Chapter Text
There are mornings at the Armed Detective Agency when nothing happens, and Kunikida Doppo has come to appreciate those mornings more than he would ever admit aloud.
They are rare, almost suspiciously so, but when they occur, they possess a certain quiet dignity that makes him briefly believe the universe have finally decided to reward responsible people.
No explosions shake the windows, nobody bursts through the office doors covered in blood, Ranpo does not announce a world-ending deduction before breakfast.
And most importantly, Dazai Osamu does not appear before noon with some new excuse for why the laws of time and professional responsibility apparently do not apply to him.
It is simply a weekday morning filled with paperwork, the soft scratching of pens against paper, the occasional turning of a page, and the distant sounds of Yokohama waking up below them. Kunikida have several reports arranged in precise stacks on his desk, his notebook is open to the day's schedule, and for once, every task written on the page appears perfectly manageable.
Then Dazai walks through the office door at eight seventeen in the morning.
Kunikida looks up.
He stares. For several seconds, he simply waits for the punchline, the corny joke, or the annoyingly loud Good morning.
Dazai, meanwhile, removes his coat, hangs it neatly on the back of his chair, and sits down.
Kunikida's fingers stop halfway through writing.
There is something fundamentally wrong with this picture.
It is not merely that Dazai arrived on time.
Kunikida has, over the years, witnessed many improbable events, including Dazai surviving situations in which survival should have been mathematically impossible, but punctuality will always remain beyond his capabilities.
Dazai being late is not an accident or an occasional lapse in judgment, rather, it is a lifestyle choice, a philosophy, perhaps even a personal contribution to the destruction of Kunikida's blood pressure.
The brunette is normally dragged into the office by the consequences of his own laziness, appearing sometime after the morning meeting with his hair still untidy, his coat hanging carelessly from one shoulder, and a smile that suggests he has spent the past hour doing anything except coming to work.
Yet this morning Dazai arrived before half the Agency finished their first cup of coffee.
And he is quiet.
That, more than the punctuality, bothers Kunikida.
Dazai did not announce his arrival. He did not complain about the weather. He did not immediately lean over Kunikida's desk to read something he has no business reading. He did not ask whether Kunikida has ever considered abandoning society and opening a small bakery somewhere in the countryside. He did not even attempt to steal his coffee.
He simply sits on his desk and sighs.
Kunikida pauses whatever he's doing and stares at the bandaged man.
Dazai is looking out the window when another sigh leaves him.
That made Kunikida lower his pen very slowly. Perhaps, he decides, Dazai simply had a bad morning.
So he returns to his paperwork, determined not to indulge what he assumes is a temporary mood, and for the next fifteen minutes he succeeds in ignoring the other man.
Then Dazai sighs again.
Not dramatically, either, because that would have been easier to brush off.
A dramatic sigh from Dazai could be dismissed as theatrics. This one is quieter, almost absent-minded, accompanied by his cheek resting against one hand as he stares at a blank sheet of paper. Bandaged hands picks up a pen, turns it between his fingers, puts it down, picks it up again, and finally writes something in the margin before staring at it as though the words have personally offended him.
Kunikida's eyes narrow.
Across the room, Atsushi has noticed it too.
The younger detective glances toward Dazai, then toward Kunikida, apparently checking whether he is the only one witnessing this strange phenomenon. Kunikida gives him the smallest shake of his head, a silent instruction not to encourage whatever is happening. They both return to their work.
Five minutes later, Dazai sighs again.
This time, even Atsushi looks concerned.
The morning continues like that, with Dazai displaying a series of increasingly peculiar behaviors that would have been unremarkable in anyone else but become deeply unsettling when performed by him.
At one point he opens the office window and stands there for several moments, looking down at the street with an expression so distant that Kunikida briefly wonders whether he is contemplating some elaborate escape from work. But instead of climbing out, Dazai merely closes the window and returns to his desk like some sort of a heroine in a tragic drama.
Kunikida's patience begins to fray.
There are rules in the Agency. Unwritten ones, mostly, but rules nonetheless.
Everyone has their habits, their peculiarities, their own ways of making the workplace slightly more chaotic than necessary, and everyone has learned to tolerate one another because that is what happens when a group of highly capable oddballs is forced to share an office.
