heal from it, and to get used to it...

As Kunikida's eyes closed, the last thing he saw was the faint trace of Yokohama’s famous full moon's pale light casting soft-edged shadows across the tatami, curling like ink into the creases of the bed.

Thinking about every single time he couldn't meet his ideals or plans but he saved the day or dealt with the situation in the end. He hoped "this" is a good exception, indeed. And a kind of a kind "surprise".

After a few minutes, while Dazai was deep in his dreams, Kunikida was in the sweet arms of sleep as well as Dazai's company.

• • • • • •

A soft click.
The unmistakable familiar ringing chime of a clock.

Morning had arrived.

Kunikida stirred, almost instinctively—his body always knew when it was time to rise, of course. Dazai, though known for the occasional delay, usually wasn’t very far behind.

Still, Kunikida, who would normally prepare meals for one person, prepared them for two this time, so as not to delay his schedule, moved inside the house with his usual precision and time planing, quickly. He went to the restroom, got fully prepared for the day as he brewed green tea, cracked a few eggs, and cooked them with a practiced rhythm.

Dazai, who had just woken up, yawned. There wasn’t much time to linger around. Especially for Kunikida timing, there sure wasn't.The day would begin whether they were ready or not so, Dazai tried his best to not to be a burden to him today. He prepared himself in the order that he knows Kunikida does, for this time.

He stood up, wiggled his toes slightly, and glanced at Kunikida from behind as he continued to yawn, briefly wondering when he'd been changed him into pajamas and whose hands had buttoned the shirt. It was pretty obvious, they were only two and of course it was Kunikida as always. And of course, his clothes had been laundered and folded sometime in the night, waiting for Dazai to wear on a dresser right beside the Dazai's bedside. Dazai just checked around as he thought of these, being already dressed in them without a word.

There was little conversation during their small, modest breakfast—just quiet glances exchanged over the steam of their cups. But the silence wasn’t empty. It was calming and grounded. This atmosphere of quiet stares that didn't need to be filled with Dazai being serene was beautifully tranquil, plus already being comfortable with the company of the two.

After they finished eating appearing ti be relatively fast, Dazai helped Kunikida carry the plates to wash, right before he stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his trench coat. Kunikida approached facing him to fix the lapels without being asked, fingers steady and certain. For a moment, it felt too long to be casual yet too short to be serious, since their eyes met, after the yesterday night's talk almost all of their mutual glances had become a silent communication. This time it Kunikida was almost about to say something, but cleared his throat softly and looked away. He definetely seemed to be avoid the stress he was experiencing, he didn't know where the conversations that might occur would lead.

And Dazai, who would normally tease him about these, didn't want to press him this time after yesterday, because most likely someone at the Agency would notice and say something to them also, and they would have some type of conversation with all the papers plus work too, eventually. Although Kunikida was practical and fast in most matters, Dazai didn't want to rush him(or himself) in these emotional matters, and it would be better for both of them and their enviroment for things to develop naturally aince they both weren't good with managing their emotional side. Meanwhile, Kunikida opened the door, gesturing for Dazai to go ahead of him, like he always did.
And Dazai did, without complaint.

They stepped out into the morning's cold wind and the sincere bright light of the sun, heading to the car to drive toward the Agency.

The ride was quiet, the kind of comfortable stillness that only grew between people who’d fought together and trusted each other had, side by side. Dazai sat in the passenger seat next to Kunikida as usual, looking out the window like he was watching a story unfold behind the glass.

Kunikida nodded toward the radio as an unspoken signal, Dazai flipped through stations until he found a familiar tune: a calm, old Japanese song that neither interrupted nor faded by the sound of outside.

Dazai's stare occasionally flickered to Kunikida or the tiny speaker of the radio crackling every now and then, looking at the drifting trees outside and the rush of people walking to work or any noticeable elements as they passed through the streets.

In essence, it was a pleasant autumn morning, no doubt.

By the time they slowed down, pulled into the parking lot next to Agency, the day had rised to gold colors. Dazai exited the car almost in sync with Kunikida, their footsteps light against the building’s steps from varied stones and old wood. As they went upstairs, Dazai’s hand reached out briefly to tap Kunikida's shoulder, as a sign that "It's okay, do not stress." not being teasing, just enough to be comfort him and to be noticed.

Kunikida turned as if to speak.
Paused, put on glad face for a short minute and kept walking with his usual pace. He entered to the side room to retrieve the documents for the day before entering, and then they went to the main office together.

The agency appeared to be doing its usual thing, itwas somewhat quiet, as it often was on mornings when Yokohama’s streets weren't that full of crime or hadn’t yet fully awakened. A soft hum of work hung in the air—papers being sorted, the distant clink of some teacup, the creak and tapping on the building's floor, the moving office chairs... Sunlight filtered in through the few unopened blinds in diagonal lines, tracing the desks and cluttered papers with lazy illumination.

Kunikida had set down his papers with his usual precision, adjusting his ribbon tie before removing his glasses briefly to clean them for working more efficiently. Dazai, only a few steps behind him, had entered with a low whistle and a faint smile—not the mischievous kind he usually wore, still carrying his known daily acts. Somehow it was something softer, quieter yet still reflects the slothful grin he usually wore during the day to Kunikida.

When looked inside, Ranpo was already at his desk, spinning in his chair idly, a half-eaten box of sweets nearby. Without even turning his back, he muttered to greet them with a question, “So... which one of you cooked?”

Kunikida paused mid-motion. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, please,” Ranpo drawled, kicking his feet up onto the desk. “You both smell like green tea and eggs. And a certain someone, it seems...” he pointed vaguely in Dazai’s direction without even taking a look at there, “he is wearing yesterday’s shirt but it is clearly cleaned, and smells like your laundry detergent. My deduction skills are legendary, remember?”

Dazai only grinned, hands tucked in his pockets, his coat draping elegantly behind him. “You wound me, Ranpo-san~ Are you saying I can't do my own laundry?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Ranpo replied, finally turning to squint at him. “Anyway, I'm not judging. Just observing...”

With this conversation taking place, Yosano glanced up from her tablet from the corner of the room, smirking faintly before returning to her notes. Kyouka, by the window, said nothing, but Kunikida could feel the shift of attention in the air. Not that uncomfortable yet—just present.

He coughed lightly, turning to the stack of folders on his desk. “Regardless of what Ranpo may believe, we have reports to file, and paperwork to organize for the previous incidents. And I believe there was a request from the police needing consult too. I’ll take a look and divide the tasks accordingly to you all.”

Dazai slid into the chair beside Kunikida’s desk instead of his own, talking and acting unfeigned.

“What a productive morning. Shall we share our workloads, partner?”

The word partner came out of his mouth as if he were imitating Kunikida's tone, which was his intention anyway, to emphasize the word, to create a sweet ambiance but still being slightly playful in a way without trying too hard. He persumably tried to calm the possibble storm that might have formed in Kunikida's head after Ranpo's words.

