Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I – it

“Won’t you stay with me?”

Writhing wind, a maelstrom of cracking thunder and cackling lightning. Charcoal skies illuminated, whistling morbid eerie.

Raindrops where once were hands.

Water where once the scorn of barbed wire enclosures,

where once the lacerations of past painted rail-thin wrists.

Too small to be 18, too old for—

Won’t you stay with me?

18. It thinks that’s how old it is. It is 18 and its name is Pet.

Pet. No.

No.

No, he told him—

He said--

He is 18, and his name was Shūji, was Pet, is now…

Everything hurts as empty stomachs protest in waves of nausea. As hunger yearns, a craving to which they refute succumbing.

Because,

because.

Because he said they don’t need it and if he said—

they don’t need it they don’t need it they don’t need it

he doesn’t—

He’s not hungry.

But the world, it tilts. Lithe fingers and legs tremble as he leans on his side, until skinny unfed bodies are doubled-over, dry-heaving their emptiness, thrashing in the putridness of self.

He is 18, they are an ex-Pet, and he is certain they will finally die.

--

It doesn’t die. They don’t die.

“What is it?”

They twitch at the sound, at uncertainty marinating in a young, innocent tremor.

“I think you mean, who?” The echo of a voice older and perhaps wiser, denoted by its correction.

“Wait, that’s a—”

“Atsushi,” the older voice is strict in execution, “be very careful and bring him—them inside.” The voice repeats itself, “Be very careful. Ordinarily I would advise against moving a body in such a state before Yosano-sensei has had a chance to examine them, but we need to get them out of the storm.”

The boy, Atsushi, furrows his brow in deep-seeded confusion, “Is it really that bad?”

A nod.

“Yes. They’re frail and for all we know, they’ve been out here for days. They could get hypothermia.”

There is this sensation

this feeling of fingers

this touch

this

the touch that’s not—

Won’t you stay with me?

Lips dry and cracked, caked with blood and dirt, barely part at the attempts of a word,

the phrase that trickles out

the lifeline

the name of his everything

his everything that he’s left behind that he’s

“Did…did you say something?” Atsushi’s voice is small and kind and no-longer-Pet, no-longer- Shūji thinks they like it.

But kind and like burn far worse than any match upon brittle skin and

Everything is black.

--

“They’re severely dehydrated,” the Agency doctor begins her assessment, “equally malnourished. It’s a good thing you brought them here when you did, I don’t know how much longer they would have made it out there. You said you found them in an alleyway?”

Atsushi nods, fidgeting as Kunikida speaks.

“Yes, we were returning from our mission when Atsushi noticed something suspicious on the ground. Upon further inspection, I deemed them to be a child—perhaps a young adult at oldest.”

Yosano nodded, agreeing with the sentiment.

“They’ll remain under surveillance until they wake up. Has the President been informed?”

“Y-yes,” Atsushi stumbled, “I ran into Ranpo-san who said he’d take care of it.”

Yosano returned her attention to the patient. She’d done her best to clean their wounds, wiping them down and removing the layers of dirt and blood caked on a half-bandaged torso. The scars were nasty, risen and paled with age, others fresh and oozing, the possibility of an infection nearly inevitable. Tenderly, she salved the burns and cuts, placing antibiotics on nearly every sliver of visible skin.

“What do you think happened to them?” Atsushi’s voice was quieter than before.

“I don’t know,” she answered, “they’re covered in abnormal injuries—as if they were tortured. Escaping something…”

“Like the Port Mafia?” Kunikida’s deep timbre interjected.

“Potentially. Though we won’t know anything for sure until they wake up.”

Attention is returned to the body. Its skin is somewhat clean. Sunken, closed eyes scrunched and dark hair matted. Their cheekbones jutted, mimicked by clavicle and jaw. Sallow skin tinged blue, bated breaths and a hollow visage, the embodiment of empty. Everything about this being screamed unhealthy.

“Um, Yosano-sensei?” Atsushi asked. She lifted an eyebrow. “Why haven’t you used your ability to heal them yet?”

She clicked her tongue at the question.

“They’re an unusual case, that’s for sure,” she began, “Thou Shalt Not Die has no effect on them.”

“What!?”

Kunikida pursed his lips, “Very odd indeed. Perhaps some sort of nullification ability?”

“Bingo,” the voice of the World’s Greatest Detective™ occupied everyone’s focus. “This kid nullifies any ability that touches them. Meaning even if Yosano-sensei doesn’t touch them directly—”

“It still won’t work,” Yosano finished.

Ranpo unwrapped a strawberry lollipop, shoving it into his mouth. 

“We’ll keep them in the infirmary for the foreseeable future,” Yosano continued, “if they are on the run from someplace like the Port Mafia, it’s not safe to transfer them to a hospital unless absolutely necessary. For now, I’ll stay the night—”

“We’re keeping watch,” Ranpo interrupted, “so you can go home and get some rest.”

“But—”

“Oh shush, you know better than to argue with me~”

Yosano sighed at the protest, mumbling a brief, “Why do I even bother?” before her concession. “Okay, fine. I’ll prepare their medications while you decide our watch schedule.”

The team divided into six-hour shifts, Yosano taking the first, followed by Atsushi, then Jun'ichirō. Kunikida would remain on-call for back-up if a physical altercation were to arise, as Yosano would stay on-call for medical necessity.

“Alright,” the doctor addressed the entirety of the Agency members involved in the ad-hoc mission, “ground rules. Absolutely no touching the patient for any reason other than administering medication or physical restraint if they are a danger to themselves or others. If you think they’re about to wake up, contact me immediately. Please use the bathroom before and after your shift, as it is imperative you do not leave them alone. Whatever this person has experienced, it’s clear they’ve suffered severe, recent trauma and we must be mindful,” the group nodded in understanding. She continued, “They’re malnourished to the point of concern, so I’ve hooked them up to an IV with fluids and nutrients. Weight restoration is very finicky, so if they wake up please do not give them food without my clearance. Does everyone understand?”

--

Won’t you stay with me?

Won’t you stay with me?

Won’t you—

They awoke, sudden and petrified.

It was cold despite itchy blankets on fresh bandages on—

Their bandages were fresh.

Which meant

which meant someone

someone had to

They had to find him.

They had to

they

they had

They screamed. Kicked and thrashed and pulled at IVs and wires and

and there were hands

there were hands

there were hands

there were hands

they were on him

and words there were words.

“You’re okay.”

“You’re safe.”

“Everything will be okay.”

They repeated, a broken record of voices unknown.

Or rather, voice. Just one.

Clear and confident, warm and gentle, yet bristling with a chill with a—

just like—

Odasaku?

The name comes to mind.

The name appears behind and and suddenly he’s

Calm?

A wash of calm

of blue

of ocean, sea waves of gentle of the calm before the storm because he thinks this is it—

they are the storm and they are too, the calm.

--

“No it’s really fine, I’m heading over—”

“Nope!” From the safety of dinosaur pajamas and rainbow hard candies, Ranpo lectured the doctor over the phone, “Atsushi is there, he can handle this. You need your rest.”

“But I—”

“No but’s! There’s no use arguing with the World’s Greatest Detective™.”

“Ranpo—”

“Trust me on this one. You’ll need all the strength you can get tomorrow when we question them.”

She knew he was right.

Besides, the sedative she had Atsushi administer was a significant dose. They shouldn’t be waking up anytime soon.

Tomorrow would be harder.

“Hey, um, can I ask you something?” She hesitated for a moment, then, “With your Ultra Deduction—do you have any idea what happened to this kid? I have a feeling we’re not going to get much out of them tomorrow.”

There was a pause, solemn.

“They’re hard to read.”

That was a first.

“R-really??” Uncharacteristically, she stuttered.

“Yeeeeeep,” Ranpo trilled on the other end, “it’s weird and I don’t understand it myself. I’ve never met someone Ultra Deduction has had this much trouble seeing through.”

“That’s insane!” Yosano cried, incredulous, “You can’t see anything at all?”

“Well, I suppose I do have a hunch, as you plebeians call it.”

She rolled her eyes, “Okay then…?”

“It involves the Port Mafia.”

“Shit…” she whispered under her breath.

The doctor chewed her lip.    

“Thanks. I’ll keep this in mind tomorrow. I better be careful with the drugs I administer,” she then muttered, “if they’re involved, their tolerance is probably skewed.”

“Go to sleep Akiko-chan! I’m tired!”

“Right. Thanks again Ranpo-san. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Byyyeeeeeeeeeeee!”

The phone hung up with a click.

Violet eyes and racing minds refused to shut, despite best efforts.

She flipped open her laptop.

Three hours passed before she was jolted awake by the sound of ringing.

Atsushi.

Sitting up from her incredibly uncomfortable sleeping position hunched over her laptop, she answered the phone on its third ring.

“Yosano-sensei!” Atsushi called out, relief swaddling an anxious tone.

“Atsushi,” Yosano greeted curtly, “what’s wrong?”

“It’s the patient—they’re,” Atsushi cursed under his breath at the sound of a crash, “they woke up and started throwing up. They’re dry-heaving and now there’s blood—”

“Jesus, they woke up? Fuck. Okay. Stay there and do your best to keep them calm. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

“Okay. I-I’ll do my best!”

The phone clicked.

--

The patient was doubled over on all fours, nearly avoiding a pile of sick.

They coughed violently, flinching at Atsushi’s attempts at comfort.

Yosano burst through the doors, sedative and syringe ready, medical kit ready—

They howled. Screamed and shrieked and—

It was a name.

Yosano stiffened.

“What did you just say?”

They wriggled on the ground.

“Sensei, I think they need—”

“Atsushi, what did they say?”

Her heart is pounding

her ears are pounding

everything is racing her vision is dotting black and—

“I don’t know,” Atsushi responds, lip trembling with worry, “but I think they’re really sick. I think—”

The kid starts seizing.

“Shit,” Yosano cursed, forcing her way out of the spell that had been cast upon her, the spell created by sounds disturbingly similar to that of his name—

“Don’t touch them,” she instructs, “but move anything sharp or hard that can hurt them. I’ll place a pillow under them.”

Atsushi followed her instructions as Yosano grabbed soft things, very quickly sliding them under the seizing frame.

A few moments of terse, tense silence.

The seizing stops. They laid on the floor, passed out.

Despite protests, Yosano stayed for the rest of the night. It’s not like she could have slept even if she wanted.

There were rumors. Recent ones.

Ones of—

But it couldn’t be that.

No.

He wouldn’t—

A groan startles her. She stands up, approaching quickly and cautiously.

The groan sounds more like a name than—

“Oda…saku…”

Her brow furrows. That’s a new one.

The kid was assumed too weak to be a threat and Atsushi was dismissed.

Yosano attempts to take notes as they mutter incoherence in their half-asleep state. Eavesdropping on someone’s sleep-talking isn’t the nicest thing to do, but desperate times and all.

They murmur words and phrases, equal parts disjointed and disconcerting.

“‘m sorry…Odasaku…” they choke out as obsidian eyes flick open. They can’t breathe.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s alright, you’re safe,” Yosano placates. The anti-anxiety medicine she administered after their seizure must not have been strong enough, as the kid’s pulse races.

“No—no!” They yell.

“What are you saying no to?” She asks, gently.

“I don’t…” their face crumples, “I don’t know. I don’t—Odasaku. I need Odasaku!”

Won’t you stay with me?

They slam their hands over their ears, screeching.

“Who’s—” Yosano attempts to speak over the grating shriek, “Who is Odasaku?”

To her surprise, the kid freezes. Shaky hands are lifted off of pale ears as silence ensues. The kid sticks out their tongue at her.

She scoffs at the gesture, supremely confused, “Excuse me?”

They shake their head in a disturbingly quick return to a regulated state, “You don’t call him that.”

She laughs in disbelief. “Okay then…what can I call him?”

They ponder.

“Oda.”

“Alright,” Yosano smiled, a kind little thing, “who is Oda?”

“Friend.”

She nods, taking notes. “And who are you?”

They flinch.

“Do you have a name?”

They flinch again.

Thing.

It.

Disgusting

failure

fake

gross

Pet—

“I don’t…” their eyes dart around, “can he hear? Where is he?”

“Who?” Yosano looks around, cautious, “Oda?”

They shake their head aggressively, “Him.”

“I’m sorry,” Yosano replies, soft, “I don’t know who you’re asking about. Was it the kid who was here before, Atsushi—”

“M—” they begin, then twitch, “sensei. Sensei doesn’t. He doesn’t. My—my name…he, he doesn’t—”

They stutter, uttering nonsensical gibberish for a few minutes.

As the incoherent mumbling subsided, Yosano attempted a few more questions.

“Do you know how old you are?”

They tilted their head, counting inwardly.

“18.”

She blinks.

18? They looked no older than a young teenager—

“O-okay,” she stutters, taking note in her notepad, “and what pronouns do you use?”

They frown.

“Like, what do you like to be called? He/him? She/her? They/them?”

“It.”

It’s as if the air left the room.

“Is that…is that what you like to be called?” She prods, soft once more.

They contemplate.