Dazai's particular brand of oddity has always been especially exhausting, but at least it is predictable. His laziness is predictable. His teasing is predictable. His tendency to turn perfectly ordinary situations into elaborate schemes is predictable.
This is not.
Dazai is doing nothing. Not out of laziness but of something else.
And somehow, Kunikida finds that considerably more alarming.
By ten in the morning, the entire office seems to have become aware of it.
Kenji stopped by Dazai's desk once and offered him a snack, only to receive a distracted smile and a polite refusal.
Yosano glanced over several times with the sharp, assessing expression she usually reserves for patients who insist they are perfectly healthy while actively proving otherwise.
Even Ranpo, who has spent most of the morning occupied with his own affairs, eventually looks over the top of his book at Dazai and studies him for several seconds before returning to his reading without comment.
Kunikida noticed that.
That is when he becomes genuinely suspicious.
Ranpo rarely ignores something interesting.
Dazai, apparently, has become interesting.
Kunikida looks down at his paperwork again and tries to concentrate, but the numbers on the page have begun to blur into one another. His mind keeps returning to the same question.
What happened?
There had been no mission involving Dazai yesterday. No injury. No disciplinary incident. No serious disagreement within the Agency that Kunikida knew of.
Dazai had left the office normally the previous evening, smiling as usual, and had even managed to irritate Kunikida on his way out by stealing one of his pens.
Nothing had happened.
At least, nothing that Kunikida knew about.
He looks over again.
Dazai is staring at his phone.
This time, Atsushi finally leans slightly closer to Kunikida's desk.
"Kunikida-san," he murmurs, keeping his voice low enough that Dazai will not hear, "is Dazai-san all right?"
Kunikida does not look away from his paperwork. "He appears to be alive."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
They both glance toward Dazai.
The brunette is now resting his chin in his palm, staring at absolutely nothing.
Atsushi hesitates before returning to his own desk, but Kunikida catches the thoughtful expression that remains on his face. It is the same expression Atsushi gets when he is trying to solve a problem that has no obvious answer, and Kunikida knows from experience that the boy will eventually come to him with whatever theory he has constructed.
And he is not wrong.
Several minutes later, while Kunikida is reviewing a report, Atsushi speaks again, so quietly that at first Kunikida assumes he just imagined it.
"Do you think..."
Kunikida looks over. Atsushi is still staring at his paperwork but clearly not focusing.
"...maybe Dazai-san and Nakahara-san broke up?"
The pen in Kunikida's hand stops.
There is a strange, almost sacred silence around his desk.
Tiger boy seems to realize what he had just said only after the words are already hanging in the air. His ears turn slightly pink, and he immediately lowers his voice further, as though the walls themselves might report him for gossiping about a Port Mafia executive.
"I mean... they are very close, right?"
Kunikida stares at him. He wants to dismiss the idea. He really does. But the problem is that once Atsushi had said it, Kunikida cannot stop thinking about it.
Nakahara-san.
The red-haired Port Mafia executive.
Dazai's former partner from his mafia days.
The man who, despite being an enemy of the Agency, somehow appears in Dazai's conversations with astonishing frequency.
Kunikida lost count of the number of times Dazai had mentioned him over the years, usually with some irritating mixture of fondness and mockery. Nakahara-san's temper. Nakahara-san's hat. Nakahara-san's height. Nakahara-san's drinking habits. Nakahara-san's driving. Nakahara-san's terrible patience. Nakahara-san's reactions to Dazai's various schemes.
Sometimes Kunikida suspects Dazai could be discussing an entirely unrelated subject and still somehow find a way to bring Nakahara-san into it.
And today? Nothing. Not once.
Kunikida slowly looks back toward Dazai.
The sighing, the distraction, the unusual punctuality, the complete absence of his usual energy, and the fact that he has been staring at his phone every few minutes like someone waiting for a message that never arrives.
Kunikida's expression gradually changes.
Atsushi notices.
"Come on, Kunikida-san, you see it too, don't you?"
"I see that Dazai is behaving unusually."
"Yes and Nakahara-san is usually the person he talks about the most."
Kunikida's eyebrows draw together. That is true.
He thinks back to the previous day. Dazai had mentioned the Port Mafia several times, but the blonde cannot remember whether he had specifically mentioned Nakahara Chuuya. He searches through his memory and finds nothing. Perhaps he had. Perhaps he hadn't. It is impossible to tell anymore because Dazai talks about the man so often that the distinction has become meaningless.