Kunikida didn’t respond to it immediately. He opened a folder, adjusted his chair slightly again, and then—without looking—pushed a second folder toward Dazai’s side. Their hands brushed for just a moment in the handoff.
Barely anything.
Yet something flickered in the feel between them, they didn't express it but it was a good sign to one another.

Dazai said nothing next, but his smile was up again, becoming more thoughtful this time, he sat on his desk with his chair spinning, very surprisingly seeming to not procastinating that much about his work as his normal rate this time.

Later, as the time passes and the agency busied itself with the usual dance of calls, typing, footsteps, and light daily chatter, Dazai and Kunikida remained mostly in sync.

Not constantly speaking, no one was, but often catching each other's eye as signs. A document passed over with a hint of a knowing glance about how yesterday went. A correction in a report delivered not with exasperation, but with a quiet smile. Even when Atsushi entered with a fresh case after his research around the streets involving a lost cat with a mysterious condition, they handled the preparation reports together.

It was Ranpo, again, who eventually threw in the stone that rippled the water.

“So… you guys going back to the same place tonight too, or is that night was a one-time thing?”

Kunikida's pen stopped mid-sentence. Dazai, lounging as usual but alerted with possible outcomes while consideringly eyeing both, raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize our sleeping arrangements were a matter of public interest.”

Ranpo gave a careless shrug, eyes still fixed on the open page of his new book to solve, an another half-eaten snack dangling from one hand. “They are,” he said with a mild smirk, “when Kunikida doesn’t come in looking like a thundercloud just because he missed his sacred sleep ritual. You can tell. It's like watching a perfectly wound clock start ticking unevenly.”

Atsushi glanced up from the a few neatly stacked reports in front of him, surprise flickering across his face like a spark catching wind. Ranpo sure did it to involve Atsushi's reaction to this.

Atsushi blinked a few times before speaking, brows knitting in confusion. “Wait—hold on. You stayed over?” He was just a little bit stunned, seeing Dazai with someone beside for a day non-stop and undisturbed, was a rare sight.

Kunikida, keeping his posture in his set seat meticulously near to Atsushi, let out a breath that sounded too controlled to be natural. He answered without looking up, voice clipped but calm. “Only due to working excessively late,” he said, flipping a page in his file knowing everybody knows that this wasn't the case. “And the weather was... inconvenient, too...” He was trying his best to immediately evade the subject.

He carefully omitted the details—the irregular roads, the flickering streetlamps even and the heavy work of the agency he had after hours. Some things were better left unsaid so, he did it only to seem stressed so no one digs up the question even more, only to keep the fragile comfort of the previous night from being dissected under fluorescent lights with Dazai.

“Oh, sure,” Yosano chimed in from across the room, lifting her cup without glancing their way. Her tone sounded dry with exhaustion, like good wine left open too long. “Because I’m sure Dazai would never manufacture a bit of weather-related drama to secure himself a warm bed and some specific company.”

“It was raining at night,” Kunikida replied, more sharply this time. It actually did rain while they were asleep. Kunikida was not harsh as typically, but the distinct edge of someone trying to bring a conversation to a dignified end was precise.

“Oh no,” Dazai murmured from his place sprawled on the chair, one arm tossed lazily behind his head, the other gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling. His voice dripped mock-sincerity. “Kunikida-kun is getting defensive. How… wildly out of character.” Dazai was trying to soften the looks of everybody with his well-known mocking.

Kunikida shot him a look—one of those trademark glares meant to cut straight through foolishness. But this time, the expression lacked its usual heat. It hovered somewhere between irritation and resignation, like a match struck too weakly to catch.

And, curiously, Dazai didn’t push it. He didn’t turn the moment into a punchline or draw it out like he usually would. Instead, he let the silence settle—a rare gift, given his nature. The moment stretched just enough to let everyone drift back into their own worlds.

“I appreciated it, you know,” he added after a beat, his voice low, barely more than a breath above the quiet rustle of paper. It wasn’t a confession, not exactly—but it was something close.

Kunikida faltered slightly for a fleeting instant, the structure of the report he was writing blurred in his mind, overtaken by the unexpected weight of what he reminded about with that sentence.

But before he could respond or process what to do—or even decide whether he wanted to—the phone on the corner desk rang, piercing the hush with its sterile trill. The fragile moment slipped past like mist on glass, unnoticed by everyone else, dismissed by necessity.

• • • • • •

The hours dwindled gently into the amber hue of late afternoon. The place, once filled with the soft symphony of busywork rattles, basked in a fading calm. Sunlight spilled again through the tall windows in golden slants, drawing long shadows of rays across the worn floorboards.

Kunikida stood at his desk, carefully sliding the final report into a folder, just in time that he planned. His movements were as composed as ever, each one a practiced gesture of discipline. Across him, Dazai leaned against the window, his silhouette outlined by the warm glow. Though he'd completed most of his assignments for once—an event worthy of marking the calendar—he’d somehow offloaded his final report onto Kunikida with a few well-placed words and the disarming smile of him.

He stood there now, gaze distant, watching the city beyond the glass as if it were a stage set he might someday step into or more probably vanish from.

Outside, the streets began to slow. The evening tide crept in over the city like a sigh. Cars moved in smoother streams, the chaos of rush hour dulled by fatigue. A breeze stirred the curtains faintly here and there, carrying the clean scent of the sea with a whisper of peace and distance.

“You’re not rushing off?” Kunikida asked as he adjusted the lapel of his coat, voice leveled but not cold.

Dazai tilted his head, amused. One brow arched as he turned to face him. “You say that like I ever rush anywhere, dear partner,” he said, that familiar lilt in his tone—unmistakably teasing.

There it was again.
That word.
That "partner". Appearently "dear" too.
It hung in the air like a challenge and a comfort at once.

Kunikida looked as he sighed which was both uncertain whether it was a laugh or not. “I meant that you usually vanish the second the clock says you can.”

Dazai pushed away from the window, his coat swinging over his shoulder as he shrugged it on with effortless grace. “No need today,” he said simply. “The sky’s clear, the wind’s light. It’s a decent sunset. Thought I’d take a walk. Let the evening carry me somewhere...”

Kunikida hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. Something in Dazai’s tone was different.

"To where?" he asked, more curious than cautious.

Dazai straightened from the window, shrugging his coat on with a fluid motion and turned to him as he walked with a slow, unreadable smile. It didn’t reach Kunikida's eyes, but it didn’t need to. “Wherever you’re headed.”

• • • • • •

They walked side by side, silence hanging comfortably between the two. The streets glowed under the pinkish orange spill of beam. Pedestrians passed them in ones, twos and threes, with the city quietly being alive with the rustle of movement. The river shimmered nearby, its surface catching the last light like a gemstone.

Occasionally as they walk, Dazai would make an offhand comment—about a storefront, a peculiar sign, even the way the trees lining the park looked like they were trying to hold hands. Kunikida didn’t always respond, but when he did, his voice was way lighter than usual, he was trying to stay in the present. Less advising and way more open-hearted.

“You seem calmer today,” Dazai said after a while.

“Do I?”

“Mmh. It’s nice~”

Kunikida paused. “That’s a strange thing to hear from you.”