“Sensei calls me that.”

This time, she flinches. She was seriously starting to hate his “sensei.”

“What about…” she paused, alight with an idea, “what about your friend Oda? What does he call you?”

The kid perked up.

“He! He or they. Or um. Dazai. He called me Dazai! Dazai Osamu!! He— because I like how it—” their happiness was fleeting, a momentary occurrence. “Odasaku…” their lip trembled, “I’m…I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t I didn’t mean to—to leave I was I just I was—” they couldn’t breathe

they couldn’t breathe

they couldn’t breathe

they—

“It’s okay, Dazai. It’s okay, breathe.”

It was dark.

Its cage was small.

Too small. It crouched over, huddled in on itself to fit.

If only it could be smaller…smaller like it was before.

It stared at its body.

It bit.

Dazai bit his arm hard. Yosano winced at the sight.

“Here,” she grabbed a fidget from her desk, one that was malleable, “grab this instead. Don’t bite yourself.”

He maintained eye contact, refusing to let go of his arm.

There wasn’t blood, but the bandages were beginning to tear.

“Dazai,” she pleaded.

She sounded familiar,

so much like—

“Dazai, don’t bite yourself. You can eat, it’s okay.”

He was crying, but there were no tears.

“You’re allowed to eat. I promise.”

He missed Oda.

Their eyes well, red and hurting.

Yosano approached gingerly, kindly, with care.

“I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

Maybe

maybe they could just—

He snarled.

No. They couldn’t. They couldn’t relax. Not here. Not with—

Something impossibly plush brushed against their cheek.

“Do you like toys, Dazai?” Yosano asked, holding up a large bunny rabbit plushie.

It tickled his arm.

The younger one reached out, touching it with a sense of foreignness, warily caressing it’s exceptionally smooth coat.

They stopped biting their arm.

“Soft,” he whispered aloud.

“It is soft, isn’t it?” Yosano smiled. Her smile was like the plushie.

Soft.

Dazai didn’t look like he knew what to do with himself, holding the toy at arms’ length as they pet its right ear.

“You can hug it if you want,” Yosano suggested.

He did as she described.

For the first time since waking, something was different about him. He looked…

Alive.

The tiniest twinkle sparked their eye, only disappearing as they closed them, inhaling the scent of soft soft soft.

With the plushie, things seemed to go smoother. They behaved, answering more questions than before. They cooperated for the rest of the morning.

In the afternoon, things took a turn.

“Alright, lunchtime,” Yosano smiled brightly. “I don’t want to overwhelm your system, but we can give you a small portion of—”

“No.”

“You can’t have too much because of—”

“No.”

“What are you saying ‘no’ to?” She narrowed her eyes, face graced with confusion.

“No!” The younger one pushed.

“Dazai,” she spoke in a motherly tone, “I need you to tell me what’s wrong.”

“No! No no no no no! No!”

They were getting absolutely nowhere.

“Is everything okay in here—”

The screaming young adult paused as Atsushi entered the room. Their eyes grew wide and mouth clamped shut.

“Dazai? Are you okay?” Yosano paid the new presence in the room no mind, attention entirely fixated on the odd young adult in front of her.

They curled up into a ball wrapping skinny arms around knobby knees, hiding their head in the process.

“I’ll give you some time to cool down, then we can talk. Okay?”

He said nothing.

“Atsushi? Can you watch him for me while I get some food—”

“NO!” They yelled again, maintaining their furled position. Before either could reply, they began to screech.

“Here do you um, do you want your toy?” Atsushi prodded nervously.

Dazai’s head shot up at the sound of the other’s voice. He froze.

“This is my friend Atsushi,” Yosano introduced them, voice carefully measured, “you met him earlier.”

“Tiger.”

The agency members blinked in unison.

“I um. Yeah. I do transform into a tiger. How did you uh—” Atsushi stared, dumbfounded. “How did you know that?”

They bit their arm again.

“Shit,” Yosano cursed under her breath. “Don’t forget about your bunny,” she coaxed.

Deep, tragically empty eyes bore into lilac.

Dazai bit harder.

The two were at a loss. Though Yosano was a practicing physician and had a good handle on working with patients with mental illness and trauma, she wasn’t a licensed therapist.

“You don’t have to eat if you’re not hungry,” she felt as though she were grasping at straws, maybe that had something to do with—

They immediately dropped their arm from their mouth.

“You’re not hungry? That’s what’s wrong?” Atsushi asked, curious.

It doesn’t eat.

They shake their head.

“We won’t force you to eat if you’re not hungry. But you will need to have something—”

They shook their head harder.

Yosano dropped the subject. She’d deal with that later.

It can’t eat.

Not without permission.

(It never has permission.)

Another hour passes before Yosano brings it up again.

The younger one sits still on the hospital bed, zoning out for the better part of the hour. They stare straight ahead, clinging to the bunny, looking into nothingness.

“I know this isn’t what you want to hear right now,” Yosano starts, careful, “but you need to have something to eat. Even if it’s just a little.”

They shake their head.

“Can’t.”

It’s much less frantic than before, a sense of dissociation to the word.

“Is it because you’re not hungry?”

They look away.

“He didn’t say I could,” it was a whisper so quiet, Yosano had to strain to hear.

“Who didn’t? Your sensei?”

A small nod.

“What if I gave you permission to eat?”

He glanced up.

“No.”

“What about some broth? It would be light on your stomach—”

“No!”

She dropped the subject.

The cage was small.

Smaller than its normal one.

“Sensei?” It asked.

“Yes, Pet?”

“It’s small. I won’t fit.”

The elder man laughed.

“Of course you will. Give it a try.”

It frowned, but did as it was told. It curled inwards, hunching over to fit in the impossibly small confines of metal bars.

“Hurts,” they whined. “It hurts.”

“Pity,” the man pouted, “something’s getting too big.”

It shrunk in on itself further.

“I must be being overgenerous with your meals. Ah, yes, that must be it,” a glint caught his eyes, maniacal and simpering whispers of a flame, “we won’t make that mistake again.”

--

They fell asleep again before long, despite best efforts.

Yosano couldn’t blame him. She was exhausted.

They switched rotations, Jun'ichirō watching over the sleeping Dazai as Yosano did research in the other room.

There were rumors, back when she was a child.

When she worked under—

Rumors that he wanted someone.

Something.

Google is useless and the Dark Web isn’t the safest to access on the company network, so she takes a break, and diverts her attention to her very late lunch. In the hullabaloo of trying to get Dazai to eat, she herself had forgotten her own meal.

She blew carefully on her noodles, slurping quietly, lost in concentration.

The child—young adult rather—was a handful. More than that.

But she liked him.

Underneath the hurt and trauma and pain, she saw the glimmer of mischief. Someone who challenged those around them and was, most likely, too smart for his own good.

She wondered what happened.

She wondered how they got there.

She wondered.

--

They couldn’t sleep.

Because of that voice

Because Odasaku—

Because sensei—

Because—

Won’t you stay with me?

Chapter Text

II – envelope

Blackmail

Two weeks, that’s all it took.

That’s when it came.

The envelope sat on the edge of the desk, stacked neatly where Yosano had last left it. She had brought it in from the mail room, intending to open it later in the evening.

He didn’t have to look, he’d recognize that seal anywhere. Anonymous or not, he knew.

They were going to see.

They’d see they’d—

he knew what it was he knew what it was he knew

he knew

All they had to do was open it.

All they

the only thing

they just

they would

and then

it would be

ruined

everything was ruined everything was ruined everything would be—

Stumbling, Dazai tripped out of bed, making his way to the bathroom. The bathroom where everything sharp had been removed.

It’s supremely unfair, but Dazai figures that’s what he gets for up slicing their thighs with a scalpel in the five minutes they’d been left alone. Yosano wasn’t too pleased with him for that one. As a patient, Dazai had proven to be quite difficult. From refused meals to self-harming stims, nightmares to the constant screaming anytime something upset him, he was a handful. Still, Yosano was doing her best. She had to.

Now, barely able to hold himself upright, they stick two fingers down their throat. Saliva coats each digit as he presses hard.

It’s easier than they expect, though there’s not much to dispel. He coughs, gagging until what little in his system has been released. They don’t exactly know why they do it, just that they need everything out. They think of that envelope and those—

what's inside—

they think of—

and it’s—

He doesn’t attempt to destroy it, the envelope, it’s inevitable. Instead, he sits and shakes and thinks.

Leaning back against the bathroom wall, he closes his eyes, head reeling. Everything pounds, from their aching limbs to their rapid pulse and pounding migraine. The room spins, the little remnants of freedom their world has to offer crashing down around him.

He doesn’t need to look to know what lies inside—the pictures are all too familiar. He remembers the camera, the angle. The lace and chiffon, silk and satin. The hands that touched, touched, touched touched touched touched are touching they are touching and it’s being touched and—

He dry heaves.

No one is touching him.  

Dry heaves at the memory, a visceral response to phantom touches ghosting limbs far too shaky and malformed to belong to anything human.

Come, Pet. Look pretty for me.

Won’t you smile and be pretty for your owner?

I know you want this. You know you want this.

Such a pretty little doll. Such a pretty little thing.

They lurch.

The memory knows no bounds, blasting through their mind, a repetitive cycle of whispers and touches, tender stroking, squeezing, nipping, biting—

They choke.

Choke on the memory.

Choke on all the things left behind but not forgotten, never forgotten.

He couldn’t forget if he tried.

You disgusting thing.

Revolting monster.

The voices grow louder, a seismic pulse seizing their system until all they can hear is him and all they can see is him and all they can—

They slam their eyes shut, attempt to think of anything else, anything other than those clothes and breath and touching swallowing feeling invading hands—

There’s a gasp.

A gasp as paper is shuffled and Dazai knows what’s going on, he just knows.

Then, a voice. Different from the voice in his head. Soft. Sweet and empathetic.

“Dazai?”

He hates it.

Despises this feeling welling up in his chest, the sting of pity of repulsive, worthless pity. He disdains the way he feels, scorns self, those stupid outfits, that camera, that—

“Are you okay?”

The door opened. In his haste, it had sat unlocked.

He’s curled in a ball, on the floor with their hands over their ears.

They sit and tremble and look as pathetic as they feel.

“I’m sorry that…” she trailed off, before starting again, “those pictures, they’re—”

He hisses.

“Are you—”

“Go away.”                                                                                                              

“I don’t think you should be alone right now.”

He shakes and shakes and says nothing because maybe, maybe she’s right. Maybe he shouldn’t be alone right now. Maybe he’s really not okay and this entire situation is not okay and nothing is okay and he misses Odasaku and he misses that lingerie and he misses being touched and he misses sensei—

He misses sensei.

He misses—

--

They passed out. Again.

They do that a lot. Pass out.

Yosano blames the malnourishment, his weak disposition.

Dazai doesn’t care. That night, they refuse to eat.

The cycle repeats—nausea, lightheadedness, passing out, refusing to eat, rinse and repeat.

By the time night rolls around, they sway in their spot, seated in their sick bed.

“You know, you’ll never be allowed to leave if you don’t try and get better,” Yosano reminds him. Two weeks and he’s still so stubborn.

He doesn’t care. Their health doesn’t matter. Not if he wants to wear that lingerie again.

Not if—

Because sensei—

He’d never buy a different, a larger size

and Dazai so desperately wants to stay the same, to fit, to never change and—

“What do I weigh?”

He hates not knowing the answer to this.

“You know I can’t tell you that,” Yosano replied with a sigh.

“Why not?” He challenged, “It’s my body.”

“I’ve diagnosed you as anorexic, Dazai. I’m not telling you your weight.”

“Why?”

“You know the answer to that.”

She’s been careful, ever since he made an attempt at eating. It’s a delicate relationship, shaky and on the verge of shattering, so she approaches with caution. He’s weighed with his back to the scale, the number out of view. She documents it on files kept under lock and key in a different location. She doesn’t need this kid triggering himself.

“I want to know,” he whines.

“Why?” She counters.

“The—” he paused, looking down. When he continues, their voice is little and so, so young, “I need to fit.”

Her tone lowered, “Fit what?”

They’re shaking. When did they start shaking?

“If I don’t fit…” their body spasms, a full-body flinch.

“Dazai? What’s going on?” Yosano’s voice lilts with concern.

“I have to—” they muttered under their breath, repeating like a broken record, “I have to I have to I have to I have to I—”

“You have to what?”

Stopping mid-sentence, he looked up with wide saucers for eyes.

“If I don’t fit,” his voice is empty, small and young and impeccably vacant, “He’ll get another cage.”

“A…what?”

“And I’ll be all alone—I’ll be—” he doesn’t finish his sentence, instead curls up in a ball and shoves their hands over their ears.

“You’re not there anymore,” Yosano cajoles, “you’re okay now. You’re safe here.”

He doesn’t believe her, head shaking, body shaking, everything shaking in disbelief in denial in—

His body goes slack and for a second, she thinks he’s passed out again. It’s not the case, though it looks as though his soul has evacuated his body.

“Dazai…” There it was again, that tone. The one they despised, laced with sad, pity, empathy—he didn’t need any of it, didn’t want any of it.

