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Kunikida Doppo prided himself on many things—his schedule, his order, his ideals—but above all, he prided himself on patience. Patience was a virtue he had cultivated with the same meticulous dedication he applied to every list in his notebook.
But Dazai Osamu was… a unique test of that virtue.
And today, that test was particularly brutal.
The Agency office was loud—loud with Dazai.
Dazai humming while spinning in Kunikida’s chair.
Dazai tying paperclips into a chain that somehow reached from one end of the room to the other.
Dazai attempting (and failing) to balance a stapler on his forehead while declaring his desire to perish in a “beautiful office-related accident.”
“Dazai,” Kunikida said for what felt like the 500th time, “if you don’t return my chair this instant, I swear—”
“Kunikidaaa, don’t be so tense!” Dazai whined, kicking the ground so the chair rolled a lazy circle. “You’ll get wrinkles.”
“I already have wrinkles. Because of you.”
Dazai laughed—a bright, careless sound that grated against Kunikida’s thinning patience. For hours, the detective had been like this: too loud, too distracting, too much.
It was nothing new.
And yet… something felt off.
Dazai’s laugh was a little too sharp.
His jokes were a little too constant.
His energy was a little too manic—like a man desperately trying to fill the air with noise before silence swallowed him.
But Kunikida didn’t notice that part quite yet.
Not until it was too late.
It happened in a fraction of a second.
Kunikida finally snapped, slamming his notebook shut.
“Enough! Stop messing around, Dazai! For once in your life, take something seriously!”
Dazai froze.
Not dramatically.
Not playfully.
Not with one of his trademark sly smiles.
He just… stopped.
His hands, usually expressive and restless, went still.
His eyes, normally half-lidded and lazy, darkened—flattened.
And for a split second, the playful mask dropped.
There was no mischief.
No teasing light.
Just a flash of something raw and quiet.
Loneliness.
A slip. Barely a heartbeat—and Dazai turned away, tugging his coat collar slightly higher, his shoulders curling inward. If Kunikida hadn’t been watching closely, he would’ve missed it.
But he did see it.
And the sudden shift hit him harder than any of Dazai’s antics ever could.
“...Dazai?”
“Sorry, Kunikida,” Dazai said with a soft, too-careful tone. “You’re right. I’ll stop bothering you.”
Right.
Right?
Kunikida stared, unsettled.
Dazai never backed down like that.
He never apologised without sarcasm.
He never retreated.
Something was wrong.
For a long minute, Kunikida said nothing.
And Dazai sat at his desk—silent. Perfectly still. Back to him. Like an obedient shadow. Like someone who had been scolded one too many times in his life and learned to shrink.
Kunikida’s stomach twisted.
That wasn’t Dazai.
Not the Dazai he knew.
“Hey,” Kunikida tried again, softer. “Look at me.”
Dazai didn’t.
Kunikida approached, every step careful—as if approaching a wounded animal.
“Dazai,” he said, lowering his voice, “talk to me.”
Still nothing.
But Kunikida wasn’t a genius detective, nor a mind reader. He was just… a man who cared more deeply than he let on. And caring meant facing moments like this head-on, even when he didn’t fully understand them.
He exhaled slowly.
“What happened?”
The question was not sharp.
It wasn’t frustrated.
It wasn’t a reprimand.
It was concerned.
That, finally, made Dazai stiffen.
“…Nothing happened,” he muttered, still not looking up. “I just realised I was being annoying. You don’t have to worry.”
Kunikida’s heart clenched—because Dazai sounded like he believed those words absolutely.
“You always annoy me,” Kunikida said gently. “But I’ve never seen you shut down like this.”
Dazai flinched.
There it was.
The truth Kunikida had suspected.
He sat on the edge of Dazai’s desk—not too close, but close enough that Dazai couldn’t ignore him.
“Whatever you’re trying to hide,” Kunikida said, “you don’t have to.”
A silence stretched—a thin, fragile line.
Finally, Dazai’s voice came, quiet and unsteady:
“Yesterday… I had a nightmare.”
Kunikida’s breath caught.
Dazai rarely spoke seriously.
He never spoke about nightmares.
“It’s stupid,” Dazai added, looking away again. “I shouldn’t let it bother me.”
“What was it about?”
Dazai swallowed.
“…Odasaku.”
The name alone was enough to explain the rest.
Kunikida’s frustration melted entirely.
In its place bloomed something heavy and protective.
He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he reached out and placed a steady hand on Dazai’s shoulder.
The smallest kindness he could offer.
Dazai’s breath hitched—not visibly, but Kunikida felt it under his palm. A tension loosening. A weight shifting.
“…You weren’t annoying,” Kunikida said quietly. “You were coping.”
A humourless huff escaped Dazai.
“I cope annoyingly, then.”
“Maybe,” Kunikida admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to hide from me.”
Dazai finally glanced up.
Not fully.
Just enough for Kunikida to see the exhaustion pooled in those brown eyes.
“You… don’t?”
“No,” Kunikida said, firm and certain. “I don’t.”
Another beat of silence.
“…You’re too kind, Kunikida,” Dazai whispered.
Kunikida shook his head.
“I’m being human. And you should try that more often.”
Dazai snorted—a soft, trembling sound, but genuine.
Kunikida let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Kunikida asked.
Dazai shook his head slowly.
“No. Not yet.”
Kunikida squeezed his shoulder.
“Then stay here. Quietly. With me.”
Dazai blinked at him.
“…You’re staying too?”
“Of course I’m staying.”
Dazai lowered his gaze, lashes hiding eyes that seemed strangely vulnerable.
“…Thank you.”
Kunikida didn’t say “you’re welcome.”
He didn’t need to.
He simply stayed—close enough that Dazai didn’t feel alone, but far enough that Dazai didn’t feel cornered.
And for the first time that day, Dazai exhaled without strain.
The noise faded.
The jokes faded.
The mask faded.
And Kunikida understood—
Sometimes Dazai’s worst antics weren’t a sign of mischief.
They were a plea.
And today… Kunikida answered it.