“I’m full of strange things, you know..." Dazai replied, smiling as he glanced up at the darkening sky.

“But I meant it.”

They stopped near a small restaurant nestled between two apartment buildings—warm light spilling from its windows, the scent of miso and grilled vegetables wafting out.
Understanding that they are going to eat there,
"After you," Dazai said, was definetely trying to catch Kunikida's reaction without acting too out of hand,
taking on the appearance of Kunikida opening the door to him in this morning.

They slipped inside and took a table by the window. The server, a young woman with a tired but kind smile with a look Dazai mostly jokingly hit on, didn’t seem surprised to see them—perhaps recognizing Kunikida from his previous visits. She took their orders in a hurry, leaving them in a cocoon of clinking dishes and low conversation.

“This place,” Dazai assumed.

“You like routine. You’ve probably been here.”

“I have,” Kunikida admitted with his normal pitch.

“It’s quiet. Good food, price and fast servings. Efficient.”

Dazai smirked, leaning his face in his palm.

“Sounds perfect.”

For a while, they didn’t speak more. Then Dazai set his chopsticks down and leaned in to whisper, just barely.

“You don’t mind this, do you?”

“This?” Kunikida echoed.

“Us. Eating like this."

Kunikida felt like he couldn't decide what to add. Dazai continued counting.

"Walking. The quietness of days. Me..."

Kunikida met his eyes behind his glasses. It struck him, suddenly, how rare it was to see Dazai not hiding it behind a smirk or sarcasm this time. He looked like yesterday? But not distant mostly earnest, even.

“I don’t mind,” Kunikida said. His voice was even, blushing while trying to not let it change his tone, “I think... I’m kind of starting to appreciate it.”

Dazai didn’t reply immediately, then he smiled again— a small one, genuine, fleeting.

“I’m glad.”

They finished the meal in companionable silence when it arrived right after these words, and when they stepped out into the now fully dark street, there was something different in the space between them. Not quite spoken. Not quite hidden.

Just there as it was yesterday.

The evening stretched out ahead, calm and star-punctured. Neither of them said it aloud, but when Dazai casually offered, “Kunikida-kunn, you wouldn’t happen to have spare tea at your place, would you?”—it didn’t feel like a request.

It felt like an agreement they had already made earlier, wordlessly.

They walked around the streets they passed yesterday, looking like they are searching for something, nothing else meant to be found but than each other being there.

• • • • • •

Kunikida’s apartment was, unsurprisingly, immaculate as they left it. The kind of tidy that felt intentional was more visible since Dazai was better too—books perfectly aligned on shelves clinged to his eyes, calligraphy brushes cleaned and upright, the faint aroma of incense was one with the edges of the room like a disciplined whisper.

Dazai slipped off his shoes lazily at the door, half-humming a tune that didn’t really exist, and followed Kunikida into the kitchen without asking, he was now very familiar with the home itself. He stayed there as his coat was slung over one arm, sleeves of his shirt rolled up just past the wrists, exposing the pale lines of older stories.

Kunikida didn’t comment like yesterday—he never was going to—but he poured the tea slowly, the way he always did. Measured, careful. There was something reverent in how he handled even the smallest domestic act.

They sat in the living room, the only brightness coming from a faint lamp in the corner. The tea was hot and faintly bitter than the morning. Steam curled from the rim of Dazai’s cup, and he watched it rise with unreadable eyes.

“You live like someone’s always watching you,” Dazai said finally.

Kunikida raised a brow. “And you live like you think no one ever is.”

That earned a low laugh from him. “Touché.”

For a while, the only sounds were the occasional clink of porcelain and the distant hum of the city.

“I used to hate the silence,” Dazai murmured after a while. “It used to feel... accusing. Like it was demanding something from me, to make it loud or be filled with something i can offer...”

Kunikida didn’t answer right away. He sipped his tea, then set the cup down with deliberate care.

“And now?” same question as yesterday, on purpose too... just to let the converstaion be longer and deeper this time, since they inarguably thought about this for the whole day unconciously.

Dazai glanced at him from across the space between the heavy couch and the low antique table. “Now... sometimes it feels like an invitation...”

He was talking about yesterday, trying to open the topic again to see how far Kunikida thought about this.

Kunikida’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and soft all at once. This invitation was actually must be a date. Like they stated it yesterday, to exist. Quietly. Without needing to be anything. Together? Why not... he was pretty sure how things need to turn out right now.

The words hung heavy between them—intimate in their simplicity.

Kunikida didn’t speak still his jaw relaxing slightly, his shoulders no longer held in that habitual tension. He stood after a beat and crossed to the small bookshelf, retrieving something from between the spines. Looked like he really did have a plan or a "surprise".

“Here,” he said, handing Dazai a folded blanket.

“I’m not cold.”

“It’s not for warmth.”

Dazai tilted his head, smile twitching into being, wondering what will Kunikida deal with him. “Then what is it for?”

Kunikida didn’t answer. Instead, he sat next to him this time, not across. Not a distance. Close enough that their shoulders didn’t quite touch—but could have, if either of them moved a fraction.

The blanket lay untouched in Dazai’s lap. He toyed with its edge like stimming but fingers unusually still.

“I’m not good at this,” he said with a nervous undertone, and for once, there was not a irony in it.

Kunikida turned toward him, expression unreadable. “At what?”

“This. Being near someone. And not ruining it.”

Kunikida breathed out slowly, like he was trying not to interrupt something delicate. This was legitimately like yesterday. He realized he can choose the better words now, he felt that he had time to think now.

“I know,” he said. And after a moment, almost with a whisper:

“I’m not asking you to be good at it.”

There was a little shock: electric. A different stillness of current full of unspoken questions and tentative offerings.

When Dazai leaned in, it wasn’t sudden. It was like a word that started on the tongue and got lost in the chest, like the words they couldn't have the courage to spoke, Kunikida didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. His hand moved instinctively and touched Dazai’s forearm, fingers brushing the linen of his sleeve with the kind of care usually reserved for old books and fragile things.

“I keep thinking,” Dazai said lowly as he grew closer, eyes on Kunikida’s face, “that if I stay too long, I’ll be worthless or bored... or want more from you.”

Kunikida’s voice, when it came, was raw silk. Not a bad choice of words now.

“Then stay longer.”

And just like that, the distance collapsed.

Their faces got closer with a kiss which wasn’t urgent—it was deliberate.

Thoughtful.

Built of tension carefully strung over a few years and now unraveling, not in a burst, but in a steady, deepening pull.

Initially, their skin gently touching each other reminded them of their hug... Yesterday...

The warmth that came to them with this heartful flashback accidentally turned into a kiss that developed instantly with their lips not intentionally brushing. Kunikida felt stressed with tense hand muscles and frozen reaction unwantingly, though it didn't last long since yesterday happened and Kunikida's priority was especially Dazai being okay with this too...

Dazai’s fingers curled into the hem of Kunikida’s shirt, anchoring. Kunikida’s hands slid up his back just to hold, not desperate, but grounding—like he was making sure Dazai wouldn’t escape from the Earth as long as he holds on to him...

