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Dazai is slender. Long pianist fingers and sharp collarbone peeking through his bandages. Atsushi’s eyes would wander towards the sharp jut of Dazai’s wrist, muscles flexing as his fingers tapped an off tune beat on the table.
Atsushi traces invisible scars with his eyes, gaze trailing through too white too clean bandages, wonders if it constricts Dazai’s limbs -his chest, his neck. Atsushi knew too well, the tightness of every layer of tape, choking and choking until he couldn't breathe oh my god take it off take it off-
“Is there something on my face?” Dazai's face is too close and too far. Atsushi can see tiny freckles dotting the older man's nose, his cheeks. There’s a long thin line of white, starting above Dazai's right brow, curving around the socket before disappearing under brown hair behind Dazai's ear.
“Uh…” Atsushi glances around the office in panic, his heartbeats are thunderclaps under his skin. There's a strange warmth in his cheeks and on the tip of his ears. No one is paying them any mind. Sweat trails down his clenched knuckles.
“Well?” Dazai tilts his head and Atsushi smells something bitter like almonds, something sweet like milk, and something thick like copper.
Atsushi swallows. The two of them are ignored. Black spots dance around his vision, the world shrinking and dimming, a blur of lights at the end of a long tunnel. Oxygen isn't entering Atsushi's lungs anymore, the agency's room is too small, too cramped. There's air outside, and Atsushi just needs to get out.
“I have a lead I need to follow.” His voice is too loud, too pathetic, pounding against his ears like echoes in a cave. Atsushi feels a hand grabbing his shoulders and loud voices following him as he slapped the hand away.
He didn't even close the door.
-----
The dress on display is on sale. It's a simple thing. Knee-length with shoulder-length sleeves. Carnation pink and made out of cotton. The dress flares into uneven pleats under a silk sash with rose embroideries. The collar is white, covering most of the neck, with a long silk ribbon held together by a fake rhinestone clasp.
It was only 1200 yen.
“Is that for Kyouka?”
“Dazai-san!” Atsushi jumps, shoving his recent purchase inside the paper bag. The clerk giggles at him, romantic gears spinning behind her eyes.
He holds the bag against his chest, like a security blanket.
Shame burns Atsushi's cheeks, his tongue too heavy and too thick inside his mouth. He opens his mouth to answer, but his jaw aches and his throat is too dry to make any sound.
Dazai tilts his head, his hair catching the fading sunlight. He looks like some old photograph, sepia-toned and blurry edges. His brown eyes look gold.
Atsushi closes his mouth. Dazai waits.
There's… nothing in his expression. Nothing that demanded Atsushi to answer or explain himself. Nothing that suggested that Dazai is disappointed or embarrassed. Dazai is just… waiting.
Atsushi shakes his head, Dazai shrugs. “Oh well. I hear they usually have a sale in this store every other week.”
“Really?” Atsushi asks, a little surprised, a little relieved, a little disappointed. His hold on the bag loosens, and then Dazai slings his right arm around Atsushi's shoulders. It's warm.
“Yeah, a clearance sale basically. A lot of their stuff on rack are still in good condition, so no need to get something on stock.” Atsushi can see the too-thin scar around Dazai's eye, contrasting with already pale skin. His teeth aren't that straight or too white.
“I noticed that too.” All of Dazai's incisors are a little crooked, his teeth more like milk and less like pearls. Atsushi can see hints of enamel filling on Dazai's canines, off white and a little cracked. Needs to be reapplied.
“Yosano-sensei shops here too after six. If you don't want her dragging you along, you need to do it early.” Dazai probably had his nose broken at least once. Hints of a scar that it set incorrectly atop the bridge of his nose, the cartilage a little thick.
“Oh…”
Dazai stops when Atsushi stopped.
“Have you tried nail art?” Dazai asks next, a soft smile on his lips.
“No.”
“Come on, then!”
--------
It's Atsushi's day off. There's miso and fried mackerel on the tiny table, the rice is still in the pot (warm, thanks to the rice cooker) and the tea leaves sit untouched and dry at the bottom of Atsushi's favourite mug.
The sun is a rare blessing in this autumn chill, golden warmth passing through paper screens. A splash of vibrant colour against the drab grey. The blanket is too warm and Atsushi is exhausted from sleeping.
The ceiling used to be white, water logged wood staining the corners brown. Atsushi remembers the first time he woke up. The air was too musty and the wood smelled old.
He remembers almost crying when he saw the white button up shirt. The frantic shrill of his phone distracted him then. It was Dazai, too, that day.
Atsushi sighs and snuggles deeper into his futon. He hasn't eaten anything since he woke up (two hours ago) and he knew that Kyouka put in a lot of effort to cook for him. It's just that Atsushi isn't hungry right now and he is already sleepy.
