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Chapter Text

When Dazai Osamu first appeared on the agency’s doorstep with an incomplete application and a halfhearted recommendation, Ranpo’s first impression was kill it with fire.

His second thought was it can’t join the agency. Much like a stray cat, Ranpo could see in the thing’s desperate, starved eyes that if it were given a scrap of affection, it would curl up in the nearest sunny spot and never leave. He didn’t need his (an) ability to see that.

(Fukuzawa’s love for strays, unfortunately, devastatingly, rubbed off on them all.)

“This is your desk,” Ranpo said, waving over to the desk that used to be his and now belonged to the thing with its fluffy hair and almost-right smile. It was only sort of close to being natural, but that was fine, they’d work on it.

They’d have to.

Dazai passed the test regardless of his reservations. No Longer Human, an eerily laughable name for its ability, almost as ironic as it being the thing’s ability in the first place, did not appear affected by All Men Are Created Equal. It could be said that Dazai’s ability was perfection in that sense, in the way that Kunikida and Yosano’s abilities were very much not, in the way that the kid, Junichiro, who had a summer internship with them until his graduation, had a severely flawed ability. The only noticeable change was the way Kunikida remarked once during Dazai’s first official week that it felt a little less like No Longer Human craved to hollow out the core of his being, the sensation being gentler, more cooling, yet no less unsettling.

Yosano tried not to touch Dazai unless necessary. Kunikida didn’t bother shying away, too hard-headed for gloves and too proprietary to say anything to the poor thing. Junichiro stayed a tactful distance away. Kenji pretended to not be bothered at all.

“Thanks,” the thing said, trying for another tick upwards in its smile, so unpracticed and pinched in the center that it looked a little too disgruntled to be thankful.

Ranpo smiled back, condescending in the way he curled his mouth up slowly, softening the center of his lips to see if the thing would mirror it like a particularly intelligent cat. To its credit, it tried, all of its twenty years of existence darkening its irises and lightening them in tandem, artificial and still trying . It was trying so hard and Ranpo cursed his bleeding heart and the president’s hovering.

Fukuzawa still stood in the room in the way he almost never did. He was sitting, drinking tea and scrolling through what were likely cat photos on his phone judging by the way his left eye settled more lidded than the right, but even then gave off a looming impression that scared the skittish thing. Dazai tried its best not to let anything show, but even as smart as it was, Ranpo was smarter and his eyebrow twitched knowingly.

Dazai’s expression shuttered for a millisecond before righting itself into a mirror of the newest smile it learned from Ranpo, but the sweet, pathetically fluffy and starved thing couldn’t pretend when Ranpo’s mind worked faster than it and it couldn’t hide a thing. It was still almost cute watching it try.

“If you really want to thank me, you can do my reports for me!” Ranpo cheered with an arm waving towards the stacks of papers (which wouldn’t have been done by him anyway; if Ranpo were told to do a report on the important facts he’d have too many papers written to reasonably file. He suspected the thing was similar to him in that way), pulling his snack drawer out of his (old) desk and putting it on a desk closer to the door in the right row. He pulled out a drawer to replace it, shoving his snack drawer into the desk in its place, almost fitting but not quite, just barely enough to work.

How funny.

Ranpo turned back to the thing, standing there aimlessly with twenty minutes to go before it was given the tasks, the purpose, it so craved. After a moment’s thought, he grabbed out a few gummy packs from his drawer, the ones shaped like paws, and put them into the new one. He trotted back over, shoved it into his old desk, and tried to shoulder the thing on his way past. It leaned just slightly away, disguising the movement by reaching for a report. Ranpo let his gait stutter back and leaned in further to nudge Dazai’s side properly.

It was worth the effort to see how unfocused it went as it fought with the urge to lean further in for more affection, just as loud and unruly as the simultaneous urge to jump out of the window.

Ranpo snickered to himself. He hated Dazai passionately, but he played at looking comfortable regardless as he settled into his chair and unwrapped a lollipop, being quietly reprimanded by Fukuzawa for hazing the pitiful thing. It was, again, all worth it to see how warmth suited the fluffy curls and chocolate eyes when Dazai stretched out to soak up the heat from the window, just as kitten-like and desperate as Ranpo suspected. The light in its eyes, artificial from the way the sunlight forcibly reflected against dull brown, suited it well.

But that wouldn’t happen for weeks to come. For right then, all Dazai did was sit stiffly and pick up a pen. The poor, unsure and wobbly-footed thing had the reports done before Kunikida walked in the door. It was the most efficient he’d been and would ever be in that office.

Chapter Text

“To help people,” Dazai said when asked about why he joined the agency.

Kunikida didn’t argue. It wasn’t a bad reason, exactly. Maybe a loose one, a little aimless and unrefined, but he wouldn’t judge an honest goal no matter how unsettling Dazai’s expression was while explaining it.

And Dazai was unsettling.

