Work Text:
Dazai hates wearing black.
That kind of thing- sorrow, seriousness, intimidation, what have you- it’s better left to people like Chuuya or Kunikida. Solid, real, reliable people.
He’s not real. He’s not reliable. Black feels too permanent, like the blot of a brush against snow-white calligraphy paper or the iris- the most truthful part- of a human eye.
He pulls the suit jacket on and fixes his tie.
His reflection looks back from the mirror. He doesn’t know what those brown eyes are trying to tell him. He doesn’t care.
How depressing.
~~~~~~
“Kunikida…”
Atsushi knocks on the door to their bathroom. He twists his fingers.
“We’re going to be late.” He calls softly, feeling his gut churn.
There’s an exhale from the other side of the door.
“I know.” Kunikida replies, voice shaky.
The handle turns.
Kunikida steps out- black suit, black tie, red-rimmed eyes. He’s been crying. Atsushi wipes the moisture from his own cheeks and reaches out to grip the other man’s fingers in his.
“You ready?” He asks, and that question has so much weight- is he ready? Is he ready for the next hour? The next day? Is he ready for tomorrow, and the day after that, and all the days that will come? Kunikida can practically see them stretching ahead of them, and he holds Atsushi’s hand harder.
“No.” He replies, honestly. His eyes well up again.
Atsushi wipes his tears away, too.
~~~~~~
Yosano doesn’t cry.
Ranpo does- fat, wet tears roll down his cheeks, and he wails into Yosano’s shoulder, his grief and pain and everything else he keeps locked up- but Yosano stares at the wall, arms tight around him, and feels the clenching in her chest.
Later, they’ll commiserate, and she’ll try her best to not let her tears get into her scotch. Ranpo will be bitter and heart-shatteringly sad simultaneously- what’s that called? Misery? They’ll stumble back to the dorms, arms around each other, and collapse on floor together. They’ll fall asleep, comfortable in each others’ presences- they’ve known each other so long, after all- and slowly adjust to the new reality they’ve been thrust into.
Life moves on.
~~~~~~
The ground is broken, for the first time, at the Armed Detective Company grave.
~~~~~~
Kunikida is late for the first time the following morning.
He hesitates in front of the door.
The doorknob turns.
He stands in the doorframe.
His entrance breaks the muddy silence in the Agency headquarters- all eyes swivel to him the moment the door swings open, and they stare for a moment, as though he’s an alien.
His fingers curl together.
Dazai stands up.
He puts his clenched fist over his heart and bows.
“President.” He says, a small, knowing smile on his face, his other hand at his side.
Yosano is the next to stand. She presses her fingertips to her chest, and doesn’t bow, but stands strong with purpose, intent in her eyes- a fiery belief that both humbles Kunikida and fills him with courage.
“President.” She says, looking directly at him.
Ranpo slams a fist to his chest- Atsushi flattens his palm against his heart and looks at him with a mixture of fierce pride and support- Kenji squeezes both hands to his breast- Kyouka clutches her small, able hand to her- Tanizaki and Naomi incline their heads in unison.
Their faith- their belief, their support- fills the room to the brim until it’s bursting out the windows and flooding the streets below, engulfing the city.
Kunikida’s chest tightens, then swells.
He takes a breath. His arms are shaking, his heart hammering, his pulse quick.
He opens his mouth to speak.