Atsushi can see the stains dancing and the ceiling fan trying to slash at them with its blades when the door slams open.
“Tora-chan!” It's Dazai.
Reluctantly, Atsushi sits up groggily, trying not to groan. He was already in that nice state between waking and dreaming. Reality already blended with his imagination, and the loud bang snapped him out of it.
“Dazai-san?” Atsushi tries to say, but he's still too sleepy and incoherent. Atsushi tries to get up, but his exhaustion seeps deep into his bones, his marrows. Atsushi settles back in futon. He is a little more comprehensible when he spoke next. “What are you doing here?”
“I bought tea!” Dazai answered. “I noticed you always only have green tea. Herbal is nice, good antioxidants, but! It's always nice to have something sweet like chamomile or white jasmine. I have Earl Grey and English Breakfast too, they taste great with plenty of milk.”
Atsushi wanted to say something, but he was too tired to reply. Dazai's cheer never wavered.
Dazai put the kettle on, and Atsushi felt rather than saw the older agent pick up the cold fish miso. There's probably another pot of the stuff, the smell permeating the air. The stove was probably set to low, gas flames crackling almost silently.
“Kyouka-chan made miso good for four, but we can probably eat all of it. You can only heat food once or it will spoil. Death by food poisoning isn't fun at all.”
It's probably midday, the floating motes look like faerie lights, white drifting among the grey. There are two shopping bags with its contents spilling out on the corner of the bedroom, baby blue skirts and green flannel shirts. There's a discarded Sunday dress with sunflower prints sloppily pushed between them.
“Let's try the English Breakfast first, I have honey too and they said it's very nice with tea.”
Five bottles of nail polish are lying down, unopened and unused. There's broken glass and a splash of glossy vermilion on the floor. There's a bottle of half-empty clear polish on the red puddle.
“It was really horrible earlier. Someone has been picking off pretty girls, but since there are no bodies, there's a big chance they could be alive. We've been looking for places with plenty of food deliveries or if someone been doing bigger grocery shopping to feed about fifteen girls, but they all turn dead. Ranpo is in Shinjuku right now, so we can't really do much until he gets back.”
Atsushi's closet is open, one of his button up shirts is still wrinkled. He'll iron it later.
“One of the missing girl's’ parents asked us for help, and since this has been going on for almost a year, the military police have no choice but ask us for help, too. Took them long enough.”
The kettle whistles and Dazai becomes a flurry of movement, bare feet loud on the tatami. He turns the stove off. The smell of strong tea fills the apartment, seeping through the cracks on the floorboards, the hairline fractures in the wall.
Dazai enters Atsushi's room like a dream. The detective is just wearing his white shirt, his bandages stark against his skin. Suddenly impossibly light on his feet, the sun bathing him in warm gold. His eyes are brighter than his smile. He carries Atsushi's forgotten meal in a wooden tray, the kind Atsushi liked to use when he wanted to eat in bed.
There's a teapot and two mugs. The pitcher is full to the brim with milk. Atsushi knows he doesn't have a jar of honey nor a honey dip. The mackerel was reheated through the microwave, more like jerky with how dry it is. There are two bowls of rice, miso, and chopstick pairs.
“Let's eat,” Dazai said, settling down next to Atsushi on the floor, not on the mattress.
Suddenly hungry, Atsushi slowly sits up, a little confused at the sudden presence of his appetite. It felt a lot like waking up from a dream. He feels something cold in his chest, something trying to eat through the flesh and bones. Dazai went through all the trouble to get him to eat. It would be horrible not to join the other man.
“Since when have you been so interested in tea?” Atsushi asks, and then gives his thanks for the meal. Dazai gives his thanks first before he answers.
“Well, I've never really tried the many varieties of tea. I forget, but since you're here, it felt like a good time to try than any.” Dazai pours tea on both cups (half-full) and then scoops a large amount (about five tablespoons) of honey in his. He's generous with the milk. “How much milk and honey you want, Atsushi-kun?”
Atsushi presses his lips, thinking. His gaze travels down Dazai's hand on the pot, his knuckles are red. “A lot less honey than what you had, and about a fourth of the amount of milk you had. More tea, please.”
Dazai chuckles, but does as asked, mixing both concoctions thoroughly. “You really like your tea strong, huh?”
“It's supposed to be drinking tea, not tea-flavoured honey milk. Not my problem if you can't take your tea strong.” Atsushi's eyes are on the bandages, noting how the skin and bones shift underneath, the hint of a vein popping through the white.
“It depends on the taste,” Dazai sniffs, mock hurt in his voice. He takes a sip of his tea. “Hm, this is pretty nice. The milk makes it kinda smoky.”