Kunikida used the key to the locked drawer on his desk for the first time to stow away his notebook any time he left the agency’s room. He’d never felt the need with the president there, but Dazai’s eyes flitted to the book occasionally, something curious curling him towards it, his head tilting in its direction like he was speaking more to Kunikida’s ability than Kunikida himself.

“Kunikida!” Dazai…. cheered(?) as Kunikida walked through the door, startling him slightly. Dazai had been with them for three weeks and it was either that he’d become comfortable enough to show his personality or he was trying out a different angle to it each day, but he’d never greeted anyone like that.

Well, Kunikida wouldn’t discourage it. Becoming comfortable with one’s colleagues was important to foster closer work relationships, he supposed. Still, he waited for a second to see how Dazai’s fingers twitched back a bit and his smile (that somewhat resembled Ranpo’s but occasionally edged a little too wide) waned slightly.

“Yes, Dazai-san?” Kunikida asked, putting his bag down on his desk beside Dazai’s. Ranpo had given up his desk for their newest coworker and he couldn’t quite tell why. He’d ask once he felt they were sufficiently close enough to get an answer.

With a millisecond-long shudder, a flicker of uncertainty, Dazai stretched himself out on his desk, looking like he was near wilting under the sunlight, fingers pressing and unpressing into the wood like a cat kneading a bedspread. His lips twitched in the way Kunikida noticed he did when he was planning out his words before saying them, much like a child. It wasn’t extremely noticeable, but Kunikida worked with children before as a tutor and recognized the habit. He’d never seen it on an adult as usually it was worked out with age and social experience. Kunikida tapped his own lips after a second of it passed and watched as Dazai’s eyes flickered to it and he immediately stopped.

Odd.

“Kunikida-” a hitch “-kun!” Dazai whined now, his face contorting into something soft and dopey. “When am I going to get to go on a mission? Reports are so~ boring~”

Well, that was annoying. He sighed indulgently, ready to explain for the second time. “Dazai-san, please refer to me properly. On another note,” Kunikida pushed his glasses back up, “while you passed the entrance exam, you have not filled out the proper paperwork for field assignments yet. We have little experience with your ability since you have neglected to explain the full mechanics of it. You haven’t given me any idea of your previous background or skills that I should be aware of as the employee you’re shadowing, so until you’ve finished doing all of the above, you’ll be stuck on paperwork until further notice.”

For a moment, he thought he’d gotten through. The dopey expression had pinched into something more serious with indecision wavering it. It didn’t last for long as it smoothed out again (he heard who must have been Ranpo snort from behind him like something was funny). “Come on, Kunikida-kun,” his brow pinched, “I’m bored and my hand hurts. You’re so mean! Just one mission!” Dazai was pouting, off-kilter and slightly weird to look at though Kunikida couldn’t figure out why.

He couldn’t hide the scowl that scrunched his face, his fingers twitching irritably and drawing Dazai’s eyes immediately. “I just explained that-”

“Take him on this job.”

Kunikida startled at the president who’d shown up behind him with a manilla folder in hand and the same soft smile on his face as ever. “But, sir-”

Fukuzawa shook his head slightly, staying firmly a foot behind Kunikida and to the side. His eyes never once looked at Kunikida. “Dazai-kun is fine to do fieldwork. I’ll waive the papers so long as you take this opportunity to show him the ropes of how the agency does things.”

He opened his mouth to disagree. There was something in the way Fukuzawa said it and the way his eyes never strayed from Dazai- and speaking of-

Kunikida’s protests died out in a moment when he saw Dazai’s chair rolled further away from them, near pressed against the windowsill. His head was tilted down and his eyes wide and piercing, staring at Fukuzawa with his fingers gripping into the chair. He looked defensive, like a child about to be reprimanded. His cues were all terribly underdeveloped for his age, their age he had to remind himself, and both subtle and not (subtle to anyone else, but obvious to Kunikida as a past teacher).

("You have my permission to kill him if it appears he's part of a plot to harm the agency," Fukuzawa had said.

Kunikida recognized how suspicious his wiped-clean records and supposedly infallible ability were, but Dazai felt too.... he definitely felt dangerous and like he could harm the agency, but he also felt inexplicably like he wouldn't. Like a predator attempting to be a domesticated house cat, willingly declawing itself and having no clue how to use its untried harmlessness.)

Dazai reminded him of his students, the poorer ones, the guarded ones, the ones whose parent-teacher conferences he sat in on feeling uneasy but unable to say a word as a student teacher. He reminded him of kids who asked for a hall pass for no other reason than to have a moment to breathe outside of the classroom.

This job, Kunikida realized, was Dazai’s hall pass. Fukuzawa handed him the folder, and with grumbling more for show than out of any real irritation now, he realized it wasn’t anything hard. They’d be going on-site for the case, but it was just a supposedly haunted building the client requested they look at through email. It was more than likely a joke case.

