Chapter Text
Warmth. Sun. Oxygen pulled between clenched teeth.
A soft blanket twisted in one hand.
Behind sleep-swollen eyelids, a final impression of waves crashing against a rocky cliffside. Salty air prickled the nose. Humid fog stuck between bandages and skin. Dazai's fingers travelled to his face, chasing the droplets of a storm that was not there.
There was no pebble beach.
No warning wind.
No straw sun hats.
Even less tussled red hair.
Polygons of sunlight cut across the plywood board that constituted his ceiling. His damp shirt clung to his chest. His thighs were flushed. Behind his ears, his hair was frizzy and wet.
Dazai groaned. Kicked to free himself from his extensive bedding.
In less than a month, he transitioned from waking with blue lips to sweating like a pig. The A.C. unit mocked him from atop the milk crate at the foot of his bed. He procrastinated on repairing it and failed to determine how to install it in a sliding car door.
As superior as this hovel was to his old shipping container, Dazai admittedly had not planned the temperature control thoroughly enough.
He wrestled his sleep-heavy body onto his knees and freed himself from his shirt. When he stretched, the wooden ceiling scratched his knuckles. He ducked to climb out of the alcove where he installed his bed.
Book-towers wobbled as he crab-walked to the kitchen, a foldable table topped with hotplates and camping utilities. Empty sake bottles clinked. A stack of canned crab clattered to the ground.
Plucking the garden hose from the industrial washbasin, Dazai filled his electric kettle and set it to boil. Then, he crawled past his fairy lights and into the hollowed minivan, which doubled as a closet and living room.
First, underwear. Then, Dazai opened the sliding doors and let the breeze cool his pink cheeks. The van was perfectly angled for him to peer, without being seen, into the alley where only cats passed and vines climbed the wall of the ADA dorm building.
Now for breakfast.
Marlboro Golds, one behind each ear. A mug of Puh'er and packaged natto on instant rice.
On his phone, Dazai checked the security feeds from the alley, the neighbouring buildings and the corner store a block away.
Clear.
He dressed in a button-up from the floor— feet in slides, no pants— and set his bowl and mug on an overturned moving box to unlatch the trunk of the van, like he always did when the weather was good.
This allowed him to access an abandoned courtyard where camphor trees filtered sunlight and protected the space from voyeurs. Birds drank from a bamboo fountain, still running despite the lack of maintenance.
Dazai set his food on one of the twin lawn chairs in his garden of weeds.
He made a second trip to retrieve his phone and lighter.
Sat.
Sparked up.
Smoked to the sound of running water. Half-naked and semi-bandaged.
Dazai contemplated the space between the lawn chairs.
A patio table was on his To-Do list. It’d allow him to work on his computer. Get a proper ashtray. Eat meals more comfortably. He could also string up a tarp and guarantee safety from the rain. He could even have someone over… share a conversation.
Yeah, as if he’d let anyone penetrate this space.
As far as anyone was concerned, Dazai lived in his barren Agency dorm. Only Ranpo knew the truth. But he had good reasons to keep his mouth shut.
Dazai took his phone. Searched for Pacific.mp3, ripped off a CD from the library. His current indulgence: electric guitar and coastal instruments.
Behind his eyelids spun whirlpools. In his chest, water pressure lingered from the typhoon of his dream.
Such a strange dream.
It was not the first time he experienced it either.
The first time had been… perhaps three weeks ago.
After he sulked and smoked behind the 7/11, and—
The music quieted. His phone chimed.
Dazai startled as an ember fell onto his bare thigh. Tea splashed over the front of his shirt.
His notifications were on Do Not Disturb. Only a select group of people were set to interrupt Do Not Disturb. None of those people had any business texting him this early in the morning.
Dazai hesitated.
He flipped his phone over and double-tapped the screen.
Goosebumps bloomed across his bare thighs.
By the Microsoft Outlook logo was a snippet of an email sent by Atsushi at six A.M.
Hello, I hope this email finds you well.
I have a few questions regarding the tasks Dazai assigned me, specifically the client intake form and the…
Dazai did not read the rest. All he needed to see was that Fukuzawa and Kunikida were CCed.
Pressure gathered beneath his right eye.
It was only Tuesday.
He craved bandages.
At noon, Dazai trudged up the stairs to the office in the same beige outfit as yesterday. His head weighed three tonnes. His fingers reeked of tobacco.
Truth be told, he nearly flaked. Upon receiving Atsushi’s email, he returned to bed and contemplated shooting himself. Resisted only in spite of the humiliation of being bested by such menial shit.
