Chapter Text
Dear Eraserhead .
—
Shouta drove to school alone on Friday. It was the third time that week that Dazai had declined to come with him for training; he tried not to feel like he’d ruined all the progress he’d made with the boy. For some reason things had soured between them after he’d brought Dazai in for the training exercise with his class.
Did Dazai not get along with other kids his age? Had Shouta reacted too harshly to Dazai’s treatment of Suzumu? Had Dazai, perhaps, noticed Shouta becoming overprotective?
He worried that it was that last option. Dazai had never taken kindly to Shouta’s attempts to look in on him, those first few weeks when he’d lounged around the guest bedroom in a depressed fugue. Recently the boy had been like a whole different person—but maybe there was still some resentment. Some sort of reluctance to accept concern.
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I’m writing to you on a matter of extreme importance.
—
He didn’t know what to do about Dazai anymore. He’d researched best practices for mental health crises, read dozens of articles titled ‘How to Help a Suicidal Loved One’, and bothered Hizashi and Nemuri about it until they’d tactfully suggested to him that perhaps he’d better consult a professional. The problem wasn’t that he didn’t know how to help Dazai; it was that Dazai wouldn’t let him.
Every conversation he’d tried to start had been deflected with jokes or outrageous nonsense. Beneath the comedic veneer, though, he could sense Dazai turning icier with every false start. The boy clearly knew that Shouta was trying to start a sensitive discussion, and he wasn’t about to put up with it.
The problem was that he couldn’t talk to Dazai. The problem was that Dazai wouldn’t stop talking long enough to get a word in edgewise. The problem was that he was beginning to doubt if Dazai had been honest with him even once in the entire time they’d been living together.
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There is someone watching you, and I do not believe they have good intentions.
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Shouta had other things to worry about, of course. He’d been dragged in every direction on his nightly shifts, with fruitless stakeouts and false sightings each night since the jewelry thief escaped capture. His class was finally getting caught up on their work, but that meant more grading to do. And he’d had an ominous conversation with Nedzu to top off the week.
“Be careful with your recent investigations, Aizawa,” the rat-bear had told him during their meeting on Wednesday morning. “Yokohama is no place for a hero to go wandering around alone.”
Shouta had raised his eyebrows a little at that. “I know firsthand that there are hero agencies there,” he said.
Nedzu had frowned. “Not investigating the Port Mafia, there aren’t. Do be careful, won’t you? It would be a shame to lose you so early in your career.”
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They know who you are. They know where you live. And they may not be working alone.
—
The threat of the Port Mafia wasn’t his biggest concern right now, but that said more about how busy he’d been than anything else. He’d barely had time to even think about what he’d learned from Detective Edogawa—that their leader had killed his aunt and uncle. Dazai’s parents.
The poor kid had to know more about it than Shouta did. If it had happened like Shouta suspected—if they’d been killed in an attempt to get to a powerful nullification user—he couldn’t imagine how that would make Dazai feel.
It was no wonder the boy had changed his name. Nor, Shouta realized, was it any wonder that he was hiding some serious self-destructive tendencies.
So as Shouta pulled into the UA parking lot, ready for one last schoolday before the weekend, he could only hope that nothing else would go wrong this week.
Just one day with minimal chaos, and maybe time for a nap after class. That was all he asked for.
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Take every reasonable precaution, and beware of a ghostly figure in black.
—
When he got to his classroom, his heart sank. Nemuri stood just outside the door, tapping her foot with a rare furrow in her brow.
“What is it,” he asked wearily.
She hesitated, then handed him a folded sheet of paper. “Someone left this in your mailbox last night.”
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Sincerely,
A Fan
—
“...You’ve got to be kidding me.”