A few seconds or minutes later, they slowly pulled back by foreheads resting together, breaths mingled, neither spoke, their eyes were closed. There was no need for anything after these two days.

The night no longer felt cold too. The tea had long gone lukewarm as they as they hold on to each other. The blanket Kunikida brought was giving them comfiness they need as now is draped around both their shoulders.

And in the quiet, nothing accused. Nothing demanded.
It was a plain "surprise", much like Kunikida, and it worked ideally with not being "ideal" at all...

Just a problem that needs to be solved first, has become an emotion and now an invitation, is just accepted.

More open to each other, more them being themselves as they enjoy the harmony of the life gave them...

To feel more alive,
not only side by side...
More this time not just two but one...

But being one... with each other.

Chapter Text

The next morning wasn’t quite like the other two. It didn’t break in sharply or confidently, it was not blurry either; instead, it hesitated—stumbled in gently, like light filtering through the slats of Kunikida’s blinds in uncertain stripes. The sunlight, which poured across the floor with conviction, now seemed cautious, as if even the day itself wasn’t sure how to behave after last night.

Dazai was already awake, lying exactly where he’d been the night before, was lazily on the edge of the couch, the side closest to the floor. At some point after tea, tangled blankets, and mouths brushing softly into sleep, he ended up staying there, as if drawn back by something quiet and familiar. Kunikida had carried him to bed later, thinking that’s where he’d prefer to feel homey and he was correct, but evidently Dazai had chosen the couch again for his second round of sleep after waking up earlier than he wanted, in the way that it had claimed a piece of him.

Now Kunikida stood in the kitchen, pouring water for the two of them with a kind of slow precision that only someone seeking distraction would. The quiet humming buzz of the kettle filled the silence when he spared a glance at the man in the living room—yawning in the most endearing way, still half-draped in sleep, his hair a chaotic masterpiece, arms lazily tucked behind his head.

"You seem to enjoy sleeping there,"

Kunikida commented, aiming for casual talk. It wasn’t a question, just a simple statement to open the day’s first thread of conversation—because they both knew silence wasn’t going to carry them through this one like the others, after two nights & a shared kiss here, together.

Dazai cracked one eye open, the edges of his mouth curling into something half-amused, half-sincere. He stretched, bones shifting beneath the lazy arch of his back, letting out a sigh that was almost content.

“Mmm~ I’m just a humble guest, swept away by tea and the alluring philsophical pillow talk.”

Kunikida turned back toward the kettle, replying before he even realized the words were already leaving his mouth. “We didn’t talk about philosophy.”

“Oh?” Dazai hummed, eyes still half-lidded,

“Then you admit it was pillow talk. Hmm... We kissed like a pair of morally conflicted poets, didn’t we?

"...That counts for something philosophical, at least. Close enough, hopefully.”

He grinned—teasing as ever—but there was a softness beneath it. He seemed to return back to his joshing in a similar annoying way. But there was a kind of calmness the closeness brought, that wasn’t happiness exactly, more like a little window of some storm passing through him. The peace was real, but the sadness hadn’t left to carry on for long. It hung on faintly in the gleam of his iris, Kunikida saw it, they were visible like bruises that hadn’t faded all the way.

With no much lingering they were getting ready, like yesterday.

There was a pace that everyone seeing may think that they were in fact married for years, since they had a unbelievibly harmonized ryhthm yet still managed to pick a little fight about it, but this morning also carried a new lovers vibe when Kunikida is sweating as he served a can of crab next to Dazai's eggs to show his care, Dazai excitedly ate it all and thanked by giving a fast kiss on the cheek to Kunikida. This made him glad and feel more cherished before their usual ride together to agency again.

During this quiet morning trip to agency Dazai was sure murmuring the songs he got stuck in his head and for a surprise Kunikida joined his murmur with a little tapping motion on the wheell, Dazai's eyes shined with a satisfied bliss when he noticed this as he begin to hum the melody even more and Kunikida matched his mood while they were parking to agencys spot.

Even though no one mentioned anything especially about them at the agency unlike yesterday, there were more glances, not between them but mostly between the people in the agency. Not invasive ones this time too. Just… glances, curiousness was there for them sure, but, it seemed to be more serious too, so they got themselves ready for a busier workday.

Dazai was thinking about this too as Kunikida opened the door for him that morning—again—it felt too courteous.

Sometime passed with everyday work with different details like every time, and when Yosano leaned over during a tea break, she murmured to Ranpo gossiping on purpose of catching Kunikida's attention and causing drama, "He’s smiling like someone replaced his coffee with feelings," for that, Kunikida choose to not hear it in complete stoic silence as survival since he had many files to classify too...

Ranpo, naturally stopped mid-biscuit, and held a simple perception, "they are just seem to be allergic to normal boundaries.”

Dazai was now sipping his morning coffee from one of Kunikida’s spare mugs, cradling it with a kind of sluggish reverence that hinted at a tiredness he couldn’t seem to shake. He didn’t miss a beat, of course—but didn’t mask the fatigue either. It was no surprise he looked too lazy to lift a finger. Still, in a moment of quiet performance, he spoke aloud—not necessarily to himself, but just loud enough to reel Kunikida’s attention back from drifting elsewhere, like the office gossip floating in the background.

“This blend’s richer than usual,” he mused, lips brushing the rim of the mug as though savoring the aftertaste. “I like it.”

Kunikida glanced over from his papers, just briefly, a flicker of approval passing over his face. “I’m glad,” he said simply, satisfied that Dazai appreciated his preference in coffee beans. But his tone sharpened a moment later, he seemed to carry his usual composure.

“Though if I remember correctly, you’ve only got fifteen minutes left for that report.”

“Uhhh—okay, mom...” Dazai groaned dramatically while he took another sip.

“Still... it’s warming on a cold day like this. Quite soothing.”

It was cold, Kunikida realized when Dazai stated it. Truly so too. And he hadn’t done anything about it. That thought hit him in a soft, nagging wave.

Was he getting more distracted lately?

Had he really not noticed how chilly his own apartment had become too, maybe?

Did Dazai’s hands feel cold this morning, when they brushed against his slightly?

He couldn't remember it clearly.
But now, watching the other man curl around his coffee for warmth, Kunikida felt a sudden, gnawing guilt. Would breakfast and a warm mug be enough to keep him from catching a cold? Probably not.

And knowing that, Kunikida was already in a mood that is ready to rush to buy medicine—just in case—even if Dazai hadn’t shown a single sign of illness yet.

The thought spiraled, as it often did with him. One irrational concern folded into another plus the work and the daily schedule he has too. He stood there, and momentarily paralyzed between the stove and the paperwork, looking very much like soifone contemplating ,whether to fuse with the office floor or the tea kettle. Whichever was hotter, honestly—anything to make the place feel warmer for all. He could feel the cool air brushing over his skin now with all of this ranting in his head, faint but noticeable.