Instead, on the bus ride to the office, tense and overheated, he imagined beating the ever-loving fuck out of Atsushi as he once did Akutagawa.
Dazai was certainly capable of it. He was even capable of playing the Hey, Atsushi, do I look like the kind of person who does X game before smacking him until his cat eyes crossed. If only Atsushi weren’t guaranteed to hit back harder. Oh well.
The randoms in the waiting room ate dust as Dazai entered the office.
First came the whiplash of cool air replacing the humidity.
Then, Fukuzawa, Kunikida and Atsushi huddled around his cluttered desk.
Only God knew how long they stood, conspiring against Dazai.
Nevertheless, he brightened his face.
“Hello everyone,” off came his coat, revealing sweat stains and clumpy bandages. “Sorry I’m late, I had to interview a suspect. The cheating wife case—"
“Has been closed. By me,” Kunikida said. His glasses were crooked. A fat file nestled in his arms. “Dazai, I’m sure you took note of the email exchange we had this morning.”
Dazai blinked. “Refresh my memory.”
“The Excel sheet you wanted me to prepare…” Atsushi scrubbed his puffy eyes. “I’m sorry, Dazai. With the amount that's on my plate— I tried to get it done in time, but—"
“But it wasn’t your responsibility.” Kunikida declared.
Hand on hip. Ponytail swishing. Eyes hidden behind glinting glasses.
Dazai’s gaze blurred.
“Oh,” Dazai slapped his forehead. “Fuck, I forgot. Sorry.”
“An apology is meaningless if your behaviour does not change. In fact,” a thump— the fat file descended onto a pile of loose documents. Out came the famous notebook. Kunikida licked his finger and flipped through the pages. “Three months ago, on February nineteen, you issued a similar apology and promised to respect deadlines concerning the tasks assigned in your To-Do.”
“What? On whose account?” Dazai said, simply to advance the conversation.
“Ranpo, Yosano and I were witnesses and signed to attest this on the same day,” Kunikida turned his notebook to show the peanut gallery. “You also claimed, during our last recorded Teams meeting, that you’d prepare a master document outlining your closed and pending cases, which was not done.”
“Yes, it was,” lied Dazai.
Silence. But for a printer churning to life.
He sighed.
Added a tremble to his voice.
“Kunikida… I’m going to be honest here,” maybe 40%. “I tried formatting the Excel,” okay, 10%. “But it was—” hands flat on the desk, emulating shame. “Difficult.”
“That is not a reason to offload it onto Atsushi.”
“I watched YouTube tutorials. I even consulted these manuals,” Dazai opened his file drawer and unveiled a Complete Guide to Microsoft Excel. Found while stashing cigarette cartons. “I even annotated it, see? But it surpassed me.”
“That is not your book and not your handwriting,” Kunikida snatched it out of Dazai’s hands. “That is mine. And I was looking for it.”
Damn.
Dazai raised his hands in surrender.
“You need not wake me again,” he quoted.
Kunikida turned red. Atsushi tugged his skinny tie. Finally, Fukuzawa stepped forward with creased eyes and a light smile.
“Dazai, what Kunikida said is accurate,” he remarked. “However, if you are struggling with the workload, it is preferable that you speak with me so we can come to a compromise that benefits the entire team.”
Dazai fidgeted with his sleeves. “Sounds great, boss. Understood.”
No one moved from around his desk.
Dazai dropped the act. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” Fukuzawa covered his mouth, a tell that signalled him thinking. His gaze landed on a slouched Atsushi. “But we should continue this in my office.”
The chair squeaked under Dazai’s ass.
He reconsidered the scene.
Sunlight bounced through the common area, catching and dispersing on the stained-glass dividers. Atsushi fixated on a cluster of reflections, colorful like a kaleidoscope. Kunikida gazed out the window.
“Nothing like that,” Fukuzawa reassured— though Dazai was not sure what he was reassuring him of. “It regards the Port Mafia’s activities and our diplomatic relationship with them.”
Dazai raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I thought it had been established that I was no longer the de facto Port Mafia diplomatic delegate.”
Blink, and you’d miss it: Kunikida nodded, a mere tilt of his chin. Though Atsushi’s gaze remained avoidant, his was responsive and unwavering. His shoulders turned to face the president.
Dazai relaxed his feet, which were clenched in his shoes.
“Yes,” Kunikida said. “The agency voted unanimously in favour of this decision. Reversing it goes against established protocol.”
