Chapter Text
The tension in the air was thick and palpable, yet ever so brittle that it could snap, and if it didn’t, Dazai felt that he could take its place and do just exactly that.
The Agency members sat in knee-deep silence, all gathered around the conference table. No one spoke. What was there to even say?
In no way would platitudes and reassurances, paired with empty promises that everything would be just fine, cut it.
Not when they knew their inevitable fate-
One member, amongst all of them (save Yosano and the President himself), would be transferred to the Port Mafia as a part of the deal they struck.
A week ago, said reassurances was all everyone could be saying, anything to ease the incremental dread that stood tall and prominent between them, anything to go back to the point where they were all carefree, happy, even.
”We’re just waiting on two more people.” Fukuzawa’s voice cut through the silence like a refined katana, but Dazai paid no mind, already knuckles deep in his own stupor.
Thoughts wracked through his brain at a rapid pace, filled with countless possibilities of what would Mori’s final decision come to, in pursuit of finding the best possible decision that could lead to the best outcome-
And, oh, was he dreading it.
Dazai felt a pair of very familiar eyes practically boring into his soul from across the table. He looked up. Emerald green orbs met hazel ones, murky and unfocused, and locked eye-contact, both sides unblinking. A few moments later, Dazai sighed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, succumbing to the raven’s unrelenting stare— he knew that look, damn Ranpo and his annoyingly accurate clairvoyance, it was almost like he could read minds. Creepy.
The brunet opened his eyes, peering to his right at the similarly past Port Mafia operative that sat next to him, Yosano, who was seated comfortably, seemingly calm on a surface level, now actually informed that she would, in fact, be exempted from the deal, for Fukuzawa couldn’t afford losing such an asset, as well as not being able to let her go back to her dark past, not after saving her from such place.
He hummed, happy for her, happy that she’d (hopefully) never have to experience the terrors that went down in that hellhole where she was under Mori’s care ever again.
Suddenly, Dazai felt an elbow nudge him. He turned his attention to his left, where his one and only, very much concerned, mentee was seated, all fidgety and nervous, picking at his fingers and everything. The brunet let out a chuckle, light and airy, a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere, upon sensing his mentee’s unease.
”….Will you be okay, Dazai-san?” Atsushi whispered from beside him. Ah, so that’s what it was about. Dazai internally laughed at how genuine Atsushi sounded, how deep the kindness he held ran through his blood (perhaps it was all just a front, one last hint of empathy as a farewell gift before he bid them all goodbye).
“I’ll be just fine,” Dazai smiled, though the smile never quite reached his eyes.
Just before Atsushi was about to make a protest regarding his blatant lie, a ring of a bell and the soft click of a door being opened, chimed through the office, signalling the arrival of the very two people all of them were waiting on.
Heavy footsteps, followed by a lighter pair, seemed to reverberate through the entire office like a cymbal, gradually increasing in volume and cueing their predestined entry to the conference room, the pitter-patter of their shoes resembling a ticking time bomb that would go off at any moment.
Everything was so silent, so silent to a point where you could hear even a pin drop.
Atsushi straightened up visibly, eyes flickering between the newcomers and Dazai as they walked in.
Ranpo looked on, seemingly indifferent even with the newcomers, only adjusting his glasses.
Kunikida’s gaze narrowed and he cleared his throat, picking up his pen and notebook.
Kyouka, sitting beside Atsushi, reached for his hand in search of comfort, which the boy took without much thinking, shooting her a reassuring smile.
Yosano’s breath hitched and caught in her throat, her hands balling up into fists as they rested on her lap.
Dazai looked away from all the Agency members, opting to look up at the two newcomers.
The two came to a halt right under the door frame, their presence practically looming over the conference room as they stood with an air of coolness. Mori subtly nodded to the Agency’s President, who remained seated, whereas Kouyou only bowed shallowly, eyes flickering around the room in search of anything that could be deemed a threat.
Dazai blinked. Mori was staring at him, cryptic, before he broke out into a subtle smirk.
His blood ran cold.
That look was oh, so familiar, and he knew—oh, he knew, that man was up to no good.
Mori took his seat at the end of the conference table, nearest to the door where he entered from, directly opposite to where Fukuzawa was seated. Kouyou took the nearest seat to him, poised elegantly as always. Dazai’s eyes followed each and every movement made by the two, especially Mori’s, and he couldn’t help but notice that Mori’s gaze on him never really yielded.