His gaze drifted back to Dazai’s side without thinking. He stared, but carefully, trying not to catch his eye. Dazai would notice, and then tIt’soment would vanish in a smirk or a quip—and maybe Kunikida didn’t want to be dragged out of the quiet and his work just yet.

The domethe stic stillness, however, didn’t last.

Acrto oss the room, the Agency's main family portarit completed itself when Atsushi, working on a report from his own laptop, looked over with soft, blinking eyeslieithout saying anything, he subtly pushed a plate of cookies in their direction, between the mugs—an unspoken offering, a peace treaty for comfort, maybe. Something to make the moment coz,ier for all of them, as ,if sensing the unspoken threads hanging between the members.

It was a small gesture, but midday misDazai's,dn’t let the coziness linger around for long. The distraction came in the form of an alert—sharp and practical, slicing into the regained warmth like a gust of cold wind.

A new case.

Suspicious disappearances down by the bay, all centering around a crumbling, abandoned theater that probably hadn’t even seen life since the 1940s. The police, overwhelmed and under-equipped for this, had handed the case off to them with a mix of faint hope and desperation.

“Sounds dramatic,” Dazai murmured, leaning over the file, tone light but eyes tracing the contents with a spark of interest and seriousness.

“Let’s hope it isn’t too dramatic,” Kunikida replied, getting ready, already gearing up—mentally and physically. His hand moved with practiced ease, highlighting key details and circling the dates. A part of him was already preparing for battle, not just within the case itself, but with the ideals he knew would soon could be challenged through the mission.

The name of the place tugged at something in both of them.

For Kunikida it reminded him of a time he read about the books Dazai was interested in, for the book gifting day at the Agency way back then.

There was something eerily familiar about it. The name. The story it reminds him of... Dazai noticed it too, even more to be in fact—but said nothing about it.

“You’ll love it if someone monologues your iwith deal to you before dying.” Dazai said it with no purpose except teasing Kunikida.

“I really won’t, let's get going now."

Once they went, Kunikida, ever composed in field wear and some faint fear, had brought along a extra notebook and a few extra pages for any possiblity.
Dazai brought sarcasm, flair, and absolutely nothing with him, of course.

The building was exactly the kind of place that curious children would dare each other to go in— haunting enough to feel fear yet still useful enough to enter inside with no extra attention or force needed; seeing dusty velvet seats, gold-laced walls crumbling like cake. The atmosphere had silence that echoed with the ghosts of unknown as Kunikida shivered out of "nowhere". All of this made Kunikida reminded of the times during Dazai's entrance exam. It was one of a kind to be honest, one of a kind that made him think that Dazai was a good partner for him for real, he thought to himself, realizing he indeed really is like that, he was right to reach a conclusion that will lead them to now, considering the past two days...

They moved through the corridors, taking notes of possible force and evidences, marking signs of struggle—until a moment where Kunikida turned a corner too fast, the old wooden floor of the next room shifted beneath him and made him almost trip over a loose plank.
Dazai reached to catch him with a reflex, without think further.

“Ah, my noble partner! Just like old times, falling for me, but literally this time—”

Kunikida glared, cheeks red. “You’re impossible.”

“You wound me again~”

“Not as much as I’d like to.”

They quickly got back together and continued walking, not because they hadn't planned on staying long, it was in fact getting really late than they have planned.

They continued their inspection with cautious steps, eventually finding a hidden trapdoor leading to a backstage. It led into a cellar that was colder than the rest of the building and oddly untouched by age—recent footprints, faint scuff marks, cigarette butts.
But it wasn’t that triggering to Dazai until Kunikida reached and picked up a book tucked between the floorboards—an old, yellowed novel that seemed to be unfinished as the pages go by—that made Dazai’s smile faltered.

He stared at it.

Not because it was significant in the case or something, but because it wasn’t.
It looked too much like a book Oda had once talked about writing, and thinking how that book is also unfinished... Pages that looked to much like the ones he had once turned while watching twilight bleed over Yokohama rooftops looked at him. And he looked at the empty cover, appearently waiting for it to whisper something from his past that no longer could be said.

Kunikida noticed the silence stretched a second too long, he begin to take notes of the new surrounding and evidences here to keep moving on. His eyes flicked from the book to Dazai’s expression. He understood that they should've begin going back soon or now, the longer they stay here the longer it will be bad for Dazai.

Kunikida rose after taking notes and put his hand over Dazai's shoulder , giving a faint smile "...back to the agency partner!" Dazai couldn't hear the beginning of it.

They didn't talk much on the way back too, Dazai was carrying an expression like the day Kunikida found him by the river two days ago, and this was making Kunikida worry even more, he tried to see the good side of it, "at least I am by his side right now..." he told to himself.

Later, back at the Agency, he noted Dazai had slipped into a quieter mood to his notebook as well as he noted it in his mind just a little bit ago.

Dazai was sure still thinking about the book was now looking to his own book "Complete Manual of Suicide", rested near Dazai’s seat—untouched right now but noticed as always. Kunikida, under the quiet ticking of the office clock, reached into his own bag and pulled out his current read—a practical collection of essays on key points of utilitarian urban design.

Dazai raised a brow when Kunikida held it out to him.

“Trade,” Kunikida said simply.

Dazai blinked, tried to give a smile. “This doesn’t look like it has any criminals or emotional trauma.”

“Exactly. A break might be good. It’s about making things functional and less chaotic.”

“And what do you get from the deal?”

“I get to see what’s inside the book that makes you disappear a little when you read it.”

There was no smugness in his tone. No overexertion.

Dazai tilted his head. Smiled—not wide, not crooked, but real. “Deal.”

They exchanged books.

Yosano, passing by, raised a brow.
“Couples book club?”
Kunikida didn’t rise to it this time too he was too focused on what to do after the cold, the mission, Dazai's mood, new documents... Dazai only became anormally motivated to look like he's reading the book Kunikida gave.

The rest of the day continued with its usual oddities: Tanizaki accidentally hacked the office printer this week again; Kenji brought in pickled vegetables from his village and his hat had somehow become weaponized via smell; and Kyouka, silently handing out her own handmade lunch notes with bunny clips, placed one on Dazai’s desk that simply read: 'You seem less annoying lately. Don’t ruin it.'

He taped it beside his desk lamp, to show it to Kunikida and Atsushi later on.

Evening settled again like a slow tide. No drama anymore. No confrontation. Just a strange sense of continuity with the moderate passing of time.

When they finally left the office, Kunikida asked without looking directly to Dazai, “Dinner?”

Dazai answered with the same tone as him. “Only if you cook.”

“I always cook.”

“Then I’m trusting you with my life." He gave a delicate look to Kunikida, said under his breath "Again.”

The city was colder than usual like they said in the morning though wind was not too sharp, so it could be called a peaceful evening breeze.

Dazai’s new book Kunikida gave him was tucked under his arm. Kunikida’s hand brushed his sleeve accidentally. They didn't pull back their hands as both of their hands brushed as they walk. Just the quiet acceptance of how ordinary things could be sacred.