All in all, nothing too detrimental if something went wrong. “Fine,” he conceded. Realizing it was a bit too terse, he looked back to the president. “Yes, sir,” he said again, then looked back to Dazai as Fukuzawa backed away a bit more. The further he got the more relaxed Dazai looked. “You should be thanking the president!” He barked out, not to startle Dazai but to soothe him. Some students would react poorly to being treated with any kind of pity, and he could see immediately that the tone made the tense line of his spine relax minutely. He made a mental note to include a few more things in his notebook under his Dazai section. “Now get your things and let’s go. We have a schedule to keep, Dazai!”

Dazai blinked, something behind his eyes rebooting at the lack of honorifics. His body jolted immediately at the order though he seemed to purposefully slow down the movement. “Yes, yes, Kunikida-kun!” He turned and nodded his head stiffly to the president before pulling on his lightly stained coat, sloppily patched in some places and not close to being work-appropriate because of it, and nearly skipping after him. "Is it going to be dangerous?" He asked in a floaty, airy tone that always made the speaker sound dumber than they were. He said it in a way that sounded excited, for whatever reason (Kunikida would rue the day he found out why danger excited Dazai for the lifelong headache it would give him).

"Not for your first mission," he said anyway, patience waning at the disappointed groan that came from Dazai. Kunikida made the briefest moment of eye contact with Yosano as he walked towards the door. She was frowning severely and backed away as soon as Dazai neared. He could understand that reaction, but Dazai felt less like a fellow twenty-year-old and more like a particularly skittish student, bumbling and learning to function. From the way he treated that coat as a child would a safety blanket to the unsure footing and untempered social cues, he seemed in desperate need of guidance.

It was a good thing that Kunikida was an excellent teacher.

“Let’s begin!”

Chapter Text

She honestly wasn’t sure if she was more surprised that Kunikida said it or that it took him two months to.

“Dazai, that coat again? You can’t seriously be wearing something so stained to the office,” Kunikida chided, eyeing the slight off-colored stain tinging the fabric warmer.

Yosano, sitting across the room, doing paperwork with half an eye on the room, wished he would’ve held his tongue when the expression to cross Dazai’s face for a brief moment was so genuinely devastated that it had Kunikida leaning away in apprehension. She kept her own mouth shut, though. Kunikida could fix his mistake himself, and even if he didn’t Yosano would not be the one to correct him.

“I-I just mean that,” he cleared his throat after a few moments, “I have a few ideas on how to get the stain out, if you’d like.”

As far as comebacks went, it wasn’t the worst thing he could’ve said. Not the best, but Dazai was too smart to realize that much. There was a long period of silence before she heard a vague sound of understanding come from Dazai and that was that. Yosano looked up after a moment to see fluffy curls flop over just slightly as he sat down in his chair to start the day. He’d been coming in later, going from eerily punctual to a forced looseness with time. 

Or at least Yosano thought it was forced. She couldn’t tell if it was purposeful or not (she remembered losing time when she first got out, but Ranpo shared a room with her for the first year so it wasn’t often that it affected her day-to-day).

Of course, Yosano wasn’t sure what exactly Dazai was escaping from by joining the agency, only that he did escape and he wasn’t doing well. Better, yes, but not well. She’d offer help if it didn’t make her want to hurt him just by looking at those inhuman eyes. It wasn’t his fault, just as she knew it wasn’t hers, but it still grated at her sharply with every passing moment spent sitting a room away from him.

She was spending more time in her office now, sorting through old records and being more organized than she ever remembered. Just to give herself an excuse to stay in there, she changed the organizational system every other week.

Kunikida noticed. Fukuzawa noticed. Ranpo noticed.

Dazai probably didn’t.

Yosano knew inherently that Dazai was intelligent, more intelligent than anyone felt right giving him credit for, but the way he expressed it was aimless. She knew what it was like to need someone else to point the gun in order to shoot it properly.

As long as Dazai didn’t come near her (and with his ability, there wasn’t much she could do for him even if he did), all would be well. If not for Fukuzawa and his subtle meddling at any chance he could get, she might’ve gotten away with it.

“Dazai-kun,” Fukuzawa called, stepping out of his office. “Please see Yosano for your required field physical exam.”

She saw Dazai’s reaction to Fukuzawa even opening a door and saying his name and knew she could not do this. He stiffened, his hand trembled, his eyes dilated, he stood up, he nodded, he walked towards her-

(Please, Fukuzawa had said, never ordering, always so gentle with the most ruined of them all. And yet Dazai reacted instantly as though ordered, a perfect toy soldier.)

“Ah, actually,” Yosano cut in, a patient but tight smile on her face. “I’ve got some errands to run. Could we reschedule his exam?”

Fukuzawa didn’t ask what the errands were, just turned to look at her with that frustrating simplicity of knowing on his face. “I suppose you are busy,” he said. 