“That is true,” conceded Fukuzawa, and Atsushi crumpled like a used tissue. His eyes slid up and down, left and right. For a moment, the president remained silent. Covered his mouth once again.
“It was never my intention to reverse the decision of the team,” he affirmed. “However, it seemed responsible to open a conversation about the Port Mafia. Considering recent developments, and Dazai’s role as Atsushi’s mentor.”
Dazai wrung his hands, sighing. “So many times, I have emphasized the pitfalls of responsibility. Easy to take on…” he looked pointedly at the weretiger. “But so difficult to be rid of.”
The door to the office opened, and Ranpo strolled in, munching on a sachet of candies with a client at his heels. He gave away his attention with off-key whistling.
Dazai’s jaw clenched and released.
He stood. “Well, let us discuss then.”
“Excellent,” said Fukuzawa.
He led the way to his office, greeting Tanizaki as he emerged from the bathroom. He opened the door and stepped through. “Please sit.”
Dazai sprawled on the couch facing the window. A face-full of direct sunlight was extremely uncomfortable, but victims’ accounts claimed his eyes were much emptier and more harrowing in the natural light. And he was not done tormenting that nail-chewing, knee-bouncing young Atsushi seated in opposition.
Kunikida stood between them.
Two slim files appeared in Fukuzawa’s hands. He flipped them open and spread the documents like playing cards. “As we know, Atsushi is participating in a joint effort with the Special Division for Unusual Powers to improve ability-related regulation in a range of activities, including commercial.”
Dazai searched his memory for details. It was perhaps shameful how hard he needed to dig. Over the previous year, Atsushi had been on a hot streak in volunteering for committees of this, councils of that.
He snapped his fingers. Of course. “Glazing Port Mafia paperwork. Middleman smoke screen. Keeps them playing nice.”
“A neutral auditor,” Fukuzawa dextrously adjusted. “And Atsushi has done a fantastic job verifying the relevant information thus far.”
On the coffee table between the couches was a bowl of peanuts. Dazai went for the kill. Yuck. So stale.
“Blegh,” he said.
The room remained silent.
Atsushi coughed to clear his throat. “Uh… except they rescheduled a meeting at the last minute. And the person I was corresponding with was replaced by Higuchi.” He tried to break a loose thread at the hem of his shirt. Failed. “And they submitted requests to open two new holding companies that were… incomplete. As well as construction and alcohol permits. And—"
“Typical Mafia shit,” Dazai inferred. “What else is new?”
Kunikida sighed long and hard. But did not interject.
“I’m glad you asked, Dazai,” it was now Fukuzawa’s turn to play coy. He brushed his hair over his shoulder. “Here is a draft for an ongoing real-estate transaction near Yamashita Park. At the foot of the boardwalk.”
Yamashita.
Yamashita.
Of course, it had to be Yamashita.
“Yamashita?” Dazai did not recognize his voice. He did not feel the paper between his fingers when he leaned and collected the document. “What a prime location. Touristic.”
Instead of reading, he scanned Fukuzawa for tells. The president was impassive as ever.
“Today, Atsushi is scheduled to review development plans provided by the Port Mafia regarding these permits.” A pause for the kicker. Dazai could not wait to hear his silky delivery: “If you are interested, you are welcome to shadow Atsushi during this meeting.”
“President,” stressed Kunikida. “We agreed that—"
Dazai interrupted him with a broken laugh. “You want me to shadow him? Oh, Atsushi. You got a promotion? That’s amazing!”
Finally, Atsushi recovered enough to attempt a stony glare. It crumbled to dust halfway to Dazai. “The schedule was changed at the last minute,” he muttered. “To include Nakahara Chuuya.”
“Incident with the dog. Call in the whisperer,” Dazai grinned.
Kunikida's lips were pinched white. “President, you said you would not—”
“This is optional. Not an assignment,” Fukuzawa said. “We cannot deny that Dazai’s history with the Port Mafia is insightful.” Pause. “Provided that he develops his skills in diplomacy.”
There it was.
A choice with no choosing.
“I love learning new skills,” said Dazai. “When do we leave?”
Atsushi sighed and checked his phone. “An hour.”
“Oh, that’s perfect. Gives me time to check my emails. This is so timely! It’s been a while since I last greeted my acquaintances from that organization.”
Kunikida crouched and collected the peanut bowl. He lingered so close that Dazai could smell his harsh and plain body wash. “Professionalism is expected, Dazai.”
Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, said his expression.
Dazai placed one hand over his heart. Raised the other. “I totally understand.”
He needed a moment to think.