Dazai stiffened in his seat, shooting Mori an equally disturbing smile in hopes to get the Port Mafia boss off his back, controlling his heartbeat (which he noticed had been beating at quite a quick rate—perhaps out of fear…? No, it couldn’t be…) to a steady pace.
Fukuzawa cleared his throat, diverting Dazai’s attention away from the Port Mafia boss, “Well, now that everyone’s here. Let’s get started.”
”Indeed, let’s get this over with pronto. I do have some matters to attend to later on, so it’d be best if we finish this as soon as possible.” Mori chimed in, taking out documents and files that would undoubtedly be brought up later on.
That start of the conference had been quite a bore, if Dazai said so himself. It was filled with nothing but the discussion of terms and conditions, and honestly, Dazai hadn’t been paying a single bit of attention to the conference. Somewhere leaning towards the middle-end of the conference, his fingers edged towards the bandages on his wrist, lightly picking at the edges out of pure boredom—a subconscious habit he had picked up since who knows when. Just as he was about to scratch at the off-white gauze in an attempt to smooth the itch underneath, Yosano’s hand from beside him moved his hand away, lightly smacking it to get him to stop.
Dazai pouted at Yosano, tempted to start whining about how she should mind her own business, but was met with a quiet scolding of how it’d irritate and disrupt the pending healing process of the injuries he’d sustained underneath, new and old ones alike.
Yosano was just about to go into this rampant rant about how Dazai should get rid of that god-forsaken habit of his, and how he would be better off listening to her advice regarding these things, being a certified doctor who just wanted the best for her co-worker, before his gaze fell towards Mori, who seemed quite happy at the fact that it had reached the near-end of the conference, which just-so-happened to be the time for him to choose which member of the Agency would be transferred to the Port Mafia.
The obnoxious voice of the Port Mafia’s boss rang through the room, filled with some sort of sadistic giddiness that Dazai would never be able to tolerate without shooting him an eye roll at the very least.
Dazai’s eyes narrowed, knowing that nothing good would come out of this.
“It seems that we’ve reached the end of this meeting,” Mori’s foot tapped against the carpeted floors, glancing up at the clock that hung on the wall opposite to him, “I suppose I’ll make my final decision before taking my leave.”
If the room wasn’t silent before, then it sure was now.
….
“Dazai, The Port Mafia is delighted to welcome you back home. It is a pleasure to have you with us again.”
It was then that Dazai’s world crumbled right before his very eyes.
His heartbeat stilled, then his heart started thudding in his chest. He couldn't breathe, almost like he was inhaling through a narrow tube. His head was reeling—was the room spinning? His hands started shaking uncontrollably. He balled them up into fists in an attempt to control the shivers that wracked through his body. He wanted to scream, speak, anything—anything that would get him out of this place, but nothing came out. Every bone in his body screamed at him to run, but he stayed sat, only able to muster a tremulous smile as he let out a shaky exhale through his teeth.
Dazai felt sick to his stomach. How long had it been since he felt like this? How long had it been since he felt so utterly despaired? So hopeless that he just wanted to crawl into a hole and die?
All eyes were on him, blatantly staring with looks of pity. In the background, Dazai could hear Yosano lashing out at the Port Mafia boss from beside him, as well as distant chitter-chatter. Atsushi seemed to have gone completely silent, had he? Dazai couldn’t tell. He was too focused on the feeling of his stomach churning.
The conference room suddenly felt too small. Or maybe it was just the way the walls seemed to lean in, closer with every breath. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry wasps, and the air felt thick—thicker than it should. Dazai’s throat tightened uncomfortably.
His chest continued to tighten the more they stared, the more they pitied him, and the more Mori stared at him with that look in his eyes, that familiar, creeping vice that made him want to puke.
He tried to focus on Yosano’s voice, loud and booming as she went on a diatribe against Mori—how cruel he was for having Dazai be put through exactly what made him leave once again, her words laced with concern and worry (oh, what a benevolent saint she was, advocating for the irreparably nihilistic, tainted sinner he was, just so he could have another chance at fulfilling Oda’s death wish for him to become a good man). Dazai tried to focus on that and regulate his breathing just like Yosano had taught him to, he really did! But the words only seemed to blur together, meaningless syllables swimming in a soup of static.