But today there is nothing. Not a single insult, not a single smug remark. Not even the usual theatrical declaration that his former partner is an uncultured barbarian.
Kunikida looks at Dazai again. A long, quiet breath leaves the brunette as he lowers his phone onto the desk.
Kunikida's eyes widen slightly.
Oh.
He suddenly understands. Or, more accurately, he believes he understands.
A relationship ending would explain the unusual behavior. It would explain why Dazai is distracted, why he keeps checking his phone, why his normally obnoxious energy has disappeared, why he arrived at work on time without anyone forcing him out of bed, and perhaps most importantly, why he has spent the entire morning conspicuously avoiding the one subject that usually occupies an unreasonable amount of his conversation.
Kunikida sits back in his chair and Atsushi watches him anxiously. Neither of them says anything for several seconds.
Across the room, Dazai picks up his pen and begins writing again.
He looks miserable.
Or at least, he looks miserable to people who have already decided that he is miserable.
Kunikida closes his eyes briefly.
This is bad.
Not because Dazai is heartbroken. Kunikida is not entirely convinced that Dazai is capable of experiencing heartbreak in the conventional sense.
No, what concerns him is the identity of the presumed ex-boyfriend.
A Port Mafia executive.
An enemy.
Someone the Agency cannot simply invite over for tea and encourage to talk things out.
Someone who, as far as Kunikida knows, has absolutely no reason to cooperate with them.
He opens his eyes and looks toward Atsushi.
"We should speak to the President."
Atsushi nods immediately.
Neither of them noticed Dazai glance briefly in their direction.
Neither noticed the faintly puzzled expression crossing his face as he watch the two of them whispering.
And neither realizes that, within the next hour, their perfectly ordinary morning of paperwork is going to become the beginning of one of the strangest diplomatic incidents in the history of the Armed Detective Agency.
Because somewhere across Yokohama, entirely unknown to them, another organization is beginning to reach the exact same conclusion.
And unlike Kunikida and Atsushi, they have no idea that anyone else had noticed anything at all.
—
The Port Mafia is rarely quiet.
Although there are different kinds of quiet, and Ozaki Kouyou learned over the years that the most dangerous one is not the silence that precedes an attack but the silence that comes from something being subtly, inexplicably wrong.
The headquarters hums around her as it always does, filled with the distant movement of personnel, the measured footsteps of executives passing through corridors, the occasional murmur of reports being exchanged behind closed doors, and the ever-present atmosphere of restrained violence that accompanies an organization such as theirs.
It is an ordinary morning by mafia standards, which means that nobody is screaming, nobody is bleeding, and nobody has yet presented the boss with a problem sufficiently troublesome to ruin his mood.
Kouyou considers this a perfectly satisfactory beginning to the day.
She is reviewing a report in her office when Akutagawa appears at the doorway.
The young man does not look particularly concerned. Akutagawa rarely does.
His expression remains as severe as ever, his posture straight and disciplined, and there is nothing in his appearance to suggest that he arrived carrying information of any great importance. The boy simply waits until Kouyou acknowledges him before delivering a brief update regarding the day's activities, most of which she has already received through the proper channels.
It is only at the very end, almost as an afterthought, that he mentions Chuuya.
"Nakahara-san has been behaving strangely today."
Kouyou's eyes lift from the report.
There are few people in the Port Mafia whose moods she can identify without needing an explanation. Chuuya is one of them.
Perhaps that is because she had known him for many years. Perhaps it is because she has watched him grow from a reckless young subordinate into one of the organization's most capable executives.
Or perhaps it is simply because Chuuya had never been particularly difficult to read when one knows what to look for. His temper is obvious, his pride even more so, and his moods tend to announce themselves long before he bothers to put them into words.
But strange?
That is different.
Kouyou closes the report. "What do you mean?"
Akutagawa pauses, considering the question with his usual seriousness.
He explains that Chuuya is being unusually quiet, that he had dismissed several people without his customary irritation, and that he appeared distracted during a briefing earlier that morning.
None of these things would ordinarily be enough to concern Kouyou. Chuuya is allowed to have an off-day. Even executives have mornings when they would rather not speak to anyone.
Yet there is something about the way Akutagawa describes it that catches her attention.