All he wanted was ignorance. He craved it. To feign unknowing of this strange thing in the photos. To disappear, to crawl into a hole and die.

Dazai hissed, curling up in the corner of his sick bed. He pulled the blanket up high around himself, blocking their body from view. From prying violet eyes that had no right looking so familiar. They snarled as she took a step forward. Instantly, Yosano recoiled, stopping in her tracks.

“You need space. Got it,” she nodded thoughtfully.

It was tense silence that settled between them.

“I miss him.”

The voice is clear but far away.

“I miss sensei.”

--

The lace itched. It didn’t like it.

It didn’t like the way the fabric scratched against its ribs and bruising thighs. Didn’t like the shades of crimson that looked more of blood than clothing. It hated the feel of everything.

Still, it was better than being naked. Inside and draped with lace was better than outside in that little cage, draped in nothing but the frigid open air.

“Come, my Pet,” a voice of cashmere, soft and at a price.

Prying hands reached towards pale, scrawny limbs. Towards a body that’s more bone than child.

He touches it, savors it, licks and adores and it can’t help but arch its back in pleasure. It basks in the way the fingers enter, winces as they move in and out. They don’t use lubricant. It trembles and screams and promptly silences itself at the harsh glare it receives.

“Did I say you could speak?” The voices is cold, icy.

It grows disturbingly quiet. It does not reply.

Instead, it falls limp. Lets the man continue to shove one finger after another.

It feels far, far away.

Vaguely, it registers the sensation of saliva on its chest, in between the folds of the lingerie. It shivers.

“Much better,” the man coos, “stay silent and pretty for me, my Pet.”

It does.

It stays silent and pretty and small.

As small as it can be.

Because that’s the way he likes it. The way he decrees it.

Something sharp stings their inside. It looks down.

Those aren’t fingers.

It represses a gasp, shuddering, panicking because these aren’t fingers.

There’s something other than fingers, other than male anatomy, other than—

it stings, it burns and everything grows fiery hot and red. It pierces, pinching and squeezing and it doesn’t know what’s inside, just that it needs it out.

It kicks, shrieking in pain, writhing and agonizing and

“Now, that kind of behavior just won’t do,” the man scolds, digging the foreign object in further. It screams louder the deeper it goes.

It starts to wail, to cry so loud it’s sure God and the Heavens above must hear and perhaps take pity on it.

Then—

Their prayers are answered with a scalpel.

A scalpel that cuts pretty little marks on its pretty little arms.

Little slices every which way.

The blood is cleaned by the lick of a tongue.

By the touch of care and lust and greed.

It jolts at the sensation, blessed with the perception of something other than a foreign object, something that it understands and recognizes. It’s unable to distinguish between pleasure and pain. All it knows is everything hurts and its head is pounding as is its heart, ready to beat out of its chest. But this—it’s a distraction.

An exquisite, blissful distraction.

The man thrusts the scalpel into its hands.

“Go ahead,” he urges, “make yourself pretty for me.”

The gift is delicious in every sense of the term. It drowns in it, bleeds in pleasure and want, basking in the pain that blossoms, blooms in wonder, surreal bliss.

The pain is indescribably beautiful.

It gapes, breathing heavily, haughtily as marks grow in intensity. They creep against forearms, elbows, shoulders, longer and larger trailing higher and higher and—

“Alright now, that’s enough,” the blade is removed from its hand. Before it could end everything. Before it could—

It scratches. Scratches at the cuts, at the blood trickling down its arms, irritates already upset skin.

“I said, enough.”

Its cheek stings. It is red.

Red like its arms. Like its throbbing penis, like the pool of liquid it coughs up.

It wonders if its dying.

Dying as a pretty little thing, covered in pretty little marks.

How pretty.

--

He waited until the room was clear to search.

Everything sharp has been removed from the medic wing, kept under lock and key. That doesn’t stop him, though. He’s smart enough to pick any lock, to break into and steal any classified document his heart desires.

Dazai knows how to find a scalpel.

Unfortunately, the labyrinth that is the ADA medical wing is harder to search than planned when the lack of nutrients in his system make it difficult to stand.

He sways with each step, with every motion. It feels like his heart might pound out of their chest. By the time they come across the first locked cabinet, they can barely breathe.

He takes the hairpin stolen from Yosano when she was distracted and starts to pick at the lock. Black dots splotch his gaze. By the time he opens the cabinet, they’ve fallen to all fours, breathing heavily.

He can’t do this he can’t do this he can’t—

They just want to die.

Dazai wants to die.

He dry-heaves, coughing up nothing but bile onto the plain white tiles in the plain white room stained with the stench of it.

Everything burns as a searing pain spreads throughout. It reminds him of—

A banshee’s cry leaves his mouth, exits a limp body as he screams. As Dazai doubles over, shrieks the demons that disperse in the form of sheer pain.

He coughs and seizes and screams.

Nobody can hear him.

Dazai is screaming, is dying, but he is all alone.

--

She comes into work to find Dazai collapsed on the floor next to a pile of sick. The cabinet where she’s stored her medical tools has been unlocked, though nothing appears to be missing or used. Muttering something under her breath, she bends down and picks up the younger one. She carries them to their bed, placing him gently beneath the covers.

She cleans up the vomit, the bile, and can’t help but wonder about those pictures. She considers the lace and taffeta, the silky bows and frilly ends. The child comes to mind. The young adult dressed so uncomfortably, eyes empty and pained.

It hurts to think about this, but she can’t stop.

There were explicit images too. Ones where someone else had their penis in—

But she made a point not to look at those for more than the briefest of moments. She won’t think of those. Not when they remind her of that taste that filled her mouth when he would—

he touched her he touched her he touched her

She shakes it off. Shakes off the trauma, its response, and all the feelings that come with it. She doesn’t want to think about that, not now and not ever.

Dazai stirs in their bed. She approaches.

“Dazai?” She prods lightly. The younger one’s eyes fly open as they gasp for breath, presumably waking from REM sleep.

He says nothing.

“I found you on the floor. I’m guessing you were trying to steal something sharp again, judging by the cabinet you opened.”

They avert their gaze, a sheepish burn to ordinarily pale skin.

“I know this is hard for you,” Yosano sympathizes, “but hurting yourself isn’t an option here. When you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to walk you through some other coping mechanisms and grounding tools that might help you feel safe—”

Dazai flips around, facing the other way, opposite of the doctor. She sighs.

“I’ll give you some space,” she relents, “but don’t pull stunts like that again. I really don’t want to keep you under 24/7 monitoring but if you’re going to be a threat to yourself that’s what I’ll have to do.”

Dazai buries himself under their blankets.

Yosano leaves.

--

Yosano and Ranpo speak in whispers amongst themselves.

“So you think the pictures are—”

“No doubt about it.”

“Fuck.”

They’re quiet for a while.

“And you’re sure it’s him?”

There’s a nod, uncharacteristically somber, “This has Port Mafia written all over it.”

Yosano bites her lip before uttering a whisper, “When I was young…there were…well people talked. And one of the things that um. They talked about—” she took a deep breath, steadying herself, “they called it a Pet. Said that Mori—he wanted one. And when I…when I was forced to work with him…” she trailed off, leaving Ranpo to finish.

“You were the top of his list.”

A nod.

“Being with the military then, he didn’t have the same resources and power as he does now so he never acted on it. Well, he did but not, it’s not like there were cages or anything. Just the…you know.”

Ranpo stayed silent, nodding as she spoke.

“Why do you think he sent these photos?”

“There’s two options,” Ranpo holds out two fingers to illustrate. “First,” he starts, “Mori might want him back. This could be a warning to us, a display of power. A sign that says I know where you are.”

Yosano shudders, “And the second one?”

“Just a little reminder. A reminder that no matter where they go, they’ll never be free.”

There was a chill in the room, despite the heat being turned on high.

“This is…this is fucked,” Yosano settled on.

“It is, isn’t it?”

Chapter Text

III – his face is everywhere

Memory Loss

Another week passes and mild improvements have been made.

Dazai spends most days confined to the sick wing of the Agency, too weak to walk more than a few feet at a time. They pass the time by reading, drawing, and playing games with Atsushi.

“Wow, that’s incredible Dazai-san!” Atsushi coos, “Where did you learn to draw like that?”

Atsushi, Dazai thinks, is his favorite member of the Agency. He likes the way the younger boy doesn’t hesitate to ask questions, yet approaches every subject with cautious care. He likes how heterochromatic eyes bleed into memories of all-encompassing blue.

Memories of a man with—

“Before,” Dazai doesn’t know where the answer comes from but they say it anyways.

“You mean from before you lived with your sensei?”

They nod and retreat to their drawing.

Atsushi continues to work on his own far less artistically-inclined work.

“Do you remember anything else from that time? From before?”

Dazai considers.

He thinks this should be a stressful topic, yet it surprisingly doesn’t bother them.

A shrug.

Dazai begins a new drawing on the next page of his sketchpad.

“I read a lot of books.”

“Really? Like what?”

He thinks.

“Machiavelli, T. Schelling, Kissinger.”

Atsushi blinks, “How um. How old were you?”

He doesn’t quite understand time these days, but recalls leaving home at the age of 14.

“14?” They answer more as a question than anything else.

“That’s amazing!” Atsushi fawns, “You’re really smart Dazai-san!”

The way the tiger’s eyes glisten glean glow

how they shine as if they themselves are stars—

Dazai cannot look away. Wants nothing more than to make a home in these effervescent eyes in the ephemerae of wonder that is the world.

That is this look. The one that this boy and Odasaku share: wonder.

He says as such.

“Wonder?” Atsushi asks with a wrinkled brow, “What do you mean?”

“You,” Dazai points at Atsushi, “and him,” he points up at the ceiling, “wonder.”

The boy doesn’t get it, but Dazai doesn’t seem to mind, so they keep coloring.

“Hi Dazai-kun, Atsushi-kun,” Yosano greets the two doodling teens with a warm smile, “it’s Dazai-kun’s favorite part of the day!” She jokes, hoping to keep the younger one in good spirits as she begins setting up the feeding tube.

They’re incredibly unhappy about this and make it known through their expression.

“Yes, I know, it sucks,” Yosano agrees with a huff, “but severe malnourishment is nothing to joke about. Besides, it’s only for another week or two, then you’ll be much healthier and able to eat on your own again.”

He figures this is code for gaining weight and everything about that makes him bristle.

The feeding tube was a drastic measure Yosano did not want to take. Of course, Dazai continued to refuse their meals, growing weaker each day. Whether she liked it or not, she was running out of options. That was how and why they started on the feeding tube. It was an unpleasant experience for everyone involved and she hoped it would be a short-lived measure.

Dazai loathed the feeding tube. Still, he craved freedom more than anything else. If it meant suffering through the weight restoration process as he heard Yosano whisper behind closed doors, he’d do the bare minimum.

With a hiss, their sketchpad was taken away and Atsushi was ushered out of the room.

“I don’t like this much more than you do,” Yosano hummed as she worked, “believe me, I’d rather not force-feed anyone.”

Dazai stayed silent.

“You know, I was thinking—you’ve been adjusting well lately, getting along with Atsushi-kun, and Kunikida-kun. Would you feel comfortable meeting the Agency president?”

They had been holding off on a meeting between Dazai and the president given his clearly mangled relationship with his last “sensei.” That said, there was only so much longer they could let him stay at the agency without involving the man in charge and its other members.

“Okay,” Dazai replied, lips forming a straight line.

That was easier than Yosano expected…

“Really?” She asked in disbelief.

“Yes.”

Yosano beamed, almost finished setting up the feeding supplies.

“I’ll let him know right away. Would you like to meet with him tomorrow?”

--

Tomorrow comes and the meeting goes about as smooth as cobblestone pavement.

Dazai takes one look at the man before him and just knows.

“You know him.”

Fukuzawa offers a quizzical raise of a brow.

“I’m sorry?” The president responds.

“Him,” Dazai hisses, “you know him.”

They recoil, shrinking inwards.

“Who do you mean, Dazai?” Yosano asks, “Are you referring to your sensei?”

They don’t need to say anything, she already knows the answer.

“Does your sensei have a name?” The president asks. His voice is simple and stoic, yet commanding and powerful.

Dazai does not respond. He can’t. Not when that voice is so loud and the pictures are so clear and everything now is suddenly then.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Yosano ushers calmingly, “you don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

It’s not that they don’t want to talk, it’s that they can’t.

They can’t talk because they can’t move and can’t breathe and can’t do anything—

All they can hear and think about is

are

those memories

those

they keep saying

it won’t go away it won’t go away they won’t go away why won’t anything go away

If the president knows sensei then that means—

Is he bad?

Was sensei bad?

Sensei loved him. Loved it. Cared for it.

Sensei was kind and caring and—

He remembers the sensation of skin burning at the mercy of a match. Suffocation as the collar was tied tighter. They remember being held underwater in the bath so long they thought they were dead.

Sensei loved him but was

was sensei

was he a good person? Was he good to Dazai?

