Chapter Text
The knock at the door is so light it barely even registers.
Dazai's thoughts stretch as he wonders who it may be. Despite his best efforts to find a beautiful partner who shares his suicidal fantasies, Dazai is quite the lonesome man. On the off chance he does score a date, he never brings the unlucky lady to his cheap apartment, lest he scares them off.
The only people who know his address are the agency members, and he can already tell it's none of them. Kunikida has a strict schedule, and a glance at the clock tells him it's way past the blond's bedtime (he gets even more cranky with insufficient rest). Ranpo and the president are away, and Yosano, Kenji, and the Tanazaki siblings should all be at home, and would've called if something arose.
Atsushi is just next door, but his knocks have become confident and deliberate. The boy nearly pounds his door down when he collects Dazai in the mornings—though, to be fair, if he isn't loud, it probably won't wake him up. The gentle sound rings out like Kyouka's the most, but it's not her either. She knocks lightly, but is far more blunt about it; unapologetic fo disturbing whatever he's getting up to.
So, Dazai deduces, he has absolutely no clue as to who's at the door. And how else is he going to find out but by going to answer?
He sighs as he puts down the beer bottle and can opener, already eager to get back to his first drink of the night. Whoever this is, they sure have impeccable timing.
Dazai flicks open the lock with easy, and without anymore fanfare, swings open the door. Crickets and the hum of a flickering streetlamp in the car park are heard in lieu of a "hello." The starless, clouded-over sky greets him instead of some enemy or weirdly polite burglar who knocks before robbing, an inky grey swirl that stares bares witness to his apparent abandonment.
Dazai has either begun to hear things, driven mad by his constant thwarted suicides, or he's being—what the kids say—pranked. A couple of kids with negligent parents out way passed curfew decided to target his house, and they're hiding somewhere giggling at his reaction. Perhaps they've hit Kyoukas and Atsushi's apartment too, and perhaps if he cared a little more, Dazai would go over and ask.
But he doesn't. He's honestly ready to shrug this strangeness off and head back to his drink and bed. He can ear them just in the other room beckoning, pleading for his return, and he's more than happy to oblige. Kids will be kids. Maybe if it continues to happen, he'll do something, but he's unbothered for now.
His hand clamps around the edge of the door as he already turns away, a little oh well sigh escaping his nose. But just before the door clicks shut, he hears it.
Not snickering kids. Not a belated attack meant to catch him off guard. Not even the wind.
A…Well, he doesn't really know what it is. A sort of noise? A quiet, hesitant and impulsive, sudden little sound. The sound of a person, just behind him. But there was no footsteps, no shift in the air, no change to announce this abrupt presence.
He turns back around. Cracks open the door with a raised brow. And this time, he looks down.
Wide eyes look back up at him.
…A child?
For the first time in a long time, Dazai's brain fails him. It crashes, reboots, and crashes again. Because there, stood innocently and awkwardly on his welcome mat, is a baby.
And he's not exaggerating to call them that: they're not even up to his waist; small round face contorted with anxiety and dominated with big, worried eyes; the way they're swallowed in clothes at least two sizes too large makes them impossibly small, drowning in fabric.
Dazai's eyes take another sweep of the area. Not a soul in sight. Did this little kid walk here all on her own? Somehow separated from their family, or perhaps abandoned? During his time at the agency—and even before—he's had to help children on cases, find missing family members, and witness kids in all sorts of situations they didn't deserve to be in. Atsushi, Kyouka, Akutagawa and Gin, and Odasaku's…
No. He shouldn't starting thinking of that now. Clearly, there's a much more pressing issue at hand. An issue that's currently staring up at him like he has all the answers in the world.
His reflection seems tiny in that monumental gaze.
He crouches down and tacks on a friendly smile. "Hey there. It looks like someone's up past their bedtime."
Kids like it when you say silly, obvious things like that, right?
Not this one, apparently. Dazai doesn't need to be told he's an intimidating figure, and when the circumstances call for it, it's often an advantage. So he figured getting to their height would make him less scary and more trustworthy so he can find out what's going on.
However, it seems to have the opposite of his desired effect. The kid's eyes pop out even wider and they leans away uncomfortably. Their feet shift against the floor, battered and broken soles brushing the bristles of the doormat, and Dazai hopes for a second they may run. If they weren't at his door, they weren't his problem. He'd be forced to turn in for the night and he'd bring them up at work tomorrow.