Chuuya is not simply quiet.
He is withdrawn.
Kouyou knows the difference.
That's why she tells herself that she is only going to check on him because an executive's sudden change in behavior is worth investigating.
There is nothing personal about it. Certainly, she is not concerned in the manner of an overprotective older sister, because that would be an absurd description of their relationship and one she would reject immediately. Chuuya is a fellow executive, a respected member of the organization, and someone whose well-being naturally falls within the concerns of those senior to him.
That is all.
It is a perfectly reasonable explanation.
She takes her fan from the desk and nods.
Akutagawa follows.
Neither of them comments on the fact that Kouyou just abandoned a perfectly manageable stack of paperwork to personally investigate a young executive's mood.
The walk to Chuuya's office is uneventful, although Kouyou finds herself thinking about the last time she saw him. He had been perfectly normal then, perhaps a little more irritable than usual, but that is hardly worth noting when the person in question is Chuuya. He had complained about a report, complained about the coffee, complained about one of his subordinates, and then spent several minutes complaining about Dazai despite the fact that nobody had asked.
Kouyou almost smiles at the memory, but she remembers that Akutagawa is walking beside her and schools her expression back into composure.
When they reach Chuuya's office, she knocks once.
But there is no answer.
They wait for a few seconds but nothing comes.
She knocks again with a faint crease appears between her brows.
This is unusual too.
Chuuya is not the sort of person who ignores a knock on his door. He might shout for whoever is outside to come in. He might tell them to go away.
Silence, however, is not particularly like him.
Kouyou opens the door. And stops. For a moment, she simply stands there.
Chuuya is sitting on the sofa.
His hat is lying abandoned on the table. His coat is tossed over the back of a chair rather than hung properly, and one hand loosely griping the neck of a wine bottle that is already half empty. His head is bowed, his shoulders slightly hunched, and his face is turned toward the television mounted across the room.
His eyes are wet.
There are tears on his cheeks.
Kouyou's entire train of thought comes to an immediate halt. Behind her, Akutagawa goes completely still.
The television continues playing yet neither of them hears what is being said.
They only see Chuuya.
The sight is so unexpected that Kouyou forgets, for one brief and astonishing moment, to maintain her usual composure.
Chuuya does not cry easily.
He is stubborn, proud, fiercely independent, and far too determined to maintain his dignity even when there is absolutely nobody around to judge him. She has seen him injured, exhausted, furious, frustrated, and occasionally so drunk that he has attempted to argue with furniture, but she has rarely seen him genuinely vulnerable.
And now he is sitting alone in his office with a bottle of wine in his hand and tears running silently down his face.
Kouyou's first thought is not whether he is ill. It is not whether something happened at work. It is not even whether he has received bad news.
Her first thought is a single name.
Dazai.
Of course.
Who else?
There are many people capable of making Chuuya furious. There are considerably fewer capable of making him genuinely miserable, and among those few, Dazai occupies a position of remarkable distinction.
Kouyou's eyes narrow.
She had always regarded Dazai with a mixture of amusement, exasperation, and the cautious tolerance one reserves for a former colleague who possesses the unfortunate ability to turn every room he enters into a problem.
His history with Chuuya is complicated enough without adding whatever this is to it, and although she has never been particularly interested in interfering with their affairs, she is beginning to reconsider that position.
Because Chuuya is crying.
In his office. Alone. With alcohol.
That is not a combination she intends to ignore. So she takes one slow step into the room.
Chuuya does not notice her. Another tear rolls down his cheek.
Kouyou's expression softens despite herself.
There is something almost painfully familiar about the scene.
She remembers a younger Chuuya, years ago, all sharp edges and impossible confidence, refusing help even when he needed it and insisting that he could handle everything himself.
Time has made him more composed, more capable, and considerably more difficult to provoke, but beneath all that confidence is still the same young man who has always carried more than he allows anyone to see.
Kouyou's fingers tighten slightly around her fan.
She is not being sentimental.
She is simply observing.
That is all.
She has no intention of admitting that watching Chuuya cry makes something maternal and fiercely protective awaken in her chest, because that would imply she has somehow become emotionally attached to the troublesome young executive under her care.
She absolutely has not.
The television suddenly fills the room with mournful music.
Chuuya's face crumples and Kouyou's heart sinks. Akutagawa looks as though he had just witnessed a tragedy.