••••••

The apartment greeted them in silence again, but it was a warmer one now—like the kind that waits knowingly in some way —rather than awkwardly. The cold had lessened slightly by the time they stepped in, or perhaps it just felt that way. Dazai slipped off his coat in a fluid motion and dropped it over the arm of the couch as if he’d been doing it for years, while Kunikida, more meticulous, took Dazai's and hung up both by the door with practiced precision.

“Do you want tea first or should we—”

“Dinner,” Dazai interrupted gently, toeing off his shoes and padding barefoot across the room with lazy grace.

“I’m starving and emotionally vulnerable, so naturally I need food.”

Kunikida didn't think Dazai would say this right away, with a small astonishment.

That earned the ghost of a smirk from Kunikida, when Dazai caught it he looked overly pleased and hopped up onto the counter, perching like a cat while Kunikida moved around the kitchen.

The domestic rhythm resumed effortlessly—Kunikida peeling vegetables with quick, efficient strokes, while Dazai picked at ingredients, made comments, and leaned in too close sometimes far too often. His elbow almost knocked over a bowl of chopped scallions at one point, but Kunikida caught it with practiced reflexes.

“You’re worse than a difficult kitchen ghost,” he muttered.

“Boo~” Dazai whispered theatrically into Kunikida’s ear, grinning. “Terrifying, aren’t I?”

“You’re going to get chopped like one of those scallions if you don’t sit still.”

Dazai did not sit still. Instead, he reached for the soy sauce bottle with intent to help—though “help” was a generous term here.

The cap was loose, and before Kunikida could warn him, the bottle tipped, spilling across the counter and down Dazai’s front in a single traitorous splash. At least the bottle was empty half way.

Dazai blinked.

Kunikida’s jaw tensed audibly.

“…I,” Dazai began, with far too much fake dignity for someone who now smelled like umami disaster, “am tragically injured. Mourning attire required.”

Kunikida sighed, deep and long-suffering, before setting the knife down and grabbing a cloth.

“Come on.”

Dazai followed him obediently for a few steps to the bathroom, still patting dramatically at his stained shirt. Kunikida led him there without a word and turned on the tap, checking the temperature with his fingers before wordlessly gesturing for Dazai to get undressed and sit on the edge of the tub. Dazai did all of this carefully, his expression lost it's down feel was a mix of smugness and mild curiosity now.

Kunikida kneeled, dampened a clean towel, and began gently wiping the soy sauce from Dazai’s skin—starting at the collarbone, down his arms. His movements were methodical yet not distant. His fingers pressed firmly, occasionally pausing to undo the bandages while he put on the new ones for the ones that is now all of soy sauce. He rinsed the bandages and his skin, his body , never quite meeting Dazai’s eyes.

“You know,” Dazai murmured, watching him, “this feels a lot like a scene from one of those overly romantic films you pretend not to watch.” he was trying to lighten up Kunikida's mood with his daily tease sinc ehe also realized Kunikida was a little bit down today.

“I don’t watch romantic films that much,” Kunikida muttered.

“You will now.”

The cleaning slowed. For a second, the only sound was water dripping from the cloth back into the sink. Kunikida was almost done with the general cleaning of the sauce. He exhaled through his nose and handed him a folded spare shirt that looks like Dazai's casual one and a pair of old but clean dark colored casual pants, soft cotton and rarely used.

“These should fit. Just—don’t ruin them.”

Dazai smiled quietly as he watched Kunikida placed the clothes on a dry space near to bathub. And dazai retreated into the other room to change while Kunikida probably was cleaning up the mess in the kitchen.

When Dazai returned, barefoot again and wearing Kunikida’s spare shirt, it hung slightly loose on him, sleeves rolled up once and barely not drifting over his wrists. The pants were just a little short at the ankle it was understandable since it was the older ones—almost charmingly so. Kunikida glanced up once and stopped, mid-slice.

“You look…”

“Like I’m ready to do taxes together?” Dazai offered, twirling once for effect.

Kunikida pressed his lips together thinking what to say.
"Kind of domestic.”

Dazai tilted his head. “That sounds suspiciously like a compliment for me to stay.”

“It—”

“It sounded like one.”

“You’re delusional.”

“But it was cute,” Dazai said, stepping closer, “and sincere, that’s what matters.”

Kunikida turned back to the food, cheeks faintly colored, the pink hue fading quickly.
“You’re impossible.”

“You already said that today.”

“I meant it both times.”

Dazai didn’t argue he just laughed. Instead, he hovered near again, brushing his shoulder against Kunikida’s once—just once. Dinner continued with an odd ease after that. They stood side by side, Kunikida stirring, Dazai setting the table, somehow knowing where everything was even though he’d never looked before. And it felt, quietly and oddly, like something they are getting used to.

Maybe they already had.

Dinner ended very softly, like a scene that didn’t want to call attention to its own ending. The clink of dishes and the gentle hush of running water filled the kitchen next. Dazai rolled up the sleeves of Kunikida’s shirt for it to do not get water splashes all over —a gesture that somehow made him look even more at home— and stood beside him at the sink. Kunikida washed; Dazai dried.

“You’re surprisingly efficient at this, especially today" Kunikida noted without looking over. Dazai was more focused since he was in the depths of his own thoughts.

“I’ve been doing chores for years,” Dazai replied, towel in hand. “I just rarely get caught.”

"I do not believe this." Kunikida gave a real smirk this time as he shaked his mind like a "no".

The warmth between them stayed present in the space they occupied so naturally. After the last bowl was stacked away, they drifted into the living room like the moment had already planned it for them.

Dazai flopped lazily onto the couch, his still-damp hair settling into soft waves over his shoulders, air drying as it always did. Kunikida chose to sit close to him in the same couch, Dazai's book already on the table, its cover folded just slightly from regular use. Kunikida usually used the armchair for no distraction whatsoever, but Dazai was a part of the plan today too.

They sat in the silent whispers of the book pages.

Dazai adjusted himself, then reached for the book Kunikida had given him earlier—the one on utilitarian urban design.

He cracked it open with mild suspicion, but his eyes started tracking the first paragraph with an unexpected steadiness. Kunikida watched for a moment to see if he is really interested in it or not, then returned to his own reading of the book they traded, Dazai's suicide book simply. After a few minutes, he spoke again.

“You can read my ideals, if you'd like,” he said, glancing up from his pages. Kunikida looked like he thought about it for a while.

“They're in the notebook. Top drawer of the desk.”

Dazai paused. He didn’t say anything at first, but then gave a single nod. “Okay.” he looked quite excited but not like he was enjoying this since Kunikida was already letting him.

As he rose to fetch the notebook, Kunikida’s own eyes shifted—downward, toward the book Dazai always carried with him. It rested now on the edge of the low table, half-hidden beneath a coaster. Kunikida reached for it gently, as if touching something sacred, then opened it without ceremony but with care.

Inside, scribbled between precise columns and sarcastic sketches, were the infamous entries.

“Number 16: I do not want to die in my sleep. You don’t even know it’s happening. Not very poetic. Not very peaceful, either.”