A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. His vision continued to tunnel, the edges of the room warping like he was looking through a fish-eye lens. His throat tightened, not with emotion, but with the unmistakable swell of nausea.
It hit harder than expected.
Dazai’s stomach lurched, a sickly twist like something was trying to crawl out of him. Saliva flooded his mouth—warm, metallic, and heavy. His chair scraped the floor loudly as he stood.
Dazai said not a word as he left the conference room. Before he walked out, he looked back, only to be met with the sight of Mori staring at him, looking on with an amused smile.
His hands flew to his mouth; he choked, then rushed towards the bathroom.
No one made an attempt to stop him.
Dazai stumbled along the hallway, one hand gripping his stomach and the other trailing along the wall for balance. His heels clicked too loudly on the tile, mismatched with the frantic beat of his heart. The bathroom door was mercifully close. He pushed into the tiny stall, dropped to his knees, and barely got the lid up in time.
The nausea overwhelmed him, not just a simple retch but a full-body betrayal. His muscles clenched violently (Dazai was no stranger to throwing up, but he still hadn’t gotten used to that god-awful sensation), forcing up everything he’d eaten (he was starting to regret eating food today—damn Yosano for saying that eating full meals would be good for him, clearly if she hadn’t said that, this wouldn’t have happened in the first place— he should’ve just stuck with the single, plain-ole canned crab like usual). His fingers trembled around the rim of the cold porcelain. Tears pricked in his eyes—not from the hopelessness and despair that overflowed and took over his body, but from the strain, the bitter sting of bile in his throat.
When it was over, he sat back on his heels, panting, sweating and shaking. The room still spun. Dazai’s heart still raced (his attempt at controlling his heartbeat miserably failing). But, hey, at least the pressure in his gut had eased.
He closed his eyes, forehead resting against the stall wall, and silently cursed himself through chattering teeth as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Sure, the overwhelming feeling of nausea taking over his body had now subsided, but the utter dread of being transferred to the Port Mafia and the anxiousness of having to work under Mori again in a week’s time (he sighed at the idea of having time to prepare for his departure, really, he just wanted to get this whole thing over with—if he had to hear even one person saying how ‘sorry’ they were for him—he was going to lose it, because no matter how many ‘sorrys’ and how much pity he’d receive, it still never change Mori’s decision, never reverse time back to when all his worries were reduced to zero where he could relish in the freedom of working with the Agency).
His breath came out in short, ragged puffs, his hand prickling with an indescribable need to soothe the itch beneath his skin.
Ah… to hell with Yosano’s advice.
~ ~ ~ (SH TW! Scroll to the next ‘~ ~ ~’ if you’re uncomfortable)
Dazai's nails clawed into his arm, slicing through the tension that choked him. A sudden rush of air filled his lungs. He gasped, feeling the tightness in his throat finally began to unravel, allowing him to breathe—just a taste, but enough to re-ignite the dimmed spark within him once more.
He’d never felt so alive—so…human, in this long.
The scratchy surface of the gauze continued to scrape at his skin quite ineptly in a rather sad attempt to abrade skin through the cotton fabric ; impatience filled his mind with a fervent need to fill his mind with nothing but the sensation of bitten fingernails clawing into jagged skin and the sight of reopening past scars, littered across his arm in protruding white streaks, until red was splattered all across the white tiled floors, salient like a red rose in the midst of snow.
Frantic to chase more of that temporary relief, he pulled the end of the bandages of his left arm with one yank, watching as they fell to the floor in a heap, piling on top of one another like a mount of pure, white snow.
He leaned against the wall for leverage as he stood up, in a daze and his mind hazy. Now stood up, he gripped both sides of the sink with shaky hands, spots dotting his vision. A wave of vertigo crashed through him just as another wave of nausea did. He gagged, but swallowed the stomach acid that surfaced and refluxed into his esophagus. His hand reached for the cupboard overhead, where all the medical equipment was stashed and safely tucked away. His fingers clasped around the kit, pulling it down from its place on the shelf and letting gravity do the work as the first-aid box hit the countertop with a loud thump. Dazai was sure that the agency members (if they were finished with the meeting over the course of when he was gone) could’ve heard. His fingers fumbled fruitlessly with the zipper momentarily, before finally getting the darn thing open. Dazai grinned to himself proudly.