Or, maybe he would go after them. He doubts his kind-hearted co-workers would be happy with him if he let an unattended child wander off into the night without so much as a name.
There are also all sorts of strange creeps around Yokohama at this time. He can think of a few himself; a particular one with ginger hair and an ugly hat. What sort of person would he be if he let a poor child risk running into him?
But the kid doesn't run, so he doesn't have to worry about that tragedy. They simply seem to want space, want distance. To be out of arm's reach.
Dazai raises his hands. "Hey now, don't worry. You're not in any trouble, okay? I'm going to help you find your parents! Do you know their names?" He makes it sound like an exciting notion. If the kid's lost (and for simplicity's sake, he hopes it's just that) then being returned home should be a good thing.
But studying their reaction, Dazai isn't filled with hope. Their dim eyes don't light up at the mention of mommy and daddy, but they're also not fearful—just nervous. Probably not a case of abuse, then. Their shoulders raise, just a fraction, and their pupils darts to the away like the floor was the most interesting thing they'd seen.
"It's alright if you don't know," he says, gentle and understanding. "Can you tell me your name?" Nothing. "Do you know how old you are?" Nada. "How long have you been by yourself?" Crickets.
Very quietly, he sighs. They're really not giving him much to work with. Not that he blames them—this is an odd encounter. But right now, he can't get bogged down with frustration and silence. He'll power through.
"Where are my manners? I'll introduce myself first, and then you can go, and we won't be strangers." He says, hand to his chest. "I'm Dazai Osamu. Nice to meet you."
That gets a reaction. A little spark of recognition flickering to life when the name registers in their ears.
Huh…Wait, is that a good or bad thing? There's no way this little baby is some sort of miniature assassin sent by the Port Mafia, right? As far as he's aware, Q was the youngest they'd ever sent out alone. Seven. This kid can't be older than five, and Q is a special type of…whatever unnatural species they belong to.
So he asks. "Oh? Have you heard of me?" Maybe they're connected to someone who's worked with the Armed Detective Agency in the past, and they remember his name.
Finally, finally, the kid responds. An almost imperceptible jerk of the chin. A shy little nod, uncertain and hesitant in its nature, but an answer nonetheless.
"At least now I know you understand me…" Dazai mumbles, before smiling once more. His cheeks were starting to hurt. "Have we met before?"
They seem to be gaining more confidence, because again, they respond: this time shaking their head. He notices their fist clench at their side, tightening around something he hadn't picked up perviously. Before he can ask, the kid stretches out their arm to him. A folded piece of paper stands, crumpled and trembling, nestled between their thumb and index. An offering.
This was getting stranger by the minute. "Is that for me?"
A fast nod.
Dazai delicately plucks it from between the little fingers, hand immediately retreating back to lie stiffly at their side. He unfolds its flaps until a roughly torn, scarred surface stares up at him. The few words scribbled sharply across it in bright blue ink scatter his thoughts into an incomprehensible muddle. Just five little things which should heed no consequence, staring up at him with a weight he can't ignore.
Even just the handwriting, jagged and careless, but with so much emotion in each stroke. Like all this person's hatred and anger were etched into stone with a blade rather than a heavy pen on a page.
'They're your problem now, Osamu'
Osamu.
Not a person in the world calls him so casually by his name. Nobody in the agency ever has out of workplace respect. Mori, the oldest acquaintance in his life what he still sees on a (slightly) regular basis, never has. Odasaku, maybe once or twice—but not in a long time. Chuuya…
Well, this is not from him, so he can rule him out.
He has no other option but to ask the messenger. He folds the note over, absently pinching and smoothing over the crease. "Can you tell me who this is from, little one?"
The kid presses their lips together, jaw tightening and face pinched with stress like they're preparing to deliver some all-important speech to an ocean of eager listeners. Dazai almost catches himself holding his breath, feeling quite eager himself; he wants answers as much as he's curious to hear the little voice that will come from an equally little body.