“25. Drowning is dramatic, but I’d prefer not to end up bloated or unrecognizable. Bad for my aesthetic. If I am going to do this I need to take abeautiful someone with me!”

“69. Falling off a building has flair. But not if it's a bank. No one wants their last view to be capitalism instead of something better, it would be so funny yet so miserable.”

Each line was Dazai in essence—darkly humorous, painfully honest, and pierced with a clarity that made Kunikida’s throat tighten unexpectedly.

He flipped a few more pages until a shift in tone caught him. A page not like the others.

"The best one would be something deep, someone like Odasaku could forgive me for."

It wasn’t numbered. It wasn’t even phrased like an option. Just a quiet, messy thought slipped into the margins like a note he hadn’t meant to leave in the blank spaces between the pages.

Kunikida looked up immediately, instinctually, gaze searching.

Across the couch, Dazai had settled again, curled into the corner of it like yesterday, his knees pulled slightly up as he read from Kunikida’s notebook. The dim light from outside and small lamps in the room spilled across his face, warm and low—and for a second, he looked like someone entirely different. Or maybe someone that is almost never seen but always felt Dazai could be like too.

Dazai's fingers brushed over the page delicately, and when he turned it, he stilled. The notebook had a section for personal reflections, and there under a tab labeled Associates: Reflections & Ideals—was a passage bearing his own name.

The words were measured, carefully written as all things Kunikida documented, but one part drew his eye instantly:

“Dazai is cunning, chaotic, always unpredictable in a predictable way. And yet… under it all, someone who seeks order more desperately, than he let us see. I believe he values life more than he realizes, yet he is chosing to quit. I believe Oda Sakunosuke once saw the same.”

The sentence struck him not for the words—but for the name of course. Odasaku.

Seeing it here, in Kunikida’s notebook, researched and written thoughtfully, pulled something inside him taut.

And then, he noticed the clothes he wore.

The soft cotton pants, familiar in their fabric. The loose shirt that still carried the faintest scent of tea leaves and notebook pages.

They were nearly identical to the kind Oda used to wear just the colir of the shirt and the tone of the pants were different. That unassuming, simple comfort. He hadn’t realized it when he wore it but now he couldn’t unsee it.

His throat tightened—but not enough to draw alarm.

He didn’t cry. Not quite. But something shifted in his posture—his breathing slowed, and his voice, when it came again, was low and unsteady at the edges.

“…Let’s go for a walk,” Dazai said, closing the notebook softly.

Kunikida, who had seen the exact moment the light changed behind Dazai’s eyes, simply nodded.

He didn’t press. Didn’t question, he was honestly glad that Dazai is choosing to cope instead of escaping.

Kunikida just stood and rearranged his attire, reached for his coat that is a part of his suit but he rarely wore, and followed Dazai.

••••••

The streets of Yokohama were hushed beneath the midnight hour, bathed in the dull gold glow of streetlamps and the occasional hum of a vending machine buzzing to no one in particular. A long time for sure passed reading and getting lost in the thoughts of each other at home, and now their footsteps echoed in sync but unhurried, carving a silent path through the stillness of the city.

The sky above was cloudless—stars scattered faintly, the river breathing nearby like a sleeping beast beneath its silver sheen.

Dazai didn’t say anything at first. He just walked beside Kunikida, shoulders slouched slightly forward, hands intentionally buried in the oversized sleeves of the shirt Kunikida gave him. His hair had dried into a soft mess, curling gently at the ends, framing his face in changing shadows.

Kunikida wore his usual vest and slacks—his uniform look. But now, for the first time Dazai could remember, he had seen him with the jacket on too. Not buttoned, the fabric a light beige, almost identical in cut and color to the kind Odasaku used to wear on rare formal days. And maybe it shouldn’t have mattered any jacket could look like someone's... But it did matter for him especially in this moment.

The shape of him in that jacket. The slight sharpness of his chin. The quiet restraint in his steps. All of it—

It stirred something unsteady in him.

They eventually found a park. The iron gates were open, the path within dimly lit old lamps and the occasional flicker of distant river reflections. It was empty. Peacefully so. A narrow path bordered the river, and they walked it side by side.

No one said anything. There was nothing new to say, and everything unsaid already hung thick in the air.

Each carried the weight of the day in different ways. Kunikida, with his eyes flicking occasionally toward the river, likely cataloguing the day’s details, the mission, the moment he saw Dazai falter.

Dazai, with his shoulders drawing inward even more, trying not to think about how his fingers had started trembling minutes ago. About how the lines between memory and present were blurring again.

The river shimmered beside them, gentle waves folding into each other like quiet thoughts.

And then, the cold crept in.

It wasn't harsh. Just gradual—a slow chill that began in Dazai’s fingertips and crept up his arms. He hunched instinctively, pulling his arms tighter across his chest. Kunikida noticed.

Without a word, he stopped walking. Slid the jacket off his shoulders in one smooth movement. Held it out.

“Here,” he said simply.

Dazai didn’t reach for it at first.

“You’ll get cold,” he murmured, though his voice barely rose above the night air.

“I don’t mind,” Kunikida replied.

Still, Dazai hesitated. But eventually, he took the jacket. His fingers brushed against Kunikida’s as he did, and the warmth of the fabric struck him more sharply than it should have.

He pulled it on slowly.

It fit too well, it was a bit loose but it looked like it was this way intentionally.

The sleeves drooped slightly, the fabric heavy with warmth and familiarity. It hung off his frame the same way Oda’s used to. The way his had, back then. The illusion it created was too perfect—and the ache it sparked, far too familiar.

He walked on beside Kunikida, silent, eyes forward. But the thoughts curled tightly around his ribs like thread being pulled. Dazai held Kunikida's hand that brushed him.

Walking by the river with someone who carries his ideals like armor. Wearing a jacket that fits too much like a memory. Laughing in the same room, eating warm food, sharing books with Kunikida...

And he hadn’t earned any of it. Not really. He thought he did not deserve any of this after all the things he did and lived through—

The guilt arrived quietly, he been the person to care to much but never show it properly. This feeling was not yet stabbing—just heavy. But he slowly feel pressured in this river of emotions...

His throat tightened. He didn’t slow his pace. He didn’t make a sound. But a tear slipped free anyway, tracing down the curve of his cheek without drama or protest. Then another.

Kunikida didn’t say anything. But his head tilted the smallest fraction— enough to see. His eyes lingered on Dazai's face for a moment, then faced forward again.

They kept walking.

The river continued its soft ripple, the park around them held its breath.

And beneath the sound of the world, their wordless interactions became a moment of grief, and care, and something else still growing between their steps.

Dazai won't get the forgiveness he wants, never and will chase the emptiness, forever.

But they understood each other, just like when Kunikida understood Dazai during the entrance exam, when he challenged Kunikida to fight with his ideals. Now life was challenging Dazai to change his suicidial nature, and his pessimist side.

The quiet of the riverside deepened as they walked more and more, night wrapped around them like a childhood blanket filled with memories.

Eventually, the path curved near an old bench—worn at the edges but still steady—nestled beneath a sparse line of trees, overlooking the dark shimmer of the water. The kind of place meant for questioning heavy thoughts, to carry on and stand up.