He doesn’t know and it hurts not knowing.

This man—the man in front of them, Dazai doesn’t understand, can’t understand.

Is he bad?

Is he going to hurt Dazai?

Is Dazai is in immediate danger because this man is—

They cower in the corner of their hospital bed, ignoring the IV that’s ripped in the process of their scrambling.

Dazai is going to get hurt.

“Shit,” Yosano mutters under her breath as she tries to regain control of the situation.

Fukuzawa knows when he’s welcome and when he’s not, so he says, “I’m sorry for disturbing you. Perhaps we can meet at another time.”

There’s a flash in their mind, a glimpse of a memory.

Of hands and a face and—

it’s distorted.

The face is blurred and suddenly it’s not him leaning down, but this man, the Agency president is touching him caressing him loving him—

They shriek and kick but no one is there.

There are hands, invasive and needy, prying beneath their hospital gown and in between his legs. They touch and grope and grasp. They pet and stroke and his back arches in a mix of pleasure, bliss, and indelible fear. In terror.

Dazai is terrified.

They’re terrified and they are thrashing and fighting and screeching and—

They blink. Everyone in the room is far away. Nobody is touching or straddling.

But the feeling won’t leave.

He’s being left alone and somehow that’s even scarier than the memory of being touched and loved by this man. This man who’s never actually touched him.

Because it feels like this man is touching him, he can see this man touching him, this man is loving him and he is replaced with him and him hurts and

and this man

he

he hurts he hurts he hurts he

Dazai is in pain, they writhe, screaming and spasming. It hurts.

Everything hurts.

Everything—

The man is far away, Dazai knows this—

Except he’s not. He’s right there. He’s right there. He’s touching and feeling and caressing, licking, loving, tasting,

he's not he’s not he’s not he’s not he’s

They don’t know what’s real anymore. They can’t differentiate from then and now. Can’t tell what this man has and hasn’t done, what he will and won’t do.

This man who stands far away, yet feels so undeniably close.

He wonders if

if it was

if this was the man

from before

from that memory from

no.

No. He knows it’s not. Knows with his entire being that this man has never touched him. Not even a handshake. They’ve never touched.

Still.

Still they

they feel

they can’t

everything is

it’s just

it

it isn’t

it’s not

they

they know

they know they know they

they’re losing their mind they’re losing their mind they’re freaking out and everything is spinning the world is spinning and all they can see is then on repeat over and over and over and

it won’t stop

make it stop make it stop make it stop make everything stop

They cower, throwing their arms over their head, eyes slammed shut.

“It’s alright, no one’s here to hurt you.”

He quivers, unwilling and unable to believe the words she’s speaking.

Men in power always hurt.

That memory rings loud in his mind, blurring past logic and sensory input.

There’s a skid and a flicker and each one, every image and moment of sensei has been replaced by this man.

They shake their head and curl in further, hyperventilating with memories that can’t be real but bleed in intensity.  

The door closes quietly.

“He’s gone now,” Yosano sighs, defeated, “you don’t have to hide anymore.”

Dazai picks up the plushie that’s been abandoned next to their pillow. They cling to it, pressing it tightly against his bony chest. He struggles to breathe, head reeling, thoughts screaming, mind racing.

 There goes the idea of meeting anyone else in the agency, Yosano’s mind inconveniently supplies.

“What do you need, Dazai?” She asks directly. They quake.

He coughs and moans, the sounds coming out of his throat proving to be another attempt at self-regulation.

“Do you want to be touched?”

The cry grow louder as Dazai backs further into a corner, squeezing their lithe frame into the smallest position they can muster.

“Okay. I’ll give you some time to cool down. I’ll just be at my desk if you need me—”

“Atsu.”

They whisper so quietly, Yosano can barely make out any word was said at all.

“Hm?”

“Atsu,” they whisper a bit louder, more of a demand than they’d typically utter.

“Oh, you want Atsushi to stay with you?”

They nod fervently, repeating, “Atsu.”

“I’ll go get him,” her voice is kind, despite a stern, “stay put.”

Dazai curls up into a ball. He doesn’t know why he’s asked for Atsushi, just that something about the boy makes him feel calm. Just like Odasaku—

They suppress a flinch as they think of him. Of the kindest person they’ve ever met.

“Dazai-san!” Atsushi cries out with a loving temperance, despite the other’s compromised position. “How are you feeling? Oh, sorry, that’s probably a stupid question, you look upset. Sorry! Do you want to um—talk about it? Or uh—play a game?? I have some games or um we can do some more drawing—”

Atsushi sits down on the bed as an unprompted Dazai rushes forward. He immediately buries his face into the younger one’s chest, shaking and holding their smaller frame tight.

Atsushi is borderline stunned, unsure of what to do. He fights to see past his own insecurities before enveloping Dazai’s thin frame in a tight embrace. Dazai shakes, trembling in their hug, but inhales the safety of tigers and exhales the fear of cages.

Atsushi’s long fingers play with frizzy chocolate brown curls. He shushes and hums and whispers things like “You’re safe” and “You’ll be okay.” Dazai coils inwards until they are small enough to be enveloped by the entirety of Atsushi’s hold. He shakes and stirs and cries as the younger one rubs their back.

They stay like this for moments on end.

When Yosano comes to check on them, Dazai is curled up, fast asleep against Atsushi’s chest. Her heart melts as Atsushi flashes her an awkward smile before going back to soothingly rubbing Dazai’s back.

Yosano exits the room feeling a lot less concerned than she’s felt in a while.

--

Dazai sleep talks.

It’s upsetting, the things they mumble with eyes closed and frail body bent in on himself.

They utter apologies, whisper names, whimper. Atsushi cringes at the sight. He doesn’t want to wake them up considering Yosano told him they need rest, that Dazai really hasn’t been sleeping well this week. Still, it hurts to watch Dazai hurt.

To watch them shake and scratch at stick-like arms, to see them cry and plead and beg for everything to just stop—

“Dazai-san,” Atsushi can’t take it any longer.

Dazai stirs.

“You’re okay. It’s just a nightmare.”

It’s not just a nightmare though.

It’s a memory.

One where

where he

“I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” sensei spoke in his slippery tone. They were outside, Dazai naked and alone in its cage. Sensei stands still, clad in his normal attire of a suit and red scarf.

It was winter.

“This is my friend.”

Dazai doesn’t hear his name, it just knows this man is bad, reeks of bad, is composed entirely of bad.

“He wants to get to know you.”

Dazai flinches, leaning its entire weight back against the bars of the cage. It’s not like it can go far, but it pushes itself as far away as it can.

“Come,” the man speaks as sensei moves to unlock the cage, “You’re such a pretty little thing. I’m very excited to meet you.” Then, with a devilish grin, “I almost can’t contain my excitement.”

Dazai stayed put, scowling.

“Now Pet, don’t keep our guest waiting.”

Before it can even think to protest, something sharp sticks its arm. The syringe is full of an orange liquid that it feels seep into its veins.

It fall limp and everything goes dark.

When its eyes flicker open, its indoors, ravished of clothes, bandages, dignity.

It registers the sensation of touch of hands of something, someone around it. It feels hot, sticky breath and warm, sweaty hands. It feels skin being pinched and prodded as the hands travel downwards and it

it realizes

it knows what happened it knows what happened it knows what happened while it was asleep

while it was

it was asleep it was asleep it was

while it

it was touched it was touched it was

it

This man touched it. This man who’s not sensei touched it this man who’s not sensei loved it and it

It can’t—

Its distress tolerance can’t handle this. It can’t and so it bites as hard as it can until it’s—

It’s tossed to the ground, kicked with a steel-toed boot. Its ribs scream in protest, a sickening crack filling the air around.

It’s swallowed whole by aching throbbing visceral pain by starbursts, red blooming of a wilted camellia.

It gasps, begging for air as it’s kicked over and over over and

There are hands. Again.

They touch.

They’re inside.

They’re—

He awakes with a start, gasping for breath.

“It’s okay, Dazai-san. You’re okay.”

Chapter Text

IV – nightmare

caged/bruised

A few days have passed since the incident with the president. Things aren’t as bad as they were. They’re okay. Things are okay. Dazai has nightmares, but seem to do better whenever Atsushi is around so they stick to each other like glue.

When Dazai wakes up from a nap, he wants to draw.

They hold up their sketchpad and pencil and whine until Atsushi agrees to get his own and join in. Atsushi is far less artistically inclined than his older counterpart, but doesn’t mind engaging in the activity if it makes Dazai feel better.

“Right, okay!” Atsushi pulls out his own sketchbook from Yosano’s desk along with some extra coloring supplies.

“Here you go,” he smiles brightly as he hands Dazai the tools. They take them warily, placing his plushie down with ginger care.

“So…” Atsushi starts, a careful edge to his tone, “we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But um. I was just thinking about. Like. The president. And well…I take it you didn’t get along well with him?”

It’s a question Atsushi’s spent an entire week waiting to ask.

He’s nervous he might be broaching the subject too soon, but figures there’s no harm in trying. Surprisingly, Dazai remains calm, barely reacting aside from a small shrug.

“Did you get a chance to talk to him at all?”

“He knows him.”

There is dread in their tone.

Atsuhi frowns, puzzled.

“Who knows who? The president knows someone?”

“Him.”

“Who?” Atsushi asks again, perplexed.

“Sensei.”

“Oh.”

That couldn’t be good.

Atsushi considered the implications of this newfound information. All he knew about Dazai’s “sensei” was the man seemed unspeakably cruel. He committed acts of atrocities against a child, so horrible that they refuse to eat. That they’re plagued with nightmares and panic attacks, riddled with an array of anxieties.

“That’s um. That’s a bad thing, right?”

“I don’t know yet,” Dazai answers honestly, “maybe.”

They continue to scribble.

When Atsushi glances over their shoulder to take a peek, he’s thoroughly perturbed.

“Uh wow that’s…uh…detailed,” he coughs out. “What is it?”

It’s a portrait of a mangled body.

A mangled body and a cage.

In the cage is a child covered in blood.

Dazai says nothing. They turn to a new page and start another drawing.

They’re all like this.

One dismembered body after the next, bloody and torn, scraped up and shredded. Each one more distorted than the last. As the pictures continue, the cage gets smaller.

The child stays the same.

Sitting there, empty black hole eyes blank as a can be. The gaze is familiar and Atsushi wonders—

“Is that…someone you know?”

They hiss at the question.

“Sorry! I don’t mean to pry I just um. They’re really uh…the pictures. They’re um. They’re interesting! And I—I wasn’t sure if, if like, maybe you had a friend or—”

Dazai looks at the picture, pointing at the bodies littering the ground, “They’re dead.”

“Oh. Did you um, do you know who did it? Who…who killed them?”

Dark, empty stared straight ahead.

Atsushi doesn’t realize it, but he himself has started to shake.

Dazai’s decided he’s done talking. They scratch their arms, scratch at their bandages.

“Do you want them changed?”

They nod.

“I’ll um. I’ll get Yosano-sensei.”

They scratch and scratch and scratch.

--

Yosano is shocked when she hears Atsushi managed to get any details about the kid’s life at all.

“Wow, he must really trust you,” she remarks kindly.

“I-I don’t know why but I’m glad!” Atsushi replies with an air of uncertainty.

“It’s a good thing, believe me,” Yosano says with a chuckle, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Maybe he’ll tell you how he got to our doorstep. Or more about their sensei.”

“I’m kind of um. I’m worried.”

“About?”

“Dazai-san…he’s just. I don’t think they’re okay.”

“They’re not,” Yosano agreed, “they’re severely traumatized. I don’t think they’ll be okay for a very long time.”

Atsushi shifts his weight, shuffling from one foot to the other.

“Um, Yosano-sensei?” He asks in a hushed tone, “Can I ask about earlier this week? About what happened when the president—”

“I think Dazai was just frightened,” Yosano replies quick and quiet, “it’s not my place to share the details, but for what it’s worth I think it was more that he was startled than anything else.”

A nod, “O-okay. That’s good. I was um. Really worried because I wasn’t sure if something bad had happened.”

“Nothing really happened at all. Just a startle, then the president left.”

She’s downplaying it, but the white lies are worth it for the sigh of relief Atsushi heaves. He’s too young to be worrying about this sort of thing.

Yosano addressed the boy directly, “Dazai-kun’s been responding well to the feeding tube. He’ll probably be safe to come off it in another week or two. I might take him clothes shopping when we officially take him off. I think it would be nice for them to have some clothes of his own.”

“That’s a great idea!” Atsushi beamed at the thought of Dazai gaining a little independence.

“If we do go, would you like to come with us?”

“I-if Dazai-san says it’s okay, than yes!”

“Perfect. I’ll let you know next week depending on how they’re feeling.”

“Okay, that’s great,” Atsushi continued to smile, “the more Dazai-san can do on their own, the better.”

--

The phone rang.

There wasn’t much of a protocol to answering the Agency phone, usually anyone who was free would answer. Seeing as he wasn’t officially an Agency member and it was well past 11 PM, Dazai probably should have ignored it. They did, actually. Except when it went to voicemail, audio that played aloud in Yosano’s office.

