Chapter Text
Kunikida stood above his desk as he did every morning, sorting through his familiar stack of papers that seemed no smaller than the day before. It was a tedious task— case reports, requests, budgets— it was all monotonous work, the sort that replaces itself with relentless consistency. But there was comfort in this monotony. Routine, however dull it was, possesses a specific and strange reliability. This familiarity was, although rarely exciting, dependable. Kunikida had long since learned that dependability came closer to happiness and relief than novelty ever would.
If he were to turn around now, he was certain that everything would be exactly where it belonged.
Ranpo would be occupying his usual space in the back, buried in a novel or halfway through another bag of candy. Atsushi would linger and trail around nearby, eager to be useful if the situation calls for it. And so forth.
This pattern excludes Dazai, as he belongs in his own category. Trying to figure out where he was, or, more importantly, the reason he was there, always lead to failure.
“Where is Dazai?” he asked no one in particular, aggravation clear in his voice, but also tempered by weary resignation. There was no serious expectation for him to be here. Silence followed.
Atsushi cleared his voice awkwardly. “I’m unsure… I can try and call him?”
“No point,” Ranpo blurts out without looking up, bookmarking a page in his book. “His phone is always on silent.”
At that moment, as though summoned by the mere mention of his name, the office doors swung open. Dazai stepped inside with an unhurried and lazy stride, hands casually resting in his pockets. Kunikida watches him for exactly three seconds before his expression settled into his particular look of annoyance. Long-suffering annoyance. Annoyance reserved solely for this man.
“Late again?” Kunikida muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose before letting out a tired sigh. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“You’re always so strict about time,” Dazai exclaimed with an exaggerated pout. “What difference does a couple of hours make?”
Kunikida stared in shock before shaking his head in disbelief.
“Well, we could have accomplished considerably more by now. Although…” he trailed off and his gaze slowly drifted over to Dazai. “Considering your work ethic, perhaps your absence does not make much of a difference as I’d like to believe.”
Dazai took that as a compliment and smiled. “I’ll take that as praise!”
Without another word, he flopped down on the couch with a lazy grin, limbs sprawling out across it with the satisfaction of someone who had completed a difficult day’s work.
“That doesn’t mean relax! —“
Kunikida’s sentence was cut short and dissolved into irrelevance as Dazai calmly put on his headphones, humming that one utterly insufferable double-suicide song that Kunikida was tired of hearing. He stomped on over to him and yanked his headphones off, dragging Dazai by the collar to his desk before the man had time to protest.
“Kunikida!” Dazai cried as he was hauled bodily towards the desk. “At least let me get to the chorus!”
“Enough with the double suicide nonsense! How can you even listen to that? Willingly?”
“Kunikida!” he protested again. “Give me a break! If anything, I deserve a reward for only being two hours late today and not three!”
Kunikida’s only response was to place a firm hand against the back of Dazai’s head and slamming his face directly into the towering stack of reports waiting for him. The impact produced a satisfying thump, to Kunikida at least. After a moment, Dazai lifted his head, awfully slowly, lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout.
Atsushi, quietly standing at the sidelines this whole time, finally chose that intervening could be an okay decision. “Umm… maybe that’s a bit harsh?”
“My ordeals,” Kunikida corrected, shoving the notebook towards Atsushi’s face before flipping it open “Page thirty-seven.” He tapped the neatly written line with unmistakable emphasis. “‘My coworkers are hard working individuals who strive to do good.’”
The notebook snapped shut. “Now,” he turned to Dazai, “anyone care to explain when exactly this becomes reality?”
Dazai gave a nervous chuckle at the directed comment. “You’re making me sound lazy!”
“And… you’re not?” Then, with a gesture toward Atsushi, he continued. “You should take notes from him.”
“Whaaaat!? He’s my subordinate!”
“Precisely.” Kunikida crossed his arms. “How is someone younger than you capable of accomplishing double the work while complaining half as much?”
He exhaled slowly before turning to Atsushi, expression softening immediately.
“Atsushi, if you aren’t occupied, I have a favor. Would you mind delivering this envelope to this one government official nearby?”
He held out a neatly sealed, ordinary envelope. Atsushi accepted it with a small nod.
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹𓂃˖ ࣪⊹
Dazai found himself lying on the cold concrete ground, leeching to whatever warmth he had left. Above him stretched a grey sky, thick clouds smothering the morning sun with the pale rays barely peaking out from behind. They settled lightly on his face without any heat, not warming at all. His eyes remained like that, fixed upward, for a long silent moment.
Everything was blurred around the edges and the world swayed almost imperceptibly. His stomach twisted unpleasantly, all with an ache pulsing somewhere behind his eyes— dull but persistent enough to make every heartbeat noticeable in every part of his body.
He slowly sat up, fingers instinctively reaching for the scarf around his neck. He adjusted the fabric higher until it rested beneath his chin. The familiar feeling steadied him to a small extent.
The shipping containers around him smelled like rust and seawater. The dampness settled into every crack and every thread of fabric until even breathing tasted metallic. Ships groaned and somewhere overhead, seagulls screamed.
The city was once again awake, preparing for another day. Engines stirring to life, footsteps echoing on a distant street, windows being opened.