Dazai’s spine relaxed just from the direction of the conversation and all Yosano could think of was another doctor, one just as insane as the monster who loomed over her in her nightmares until she drowned him in liquor, who hurt this empty shell of a person until he shattered. Sometimes Yosano couldn’t stand wearing her white coat, but she did today and regretted it to her core as her skin itched with phantom wet redness. Dazai’s nails were pressing into his own palm, no doubt indenting warm red bruises.

“Take Dazai-kun with you,” Fukuzawa suggested, gentle in his lack of judgment yet harmful in his lack of understanding.

(But maybe he did understand. Maybe he thought exposure therapy was right for them, but Yosano respectfully disagreed in every way possible.)

Rejecting the offer would be rude, and she could see the anxiety wracking poor Dazai from the anticipation of her answer (not knowing what would hurt more; acceptance or refusal), right down to the flex of his fingers and soft twitch of his brow. To his credit, he was almost flawless, but trying to heal from being scattered into a thousand pieces only revealed the missing holes in the puzzle. Yosano drank to make up for hers. Dazai wore bandages from his neck to ankles, so she could guess exactly what he used to compensate for his flaws.

Covering pain with more pain, all sheltered under the budding attempts at humor. Dazai’s mask was a pretty thing when he came in, perfectly poised and doll-like to hide the bastardization of humanity that lay underneath. He was so starved of affection and care that it hurt to look at him, just like a puppy left out in the rain.

Yosano crumbled.

“Sure,” she said, hating herself for how he flinched. “But you have to stick close,” she warned him, taking her coat off casually and tossing it over a chair.

Dazai tittered closer, “are you sure, sensei~?” He drawled out, tinny and robotic. “If I see a beautiful woman desperate for a lover’s suicide, I won’t be able to help myself!” His arm splayed across his chest, on the wrong side of dramatic and feeling so painfully fake.

(The suicide jokes were both new and not, and she took them in stride. They all did to bury the begrudging worry that seeped through the walls and dampened their conversations with him so suffocatingly it was no wonder Dazai was desperate for cases outside the office.)

Still, Yosano rolled her eyes, reaching out for his arm and reaching further when he flinched back. Her hand wrapped around his wrist, making steady eye contact with him and, not tugging, her hand so loose it was barely touching him, walked towards the door. Dazai stumbled along behind her like she’d wrapped an iron-clad noose around his neck.

“If you do, I’ll give you a real reason to come into my office aside from the physical,” she said lightly, knowing it would sting him harshly and honestly half uncaring and half knowing he needed something to contrast with the gentleness of her hand. She heard Ranpo chiding Fukuzawa for making him come with her and Kunikida’s tell-tale insensitive questions as she pulled him out the door. “You don’t need to talk if you don’t want to,” Yosano said as she pressed the elevator button, releasing his wrist and seeing how it shattered him and put him back together all at once. She breathed to hide the way she was trying to cram herself back together, then firmed her resolve. 

“You’re either going to stay with me and carry things, or I’m going to leave you at a cafe where you’ll eat at least one thing, order me something too, and stay there until I come to get you. Pick.”

Dazai’s eyes pierced through her, but she fought not to look. Looking meant that he would be seen and so would she, and she had a feeling neither of them could handle that. If he came with her, she’d make them go to a cafe anyway for something to eat. Her fingers wrapped too easily around his wrist. If he didn’t, she’d ask a waitress on staff if he ate when she went back to get him.

It was easier than asking ‘what do you want to do?’ and harder than just telling him what to do. Choices were good though. Knowing the choices before choosing was better.

“I’ll go to a cafe,” Dazai said as the elevator opened, his voice quiet as a child’s and sounding almost ashamed and relieved and something else all at once.

Yosano closed her eyes, breathed in and out, and once she felt together enough for it, aimed a smile his way that felt almost genuine in the same way that his always looked almost human. “Okay.”

Okay.

(Staring at someone who looked worse off than her was painful, but she could patch up the holes over time just like this. He was just like a child; as long as she reminded herself of that, it felt easier to be as patient with him as he so desperately needed.)

Chapter Text

The agency dynamic was hard to impose on once Atsushi officially joined and resigned himself to his new job. Everyone had a position and their own individual oddities that made him wonder if it was a side effect of having an ability or being a detective. The jury was still out on that one.

Kunikida was a natural second leader. He was like… a manager, almost. As far as Atsushi knew, it wasn’t an official position, just one he took up naturally. It fit him. It made perfect sense that he’d been a teacher.

Ranpo was like a weird celebrity that Atsushi was disillusioned by before ever being a fan of him. That wasn’t to say that he wasn’t cool, of course! Ranpo was really smart and amazing, whereas Atsushi couldn’t even imagine where he’d be if he didn’t have an ability. Well, no, he could imagine it, but it made his stomach growl and fingers feel cold just thinking about it.