Neither of them notices the scene playing on the screen clearly enough to understand what is happening. Their attention remains fixed entirely on Chuuya, who reaches for the bottle, takes another sip, and then wipes his face with the back of his hand.
Kouyou's eyes narrow further.
Dazai.
She is almost certain of it now.
Whatever happened between those two, it has apparently affected Chuuya far more deeply than she expected.
She glances toward Akutagawa. The young man looks equally grim. There is no need for an explanation between them. They have reached the same conclusion.
Something has happened between Dazai and Chuuya.
Something serious.
And judging by the state of the executive currently sitting in front of them, something painful.
Kouyou takes another step forward.
"Chuu-"
He suddenly sniffles, eyes remain fixed on the television. "...why would he do that?"
Kouyou's heart sinks. Akutagawa's expression darkens. Neither of them asks what he means.
To them, the question is simply another confirmation that Chuuya is speaking from the depths of whatever emotional devastation has brought him to this state.
Kouyou exhales quietly.
So it really is Dazai.
Chuuya wipes his eyes again, muttering something under his breath that Kouyou cannot quite make out. The television continues playing in the background, its melancholy soundtrack only making the entire scene appear more tragic.
Kouyou's concern deepens.
She knows Chuuya well enough to recognize when he is hurting, even if he refuses to admit it.
Whatever the case may be, Kouyou has no intention of forcing him to explain himself while he is clearly in such a vulnerable state.
For now, she will let him have his dignity.
She leaves the office with Akutagawa beside her, and only once the door closes behind them does her expression become thoughtful.
Whatever is troubling Chuuya, she decides, it is worth discussing with the boss.
Not because she is worried.
Certainly not.
It is simply her responsibility as a senior executive to report unusual behavior among the mafia's ranks.
That is all.
She walks down the corridor with perfect composure, fan resting neatly against her palm, while behind her Akutagawa follows in silence.
Neither of them realizes that Chuuya's tears have nothing whatsoever to do with Dazai.
Neither realizes that the mysterious tragedy occupying Chuuya's attention is playing quietly on a television screen inside his office.
As far as Kouyou and Akutagawa are concerned, there is only one explanation.
Dazai.
And by the time they reach Mori's office, both are entirely convinced that something terrible has happened between the two men.
Across the city, the Armed Detective Agency has already reached the exact same conclusion about Dazai.
Neither side knows it yet.
But they are about to discover that they have been worrying about the same nonexistent breakup.
—
The secret garden belongs to neither the Armed Detective Agency nor the Port Mafia.
That is precisely why Fukuzawa Yukichi chose it.
Tucked behind an old tea house on the quieter side of Yokohama, the garden is enclosed by high stone walls and thick greenery, secluded enough that even the city's more observant informants would have difficulty discovering who comes and goes.
It is not officially neutral territory, because there is no such thing between the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia, but over the years it has become something close to sacred ground between the two leaders.
Neither man had ever explained why.
Perhaps because there are some conversations better held away from offices, subordinates, surveillance, and the expectations of the organizations they command.
Perhaps because the garden is one of the few places where Fukuzawa and Mori can sit across from one another without either man's presence immediately turning the atmosphere into a battlefield.
Or perhaps, though neither would ever say so aloud, they simply prefer meeting here.
The afternoon is unusually peaceful.
A soft breeze moves through the maple branches overhead, scattering small patches of sunlight across the stone path.
Somewhere beyond the garden wall, the city continues its usual rhythm, unaware that two of Yokohama's most powerful men are presently seated at a low wooden table, drinking tea and discussing what they both believe to be a matter of considerable national importance.
Mori Ougai arrives first.
He sits with his cane resting beside him, one hand curled loosely around his teacup. His expression is pleasant, almost relaxed, but Fukuzawa knows better than to mistake Mori's calmness for a lack of concern.
When Fukuzawa enters through the garden gate, Mori looks up.
Their eyes meet.
For one brief moment, neither speaks.
It is an old habit between them. A silent acknowledgment. A recognition that the other has come.
"You came." Fukuzawa takes the seat opposite to him.
Mori's lips curve faintly. "You asked."
There is something almost absurdly ordinary about the exchange.
Fukuzawa pours himself te and Mori watches him do it.
"You still take it without sugar."
"And you still remember?"