But alas, silence stretches. The kid's shoulders practically hike up to their ears, a shy baby turtle learning how to hide in its shell. their eyes screw tightly shut, and for a minute, Dazai fears they might start crying. He hopes that's not what's about to happen. He can barely deal with his own emotions, much less this random kid, who he still doesn't know the origins of. Worse yet, the terrified sobs of a child may alert his neighbours, and then that'll be a whole new issue. Kyouka would probably petrify the poor kid, and Atsushi might just start crying along with them. He really doesn't need this headache.
"It's alright." Dazai says, and he has to put a lot more effort into sounding gentle now. He can feel the endless stream filling up his patience, but he doesn't want to snap at the kid and scare them. Whatever is going on, he doubts it's their fault. He tries a different approach: maybe bombarding them with questions wasn't the brightest idea. He rises to his feet, brushing off his knees. "Well, apparently you're my problem for the time being. I bet you're tired, huh? I could do with some sleep myself."
He waves a welcoming arm through his door and prays the kid hasn't been taught about stranger danger yet. After eyeing him for a sceptical beat, they waddle in like a lost duckling. Dazai mentally pumps his fist; his first success yet.
They truly do look like a duckling that's mistakenly wandered into a fox's den. Dazai rarely spends time in the agency-provided home. Not because he doesn't like it, rather, he finds himself preoccupied with things throughout the day. Despite what Kunikida will tell you, he's a very busy man. Paperwork at the office, diligently solving cases, treating his young mentees to his vast wisdom, researching suicide, planning suicides, attempting suicides, plotting Chuuya's demise…he likes to indulge in all sorts of hobbies. Due to this, his house has fallen into a state of neglect. Certainly not fit for a young child.
Not that it really matters. They'll only be here for the one night, and observing the way they shrink in place like they're trying to not even touch the air, Dazai doubts the kid will go around rubbing their sticky little kid hands all over his things.
Still, he picks up empty and half empty cans and places them out of reach on the counter as he addresses them. "Did whoever told you about me tell you where I work?" He asks over his shoulder, though predictably hears no response. He assumes it's a no. "I'm a detective. I get to go around solving mysteries and putting away bad guys. Cool, right? Tomorrow, I'll take you to my work and me and my colleagues can solve the mystery of what to do with you." Finally, after everything that was unsuitable for children is put away, he turns back to them. "Is that alright with you?"
A small shrug of the shoulders is all he gets. The deafening silence stretches.
The kid looks away at that, to the floor. He watches as their eyes lift, lock on something—a table, the wall, his barren counter, the fridge—before quickly looking back at their feet. The process repeats itself a few times, almost like they're scared they'd get in trouble for checking the room out. Or maybe it's too big, and they need to dissect it piece by piece for everything to make sense.
Dazai frowns to himself. He uses the opportunity to really observe the kid: matted, tangled hair that seems to have not heard of the invention of combs; fingers curling into the fabric of their hoodie like it's the only stable object in an earthquake; face meek and hollow, narrowed and lacking the youthful roundness kids haven't yet burnt off; scruffy shoes unlaced and drooping at the seems like wilting flowers; frantic, tired eyes with lofty bags.
He tries to make it light, maybe make them smile so he knows they're not some android spy. "…not much of a talker, are you?" It falls flat like a bowling ball. "No matter. It's probably too late for speaking anyway. Let's get some rest, hm? Stay there."
He quickly makes his way to his closet and sifts though the sparse selection. When was the last time he washed any of these? Putting it lightly, the kid's clothing was entirely unsuitable for bed, but so are his. He brushes past one with an unidentified stain and another that would be down to their feet.
Finally, he comes across one that hasn't been touched in years. Hung in its original pristine condition, too small for him, because it's not technically his. But the certain slug he stole it from certainly hasn't been missing it, so he tugs it off the hanger and returns to the kid.
"Here. This'll be nice and comfy for ya." He says, watching the way they carefully take it.
Their hands take care not to brush too close to his, and their eyes are sharp and watchful the whole time, like they expect him to suddenly rip it away. Small fingers clamp loosely around the fabric, too wary to hold it too tight. But he also notices the way their little thumb brush over the surface, carefully feeling out gentle circles, almost relishing in the softness of it.
He clears his throat and points down the hall. "You can change in the bathroom down there." he hesitates, before reluctantly adding, "…You can do that yourself, can't you?"