Junichiro was really nice and like a soothing balm of normality compared to how eccentric everyone else in the agency was. Still, Naomi’s…. Naomi-ness made up for it. Both Naomi and Haruno were nice as the secretaries that spent the most time in the office, even if Haruno was weird about cats.

Yosano…. honestly scared him. Everyone respected her a lot, just as much as they did Ranpo. She was strong and her ability wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen- not that he wanted to personally experience it!

Kenji was the most people-friendly of them all. He was the most stressful to go on missions with though. If he went into one more enemy hideout to ask if they were the perpetrators again, Atsushi would probably end up having a heart attack!

And then there was Dazai. Dazai’s position in the agency was hard to pin down. Unlike the other members who did some amount of socializing on a friendly basis, Dazai kind of just didn’t. His chatting was isolated to teasing that happened at the same times every day like clockwork. If he wasn’t doing that, then he was napping or another person was hovering over him.

Which was odd. Between Ranpo’s elbowing and hurtful insults and Kunikida constantly grabbing at him and the rest of the agency never offering a hand- only ever throwing out nice words to Dazai that made his momentary mentor stiffen up sometimes- it felt more like he was both in the center of it all and entirely on the outskirts.

Dazai was a good person, of course, just a weird one. Sometimes robotic, sometimes stiff, sometimes with a too-tight smile that looked a little like Ranpo’s and only ever answering Yosano’s questions when given options. Still, Atsushi enjoyed his company for all that it could be a little irritating and more than a little bit confusing.

Which was precisely why it took Atsushi three weeks to get the courage to ask the question. Three weeks of terrifying missions, super weird situations, and stressful hours doing reports. He would do it today though! He took in a fortifying breath, turned to Dazai, and asked.

“Dazai, do you want to get lunch together today?”

Atsushi didn’t think there was anything wrong with what he said. Wasn’t it normal to ask coworkers to eat together? Sure, he didn’t know if that was true, having never had a job or even friends, but it felt right.

It didn’t seem that way, though. The mindless noises Atsushi didn’t realize he’d gotten used to in the background of the agency- Kunikida’s typing, Ranpo’s chewing, Kenji’s humming, Junichiro’s drawing, Naomi’s tapping, even the sounds of clutter being moved faintly in Yosano’s office- muted out in an instant. Everything but the coffee machine- not the grey one, the black one that only ever had tea or hot chocolate in it for some reason- went silent.

Dazai’s chin perked up, and it took him a long, drawn-out moment to turn his head. Just long enough to make Atsushi think he’d well and truly done something wrong.

Most of the staring was aimed at Dazai rather than Atsushi, but he couldn’t shake the feeling, looking at the weird expression on his mentor’s face, that something wasn’t right. He should’ve kept his mouth shut and the apology burned on the tip of his tongue-

“Ah, sure.”

Something clattered to the floor somewhere in the office.

“R-” Atsushi got his tongue out of the way of his words, “really?”

No explosion, no yelling, no fighting- so why was everyone acting so weird? He could see behind Dazai that Kunikida’s mouth was literally dropped slightly open, his eyes flitting between them. Dazai’s expression tightened and something about the way he was sitting changed, a mirror of something forced and something else (he really couldn’t tell what was going on, but something was definitely happening).

“Atsushi-kun!” He gasped, dramatic as ever. “Did you only invite me as a joke? I don’t think I can pay for myself now, the heartbreak is too much to handle!”

There was the Dazai he was used to. Atsushi sighed but resigned himself to paying. “Let’s just go.”

Dazai cheered. “I’ll use the bathroom and we can leave!” He practically skipped to the bathroom, something still a little off about his movements.

The rest of the agency was still staring like something monumental had taken place. Atsushi really didn’t understand. He looked at Kunikida, “did I do something wrong?”

The president’s door opened.

“Atsushi, a minute please,” Fukuzawa requested quietly, holding the door open patiently.

No, really, what was the big deal?!

“Can I ask what this is about?” Atsushi asked a moment later, sitting uncomfortably in the chair across from the president’s. He noticed a lot of clutter he wouldn’t have expected for someone so serious. He had some photos, a few framed facing him so he couldn’t what they were of, some charms….

“I’d like to give you a permanent assignment,” Fukuzawa explained, distracting Atsushi from the cat ornament.

“A… a permanent one?” Was he going to be sent to some weird location and told to stay there forever and ever? Was it going to be super dangerous? Why him?!

The president must have noticed something because he smiled of all things and shook his head gently. “It’s nothing bad. You can refuse if you want to; I just feel as though it would benefit the agency as a whole.”

The whole agency? What kind of mission even was it? Atsushi could feel himself sweating, but he nodded, feeling a weird amount of determination filling him. A personal assignment, a permanent position, given to him by the president himself… “Whatever you need!”

“If that’s how you feel, then,” Fukuzawa nudged aside his paperwork and pulled out a pouch that crinkled and jingled with yen, “please escort Dazai to lunch from now on.”

Oh, was that all? No... no, it couldn't be.