There was something strangely admirable about humans. They possess an astonishing talent for assuming tomorrow will resemble today. They live their lives under that implicit assumption. People will continue to make plans, set goals, and wake up expecting a routine.
As if certainty ever existed. The world never promised anyone another morning. Entire lives can disappear in a mere instant, before ever recognizing they are ending.
Some people, however, reached that realization much before others. Some even arranged the hour themselves.
…
His memory was fractured ever since waking up and trying to follow it backwards. No clear sequence of events or transition. Just the certainty that something happened before this.
He frowned imperceptibly.
Looking up, he found himself staring at a silhouette so familiar that his thoughts momentarily stilled.
The black glass of the Port Mafia headquarters reflected the sky exactly as he remembers.
His fingers drifted up to his temple. His pulse hammered violently against them. But he stood up anyway, brushing dust off his coat before giving the surrounding docks a slow examination. His gaze settled on the main entrance, where a guard stood by. It was not anyone he recognized. Dazai approached.
“Make way,” Dazai spoke calmly with the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed and not questioned.
“And who the hell are you?” The guard frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said,” he continued with a snarky tone, “I have never seen you before.”
Dazai studied his expression. The man seemed genuinely unaware of who he was.
“Then who is the boss?” Dazai asked.
The guard stared. “What?”
“The Port Mafia boss.”
“… Are you stupid?” The guard scoffed. “How do you not know that?”
Dazai in return said nothing. He found that the conversation had reached the point in which more questions would yield to diminishing results. He turned away without another word and his expression remained unchanged. But his thoughts accelerated.
There weren’t any outright signs of deception. So, either this guy was remarkably trained, or he seriously believes Dazai hadn’t ever existed in the organization. But Dazai refuses to believe that his ability to read others is starting to lack behind.
His mind naturally started to assemble possibilities, but it discarded them just as quickly.
Memory loss? Impossible. An elaborate deception? Poorly executed. A political restructuring? No.
And so, his conclusion remained unfinished and scattered like pieces of many different puzzles mixed into one box.
The only sensible course of action, in this case, seemed to be to observe. He wanted to gather information and allow the contradictions to cancel out one another. Fortunately, the Port Mafia building was one of the few places he could navigate with his eyes closed. If the guard at the front failed to recognize him, perhaps this ignorance could be extended to everyone else in the building.
And even if not, being recognized could bring its own privileges. People were often generous giving out information when demanding answers. So, either outcome was acceptable.
He slipped through another entrance without any difficulty. The stretched-out hallway stretched before him, resembling his memories exactly. The building has not changed.
He had almost gotten through one of the corridors when he felt fingers close around his sleeve.
“Dazai!” a familiar voice called out, carrying genuine disbelief. “What are you doing here?”
Dazai stopped mid-step, turning his head back just enough to see the dark eyes fixated on him.
“Akutagawa?”
Akutagawa’s brows drew together. “Why are you the one acting surprised?” he scoffed and harshly released his arm as if prolonged contact was unpleasant. “Shouldn’t you be at the Armed Detective Agency?”
“Oh. I’m supposed to be there.”
It sounded almost like a question. Akutagawa, in turn, narrowed his eyes. Dazai’s attention drifted briefly to the fabric of his sleeve before brushing the wrinkles flat. Then, he turned to leave.
“Wait.” Akutagawa’s voice stopped him once more. His expression remained composed, but something briefly moved behind his eyes. The shift was barely noticeable, the kind of thing Dazai might have not caught if he had not spent his whole life learning to read people who did not want to be read. “You’re wearing bandages again.”
The observation, Dazai noticed, carried no curiosity. Only disgust. A nauseating, violent disgust.
“Whatever. If you have no business here, leave.” Without waiting for a response, Akutagawa continued down the corridor.
The pieces did not fit together well, but he did have a better understanding of his situation, although not much..
Akutagawa serves the Port Mafia and he himself serves the agency. These bandages also belonged to another version of him. The least feasible explanation was becoming the most logical one available.
Dazai left the Port Mafia grounds without any urgency. Forcing the city’s secrets too quickly would only serve to distort the answers.
The Yokohama around him was exactly as he remembered.
He walked with no particular destination. His feet found their way before his thoughts could catch up, carrying him through streets so deeply engraved into memory that they require no conscious effort. The world gradually lost its sharpness and voices blended into indistinct murmur.
He barely noticed how much time had passed before a familiar silhouette entered the edge of his vision. A boy with white hair and a slight, cautious frame.
Atsushi.
No… not quite.
Someone resembling Atsushi.
His own Atsushi carried himself like a cornered animal who had only recently learned to bite. Shoulders held tight, eyes measuring danger. But this boy, the one standing in front of him, lacked the perpetual expectation of violence. There was a lightness in the way he moved, subtle, but impossible for Dazai to overlook.
Seeing no reason to reveal himself, he increased his pace ever so slightly. He followed just enough to remain another passerby among the crowd, never far enough to lose sight of him. Around them, the city continued breathing with quiet indifference, untouched by the questions accumulating in Dazai’s mind.
His gaze remained fixed on the boy ahead. There was something horribly unsettling about recognizing a face his own eyes had never seen, one that existed only in memories that somehow did not feel entirely his.
For all its familiarity, the city no longer felt as though it belonged to him. Rather, he was the one who belonged to another Yokohama.