Mori's smile grows by the smallest degree. "I remember many things."
Fukuzawa's hand pauses around the teapot.
Their eyes meet again. The silence lasts perhaps two seconds before Fukuzawa returns to calmly pouring the tea. Neither comments on the exchange because there are matters of greater urgency.
Mori takes a sip from his own cup before setting it down.
"I have received a concerning report."
"So have I."
That gets Mori's attention. His eyes sharpen.
Fukuzawa's expression remains unreadable, but there is a faint tension around his mouth that tells the mafia boss that the matter is not trivial.
"I see," Mori says quietly.
Fukuzawa inclines his head. "I presume yours concerns Nakahara Chuuya."
"And yours concerns Dazai Osamu." Mori's eyebrows rise.
For several seconds, the garden becomes completely silent. A bird calls somewhere in the distance.
Mori slowly places his teacup on the table and Fukuzawa does the same. They look at one another. And in that instant, two entirely separate reports suddenly become one.
Mori is the first to speak. "Chuuya has been behaving strangely since this morning."
"Dazai arrived at the Agency at eight seventeen." Fukuzawa continues. "He was early."
Mori's expression changes. "Now, that is concerning."
"He is also very quiet."
"I see..." Mori's face grows solemn. "Even more concerning."
Fukuzawa gives him a grave look. "He did not mention Nakahara even once."
Mori goes still. That, more than anything else, appears to settle the matter.
"I understand." For perhaps the first time since arriving, Mori's usual amusement disappears entirely. "Chuuya has also been unusually withdrawn. He has dismissed several subordinates without argument, ignored his reports, and apparently spent much of the morning alone in his office."
Fukuzawa listens without interrupting.
"He was seen drinking." Mori pauses. "And crying."
Fukuzawa's eyes narrow. The weight of that single word settles between them. Neither man needs an explanation for why it is alarming.
Dazai and Chuuya are not merely two troublesome individuals who happen to know each other.
Their history is infamous.
Their partnership is legendary.
Their rivalry is equally so.
Even after Dazai's departure from the Port Mafia and their subsequent positions on opposite sides of Yokohama's underworld, the connection between the two remained strangely persistent. They bicker. They insult one another. They appear wherever the other happens to be. They know each other's habits with an intimacy that has always been difficult to explain to outsiders.
They are Double Black.
And if something has happened between them badly enough to leave one of them devastated, there is every reason to assume the other is suffering as well.
Fukuzawa folds his hands atop the table.
"I believe they have separated."
Mori stares at him. Then, very slowly, he nods.
"So do I."
The conclusion lands with the solemnity of a military declaration. Neither man immediately speaks. The breeze moves through the garden.
Mori looks toward the pond while Fukuzawa watches him.
"This is unfortunate," Mori says at last.
"Extremely."
"I had hoped they would eventually learn to manage their differences."
"So had I."
Mori sighs. "They have always been difficult."
"They learned from us."
Mori looks back at him. There is a faint sparkle in his eyes. "Was that criticism?"
"No." Fukuzawa's expression remains perfectly straight, but Mori knows him well enough to notice the almost imperceptible softening around his eyes.
It is a familiar sight, one Mori has always liked, but he does not say so. Instead, he reaches for his tea.
"You seem tired." Fukuzawa's gaze settles on him.
"You noticed?"
"I notice you." The words are simple. Almost careless. Yet for one quiet moment, neither man moves.
Mori's fingers remain around the teacup as Fukuzawa's expression softens. Then he ADA president clears his throat. "We should focus on the matter at hand."
"Agreed." A pause. "Although..." Mori adds, "I am pleased you came."
Fukuzawa looks at him for a moment longer than necessary. "As am I."
There is no further explanation. There does not need to be. They return their attention to the crisis.
Fukuzawa's voice becomes more serious. "If their separation continues, there may be consequences."
Mori nods. "Chuuya is one of the Mafia's strongest executives."
"Dazai is one of the our Agency's most capable strategists."
"Separately, they are dangerous."
"Together, they are even worse."
Mori's eyes narrow.
"Precisely." He leans back slightly, considering the situation. "If Chuuya's emotional state continues to deteriorate, his judgment may become compromised."
"And Dazai?"
Mori's expression becomes strangely thoughtful. "Dazai is more difficult to predict when he is unhappy."