He waited for a moment for the rest of the assignment, but the president just sat there.

.

…

Eh?

Chapter Text

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Hope is the thing with feathers that Fukuzawa wanted to give to his employees who were more than employees (but the idea of raising more than a handful of dysfunctional children was still new even after multiple years).

Even amongst the most flawed of them all, there was always one that lingered flightily at the edges of the world they’d delicately crafted in the center of Yokohama.

All of the members of the agency were united by All Men Are Created Equal…. except for Dazai. Ranpo, for once incorrect about something and not quite willing to accept such a flaw to this world built from the ground up just for him, was under the impression that it did work for their once newest and most secretive member (and there were exceptions to Dazai’s ability, shared with him from the recruits’ own mouth, but Fukuzawa’s was not one of them).

It tried to work.

Fukuzawa had never been fully aware of his ability. It was a passive existence that wormed its way into the space between him and everything else, at once so incredibly conscious of itself and entirely inanimate. When Dazai passed his exam, Fukuzawa had, for the first and last time, felt the cold sweep of searching and rejection, the feeling of his ability shattering in its own pocket of space.

He thought for a moment that he was having a heart attack.

Still, Dazai passed regardless of his own limitations. Weary and regretfully adverse to touching Dazai’s bare skin, Fukuzawa kept his distance for more reasons than one.

Dazai was so incredibly fragile in a way not even Yosano was. He was visibly breakable, visibly shattering, visibly shaking whenever Fukuzawa went somewhat near him. He wanted to give the poor, tired child a hug and insist on a long nap next to a heater bundled in no less than three blankets and two cats on top.

But that wasn’t helpful. Dazai could not handle that, not from an authority figure. And so Fukuzawa resigned himself to passive assistance. He could not play his own hand to help the world-worn and mafia-torn child regardless of how it ached his soul not to.

And, should Dazai have turned out to be a pawn still trapped under Mori, Fukuzawa would give him the release of death he so dearly craved. It was kinder than being under that man in his prime. Fukuzawa wouldn’t have dared do anything beyond killing him had he known for sure that the boy still belonged to him, but there were other, crueler paths to take now that Dazai wished to exercise his autonomy.

He would torture Dazai under the threat of affection and wholehearted care. A suicide watch, a lunch escort, a family so tender it would make him more suicidal than before. He wondered how Dazai would break this time, and if he could put him back together a little bit better this time, losing the darker pieces and embracing the few untouched parts of the child inside him.

Dazai was a true black swan among white sheep.

It was easy to see how hesitant the rest of the agency was to encroach on his space. It was tiring to watch, almost as tiring as he imagined it was for Dazai, fluffy and scarred and so deeply exhausted to his core. A truly pitiful person.

It was as though a separate bubble existed around him, encapsulating him in a lightened version of the mafia blackness that once blanketed him when he came to the agency’s doorstep, shining with borrowed light that would only take him so far. It was because the light did not belong to him that it was obvious he had little idea what to do with it. He’d been handed a gift he knew only the basics of, just barely fumbling along enough to manage something functional.

He was a lost child with a light coat too wide for his shoulders and sleeves that were so long for his arms that they had to be rolled up to his elbows, so very tiny and struggling not to wilt under the sunlight Ranpo so keenly placed him under to see how he’d bloom. He was wrapped in stains, bullet holes, and bandages that covered his skin away from the light of the window. A defense and comfort all at once.

It made Fukuzawa mourn for the simple truth of the agency’s dynamics.

Between Dazai and Yosano, he would save Yosano. Between Dazai and Kunikida, he would save Kunikida. Between Dazai and Atsushi, he would save Atsushi. Between Dazai and Junichiro, he would save Junichiro. Between Dazai and Kenji, he would save Kenji.

Between Dazai and Ranpo, he would kill Dazai himself.

While he longed to save the specks of light lingering like beams shining through the shadows of leaves, there was something intrinsically missing in Dazai. He was not an adult in the way that the rest of the members were. He was both taller and smaller than Kenji, at once grown and infantilized as a lifelong victim of hands larger than he would ever manage to be.

After two years, Fukuzawa was still unsure if there really was anything salvageable, or if he was grasping for straws long blown away by the breeze.

“Dazai,” he greeted softly, his steps loud and voice hushed, giving him warning of his presence as he walked beside him in the hallway.

Still, Dazai stiffened. His smile cracked and his eyes shut in a wince that pretended to be joyful. “President.”

Two years and the boy could not handle that much. Fukuzawa wondered if, as he did with the child and Yosano, he could insist on spending time with Dazai. Would that splinter him more or fill in the cracks? Would he heal his most volatile charge or only drive him away?

Fukuzawa could only make an offer. “If you need anything at all, my door is always open to you.”

One that Dazai would never take. “....thank you.”

Because the world was so large.

And Dazai was so very, very small.