Snapped out of the mesmerised daze, they look back up at him. He can practically see the wheels spinning behind their head as they process the question. Then, catching Dazai by surprise, they give a determined nod, brows furrowed and jaw tight with the eagerness to prove themselves. An accidental huff of amusement escapes his nose.
'Now where have I seen that before?' He muses, images of a certain overzealous mafioso flashing in his mind as he watches the kid shuffle down the hall.
He sets out on making a space for them to sleep. Maybe his earlier celebrations were a little too presumptuous: the kid was a bit too obedient—perhaps to a concerning degree. Willing enough to silently following a stranger into his house without question. They're unbelievably lucky Dazai isn't like that. No, he would never dream of doing that to any child, especially not one to have mysteriously fallen into his care.
He knows, as peace of mind for his own sake, his colleagues will be certain of that too. Of course, showing up with that kid tomorrow will arouse all sorts of thoughts and reactions from them. It'll be interesting to see, he thinks. It's bad luck Ranpo and the president will be out for the week, handling some business abroad. He wants this to be a quick fix, and Ranpo's the best when it comes to that. He'd be able to deduce the origins of this kid faster than Dazai could ever hope to match.
Bus alas, it's up to him and the remaining agency members. Not that he doubts their joint capabilities—it's literally their job to handle things like this, and they've solved millions of similar cases in the past. The child will be in good hands by tomorrow morning.
He's just finished fluffing up pillows on the spare futon he's rolled out when he hears a soft padding down the hall. When he turns, he barely holds back a snort upon seeing the kid. The shirt's on inside out, the small tag sticking out of the side tellingly. He really had too much faith in them.
"Quite the style you have there." Dazai teases, amusement doubling as the kid frowns with confusion.
He leans down to gently take the bundle of clothes and pair of shoes from their arms. He notices, now up-close, the little marks littered up their arms. Fresh ones, royal purples and violent reds; and faded ones, ugly greens and poisonous yellows. Some shaped like a palm and tight fingers; others, tiny burning circles. His eyes narrow as they rake over them, imperceptible, but there.
As though he was a pickpocket swiping something valuable, the kid's hold turns steadfast as they lean back. Dazai smiles reassuringly as their eyes widen in panic. "Don't you worry. I'll make sure they're clean for you by the morning!"
Upon hearing that, they sceptically relieve the clothes to him and Dazai wonders when was the last time these things were actually washed. He subtly scrunches up his nose and tries to angle his head away from them, from the smell. Gross.
The kid stands there and fidgets with the fabric of the shirt awkwardly. He sees the way their shoulders begin to droop like dying petals, trying to maintain their defensiveness but ultimately failing as exhaustion creeps into their stance. They use the two of those little hands to stifle a yawn that fought to the surface, and Dazai's chest does something uncomfortably human.
"Okay. I think it's time for bed." He says coaxingly, nodding toward the spare futon. They don't protest, crouching down and crawling in without a word. Slipping under the covers, they lie down rigidly yet heavily, head sinking against the pillows.
Dazai feels their eyes boring into him as he walks to the door. He flicks off the lights, hoping that this isn't one of those kids who is scared of the dark or monsters in closets. Thankfully, and yet unsurprisingly, he hears no protest. He supposes imaginary threats in the night is nothing compared to a child that's faced real terrors in daylight.
He steps into the hall, and the door slides shut hard and heavy behind him.
He hesitates. God, what was going on? He's just letting some kid that turned up on his doorstep sleep in his house? He's just going to leave them terrified and alone in a barren guest room? Shouldn't he give them water, or tea to help them sleep, or maybe he should offer to leave the hallway light on and crack open the door?
The silence around him warps into something lofty and settles on his shoulders.
He can't do anything now but make sure the kid doesn't somehow die in his care. Tomorrow, he'll take them to the agency and they'll be shipped off somewhere more suitable, placed in hands more curated than his. They won't be his problem, and that's what the two of them need right now.
Dazai sighs and shuffled down the hallways to the cramped room with a washing machine and dryer. His own laundry sits in a hamper in the corner, untouched for who knows how long. He shoves in the clothes and a pod, placing the shoes aside, and quietly shuts the door. He leans against the doorway and watches the machine fill with water, watches the clothes get swept in a violent whirlpool.
It kind of looks like his life, if he tilts his head and squints.