“…”

At first, there was silence.

Another moment passed when the sound of thumping took over. Thumping which morphed into—

They recognized it.

Laughter and haughtiness, the timbre of an older man and a small little thing and—

Moaning, breathy inhales and achy exhales.

It was him. It was him it was him it was him it was

Dazai stumbled out of bed, rushing over to the phone. They lurched, picking up the receiver.

“Sensei—!” he cried out.

There was no one on the other end, just the dial tone.

The phone fell to the floor.

--

“You know I only do this for your own good,” the steel-toed boot in its concave stomach shoots sharp starbursts of pain lacing its vision.

It can’t see

it can only feel.

Everything hurts as the shoe collides again and again.

They stay impossibly still, quiet.

It hurts, it hurts, it—

“You ungrateful thing.”

There’s that touch again.

Featherlight, invasive, and disgusting

just like it.

Everything hurts everything hurts it’s disgusting it’s disgusting it’s touched and touched and touched

that hand

in between its—

it’s warm to the point of being hot and it burns, sears

it doesn’t want this it doesn’t want this it needs it off but

but

but

this is

fuck

this is the only touch it ever gets.

This is it.

This is love this is how it is loved this is how it loves this is how love

this is how

and it can’t do anything

it can only stay still

stay quiet

push it down

because it’s fine.

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.

There’s nothing wrong. There’s nothing wrong with this hand creeping touching invading, invasive

there's nothing wrong with this display of affection, with this pure, unadulterated love.

Love.

This must be love.

There’s nothing wrong and it’s fine and it ignores the way their heart feels empty its joints feel sallow its everything feels like it doesn’t belong

stitched together

a doll ripping at the seams.

It stays deathly still as the hands creep deeper and suddenly there’s more than hands there’s something wet something large something—

He wakes up.

He’s crying and he doesn’t know why.

He can’t stop.

The bed is wet.

The bed is wet and he is alone, he is crying, and he wants it to stop.

They don’t know what to do but they can’t breathe so they hold their plushie tight to their chest, using its soft fake fur to ground them.

But it’s hard.

It’s hard because they can’t breathe and this feels dangerous and suddenly everything feels dangerous.

The walls are closing in around them, they can’t breathe, they don’t feel safe. Not in the ADA, not in a bed, not in their own skin.

He has to go to get the fuck out of there but—

but where?

He needs Odasaku, but Odasaku is—

Fuck.

They clamber out of bed, ripping his IV in the process. He doesn’t know where else to go, so they bring their plushie and curl into a ball underneath the first thing they see. Covering their ears and closing their eyes, he wills the thoughts away wills the danger away wills everything away.

It works until it doesn’t.

They need to get out, to crawl out of his skin and elsewhere. To—

he's hyperventilating. The breaths are shallow and quick as their lungs scream for air, chest compressing further with each gasp. Vision is hazy, life is hazy, all that they can feel is fear.

All they can

all

they

they can’t

they can’t

breathing is so hard why is breathing so hard why can’t they breathe why can’t they

He was touched, and it hurt.

He was violated, and it hurt.

He was hurt, and it hurt.

Everything hurt, hurts, is hurting.

They can’t help the yelp that cries from deep within their gut. Can’t stop the shouts or sobs or any noise that emits, that refutes suppression.

The screams morph into distorted, skewed shrieks, unsightly things that would scar even the least-sensitive of ears. They wail and lunge at nothing, at an imaginary predator, one who once was threat but now is dissipation.

That’s how she finds him.

“Dazai?” Yosano asks with a sense of urgency upon seeing the empty bed.

It smells of urine.

They’ve made great strides in the past few weeks, so much so that Yosano hasn’t had to keep them under constant supervision. Still, recovery is anything but impenetrable.

She’s drawn to the sound of bated breaths.

“Dazai? Is everything okay?” She looks around, listening closely until she notices a whimper coming from the direction of her desk. They’ve stopped fidgeting, opting to stay perfectly still, unmoving. Yosano shifts her desk chair out of the way, finding the small, frail thing curled up as small as can be.

“Dazai,” her voice aches, her heart aches, everything aches for this young human. This childlike adult that’s too terrified to come out, that buries himself so far back he can no longer move.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, a delicate quality, “you’re safe. You’ll be okay, I promise.”

Dark saucer eyes widen to an impossible degree, trembling at the sight of dark hair, pale skin, white coat—

They clutch their stomach and slam their eyes shut.

“STOP!” He yells, though Yosano does nothing.

“I’m not going to hurt you—”

“STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP!” They screech, a banshee of a broken record.

She backs up, giving them as much space as she can reasonably allow. The motion seemed to help, as their screaming comes to a silence. They heave, panting as they drop to all fours. They cover their head with their hands, their entire body curling into the ground below.

Not for the first time, Yosano feels in over her head. Incredibly out of her depth with the traumatized human before her.

Eventually, the younger one has tuckered himself out. He sits up slowly, eyes wide but not as feral as before. A vacancy that clung in its place, an empty dissociation.

“Did something happen?” Yosano settled on in that same soft, quiet tone.

His head shook. He doesn’t tell her about the phone call.

Their hospital gown is wet.

“A bad dream?”

A nod.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Wide chocolate brown is empty, empty, empty. Yosano’s heart cinches at the sight.

Nothing is said.

“Can we get you cleaned up?” Yosano suggests. With a wordless nod, they stand shaky like a newborn fawn. Yosano guides them to the sick wing’s bathroom, which is fully equipped with a tub and showerhead. During his time at the ADA, Dazai required supervision when bathing more often than not since he proved to be a threat to his own well-being. In that, Yosano was very aware of what lay beneath swaths of bandages.

Still, seeing the marks was never any easier.

Lacerations, burns, and scars, they were coated from head to toe. An array of abuse, self-injurious, and accidental.

When it came to bathing, their nature was timid. Afraid of taking off their gown or allowing their body to be seen, afraid of being touched, afraid that—

Yosano did her best to afford him privacy, looking away until the younger was covered safely by the water of the bath. They quickly buried their head in their knees once they were settled in the warmth of the water, embarrassment burning in the reds of his cheeks and ears.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Yosano cooed, thankful her patient had reached a stasis somewhat resembling calm, “trauma makes our bodies do weird things. No one here will judge you.”

“I ruined it.”

It was no more than a whisper.

“You didn’t ruin anything—”

“The bed,” they hissed loudly, “I ruined it! I ruined it I—I—”

“The bed will be just fine. You’re not the first person to have an accident at the Agency, you know.”

His head perked.

“I’m…not?”

“No, of course not,” she smiled fondly as golden-brown met lilac, “I’ve had lots of patients stay the night and have accidents. Hell, I still have them from time to time. When someone has been through the type of trauma you have, it’s a completely normal bodily response.”

They blushed, sitting up straighter and opening their arms ever slightly.

The bath continued without an issue.

Yosano gnawed her lip as she helped the other dry off. Even with the feeding tube, he bordered emaciated. Not to the extent as when he first arrived, but still a problem. Keeping him on a feeding tube was a pain for everyone involved, but she figured another week would get him to a place where they’d be safe enough eating solid food. Assuming they’d be willing to eat on their own, that is.

She had a feeling it was easier said than done.

“Here, you can rest on this bed while I get the other one cleaned up.”

The two exited the bathroom, heading towards the bed to which Yosano gestured. Dazai sat down, nervous and shaky.

“Are you cold?”

He nodded. The doctor approached with a blanket and his plushie, “Here you go,” she smiled sweetly. Dazai curled up in a ball, knees pulled to their chest as they hugged the toy, pulling the blanket up high.

“He loved me.”

The sentence interrupts the calm silence of the space.

Yosano froze.

“My sensei,” Dazai continued, voice just as small if not smaller than before, “he loved me.”

It was quiet.

“That’s what I dreamt about,” they coughed lightly.

The air chilled.

“I was hurt by someone. Have I ever told you that?” Her eyes and voice were soft like the blanket tucked around his shoulders. He shook his head. “He used to touch me. He made me do things I didn’t want to do.” She paused before slowly asking, “Did your sensei…did he touch you like that?”

A whimper followed by a meek, “Sensei loves me.”

Though she’d expected this ever since the shivering thing appeared on their doorstep, it was still jarring.

She wanted to argue.

Wanted to look them dead in the eyes and assert just how much his sensei couldn’t have loved him if the man did all the things she’s heard by now.

Men who make you wet the bed don’t love you. She knows all too well.

“I don’t…” Dazai trailed off, speaking down to his feet rather than Yosano’s watchful gaze, “you’re going to get hurt. Because because be—sensei loves me.”

“What do you mean?”

They kept their eyes averted, “Sensei. He loves me and he’s—he’s he’s going to look for me. And then—”

“The Armed Detective Agency is a very strong organization. We’re comprised of elite gifteds. No matter who comes at us, we’ll be able to hold our own.”

Dazai shook their head profusely, “Sensei’s different,” he urged, “he loves me!”

“I understand,” she forced her true feelings back as far as they’d go, “but—”

Dazai groaned, “You don’t!”

“Sweetheart, I really mean it when I say the ADA faces all kinds of evils every single day. We’re not perfect, but both together and individually we’re very strong—”

“Sensei loves me and no one else is allowed.”

“What?” Yosano questioned with a furrowed brow.

“You can’t! You can’t, you can’t you can’t—” they mumbled under their breath, caught in a trance.

“I can’t what?”

“Odasaku was…” they trailed off, eyes hazed over.

“Dazai? Are you with me?” Yosano came over to the bed, abandoning her work and cleaning supplies. “You’re okay, it’s just Yosano,” she assured.

The young adult swayed where they sat.

“Dazai?”

A jolt, then he was back, “Hm?”

Yosano heaved a sigh of relief, “I promise you, we’ll be okay.”

Dazai blinked. He said nothing.

Chapter Text

V – lies we tell ourselves

Dehumanization/all things broken and beaten

Dazai wet the bed once more, but seemed much calmer about it. One more week passed when, Yosano made the executive decision to switch over to carefully portioned solid food.

It was still a struggle, getting Dazai to willingly eat. He often put up a fuss, acting more or less like a young child uninterested in their vegetables. The surest way to get him to actually finish a meal was if Atsushi and Yosano both had their food alongside him. Atsushi took it upon himself to make different unique foods that Dazai had never seen before. He’d section off some for the other, letting Dazai try each one to get a better idea of what he liked. So far anything crab-related seemed pretty high on the list.

“So Dazai,” Yosano started as she took a bite of the egg in her ramen, “How would you feel about getting some clothes of your own?”

Their ears perked up as they stole a piece of Atsushi’s vegetable gyoza. Atsushi frowned playfully, secretly taking joy in the mischievous quality to dark, typically empty eyes.

“Would you like that?”

They took a bite and considered. He swallowed, then nodded.

“That’s great,” Yosano smiled, “maybe we can try Monday morning, if you’re feeling up to it? I think that will have the least amount of people in the store.”

“What type of clothes do you like, Dazai-san?” Atsushi asked before eating one of his gyozas.

Dazai shrugged, then as an after-thought, “Soft.”

“We can certainly find you something soft,” Yosano laughed at the remark, “Ranpo-san will drop off some sweats you can borrow for the trip. They might be a bit short on you, but they should work for our purposes.”

Another nod.

Honestly, Dazai was excited by the prospect of going shopping. He was a little concerned about the whole “trying on” element of the endeavor, but they really liked the idea of finding clothing of their own to wear around the ADA. He was becoming more confident in the idea of independence, having done quite well in the past few outings he accompanied Yosano.

Now that he was back to eating solid food and getting better at managing their panic attacks, it was only a matter of time before he was allowed to live by himself in the “real world.”

That was an odd thought. The idea of living in the world.

It made them shake with something that was either anticipatory excitement or unadulterated dread. Either way, the thoughts were promptly dismissed.

“The trip can be just the two of us, or if you want Atsushi-kun said he’d love to come along,” Yosano continued.

Dazai considered before chirping, “Atsu.”

“Alright Dazai-san,” Atsushi blushed a bright shade of crimson, “I’ll come!”

A few minutes passed when Dazai squirmed in their spot, a look of discomfort painted upon their face.

“Is something the matter?” Yosano asked. Dazai pushed his half-eaten food away. “You’re full?”

A nod.

Atsushi frowned at the sight of untouched food. He looked at Yosano, who simply nodded her head.

“Alright then. I’ll save your leftovers for later.”

Dazai was antsy after that. For the rest of the afternoon, he couldn’t sit still. They fiddled with everything within their grasp and constantly changed positions in the room. It wasn’t like Dazai was forced to stay in the hospital wing all the time, but trips outside were still dependent on how they were feeling and if they were likely to bolt. Normally he had no problem with staying indoors, having spent far too much of adolescence in a literal cage outside. Now though, he wanted, needed to move around and the exercises Yosano instructed him to do were not cutting it.

“Outside.”

Atsushi, who was keeping him company, looked up at the sudden suggestion.

“You want to go outside?”

He nodded fervently.

“Really? It’s raining right now. Maybe we can go when it clears up!”