Fukuzawa's brow furrows. "He has always been difficult to predict."
"Yes." Mori sighs. "But this is different."
Fukuzawa understands immediately.
Dazai's usual recklessness is calculated. His laziness is often deliberate. His smiles conceal plans, his jokes conceal observations, and his apparent carelessness is usually a mask for a mind working several steps ahead.
But if that mind is distracted by genuine emotional distress?
That is another matter entirely.
Fukuzawa's gaze hardens. "We cannot allow this to continue."
"I agree." Mori nods.
Another silence settles between them. This time, it is not awkward. It is the silence of two people arriving at the same conclusion.
Fukuzawa reaches for his tea. "What do you propose?"
Mori's smile returns. It is not his usual mischievous smile. This one is considerably more dangerous.
"We help them reconcile."
"Reconcile?" Fukuzawa looks at him.
"Yes."
"You mean... we intervene?" Fukuzawa considers this.
"It may be necessary." Mori nods solemnly.
"Of course."
Neither acknowledges the absurdity of the situation.
The leaders of the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia are sitting in a hidden garden, calmly discussing how to repair the presumed romantic relationship of two men who are completely unaware that anyone believes they are romantically involved.
Mori folds his hands.
"Naturally, this operation will require cooperation between our organizations."
Fukuzawa's eyes narrow slightly. "Temporary cooperation. No unnecessary conflict."
"You have my word."
"And no interference beyond what is required."
"Of course." Mori smiles.
"You seem pleased." Fukuzawa studies him.
"I am."
"Why?"
"Because it has been some time since we worked together." Mori's gaze lingers on him. "It is rather nice."
"Yes." Fukuzawa looks down at his tea. The answer is quiet enough that Mori almost misses it. Almost.
He smiles. "Then perhaps this crisis has one benefit."
"Do not become sentimental." Fukuzawa gives him a look.
"I would never." Mori's smile widens. For a moment, the crisis almost feels less severe.
Then Fukuzawa speaks again. "What shall we call the operation?"
Mori pauses. His eyes brighten.
Fukuzawa immediately recognizes that expression. "No."
"But I have not said anything yet, Yukichi."
"I know that look, Ougai."
"You wound me."
"You are planning something ridiculous."
"I am planning something efficient and beneficial for both of our organizations."
"Those are not mutually exclusive."
"Fair enough." Mori considers this. He taps one finger lightly against the table. Then his smile becomes positively delighted. "Operation: Get Dazai and Chuuya Back Together."
After several seconds, Fukuzawa exhales. "Fine."
Mori's eyes sparkle. "Excellent."
"But if this fails-"
"It will not."
"If it does, you will take responsibility."
"Gladly. Although you wound me for having so little faith in my plan. Haven't you used to follow me so devotedly in the past, Yukichi?"
Fukuzawa studies him. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth lifts. There's no spoken answer but they both know the truth.
The garden remains peaceful around them. The city continues beyond its walls.
And somewhere across Yokohama, Dazai Osamu is staring mournfully at his phone while Chuuya Nakahara is still emotionally invested in a television drama about a dog, neither man having the slightest idea that two of the most powerful leaders in the city have just declared their nonexistent breakup a matter of organizational security.
By the time they leave the garden, the decision has been made.
The Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia will cooperate.
They will put aside their differences. They will coordinate their efforts. They will manipulate circumstances, engineer encounters, arrange meals, manufacture coincidences, and employ every resource available to them.
They will do whatever is necessary.
Because Double Black is too dangerous to leave broken.
Mori rises first and reaches for his cane.
Fukuzawa stands across from him.
For a moment, neither moves toward the garden gate.
Mori looks at him. "I suppose we will be seeing more of each other."
Fukuzawa meets his gaze. "It appears so."
"I look forward to it."
Fukuzawa's expression softens again. "So do I."
Then they walk out of the garden together, side by side, already planning how to save a relationship that does not exist.
Neither of them considers the possibility that they might be wrong.
Neither of them questions the evidence.
And neither notices that, perhaps for the first time in years, the greatest threat facing Yokohama is not an enemy organization, a supernatural ability, or a criminal mastermind.
It is two deeply misguided groups of adults with far too much free time and an unwavering determination to fix Dazai Osamu and Nakahara Chuuya's love life.
A love life that, unbeknownst to everyone involved, does not exist.
Yet.