“Let me try.” Atsushi takes a sip on his own. The bitterness in thick on his tongue, flooding his mouth with something like smoke. Atsushi almost coughs when he tried to swallow, lungs burning almost painfully when some of the hot tea went through his trachea instead. He could feel the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, and Dazai looks ready to jump and pat his back. As quick it went, a sudden burst of honey exploded in his tongue, followed by the creamy hint of milk. The tea is easier to swallow, then, with the taste of something sweet gathering at the back of Atsushi's tongue, tempering the bitter English Breakfast.
“Not bad,” Atsushi said, finally at ease.
Dazai snorted. “You almost died from choking on tea. Well that'd be a nice way to go. Enjoying one last cup before eternal demise.”
“Of course you'll say that, Dazai-san.” Atsushi shakes his head and almost did a double take when he saw something eager, something expectant, something a little disappointed and sad in Dazai's expression. As quick as it went, it's gone now.
The older man smiles and continues his meal.
Heart thundering in his ears, Atsushi felt that he really should have said something, but… didn't.
Atsushi spends the rest of his meal feeling… bereft.
--------
Ranpo solves the case over the phone. It took three days to arrest the suspect. Two more almost became victims. There's only one body. Atsushi tries not try think where the rest are. Tries not to think of they didn't find the man sooner. Tries not to think of girls with wind chapped smiles.
Dazai is quick to excuse himself after the arrest.
He did not show up in the office the next day. Ranpo is there instead.
Atsushi types his report with shaky fingers, writing then deleting. A misspelled word, a sentence that did not sound right, entire paragraphs. There’s a growing pile of crumpled papers in his desk, he would drop them on the bin when it’s becoming too crowded to write.
Tanizaki offered to do the report instead. Atsushi refused.
Kunikida told him to buy something sweet for Ranpo. Atsushi had it delivered.
Yosano-sensei asked if he’s hurt anywhere. The tiger already healed it.
He smiles at them with a face of untempered glass. Brittle and ready to shatter.
He traces the place where the rope bit into his wrists, the feel of a clean cloth around his mouth. He remembers hands tracing his nose, his eyes, his face.
“You're very pretty, almost like a girl.”
Atsushi deletes the document. Creates a new one.
“I'm back!” Dazai slams the door open, grinning crookedly. There's a spot of red in his right hand.
The office blurs into motion, Kunikida berating Dazai with his lateness, Yosano-sensei asking if he's hurt anywhere.
“Eh, a dog chased me all over town. I hate dogs. If it was a pretty lady, we would have jumped in the ocean right away.”
Atsushi feels breath leave his lungs. Feels the pressure in his shoulders lift. He meets Dazai's gaze. They share a smile.
The older man saunters over his desk, plops unceremoniously on the table, grabs the paper with words that trail into scratches. “I just heard, the guy we arrested got beat up in prison, but he's still alive.”
Atsushi opens his mouth, closes it. No one makes a sound.
“One of girls he kidnapped is a daughter of some guy in the Port Mafia. Whoever their people are behind bars decided to give him a warm welcome.”
Atsushi feels relieved. A little guilty for feeling relieved, but more thankful than miserable.
“Oh,” Atsushi says, not quite sure how to react to the news. It's like the headmaster all over again.
“Since he's the police's problem now….” Dazai grabs Atsushi by the wrist, and atsushi lets him. “I found this place with green tea panna cotta, let's give it a try, Atsushi-kun!”
“Uh… what about work?” Atsushi asks, but Dazai is already dragging him outside.
“Let Kunikida-san worry about it!”
No one stops them.
----------
Atsushi finds Dazai atop their dorm roof. The sun is painting the sky baby blue and red. Lavender and pink blending in, the horizon a deep orange, the clouds a light grey. Dazai is looking at the hint of stars twinkling beyond the skies.
“Have you ever wondered, what would it be like to not exist?” Dazai asks without looking at Atsushi. He isn't wearing his coat today, and his sleeves are folded around his elbows. Dazai is barefoot.
“Sometimes,” Atsushi says. “A lot of times.”
Dazai is pale skin with scars fading. His smile is like sunset. “I wonder what would have been like if I weren't around. Well, I'm pretty everyone would get over it, eventually… but it's hard to think of a reason to stay when everything feels so… pointless.”
Atsushi thinks of Akutagawa and his sneering face. Thinks of Kyouka and her tears.
“Everyone lives to die. Why bother living?” Dazai is still smiling, but his voice is spun glass.
Atsushi remembers looking at the mirror, tracing wind chapped lips. Tracing a body that doesn't fit. An unscarred chest. He is looking for places the flesh should fill in, but finds skin stretching over bones. There used to be more ribs.
He thinks about the time when the headmaster almost broke his back, and he tried to fix it. The tiger probably fixed it the day after.