Dazai slowed, the weight of the jacket, of the day, of these memories settling in his bones. Without needing to say anything, Kunikida followed his pace and sat beside him. The bench creaked under them.

The stillness in the air stretched. Kunikida didn’t rush it. He waited—hands resting near, gaze fixed forward, allowing Dazai the space to speak if he chose to. Just... holding the moment open without pushing...

Dazai’s hand twitched slightly between them.

Kunikida gently reached out, lacing their fingers together with no demand—just a quiet offer of steadiness.

And Dazai began, voice low and even, though fraying slightly at the edges:

“I saw what you wrote about me. In your notebook,” he said, still not looking directly at Kunikida.

His eyes stayed fixed on the water, shimmering like the past. “The line with Oda's name in it.” he couldn't bring himself to say "Odasaku" aloud.

Kunikida didn’t reply. He only listened.

“Two nights ago, when I was by the river… I wasn’t thinking about anything specific. At least, I told myself that,” Dazai continued. Kunikida was so glad he was finally speaking about his feelings.

“But I was. I was thinking about how wasted I’ve made everything. How all those suicide attempts— and they weren’t even real goals. Just... distractions from guilt that I still can’t name properly, just an escape I made up to escape from everything, life, emptiness and responsibility. I’m chasing a kind of forgiveness that either never existed… or never needed to exist in the first place, maybe...”

His voice cracked just faintly on that last part, and he paused to swallow the weight.

“But sometimes,” he said after a moment,

“the past hits harder than I think. Days like this. It sneaks in when I’m not looking or even thinking about it, I am used to burying it but" Kunikida was going to say "burying isn't a solution" but he waited Dazai's words to be over first.

"When someone gives me warm food or hands me a book I didn’t ask for just like Oda did. When I wear a jacket that fits too much like a memory too, when I feel I am just aimlessly wandering, when I do not feel everything even exists for real... but I do nothing, cannot help but care about everyhting...”

He exhaled shakily, a sad kind of laugh he hid, catching in his throat.

“It made me remember the breeze I used to feel on my skin when I’d walk to Lupin. Back when I thought I was doing something to chase a meaning I won't find, before everything fell apart again of course, I knew this would happen from the beginning but... this is what I told myself too always, but... I am tired of seeing nothing worthy yet still trying.

"...trying is harder when you have nowhere to go with it... at least I can make Oda's death wish come true, this is something dear to me but still... I can't bring myself to think postively about anything i am doing I... am... everything I ever wanted is always..."

He looked down then, as if a bit disgusted and embarrassed by the how the shape of his own honesty formed just now.

But before he could retract into himself, he felt Kunikida shift again beside him. A sudden warmth wrapped around him—arms, firm and real, pulling him into a hug.

“It’s okay to feel like this,” Kunikida murmured into his shoulder, voice firm but quiet, he was trying his best to act natural to do not ruin the conversation.

“I’m here. As long as you want. You know that, right?” he didn't know what he could say better, but as he read before somewhere letting people go through it is better to interrupt them to feel better...

Dazai let out a laugh, breathy, damp cheeks with quiet few tears... His arms lifted slowly to return the hug. His cheek pressed against Kunikida’s shoulder, feeling the warmth, the steady rise and fall of breath, and the faint scent of citrus, pen ink and clean fabric smells of flowers in his fabric softener too.

It was comforting to him now, grounding bim with peace, he could have got used to that.

And Dazai thought—If I think like that...

I will lose this too. One day may come that Kunikida will die from his ideals... He was lucky simce now but what if...

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

When he finally looked up, Kunikida’s eyes were on him—steadily caring, unwavering, candid.

The river's shimmer behind them, casted a reflection of the stars above like another sky resting just beneath their feet.

Dazai gazed at it still in Kunikida's arms, thoughtful. The water moved in waves that rippled like time itself, and he let his thoughts drift away.

Life… it’s like this river, he mused internally.

Always moving, always reflecting, never the same twice but always reflecting the same light of future and the past...

And yet, we choose return to it. To the same banks, the same breezes we carry oyr memories in...

Hoping it forgives us for who we were the last time we stood here.

He blinked once. Slowly.

“Should we lay on the grass?” he asked aloud, his voice softer now. Like he didn’t want to scare both of their healing stillness away.

Kunikida blinked. His immediate thought was Dazai. Normally maybe he could say something like the risk of dew and dirt ruining the hem of his suit forever like the soy sauce did to Dazai's outfit today, but that thought would be also dissolved almost instantly too...

Dazai...
he was feeling so down and as a partner and that everything—I should be by his side...— Kunikida thought. Through whatever he is going through, I will be by his side...

Because this was Dazai. Raw and open in a way few had ever seen him too.

And this moment—this—was now a part of his ideals, worth more than hundred suits he wouldn't mind getting dirty at all.

“…Alright,” Kunikida said, exhaling through his nose, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

They moved to the patch of open grass beside the bench. The earth laid under was cool but not damp, the stars above stretched wide like a quiet witnesses. They laid down beside each other, shoulders barely brushing, breath syncing again.

For a long while, they just watched the sky.

Then—unexpectedly—a streak of silver fire cut across the dark.

A shooting star.

Kunikida’s instinct was immediate when he realized Dazai didn't show it—he turned to point it out to Dazai thinking it would make him feel better too, nudging him lightly with his shoulder.

But there was no reply.

He looked.

Dazai had fallen asleep.

Breathing softly, face turned toward the sky, a single tear still clinging to the edge of his lashes, catching the starlight like a tiny crystal. His talented partner... He was beautiful. His feelings were visible.

Kunikida didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He just looked at him.

And then, quietly, with a voice nearly swallowed by the stars above:

“You’re just like that shooting star…"

"...Bright and beautiful and you make wishes come true, with your thoughtfullness you try to hide, your creative and practocal thinking, your raw emotions..."

"—sometimes even without meaning to. You’re many things that I learned to accept, many ideals that I conflict yet adored...

"...rare, considerate, annoying in a undeniably unique too." Kunikida vaguely smiled, it had a shared pain inside it too.

"Fleeting too maybe…”

He paused, his throat tightening as his eyes also watered.

He kept his tone the usual, just a little bit softer and lighter.

“…But I’ll be here, Dazai. I’ll keep standing under this sky with you, as long as it takes. Nothing is going anywhere and you know, I keep my promises..."

"I’ll be the one who helps you shine. Not just once like a shooting star. Not just for a moment. For a life that I could cherish you being by my side...”

His words drifted off into the dark.

Kunikida got closer to Dazai and wrapped him around his arms gently putting the jacket on top of him, covering his upper half, gave him a very embrassing short kiss on the lips, after a tear drop fallen to Dazai's cheek.

He stayed beside him, simply...

And somewhere in the grass, Dazai shifted closer in his sleep. As the jacket covered him, he looked so hurt yet peaceful... Kunikida wrapped him tighter this time, afraid of losing him... He won't let it happen...

They will heal together...

hopefully forever.