Chapter Text

Chuuya hated brewing tea almost as much as he wasn’t a fan of the taste. He liked sweets, but only occasionally and tea tended to not taste great unless sweetened. If he did have tea, it had to be a fruit tea with actual fruit in it without a ton of sweeteners, kept hot. The tea he was brewing now didn’t need any added sweetness (and honestly, for how expensive it was it better not) and would be poured over ice in a moment.

Amacha tea was sickly sweet, so much so that he watered his down a lot on the few occasions he had to drink it. All of those occasions, non-coincidentally, were because of a certain mackerel who was not only picky about what he drank but also about the temperature. 

Dazai’s tea needed to be cold with crushed ice filling up almost the entire cup and as sweet as possible. He didn’t often drink amacha, whether because of the price or how he got weird about any indulgences, but he always got the weirdest, most awkward smile on his face when he took the first sip.

Chuuya hated that smile, which was why he was brewing the tea in the first place, pouring it over ice. When he went to get Dazai, he needed an excuse to punch him to get back to normal instead of the weird awkwardness between them.

And by awkwardness, he meant absolutely nothing. Four years should’ve changed everything, but it didn’t- and by that, he meant it was different but the words they spoke stayed the same. They talked to each other the same way, saying the same words, but Dazai’s eyes were so much more present.

He couldn’t decide if it was a good thing, but he knew for sure that it was an annoying one.

Chuuya filled up the to-go cup, putting in a straw with one loop in the middle, the one Dazai always used to use which he just happened to not have thrown out. It was too much work to erase every trace of Dazai, so….

With a frustrated groan, he slammed the cup down on the counter, not caring for how the chilled tea threatened to splash over.

I hate Dazai, he reminded himself, feeling the hot pressure of anger and wetness in his eyes. 

Chuuya was not going in there to reconcile, they just happened to have mentioned their individual plans to leave work early and since they’d probably end up at the same cafe anyway, it was too much work to try to kick the smelly fish out of the establishment. Also, it was supposed to rain, and he knew that Dazai would end up complaining to him about his wet bandages now that they were on texting terms again, so he might as well….

Chuuya might as well…

He took in a shuddering, wet breath and poured the rest of the expensive tea into a small to-go cooler so that Dazai wouldn’t complain when he wanted more. It was easier than dealing with a sad, wet, empty Dazai with no drink in his hands. It was easier than not going and letting his head imagine how there was no one to do any of this shit for Dazai in the past four years because the gods knew he’d rather kill himself than let any of the agency fuckers in on just how screwed up he was. Chuuya hated him so fucking much.

Which was why he grabbed his keys and his favorite hat and went to go pick him up before he decided to call him to ask where he was.

(Even though Chuuya knew Dazai would never call him, or anyone for that matter, for any reason related to him being upset. Dazai would rather sit there and pretend like he didn’t have feelings, and because he was so godsdamned annoying he made Chuuya feel irrationally guilty for it.)

Chuuya took ten minutes to sit in his car and rationalize why he should leave and never come back, outside the agency with his wipers off and the rain creating a blurry waterfall between him and the rest of the world. The ice clinked as it melted a little bit more in the cupholder of his car. Not the newest one or nicest one he owned just in case Dazai had a meltdown and tried to distract him before making his escape, but a cozy one, with seat warmers that would have Dazai melting back into the passenger side. Gods knew the mackerel was always freezing.

He picked it so that Dazai wouldn’t whine, not because it was one of the few cars he’d had since they were in the mafia together, going on joyrides and breaking as many laws as they could for fun.

“Chuuya’s too sentimental,” Dazai once said.

The sound he made was a laugh of bitter agreement to no one but himself, grabbing his umbrella and the cup and stepping out of his car.

His knuckles rapped against the door, punctuated by the occasional dripping of water from his umbrella, plopping onto the floor softly. Chuuya knocked too loud, but he always did when he knocked in that particular pattern, something lost to time and a defection….

He hated the irrational disappointment he felt when Dazai wasn’t the one to answer.

“How long’re you keeping him for?” The stuck-up Sherlock-cosplaying detective asked after his eyes flitted once to the cup in his hands and then to the umbrella, not a greeting in sight as he leveled Chuuya with a stare that felt equal parts knowing and violently upset.

“The hell are you talking about?” Chuuya bit out, knowing exactly what- Ranpo? Ranpo- was talking about, but annoyed at not even getting a chance to ask. “None of your business,” he decided to say next.

Ranpo stepped aside despite the sour look on his face deepening. “Kunikida! When’re the boss and Dazai going to be done?”

“Why?” Glasses asked, his head down for a moment longer before it snapped up. “Nakahara-san, what are you doing here?”

And just like that, though he didn’t say it particularly loudly, the rest of the agency had their eyes on him. Chuuya noticed the way some of them reached for their carry-on, but the truce kept them from outright pulling their weapons. “Business,” he said decisively.

“Um, what kind of business, Chuuya-san?” The weretiger ventured carefully, relaxing with hesitance.