He stared at the pair of medical scissors that laid innocently inside, watching with disdain as even it—an object, seemed to be judging him. The metal gleamed beneath the artificial lighting, white and bright—too bright… Dazai blinked away, rubbing his now sore eyes whilst afterimages of the light floated around his vision. He turned his attention back to the pair of scissors, opened to their maximum extent with the blades spread as far apart as the pivot allowed. His fingers, save the thumb, gripped onto the blade of said scissors, his thumb resting on the notch at the intersection. Dazai brought the sharp edge to his wrist with quivering hands, resting on it as he took in a shaky exhale, and—
~ ~ ~ (End of TW)
He couldn’t do it.
Dazai threw the pair of scissors against the wall behind him with force, listening on as they clattered onto the floor with a pathetic clank.
He was mad.
Not mad at the Agency for making the deal, not mad at Mori for electing him for the transfer, but mad at himself. Mad at himself for being such a coward. For not being able to commit to something as trivial as this, not being able to pull through. He had done this time and time again, what was different?
Guilt suddenly hit him like a freight train, clawing at his throat like a vice. Dazai wanted to muster up something—words, courage, anything. But he couldn’t even find the strength in him to do such a thing. Weak.
Dazai stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He felt pathetic, absolutely and utterly pathetic. Was this the person he had become? Was this the demon prodigy that achieved results through pure cunningness and wits? Because all that he saw in his reflection at that moment was his 14-year-old self staring right back at him with disappointment, watching as his chance of fulfilling his sole purpose of living—to become a good person— dissipated right before his very eyes, because no matter what sort of thing he did, no matter what he does, it's sure to be a failure, just a final coating applied to his shame.
The arms that gripped onto the edge of the sink lost its strength in all entirety, followed by his legs giving out—he collapsed to the floor limply, like a rag doll.
Dazai sat there, seated on the floor with his legs folded, calves on his sides, He looked at his hands, trembling with vigor, as he brought them up to his hair, fingers running through the dark locks. Something wet dripped down to his vest, staining the grey fabric a darker hue ; Dazai looked up, was there a leak in the ceiling? Only to find nothing. He brought his hand up to cheek to cup it in his hand. Droplets of water seemed to cascade down it when he did so—he was crying…? No, that couldn’t be it. Fiends like him could never experience such visceral emotions.
Maybe Odasaku was right, no matter whether he was in the side of the light or dark, nothing beyond his expectations could happen, and this was what he expected all along—to return home to the darkness, where he always belonged.
A sudden knock resonated through the door of the bathroom stall, causing Dazai to flinch violently as he scrambled to put the medical scissors back into the first-aid box and back into where it originally sat in the overhead cupboard.
“Dazai-san… Are you okay? Uhm…the meeting is over, you can come out now…” Atsushi’s muffled voice sounded from the other side, clearly laced with concern.
“Oh, I'm fine. Why wouldn’t I be, silly Atsushi-kun?” Dazai wiped his tears, swallowing the hiccups that threatened to spill. He forced out a chuckle in an attempt to reassure him, which in turn only ended up sounding bittersweet, “It’s just a stomach bug, must’ve been something I ate yesterday. You know Yosano-sensei, always forcing me to eat and try out new things.”
“It’s for your own good,” Atsushi mumbled as he trailed off, not quite knowing what to say, “Do I need to inform the President you’re feeling sick so you can go home and rest up?”
Dazai hummed, quietly sniffling and swallowing down any more cries that threatened to spill, he cleared his throat, “Yeah, I think that’s for the best. Thanks a ton, Atsushi-kun, I can always count on you.”
”It’s really no problem! And, uhm… if you ever need someone to talk to, by the way… I—no, we’re always up for it, Dazai-san.” Atsushi mumbled consolingly.
Dazai could almost roll his eyes at that, for whenever someone said something along the lines of that, it’d be nothing but empty words and promises to appear polite without substance. Dazai stayed silent as he reached out for the heap of used bandages on the floor, rebandaging his arm, streaked with red lines and indented fingernail prints from when he dug his fingers into his arm and scratched it with fervor.
Atsushi sighed from the other side of the door, but didn’t force Dazai to reply, “The Agency is here for you, no matter what happens—remember that, Dazai-san.”
Footsteps from outside the door echoed on the carpeted floor outside in the main office, the sound growing fainter as it drifted away, leaving Dazai with nothing but the sound of utter silence, accompanied by nothing but the noise of heavy, unsteady breaths.