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The private banquet room of one of Yokohama’s better restaurants smelled of grilled fish, shoyu, and too much sake. A long lacquered table stretched between two factions who, under normal circumstances, would’ve been trading bullets instead of toasts.
Tonight, though, the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia had been ordered by Fukuzawa and Mori both to share a celebratory meal after jointly dismantling Fyodor’s latest scheme.
It was… going about as smoothly as one might expect.
Wine bottles and sake carafes cluttered the center of the table. Kunikida was three seats away from Dazai to limit “mishaps.” Atsushi and Kyouka were quietly demolishing a plate of gyoza, with Kenji happily sharing the story of how he “punched the bad man so hard he fell into the river” to a bemused Gin.
On the Mafia’s side, Chuuya was slouched in his seat, his jacket off, tie hanging loose, a half-empty bottle of sake in front of him. He’d been matching Ranpo drink for drink, which was saying something for Ranpo, whose usually more interested in a bottle of soda than soju. And the conversation between the two had gotten steadily louder.
“…and you,” Chuuya was saying, pointing his sake cup at Ranpo, “were absolutely useless when we were stuck in that goddamn Book together.”
Ranpo snorted into his umeshu. “Useless? Please. I solved it faster than your tiny brain could even process the concept of a plot twist.”
Chuuya’s cheeks were already flushed from the alcohol. “You solved nothing. I had to-”
“You had to?” Ranpo leaned forward, elbows on the table, grinning like a fox. “You were panicking. If I hadn’t been there, you’d have just stood around looking dramatic and swearing.”
“Better than sitting there eating sweets like a kid at recess,” Chuuya shot back.
They were loud enough now that conversation along the table had begun to die down, attention tilting toward the brewing argument.
“Oh please,” Ranpo said. “You just can’t stand that I’m better at this job without even using an ability.”
Chuuya barked a laugh. “Without using an- oh, right, because you don’t have one. Isn’t that your big little secret, Edogawa? The ‘world’s greatest detective’ is just a regular guy with a sugar addiction.”
There was a beat of silence... half the Agency froze, half the Mafia smirked. Atsushi looked between them, wide-eyed.
Ranpo blinked, then grinned wider. “Oh, is that the game we’re playing? Fine. You’re short. And you’re an insecure gay man with so much pent-up rage I’m surprised you haven’t punched yourself into orbit yet.”
The table collectively inhaled.
Chuuya slammed his cup down, eyes widening. “I’m not-! That’s... you can’t just-”
Ranpo tilted his head. “Can’t just what? Say what everyone already figured out three drinks ago?”
“I’m not!” Chuuya started, then stopped, the words tangling. “It’s not... I mean- hell, it’s not like-” He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
From halfway down the table, Dazai had gone very still. “Chuuya…” His tone was a mix of surprise and something unreadable. “You’ve been keeping secrets from your partner?”
“Shut the hell up, Dazai,” Chuuya said, jabbing a finger in his direction. “This isn’t about you.”
“Oh, but it’s fascinating,” Dazai said with a wolfish grin. “So many years of insults and now I have context.”
Mori chuckled into his wine, not looking up. Fukuzawa raised a brow but said nothing.
On the Agency side, Kunikida cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. Atsushi looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. Yosano just smirked into her sake, while Naomi was clearly texting someone under the table.
Kenji, oblivious, grinned at Chuuya. “I think it’s nice you can like whoever you want!”
Chuuya groaned again, grabbing his sake and drinking straight from the bottle. “I hate all of you,” he muttered.
Ranpo leaned back in his chair, looking entirely satisfied. “Love you too, short stack.”
----
The party eventually broke up into smaller groups; the natural migration of mixed factions toward their own. Outside the restaurant, the night air was cool, and the hum of distant traffic filled the pauses.
Near the entrance, Dazai stood with Atsushi and Kunikida.
“Don’t make a thing out of it,” Dazai said mildly, watching Chuuya talk with Kouyou a few steps away. “He’s not going to want pity, and he’ll definitely punch you if you get weird about it.”
“I’m not—” Atsushi began, then stopped. “I was just… surprised.”
“People are full of surprises,” Dazai said. His grin didn’t reach his eyes. “Take it from me.”
Kunikida exhaled through his nose. “Professionalism comes first. What he does outside of work is irrelevant — unless it causes problems.”
Dazai smirked. “Oh, trust me. It only causes problems for him. And occasionally me, but that’s different.”
Meanwhile, on the Mafia side of the street, Chuuya was lighting a cigarette when Ranpo wandered up, still munching a candy.
“No hard feelings,” Ranpo said breezily.
Chuuya gave him a flat look. “You called me short and outed me in front of two organizations.”
Ranpo shrugged. “You outed me first. Fair’s fair.”
“That wasn’t really outing though, you dumb cun-” Chuuya stopped, sighed, and took a drag. “You’re lucky we’re drunk.”