He covered the mirror with an old blanket. Disappointed that he can never find what he is looking for.
“Well, it'd be nice not to think about it, but that's what I think about sometimes. A lot of times. Most of the time.” Dazai takes Atsushi back to the present.
Yokohama is half-bright with street lamps. Tall buildings with still open offices. Stars barely nursing through the darkness.
Atsushi sits next to Dazai, too close and too far. “We haven't tried all the tea yet.”
Dazai makes a sound, and Atsushi feels rather than sees him turn his head. “Atsushi-kun…”
“We still have Earl Grey, and there's this Winter melon flavoured tea in the café.” Atsushi traces a pattern on one of the thatches, the material worn with time.
He sees Dazai's hand, fingertips calloused. Their hands are parallel, but neither are making moves to touch.
“Dazai-san haven't had ebi tempura with ochakuze yet, and we haven't used up all the honey he bought.”
A motorcycle speeds behind the building. Autumn breeze blows away half the leaves from the tree, spinning lazily in the air in swatches of brown, red, orange, and yellow. Atsushi smells maple.
“Dazai-san doesn't even have a pretty girl to die with, either.” Atsushi pulls his knees up to his chest. His face is hot and his throat is heavy. “We don't know what Dazai-san's job used to be either.”
Atsushi feels the cold bite on his skin, and he hugs his knees, conserving the warmth. He buries his face between them.
“Dazai-san haven't teached me how to be a good detective yet, and he hasn't done nail art with me either.” Atsushi clings tighter, nails digging through trousers. “He doesn't know who the dresses are for either.”
“Atsushi….” There's a warm hand in Atsushi's hair, carding through the strands.
“Kunikida-san said the agency has seven mysteries, but we haven't solved all of them yet.”
Atsushi let's himself be pulled into an embrace, the warmth enveloping him. He feels a chin settle atop his head.
“Yosano-sensei hasn't healed me yet, and Kyouka-chan hasn't tried the waffles you bought me yesterday. Tanizaki knows this nice resort where we can relax for summer, and Naomi-san promised to bake castella cake for the director's birthday.”
“So please, Dazai-san, don't go today yet. I want to try new ochakuze with you until we get all the flavours. All the old ones, and maybe the new ones people are making, too.”
Dazai stills.
Atsushi holds his breath.
“Okay.”
--------
Atsushi looks at the mirror. There are places where his flesh feels too thin or too thick, where his bones look unnatural and too angled, where the skin looks too pale or too clean. There can never be a day where he looks at his reflection and sees it's perfect.
Today, Atsushi is satisfied.
He is wearing the pink dress he saw the other day. He had some trouble trying to get it past his chest, and it doesn't fit him the way he wants it to. However, he is satisfied.
It didn't quite reach his knees and the sleeves are very loose, but it's alright. It doesn't have to be a perfect fit.
He smooths it down and gives an experimental spin. The pleats swish with the motion, and the rhinestone gleams like tempered glass.
Atsushi brushes his hair, and clips the longer strands with a red pin. It has a glass rose.
His nails are painted like sunrise. Purple mixing with pink and pale yellow. Glossy white in tiny bursts like stars in the distance. There are colours that didn't blend very well, but Atsushi is happy with how it turned.
He doesn't have to be perfect, and it's alright.
Atsushi grabs whatever he will need and leaves his dorm. He forgets to wash two teacups left in the sink.
-------
Kyouka asked him to take her where Dazai bought the waffles. They will go after work. Tanizaki gives him a flyer for the resort. Naomi bought some sample castella. Atsushi kept his share in his desk, next to a tin of white jasmine.
Kunikida is expecting his report before noon. Atsushi is almost finished, no longer deleting and rewriting entire paragraphs and documents every five minutes. He would pause to breathe, but he would get back to it soon enough.
Dazai is late again.
Dazai slams the door open with an obnoxious laugh, seaweed stuck on his hair. “Someone accidentally dropped a bucket on me. It was the sushi place two blocks over.”
Yosano-sensei reserves the place, for entertaining them. Ranpo pouts. He wants to go to the dessert buffet across the street.
“Serves you right,” Kunikida snorts before returning to work. Dazai distracts him with a fake proverb.
After the noise settles down, Dazai plops on Atsushi's desk.
“You're very pretty,” Dazai says. “Everyday, in your shirts and trousers, in your dresses and blouses and skirts.”
Dazai is smiling, his eyes happy and his right hand on top of Atsushi's left. Fingers splayed and calloused, long and tapered, like a pianist. The fading scar around his right eye creases, stark white against his pale skin. Dazai's hair sunlight, almost golden. His hand is warm.
Atsushi grasps Dazai's hand, sure and confident.
“Thanks.”
Atsushi smiles.
fin