Dazai groaned, flopping back on the bed. They were more than aware that they could sneak out at any time they wanted, but they were trying to do this thing where they “built trust” with Atsushi and Yosano. He wanted to have allies (against whom he had yet to determine) and didn’t want to do anything too irrational as to provoke them.

“I’m bored,” he huffed.

“We could uh—play a game!”

They tilted their head to the side.

“You like Chess, right? Or Jenga?”

They considered.

He held up a finger, signaling the first option.

They danced the line between speaking and not speaking quite frequently, Atsushi noticed. A symptom he thinks might be from PTSD paired with exhaustion. Either way, Atsushi didn’t mind the episodic silences. So long as Dazai and him could communicate in some capacity, that was his main priority.

Atsushi proceeded to get their Chess set together as Dazai made space on his bed. When the younger one returned, they set up the board and pieces. Dazai was well-aware that Atsushi was an atrocious Chess player, meaning Dazai could easily beat him in 3 moves. But being so easy of an opponent meant Dazai could have some fun. He enjoyed toying with his prey and did exactly that during the majority of their games. Following each game, Dazai would take the time to review exactly where Atsushi’s strategy had led the boy astray. He’d explain what happened and how to avoid it next time. Atsushi was getting marginally better at the game but still paled in comparison to the likes of Ranpo and Dazai.

Ranpo remained an enigma to Dazai. They’d met a handful of times but only interacted once or twice. The other Agency members always talked about Ranpo being the best Chess player they’d ever met and suggested Dazai verse him when he was back to health. Dazai liked this idea, but was uneasy. Ranpo was touted throughout the Agency as a boy-genius and the World’s Greatest Detective™. It was rumored that in a moment’s glance, Ranpo could deduce everything about a person’s past and present with bare minimum knowledge. Dazai had his doubts as to whether or not a special ability could behave in such a way, but would be remiss to completely write off the man’s skills. Something about him was unnerving, though. The idea that he could spare a single glance Dazai’s way and know exactly what happened before he arrived at the Agency doorstep was upsetting. Therefore, he avoided the man at all costs. He had a feeling Ranpo was just as skittish for his own reasons, considering he never made much of an attempt at conversing.

“Check,” Dazai giggled, having reached the end of his game with Atsushi in five minutes flat.

Atsushi floundered, waving his arms around as he squealed, “How did you do that!?”

Dazai smiled, a bright playful thing. Before Atsushi could complain further, they launched into an explanation, pointing at each move Atsushi made, could have made, and should not have made. After a few minutes of questions and explanations, an angry Kunikida stormed in to notify Atsushi that he was incredibly behind on all his paperwork.

“I’m sorry Dazai-san!” He apologized profusely, “I’ll play more with you tomorrow, I promise!”

Dazai stuck his tongue out with a pout.

--

It went,

well,

not great.

The trip started off alright. Arriving at the shop, picking out different clothing to try on, that was the easy part. Dazai liked touching the fabrics, feeling everything and getting to choose if it was just the right texture and degree of softness. They liked wearing something other than their hospital gown as they pranced around in Ranpo’s spare set of sweats. Everything really did start out fine.

“Alright, what have we decided on?” Yosano approached him and Atsushi. Dazai handed over the clothing for inspection.

There were 3 pastel cotton tees in pink, blue, and lilac along with a few joggers, khaki pants, and a single button down shirt.

“I brought some jeans for you too, in case you want to try them on,” Yosano offered. Dazai made a face, “It’s okay if you don’t like them. I just want to give you options.”

They fidgeted, playing with the hem of one of the t-shirts.

“Are you ready to try everything on?”

There was a hesitant nod.

“Alright, let’s give these a try,” Yosano ushered them to the dressing rooms. Dazai stared, eyes wide and shaky. Each step felt like a mile as they walked slowly, anxiety beginning to well in their chest.

The door to the dressing room was large, wide and scraped up from use. He took a deep breath working to steady himself. Something about this process was terrifying in a familiar sense. Unnerving.

It was like

almost as if

as if

as—

You’re such a good little Pet.

“Dazai?”

Looking so pretty for me.

“Dazai-san, are you okay?”

All pretty in lace just for me and me alone.

“Dazai!”

They blinked profusely, swaying where they stood, suddenly light-headed.

“Are you with us?” Yosano asked, a sense of urgency to her tone.

They nodded despite the evident confusion twisting their face.

“Do you want to take a break? We can put the clothes on hold and come back to them if you want a snack or—”

He shook his head violently, grabbing the clothes and immediately locking himself in the dressing room.

It was dark.

Cold and dark and it was all alone. The lace itched. The fabric scratched so it scratched and it was met with red marks on its arms and

Sensei wouldn’t like that.

Sensei doesn’t like when it hurts itself. Not without his permission.

It contemplates, but the fabric is so itchy and the scratching is a distraction so it scratches harder and harder until little beads of red surface.

It scratches harder.

Something smells like blood and Atsushi is concerned.

“Um…Yosano-sensei?” He asked softly, as if afraid of his own voice. The woman raised an eyebrow, turning his way.

“Yes?”

“I um…”

Maybe he’s making things up. Making a big deal out of nothing. Dazai picks at the skin under his nails—that has to be it. There’s no reason Dazai would be hurt. It doesn’t make sense.

He shook his head, “Nevermind.”

It quivers.

Then, there are fingers. Greedy hands that touch, cold in warm places and suddenly

it is being caressed

it is being touched

it is being loved

it feels so incredibly, so powerfully so

its stomach hurts, it aches with empty and it wants to vomit but there’s nothing left

it wants to die but there’s nothing left

there’s nothing left.

They stare at their body.

Really, really stare.

It’s the first time they’ve been naked in front of a full-length mirror since—

Sensei made it look sensei made it look sensei made it look and it is exactly as disgusting as it’s claimed to be.

They hiss at the scowl facing right back at them. It cringes at the sight of bones and angles and skin and fat and

It hisses at its own humanity and when did he become it again? When did this mirror image become drenched with piss, a thing coated in its own feces and blood?

it’s not fair, it’s not fair it’s not

Their breaths are coming labored as they’re it once more and it is repulsive. It is a murderous, ugly thing that assaults any and all gaze indiscriminate. It is hideous, oozing with violation.

It’s been violated it’s being violated it is violated and suddenly violation becomes

It can’t breathe.

Dazai can’t breathe.

The lace itches.

They’re struggling to inhale/exhale/tear their gaze away, look anywhere other than at this crooked expression in this unforgiving mirror. It cannot look away and they’re faced with shame, so much shame—

It’s touched it’s touched it’s touched and it will never be the same it will never be like before it will be ruined it is ruined

Their arms are bleeding because they’ve been scratching. They don’t know when they started doing that.

It hates itself it hates itself it hates how it feels pretty when sensei—

When he

When he

It’s touched.

It’s being touched it’s being touched and it feels pretty and wet and sensei tells it how pretty it looks how wet it is how warm it’s—

Sensei calls it pretty.

Why isn’t Dazai pretty anymore?

It misses its cage it misses the touch it misses

when sensei stops it misses everything but when he starts—

Is he too big? Has he grown past the point of being a tiny little thing with cute little limbs and doe-eyed innocence? Has he become so big, they can’t fit in that cage?

it burns it burns it burns and it is yearning, lusting for empty but lusting nonetheless.

Dazai just wants to be pretty.

The thought sends them on a spiral

sends them crashing to the floor

tightens their chest

stops their breathing

and their arms are bleeding and they are on the floor and they are naked and they are screaming and

When did they start screaming?

It doesn’t want this yet it’s never wanted anything more in its life.

Sensei tells it, it’s asked for this, that it enjoys this touch. That all it needs is touch, touch touch touch touch touch

Sensei tells it, it needs to be touched. Tells it that’s all it’s good for, to sit pretty and be touched.

Because it is Pet.

It is a Pet and it is meant to sit pretty and be pet.

It’s meant to be silent. To be touched, to be touched, to

There are hands and voices and everything is all of the sudden very confusing. Their hands are covered with blood and whose is it? Whose blood do they bleed?

It’s screaming they’re screaming he’s dying it’s dying it’s dying it’s

“Dazai!”

--

Atsushi regrets not saying anything sooner.

He regrets as Dazai begins to scream.

“Fuck,” Yosano mutters under her breath, knocking at the door when the handle refuses to give. “Dazai, please let us in!” She calls.

They’re a loud bunch and in the store it doesn’t go unnoticed. There are security guards and store attendants that meander over as the ear-piercing scream only grows in volume and intensity, voice shrill in suffering.

“What’s going on over here?” The store manager asks with a pointed expression.

“I’m sorry,” Yosano begins as Atsushi tries the door handle once more, “my friend is upset. We’re going to get him to open the door for us and then we’ll leave.”

The manager exchanges looks with the security guards, ever-conscious of the prying eyes from other customers perusing the scene.

“Please, just give us a couple of minutes. We’ll be out of here soon, I promise.”

There are whispers amongst the staff before the manager grants a curt nod.

“If the situation isn’t taken care of in five minutes, we have the right to remove you and your party from our store by force.”

It takes everything in her power to not kill these people.

“Understood.”

The guards and manager give them a bit of space, watching from afar as the other two returned to the situation at hand.

“Should I…just—” Atsushi starts. Yosano nods.

The screaming is distracting and Yosano can barely hear so she immediately instructs the other to (carefully) break down the door.

Atsushi does so.

Granted, it’s an anticlimactic happening since he only used enough force to damage the lock without breaking the entirety of the door.

On the other side, they see Dazai.

They are naked, bleeding, and utterly terrified.

The blood isn’t plentiful, only between his nails and coming from scratched up arms, slivers of reddened skin on display beneath shifting bandages.

“Dazai-san!” Atsushi calls.

The screaming stops as the other one, shivering and naked, falls limp.

Yosano does her best to slide on his sweats as gently as possible, making an internal note to wash the clothes extra well before giving them back to Ranpo. Once they’ve been redressed, Atsushi picks up their unmoving frame and carries him in his arms.

The store manager shoots them one last dirty look before the group has officially evacuated the premises.

--

The Agency is quiet for the rest of the day. Dazai lies in bed, wordless and clinging to their plushie. Yosano lets them stay in Ranpo’s sweats after tending to the scrapes adorning his arms.

She feels foolish.

If only she had waited a few more weeks, or even just bought him clothes to try on at the Agency itself. If only she—

He whimpers.

“Dazai?”

It’s a sad little sound.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She coos, approaching the younger one as they bury further beneath the covers. It’s kind of adorable, actually, the way they burrow under the blankets, a lump on the bed.

They hiss in reply to her question.

It can’t stop thinking about its cage.

About the way he and they have become it all over again.

It wants its cage.

It needs its cage.

It needs Mo—

They curl in tighter, hugging themself more than before.

Yosano chews on her lip. She has no idea how she’s going to get him to eat dinner.

“I’ll give you some time by yourself,” she decides, “but I’ll be back in an hour for dinner. If you need anything before then I’ll just be in the other room.”

Dazai says nothing as she exits the space.

Instead, he spirals. It spirals.

It thinks about everything its left behind thinks about sensei thinks about being loved thinks about—

it wants to be loved again.

It needs to be loved again.

It misses it, it misses it, it misses everything.

It misses the cage

the harrowing empty in the pit of its stomach

the bile and acid

the pieces of bread Odasaku would bring—

Odasaku.

It loathes everything from whence they came, yet it craves that place more than life itself.

It wants to die.

But first, it wants—

Because it can’t die unloved and so that means it needs to be loved and to be loved it—

it has an idea it has an idea it it it it has this idea that

Dazai needs to be loved, and then it needs to die.

Chapter Text

VI – Oda

free use

It’s dark.

Rain smatters the pavement, casting a glum sense of dismal upon the air.

Clouds dance and children furl inwards, shrinking, trying desperately to fit into cages made for things rather than people.

It sat outside, curled in a ball.

Despite the storm, it wasn’t allowed inside.

It stayed in its cage and waited. 

A cage too small for gangly frames no matter how diligently starved.

The rain doesn’t bother it. It finds it relaxing, the rhythmic clamoring, drop on drop on drop on metal on drop. It likes the sound the rain makes on the metal bars, the little clink. The sensation reminds it of water tickling windows, steamy hot beverages, and indoor snuggles.

It makes it think of sensei’s kindness.

Reminds it of the days it’s gifted with a boiling hot mug of chamomile and warm nights of bubble baths.

(Tea it chugs despite the heat, afraid of the moments when sensei might just change his mind. Water it knows intimately, the suffocation of drowning all too familiar.)

It sits in the rain, thinking about drinking tea.

Thinking about—

“Hello? Are you there?”

The voice sounds and it can’t help but freeze, breath held, unmoving.

“Hello?”

The voice repeats.

It shrinks, curling up tighter than before, if even possible.

It can’t be seen it can’t be seen it can’t—

“Hey. I can see you. I’m not here to hurt you.”

The voice is unfamiliar.

It sounds like something that could be described, perhaps, as kind.

The sound makes it tremble.