“We’re friends,” Ranpo corrected. “Well, in a way. And you’ll thank me later when you realize no one cares as much as you think they do.”
Chuuya flicked ash onto the pavement. “They care enough.”
“Maybe,” Ranpo said. “But at least now you don’t have to waste energy hiding it from Dazai. You know he’s of that sort too, right?”
Chuuya froze, then glanced sharply at Ranpo. “…He told you that?”
“No,” Ranpo said with a smirk. “I’m the world’s greatest detective. I figured it out.”
From across the street, Dazai called, “Oi, Chuuya~ stop fighting and let’s go!”
Chuuya muttered something in French under his breath, flicked his cigarette away, and started walking. Ranpo just grinned and popped another candy into his mouth.
----
The harbour smelled like last night’s rain; metallic, clean, and a little like rust. Crates sat in careful stacks; gulls heckled the water. Chuuya leaned against a bollard with a cigarette and a headache, cap pulled low. He’d told himself he came here to clear his head, not to avoid anyone. Both were lies.
Footsteps. Dazai’s coat appeared in his periphery before the man did, flaring like it had its own personality. A paper bag dangled from his hand, grease blooming through the bottom where pastries had decided gravity was a suggestion.
“Good morning, Shorty,” Dazai sang, obnoxiously cheerful. “I brought breakfast and judgment.”
Chuuya didn’t look up. “If you brought a shovel, dig your own grave. Saves time.”
Dazai stopped at a respectful distance—three steps away, an old habit from fights past—and squinted like the sun offended him. “So.” He drew the word out until it had opinions. “Last night.”
“Pass.”
“Oh, we’re not passing.” Dazai raised the paper bag as if to toast. “Because apparently, and I cannot emphasize this enough, you like men.” He clapped a hand to his chest in theatrical horror. “I’m devastated. Years of partnership and I didn’t know! We shared stakeouts! Elevators!”
Chuuya ground ash off the cigarette. “You’re doing that thing where you pretend to be human and fail.”
“No, no, let me process.” Dazai paced two dramatic steps. “The hats. The wine. The shoe collection. It was all there, like ominous foreshadowing, and I-fool that I am, missed it.”
Chuuya flicked him a look that could skin a fish. “You didn’t miss anything. You’re just being an ass.”
“Correct, but also: horrified.” Dazai put a hand to his mouth, eyes wide. “Think of the danger I’ve been in. What if all those times you punched me were, in fact, restrained acts of love?”
Chuuya’s cheek twitched. “Say that again and I’ll show you restrained.”
“See? Violence.” Dazai tutted. “Typical of an insecure gay man with pent-up rage—ah, who said that? Such insight.” He snapped his fingers. “Edogawa.”
Chuuya’s grip tightened. The cigarette’s ember brightened like a warning light. “He’s lucky I didn’t throw him in the bay.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
Chuuya exhaled smoke at the water. “Didn’t see the point during a public circus.”
“Then for the private circus?” Dazai leaned in a hair, all teeth. “Deny it for me, Chuuya. Tell me it was a drunk joke and you’re actually head over heels for—what?—girls who kick you in the shins.”
Chuuya looked at him, flat. “You don’t get to demand anything.”
“Ah, but I do get to catastrophize.” Dazai started counting on his fingers.
“Problem one: Mori will have Opinions if this affects your judgment. Problem two: the boys will snicker behind your back. Problem three: you will pretend it doesn’t bother you until it does, then you’ll start punching walls. Problem four: I will be forced to invent sensitivity training.”
“Try it,” Chuuya said, low.
“Try what? The training or the wall?” Dazai’s smile sharpened. “Or are we trying the part where we admit you didn’t tell me because you were afraid I’d make it about me?”
The gulls shut up. The harbor quieted like the city was listening.
“Say what you came to say,” Chuuya muttered. “Or leave.”
Dazai sighed, the performance briefly slipping. “Fine. I came to say that I am scandalized, bewildered, appalled—”
Chuuya’s shoulders bunched.
“-and also,” Dazai added lightly, “I do not care.” He popped a pastry into his mouth, chewed, and spoke around it like a menace. “Personally. Professionally. Existentially. I don’t care. You can kiss whomever you like as long as you don’t do it on a landmine.”
Chuuya stared at him like he was deciding where to plant the first punch. “Then why the act?”
“Because you hid it from me.” Dazai licked sugar off his thumb. “You, my dear gravity gremlin, hid it. After all those years, all those bullets, all those rooftops. The nerve.” He tapped his chest again. “I’m allowed a little melodrama.”
“Melodrama?” Chuuya stepped forward. The dock under Dazai’s shoes gave a soft, unnatural creak as vectors flexed; the air got that airless elevator feeling that meant Chuuya was thinking about turning physics into a suggestion. “You wanted a scene. Here’s your scene.”