Glasses cut him off before he could answer- though the business angle was out of nowhere and he honestly wasn’t entirely sure what he would say. “Though it’s unprofessional to show up out of nowhere, we are having a slow afternoon. Dazai is meeting with the president at the moment, but I’ll ask if he can meet with you afterward.” He flicked his pen with a once-over gaze aimed at Chuuya that deeply annoyed him.

Uppity bitch.

“My business is with Dazai, not the president, so I’ll wait until he’s done,” Chuuya said instead, putting every ounce of snootiness taught by the upper echelon of society on his face just to see how deeply it irked Dazai’s new partner, the stuck-up asshole that he was.

Oddly enough, that was what had the rest of the agency on guard, the younger members, like Kyoka and the blonde kid, stiffening up in alarm. Chuuya hadn’t seen so many people startled by a mention of Dazai’s name since a year after his defection when rumors started fading little by little. Even then, it was in fear- nothing like this.

“What do you need with Dazai?” Glasses asked, tone nearly outright demanding, just barely restrained enough to not be a threat. “If it’s for anything serious, Dazai has the rest of the day off. The agency doesn’t violate off hours unless absolutely necessary.”

The door to the adjacent office opened before Chuuya could answer properly and say something petty and stupid like ‘I know he has the day off; he’s spending it with me.’ Out stepped Fukuzawa first, followed by Dazai-

His fist clenched.

What the hell was the agency doing? Dazai looked so horribly empty despite the smile on his face. His eyes were completely blank, not even an artificial reflection of light in them. He looked dead.

And no one seemed concerned. No one even looked at him for more than a moment, their hackles still raised at Chuuya.

It had been a long, long time since he saw Dazai so empty. It was usually only ever out of the corner of his eye, and never for more than a few seconds.

“Oi, Dazai,” Chuuya called, ignoring the sharp looks cast at him as he walked towards him. They could look at him however they liked. If they didn’t think anything was wrong when Dazai was so obviously crying for help, that was on them.

And yet.

His fingers twitched, his eyelids fluttered, his chocolate brown eyes widened and his cheeks tinged with warmth. Dazai’s entire being unfolded from where he was tucked in half behind the president and half a million miles away.

The moment he called his name, Dazai looked up and suddenly he was alive again.

“Chuuya~!” Dazai drawled, something like surprise tinging his tone. He was walking towards him too, meeting him in the middle.

Despite his overarching confusion over what just happened- why did Dazai look so odd and then so normal?- Chuuya stopped him before he could get too close by thrusting the cup out toward him. “I got your stupid fucking tea, so start drinking and shut up.”

Dazai looked down at the tea, the same stupidly confused look working its way into the subtle scrunch of his brows the way it always used to whenever Chuuya made it for him. “Ah,” he tried to recover, visibly reworking himself more obviously than Chuuya had ever seen him, “but how will Chuuya know where I want to go to lunch if I shut up? I don’t think dogs can read minds.”

“Stop calling me a fucking dog,” Chuuya spat. “You’re not paying so you don’t get to decide where we’re eating, jackass, now grab your shit and let’s leave.”

The weretiger was the first one to snap out of whatever trance the entire agency was blanketed in, even the president watching with keen, interested and relieved(?) eyes. “Don’t talk to Dazai-san like-”

“I knew Chuuya would give in to paying!” Dazai chirped happily, skipping back towards his desk and effectively cutting off the weretiger’s protests. 

As he was rummaging through his things, the main door opened again to the agency doctor, looking wholly unsurprised by his presence. He suspected it was because of Ranpo, who still seemed terribly annoyed by him being there.

“Dazai’s fragile,” she said in lieu of greeting him. Was the entire agency so awful with manners? “Be gentle with him.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes at her as the chatter picked up from the far side of the room, no doubt Dazai’s coworkers interrogating him about the odd situation. “You don’t need to tell me that.”

He knew better than anyone just how easy it was to shatter someone like Dazai. He knew better than they ever would just how hard it was to put him back together after being broken. Four years and Dazai still hadn’t managed to do it himself.

It figured that the agency wouldn’t bother trying to fix him themselves. Chuuya knew how unsettling it was to look into that void and have to deal with every single ounce of Dazai’s vitriol flung without mercy to make anyone who dared to care about him regret it.

Still.

“Come on,” Chuuya rolled his eyes, wrapping a hand around Dazai’s daintily thin wrist and tugging him along with a loose grip that his partner never tried to pull back from. He ignored any protests from behind them and walked away, knowing with absolute certainty that Dazai would let Chuuya drag him just about anywhere.

He knew that when they got back to his penthouse, the air would still smell amacha-sweet and warm between them when he got Dazai to bed, curling together with maybe, just maybe, if Dazai felt like he could handle it, soft kisses pressed to trembling lips in the dark of night, filling in the missing pieces that laid between them until his partner was just a little more whole than before.