A shadow emerges from the shroud of fog.

“My name’s Oda. I was told to check in on you but—I didn’t realize you’d be—” he looks at the cage. His only remark is, “It must be cold in there.”

Oda has an umbrella and a long tan coat.

“Are you hungry?”

It recoils.

“I have some bread. Here,” the man reaches out to the thing, a small roll in hand. It stares, wondering why this strange man keeps bread in his pocket. “You can eat it. It’s leftover from a bakery I stopped off at earlier today.” There’s a hesitation before Oda adds, “You look like you need it.”

It should say no.

In fact, it should say nothing at all.

It should stay exactly where it is and starve the way Sensei wants it to—

but its stomach is gnawing and no matter how much water it consumes, it’s not enough to fill the void. It’s never enough.

The bread looks—

Its mouth waters and without thinking, it’s chewing.

Chewing the bread.

Chewing and swallowing and taking another bite.

“Good. That’s really good,” Oda praises.

It hisses at the praise, despite how lovely it feels.

“Do you want more? I can bring you some when I check on you tomorrow too. I’m sorry I can’t give you a coat or umbrella—Mori-sama won’t—”

It closes its eyes and turns to face the opposite direction.

It wants to be left alone.

Oda takes the cue and stands up to leave.

“It was really great to meet you,” the man’s lips quirk, voice etched with amicability. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Hopefully with nicer weather.”

--

Tomorrow comes fast, but not fast enough.

At least, not fast enough for frantic hearts and starving stomachs.

It’s crunched in a ball, the way it’s been for the past week in its new cage.

Sensei has yet to visit today.

Instead—

“Hi. It’s me again.”

That friendly voice is back. The one oozing with niceness.

“I brought some more bread. I would have brought something more substantial, but Mori—”

It cowers at the mention. Oda drops the topic immediately.

“Here you go.”

It stares, wary.

“It’s from the same place as yesterday’s. I didn’t poison you then and I’m not going to poison you now.”

It takes the piece of bread, nibbling slowly.

Its entire body shivers, both from the cold and from the sustenance entering its stomach. The storm has passed, but it remains soaked from the previous night. Its naked, bandaged body shakes as it chews far slower than yesterday.

Oda observes. Observes the way it’s back is curled, hunched in. Bandages strewn haphazardly. Scars, risen red and white marks coating each sliver of visible skin. The scratch and bite marks littering lithe hands. Its disturbingly thin, all hallow bone. The knobs on its spine protrude, as do its clavicle and hip bones. Everything juts.

Oda’s heart burns as it warily takes one bite after another.

Sensei didn’t give it permission, which means it shouldn’t be eating. It can’t afford to get bigger, for sensei to see what a gluttonous failure of a thing it’s become. This kind man could get in trouble all because it was selfish and just had to eat and—

It whimpers.

Tears prick at the corners of its eyes.

“It’s okay,” Oda soothes. He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket, “Here, you can use this.”

It accepts the gift, if only to have something to play with.

It loves toys. Even just a piece of fabric.

It rubs at its eyes, then settles on the fabric at-hand. It pulls and pets and plays.

Oda finds it cute. Something about the gesture. It’s endearing, innocent.

There’s something about this child that reverberates innocence.

“Do you have a name?”

That one’s an easy question.

“Pet.”

Oda frowns at the answer. Frowns at the scratchy voice, rusty from unuse.

“That’s what Mori-sama calls you, but it’s not your name. Do you remember what people called you before you came here?”

It thinks hard, the question proving to be much more difficult than it originally anticipated.

“Shūji?” It thinks aloud.

“Do you like that name?” Oda asks.

The question is confusing.

The concept of liking things is confusing.

It shrinks back. The world spins.

“I can call you by a different name, if you’d like.”

There’s that word again.

Like.

It hurts. Stings like ice to frostbitten skin.

It doesn’t know what to think or feel even though it swears, at one point in time, it must have known these things.

It’s smart.

It’s a genius.

It should know. It should know it should know it—

It’s screaming, voice going hoarse from overactivity.

“That’s okay,” Oda is polite and quiet and calm and so kind, “you can think on it. I’ll be here again tomorrow if you think of something better.”

It sniffles.

Tomorrow.

As the young man stands and waves a silent goodbye, it can’t help but yearn.

Yearn for tomorrow.

--

Oda doesn’t actually come tomorrow, he comes the following day.

Something in the gaping cavity where a heart might reside aches in anticipation.

Yet, when the man arrives, he’s granted with silence.

“I’m really sorry,” the man apologizes, “I take care of a bunch of kids and the littlest one caught the flu. I really am sorry for leaving you alone.”

“Liar.”

Other than the whisper, it does little to acknowledge the other’s presence.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll try not to do that again.”

More quiet spreads like fire to wood.

“Have you given any more thought to the name thing?”

It has, actually.

It’s considered several options. Not that it matters—it’s nothing more than a plaything and sensei would never allow it any freedom, to see itself as anything else.

Even so, it let itself daydream, just this once.

“Dazai Osamu.”

It doesn’t know where it comes from, but it thinks the name is associated with a fond memory. One of the very few remaining from the times before.

“What a good name,” Oda compliments.

Dazai Osamu turns pink with the praise.

--

Dazai is lonely on the best of days.

The days when sensei visits are the loneliest.

Those are the days that remind Dazai of its purpose. Of the sole reason it hasn’t been allowed to die yet, no matter how hard it tries.

“Hey Dazai. How are you feeling?”

When Oda visits, Dazai is no longer lonely.

Dazai is sitting cross-legged, playing with its handkerchief. It’s shocked sensei hasn’t confiscated it yet, but takes all it can get from the oversight.

Massive saucer black eyes stare up into cerulean orbs. Dazai hums.

“You seem like you’re in a good mood.”

For some undefinable reason, Dazai agrees. Dazai is in a good mood.

Despite being naked and cold, save for the bandages swathing sensitive skin. Despite being all alone in a too-small cage with too-little food, it feels okay today.

Maybe it’s because Oda is here. Or because Oda calls it Dazai and Osamu and thinks Dazai Osamu is a pretty name.

Dazai Osamu doesn’t understand love as a concept, construct, or experience. Yet, if Dazai could understand such things, it thinks that would describe the warmth that blooms in its cavernous chest at the sight of its friend.

“Name?”

This time, Dazai’s the one asking.

“Oh, I guess I only told you part of my name. My full name is Oda Sakunosuke.”

“Saku—sakuno—sakun—” Dazai frowns, struggling.

“It’s kind of a long name.”

“Saku…”

“You can just call me Oda, really—”

“Saku. Oda-saku.”

A bewildered expression flits Oda’s face as Dazai Osamu lights up, the closest thing Oda has seen to a smile appearing on its face.

“I like it,” Oda replies, returning the grin with a small quirk of his lips.

Dazai bounces in place.

“Odasaku!”

Oda smiles. He wants to ruffle Dazai’s hair, but holds back. There are some rules he can’t afford to break just yet.

“Oh, I almost forgot—” he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small plastic baggie with another piece of bread. “I really wish I could bring you more than just bread,” Oda sighs in apology. “The minute I figure out how to get a full meal in past the guards, I’ll bring you a bowl of curry.”

It holds the bread absent-mindedly. It doesn’t exactly want to eat it—but it is hungry.

Dazai Osamu is very hungry.

So hungry, that it feels completely satiated. That hunger feels nearly irrelevant.

Dazai Osamu eats the bread.

--

When sensei comes, it hurts.

Even if those days allow a semblance of “freedom.” Even if it’s granted the ability to leave its cage and nibble on something more than spare pieces of bread.

Sensei examines it.

Removes all the bandages covering its malnourished body, pokes and prods at this and that. He uses child-sized medical tools to take its blood pressure and listen to the thrumming of a plastic heart.

He puts it on a scale.

It hates this part.

Even on the days when sensei smiles.

“Very good work,” he hums at the sight of the number. The number that’s seared into its mind like a brand. “All our efforts are paying off.”

It puts a hand on its concave stomach.

“I know, you must be hungry,” sensei coos. It maintains eye contact with the floor. “I just want you to stay small and pretty for me, Pet,” sensei says the name with such warmth, one could conflate the lick of a flame to welts of love.

It says nothing, merely stretches, enjoying the feeling of limbs reaching their full extension for a rare moment. Sensei has diagnosed it with scoliosis, but really it wonders if the symptoms are purely caused by its cage.

“Come. I’ve sent for stew to be prepared.”

Sure enough, a hot, boiling meal is presented to it, in the most lavish of dining spaces. A Mahogony table that sits on a plush red carpet. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking the great expanse that is Yokohama.

Dazai sits on the floor.

A little blonde girl in a red dress watches.

She watches with bitter, jealous eyes, picking apart the scrawny thing piece by piece.

“Rintarō ! That’s disgusting,” she whines.

It remains unclothed, but has been allowed new bandages again. It likes its bandages.

“Rintarō !” The little girl yells, only shutting up as she’s whisked away, the moment sensei places a leathery hand on its matted, chaotically strewn hair.

“What a messy thing you are,” sensei remarks quietly. It sits and waits to be told it can eat.

It sits and waits

and waits

and waits

and—

“You may eat.”

It should be more careful, but it’s starving and the soup smells divine so it rushes. It scarfs it down, ignoring the burn of piping liquid slithering in its dried out throat.

“Enough,” there’s the sound of a crack as sensei’s hand collides with its face. It whimpers, stopping immediately.

“Who taught you to eat like a slob? Where are your manners.”

It reels in its mistake.

It stays very still and so very quiet.

Sensei eyes the top of its head once more.

“You dirty, heinous thing,” the man scoffs. Then, in the kindest, gentlest of tones, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The soup is abandoned, half-eaten.

--

When Oda visits Dazai next, it’s the cleanest he’s ever seen it.

Its face is no longer caked with dirt and blood and its bandages are a pristine tint of white.

It’s not dressed in formal clothes, but is allowed an oversized t-shirt similar to a hospital gown. Its hair is soft, despite its brittle consistency, a dark chocolate brown matching its eyes nicely. There’s a bruise on the left side of its face and bandage on its right.

Had it been anything other than emaciated, Oda could call this thing beautiful.

“You look nice and clean today,” he remarks at first glance.

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say, as Dazai immediately hunches in on itself.

It’s a sunny day, the kind with a light breeze of whistling, warm summer wind. Not cold and rainy like Oda’s first encounter.

He holds out a piece of bread—a peace offering.

Dazai gags.

It doubles over, barely able to hold its position on all fours in the claustrophobic tightness of its cage.

“Dazai!” Oda lunges, reaching out as if his hands could help that thing.

It hacks up bile and upset, trying its hardest not to fall into its own sick.

The smell is acrid.

Dazai’s attack finishes and it collapses, barely missing the mess.

It trembles.

It trembles, because it made a mess.

Dazai Osamu made a mess and sensei is going to find out and—

And it’ll get another cage.

A smaller one.

And—

“Breathe, Dazai, it’s okay. You’re safe with me, I need you to breathe.”

--

After the incident, sensei hooks it up to a feeding tube. Not for a long while, but long enough to replenish some of its key nutrients.

When it’s weighed at the end of the week, sensei frowns.

--

“I have a plan.”

Four words change everything.

“Do you know morse code?”

 Of course it does. Human or thing, starving or fed, it’s a genius.

It replies in code.

“Good,” Oda continues. He passes the rest of the details along in code.

That night, as Dazai lays wide awake, cold and alone, it feels a little less lonely.

Dazai Osamu, for the first time in years, feels hopeful.

--

The first thing Dazai notes about Oda’s safehouse is the smell. Like rainy summer days with an oxymoronic stale freshness. It smells like a home.

Not Dazai’s home and not Oda’s home, but someone’s home.

Oda stole a set of keys from the guards to sneak Dazai out late at night.

They sit on a worn suede sofa. Dazai is swathed in blankets, curled in the corner of the couch. They can’t stop petting the softness of the sofa. Oda sits next to it, staring at it hard, something confusing dancing in ocean eyes.

“Are you an ability user?” He finally asks.

Oda realizes his timing probably isn’t the greatest, seeing how strung out the other is.

Dazai’s eyes are wide, limbs fidgeting, its entire body jittery. It shakes tremendously.

“I’m sorry, here. I have tea for you,” Oda brings over a steaming mug.

Peppermint tea.

A delectable.

Something from before.

A treat Dazai was only given on days when it was extra good, when it, when sensei when—

It covers its mouth, as if it’s about to vomit again.

“Here—” Oda acts fast, bringing over a plastic bag. He had it on-hand, almost as if he knew exactly what was about to happen—

“I’m an ability user too,” Oda says as Dazai hacks up nothing, dry-heaving painfully. “I can see a few seconds into the future.”

At that, Dazai pauses.

It looks up, eyes shaky and sad.

“I ruined…” it says, trailing off.

“You didn’t ruin anything—” Oda attempts to reassure, only to be cut off as Dazai begins to whine.

“I ruined it. I ruined I—I—I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

It’s more words than Oda’s heard from it since the first encounter.