Dazai’s grin brightened. “There he is.”
“Say ‘short’ and ‘gay’ in the same sentence again,” Chuuya said softly, “and I’ll put you through that crate, tie or no tie.”
“Short gay man with-”
The cigarette hit the water. Boards shuddered. Dazai’s body lightened involuntarily, coat flaring as if caught in a street updraft. He bent his knees to keep balance, hands up, palms empty, delighted and very carefully ready.
“Easy,” he said. “The pier didn’t out you.”
Chuuya’s eyes were the colour of a storm. “You don’t get to make this a joke.”
“It’s not a joke,” Dazai said, and the flip dropped out of his voice. “It’s me reminding you that if anyone makes this ugly, it won’t be me.” He tilted his head. “But I will absolutely tease you until you consider homicide. That’s tradition.”
The pressure eased a fraction. Dazai drifted back down, boots kissing wood.
A beat, and the mask slid back over Dazai’s face. “Also, for the record, I am horrified you didn’t tell me first. I could have orchestrated a tasteful reveal. Fireworks. A string quartet. Balloons that spell ‘GAY’—”
“Dazai.”
“-or at least a memo. Mori loves memos.”
“Dazai.”
“What? I’m processing.”
Chuuya closed his eyes, counted to three in French, and reopened them. “You knew.”
“Since forever.” Dazai shrugged. “I’m me.”
“And you’re… not entirely normal in that department either, are you.” The word had weight, even with the hangover.
“Sometimes very,” Dazai said lightly, then, quieter: “You’re not the first person to make rooms weird. You won’t be the last. You live through it. Or you don’t. You will.” He nudged the paper bag against Chuuya’s arm. “Eat. You’re meaner when you’re hungry.”
Chuuya didn’t take it. “You going to tell Mori?”
“I’m going to do nothing.” Dazai’s smile turned knife-thin. “Unless someone makes it my problem. Then I’ll do everything.”
They stared at each other. The gulls resumed heckling the water like an audience bored with the intermission.
Finally, Chuuya exhaled. “You really had to go with ‘short gay man’?”
“It was efficient.” Dazai brightened. “And accurate.”
Chuuya’s fist came up fast- a clean, practiced arc; and stopped a centimeter from Dazai’s cheekbone. The air snapped where it halted. Dazai didn’t flinch. His eyes flicked to the knuckles, then back to Chuuya’s face, pleased.
“There he is,” he said again, softer.
Chuuya held the almost-punch a heartbeat longer, then dropped his arm like it weighed more than it should. “You’re insufferable.”
“It’s my charm.” Dazai glanced down, brushed a smear of ash from Chuuya’s sleeve, and stepped back out of range with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how far he could push. “Now. Practical matters.”
Chuuya’s laugh was dry. “Of course.”
“First,” Dazai said, ticking points off on his fingers, “if anyone in the Mafia snickers, you break their jaw, I’ll do the paperwork. Second, if anyone in the Agency snickers, I’ll make Ranpo solve their taxes as punishment. Third, stop hiding things from me; it offends my religion.”
“You don’t have a religion.”
“Exactly.” Dazai smiled. “And fourth, just because I am definitely, absolutely, entirely horrified does not mean I won’t defend you. It means I will defend you while horrified, which is funnier.”
Chuuya stared at him, then huffed a laugh despite himself. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you.” Dazai pretended to bow. “Now eat the damned pastry.”
Chuuya took the bag, tore off a corner of azuki bread, chewed and frowned. “It’s good.”
“I know.” Dazai rocked on his heels, hands in his pockets. “One more thing.”
“What now?”
Dazai’s eyes slid sideways, cunning and bright. “Just to be crystal clear: you don’t like me, do you?” He waggled his brows. “Because if you’ve been pining all these years it would explain the violence.”
“Dazai.” A warning.
“Purely academic.”
Chuuya’s reply was a flick; the board under Dazai’s left boot slid half an inch so he had to catch himself. His laugh came out clean and delighted.
“Understood,” Dazai said, and for once didn’t press. “Come on. Mori wants a report and I want to watch him try not to bring this up.”
They fell into step. For a few meters, they walked in sync, old muscle memory from uglier years. The morning had warmed a little; the sea did its quiet breathing.
“Hey,” Dazai added as they reached the ramp. The levity thinned. “It’s fine.”
Chuuya didn’t look at him. “It will be.”
“That’s what I said.” The grin came back, reflexive. “And if anyone asks, I was horrified. Tell them I fainted.”
“I’ll tell them you cried.”
“Perfect.” Dazai flicked his coat, letting it flare. “Let’s go terrify the city with our professionalism, then.”
Chuuya pulled his cap brim down, set his shoulders, and walked on. The pier creaked. The gulls laughed. Somewhere behind them, the water took the last of the cigarette to the bottom and forgot it ever existed.