“What did you ruin?” Oda asks gently.

“Everything! I ruin everything!”

It’s wailing, shivering and sad and—

“Can I hug you, Dazai?”

A choice.

It doesn’t

it hasn’t

it’s not used to

choice. It’s not used to that. To choosing. It gets a choice.

It gets.

It gets to choose and it wants

Dazai wants

It weeps.

“I want…Odasaku…”

Oda wraps Dazai into a big, warm hug.

Dazai has been hugged by very few people.

There were the people from before and sensei. That was all. This, to be hugged by Oda—

It melts.

It nuzzles into the embrace, crying and hissing and shrieking in every shade of pain and pleasure all because of the touch. His touch.

The touch that sears and screeches and hurts but also feels so incredibly soothing.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

They stay like that for an undefinable amount of time. If it could, it would stay that way forever.

It stirs, eventually, itching to speak.

Oda senses the restless energy.

“My fault,” it replies, “you asked if I have an ability. I do.”

Oda is continuously amazed that Dazai can speak in full sentences. After a month of no more than three words at a time, it’s intriguing.

“Nullification,” Dazai continues, “I nullified your ability. I’m sorry.”

That explains the empty frigid that swaddled his lungs the minute he picked it up. The minute he touched Dazai, everything went gray.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Oda responded, “I anticipate you can’t control it? Your ability?”

It shakes its head.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, then.”

It’s not used to this. To this much kindness. To tenderness and sweet touches and something that Dazai hopes might be love—

Dazai clings tight to Oda. Oda lets it. Oda holds the sick, shivering thing tight in a ball.

It’s dressed in real clothes for the first time in years. One of Oda’s soft baby blue sweaters and a pair of sweatpants.

It’s practically swimming in them, but it loves how it feels. To feel Oda’s scent wrapped around, to feel safe in Oda’s hold, to be swaddled in and by everything that is Odasaku.

It adores Odasaku.

It hunches over itself, still not quite used to having the room to spread its limbs.

“Hey, I have a question for you,” the man asks, a gentle timbre. Dazai hums in acknowledgement.

“What are your pronouns?”

Dazai frowns.

“Like, what do you want to be called? He/him? They/them? She/her? A mix?”

“It.”

“I can call you that if you’d like,” Oda replies, “but is that what you want to be called?”

It’s struck with another one of those choices Oda’s so fond of gifting them.

It shakes, confused.

“What about he/they?” Oda suggests, “Just to start. So you can get a feeling of what you might like. Then if you change your mind, I can call you whatever else you like?”

Dazai is thinking and he

they

he thinks

they think

he thinks they might be in love with Odasaku.

--

Oda doesn’t live at the safehouse with Dazai, but spends as much time as he can physically muster with the younger one. He knows leaving them alone isn’t the safest idea, but with five kids it can’t be helped.

Dazai understands but is appreciative of the time they do have together, as he’s relatively frightened of being left alone. They know sensei is going to come for them and it’s only a matter of time before he/they becomes it again.

But for now, they bask in Oda’s care. In lilac scented baths, soft clothing, and small portions of tasty food.

They let himself eat even though it feels wrong—only because Oda tells them it’s good. That when Dazai eats, Oda is happy.

It wasn’t easy. Dazai still threw temper tantrums and threw up more meals than Oda could count. But it was progress. It was better than before.

They spent five weeks in that safehouse.

Five weeks of rehabilitation and games and giggles and sobbing screaming nightmares and trust issues and paranoia and

for the first time in probably ever, Dazai felt safe.

--

Their routine goes like this:

Oda attempts to feed them breakfast

they have a breakdown

they eat breakfast.

Oda goes out.

Dazai reads or writes.

Dazai panics and hurts himself.

Oda comes back.

Oda patches him up.

They cuddle.

Oda attempts to feed them dinner

they have another breakdown.

They cuddle.

Oda leaves.

Dazai plans.

They plan a lot of things.

That’s what they did for sensei, after all. Draft mafia plans, one after another. They drafted trafficking routes, trading strategies, internal moves—sensei made sure his talents were not wasted.

So as Oda lies asleep in his own home, Dazai strategizes.

He thinks of all the ways sensei might track them down. All the opportunities for Oda to get hurt along the way.

Oda doesn’t know any of this. He doesn’t know about the days and nights Dazai spends wracking their brain to keep the other safe.

The plans never come into fruition, which means sensei’s crafting something bigger. Something more significant, which Dazai cannot comprehend.

He snuggles with Oda, their skinny little body draped in another soft sweater and joggers.

He cuddles and cherishes and has a deep, sickening feeling, that this will all be over soon.

That something will happen.

That—

--

Oda takes care of children.

This was an oversight.

Dazai will never forgive himself.

--

There’s a loud bang and suddenly, he’s running.

They bolt as fast as scrawny legs can take them, until they cannot run anymore. Until they look back and see a van parked outside their safehouse, engulfed in flames. Until the screams die down, perhaps from the distance or maybe from the crackle of combustion. Until it sees Odasaku shooting and being shot at and—

he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s

Dazai runs until he reaches an alleyway, where he collapses.

  He doesn’t know how much time passes when he hears the voices.

“What is it?”

“I think you mean, who?”

“Wait, that’s a—”

Chapter Text

VII – Mori

scream

She wasn’t going to panic.

It was fine. Everything was fine. He’d just be under her desk again, like before.

…

Not there.

Great.

Under the bed?

…

In the bathroom? In another room at the ADA? Literally anywhere in the building?

Fuck.

She wasn’t about to panic.

…

Okay, maybe she was panicking a little bit.

“Atsushi,” she approached the younger, tone rushed with urgency, “when did you last see Dazai?”

Atsushi considered, tilting his head to the side.

“Last night—right after you brought him dinner. Why?”

“Fuck.”

“Uh sensei, what’s going on?”

Yosano bit her cheek. The pain helped clear her head.

“Dazai’s missing.”

“He’s w-what!? Are you sure he’s not just like in the bathroom or in a corner somewhere?”

She shook her head, anxiety welling up in the pit of her stomach, “I’ve checked all over the sick wing, so unless they’re hiding anywhere else in the building, which I significantly doubt, then they’ve run off somewhere.”

“By somewhere do you mean…”

A mutual understanding swept the air.

“I think…” she sucked in a harsh breath, “I think he’s trying to find his sensei.”

--

He doesn’t know where he is, just that they’re incredibly cold.

Rain pelts at thin bodies, too weak for weather so severe. They trudge through taking one step at a time, each leading closer to someplace that

that might

that maybe

maybe is called

could be

Is this home? Is that where they’re going?

It’s frigid. They hold back a shiver, regretting leaving the sick wing with only Ranpo’s sweats.

He continues.

It feels as though hours have passed. Days. Maybe they have. Maybe it’s been lifetimes, or no time at all. He can’t decipher.

His photographic memory says they’re getting closer, even if they don’t—

They follow the memories.

Memories of

when

and he—

when when he—

fuck

fuck

he misses Oda. He misses his Odasaku. He misses the only person in the universe to show him true kindness—

Atsushi’s face comes to mind. Then Yosano.

What about them? his thoughts seem to ask, to prod invasively to

They are kind. Oda would like them if

But he’s not. And whether or not he’d like them doesn’t really matter. Their kindness doesn’t matter.

Not when Dazai’s running away like this.

They’re dizzy. It’s been hours since they last ate and their body is less accustomed to starvation these days. The hunger gnaws on their insides. He wants to die.

The efforts feel fruitless and really, death does look quite pretty. Appealing to just lay down in the road and get hit by a car, or simply fade into nothingness.

Maybe Dazai will die today.

He considers this though, as a picture of him shines bright, a spotlight in his head. A picture of—

He can’t die yet. Later. After they’ve gone home.

They need to be loved.

They need to die loved.

--

The Agency sends out members two at a time to scope Yokohama for a hunched figure shrouded in death. Yosano clicks her nails together nervously as Atsushi returns, soaking wet with a grave quality to heterochromatic eyes.

“I’m going back out,” he announces after grabbing a quick snack.

“You should take a break—” Yosano protests. Still, she knows all too well they don’t have time for that. Atsushi echoes this thought.

“There’s no time, Yosano-sensei,” he takes a sip of water, “Dazai could be dead for all we know. Do we at least have an idea of where he’s going?”

Yosano bites her lip, “Yes. But I don’t. I don’t know exactly where it’s located but—” she pauses with a shiver, “I suppose we can get him to help us out.”

“Ranpo-san?”

A nod.

“What are we waiting for?” Atsushi calls, leaping up with renewed determination.

“I just—” Yosano hesitates, “I didn’t want to pry. I wanted Dazai to tell us about his life on his own terms. That’s why I haven’t…” she trails off. Atsushi looked down at his hands, eyes knitted in concentration.

“I get that,” is his honest reply, “I don’t like the idea of infringing on their privacy either. I just—I don’t want Dazai-san to die because we didn’t do enough to save him.”

Yosano nods, “You’re right. We have to find him, no matter what.”

Moments later, Ranpo joins them in Yosano’s office. His glasses are on alongside a perplexed expression.

“Are you sure you want me to use Ultra Deduction?”

Atsushi and Yosano nod in unison, desperation mounting the air.

“Alright then,” Ranpo closes his eyes, pushing the glasses up further on the bridge of his nose.

It’s quick and painless and Yosano almost feels wrong for how easy it is to betray Dazai’s trust.

Even though she’s basically known this entire time.

She knew the minute they learned the Port Mafia was involved.                     

“His sensei is the boss of the Port Mafia.”

It’s no new information. Still, it stings.

“He’s left to find Mori Ōgai.”

“Where is that?” Atsushi asks.

“Mori’s office and residence is the penthouse suite of their headquarters,” he rattles off an address, “but Dazai didn’t live there. He was kept outside in a cage.”

That was a terrifying thought.

“He’s headed to the cage. It’s behind the headquarters, through a long and narrow passageway.”

“I hate this,” Yosano’s fists are clenched, her TMJ aching with tension.

“It doesn’t matter how any of us feel about this,” Ranpo responds, uncharacteristically serious, “Dazai needs us right now. I don’t need Ultra Deduction to know what will happen if we don’t get there soon.”

--

Dazai has no concept of time. It’s hard to tell anyways, with stormy skies and spotted vision. They continue to push forward.

Eventually, he stops short upon reaching a familiar, narrow pathway. Their heart is pounding.

This is it.

This is it.

They slip through easily, navigating the nooks and crannies of the alleyway. It’s flooded just a bit and they’re panting by the end of it. Even with the exercises Yosano’s prescribed him, they’re not used to this much movement and feeble limbs burn with exertion.

He trips forward, stumbling until he reaches—

It’s both smaller and larger than when he last left it.

The bars are still rusty but the new padlock is larger, stronger.

Dazai wonders if that’s for him. If he, rather it is the intended occupant.

Their heart lurches, a visceral ignition in response to the intimate inferno that is his home.

Was? Is. Is.

It’s theirs. It must be. It has to be.

Unless there’s—

Maybe—

There could be—

It shakes its head violently. No. There can’t be anyone else. This is Dazai’s cage.

This is its home.

It touches the cage, shivering immediately at the contact. It feels—

Everything feels—

it’s

the cage

it

it

it

It recoils. Flinches as though it’s been struck, the memories pounding in its head as metal and flesh meet.

Being here, something is stirred inside. It’s this familiarity, this reminiscence, it throws them—it into a panicked frenzy, its heart thundering, threatening to beat out of its chest.

It has to find sensei.

It retreats from the cage, looks at the massive obstruction that is the Port Mafia headquarters, and swallows. It steps towards the door.

--

Kunikida’s the first to catch sight of him. There’s silhouette, a dark figure that wades through the rain and wind, squeezing through an incredibly narrow pathway. Kunikida knows even the smaller members of the Agency would have trouble fitting in that space so he looks for an alternative entrance. He’s in touch with Yosano, Atsushi, and Ranpo in an instant.

“I think I’ve found him.”

--

The stairs are endless and it wishes it could take the elevator, the way sensei let it.

Sensei was kind like that.

Still. It can’t risk getting caught. That’s why it takes the back entrance, crawling up one stair at a time, cursing its weak form all the while. It struggles, fighting to make it past the first flight alone. By the third flight, its vision is dotted black.

Only seventeen flights to go.

--

Atsushi meets up with Kunikida as the two find another, less cumbersome passageway that leads the direction Dazai was headed. They wade through mud and litter, trash that covers the alleyway until they get to—

They see it.

A cage.

Rusted and creaky, far too small for any human being, nonetheless someone nearing six foot. Atsushi gapes, barely able to process the fact that Dazai, his Dazai, lived in this thing for four years. His heart reels, mind staggering to grasp the facts before him.

“We have to get inside,” Kunikida’s voice is stern, dragging him out of his reverie.

“Right. Ranpo said Mori’s on the top floor of the building. How are we getting there?”

“The fire stairs,” Kunikida leads the way, bringing them to the back entrance. The rain trickles and trembles as the two bolt through the door.

--

Its inability to traverse the stairs proves to be a blessing and a curse. Dazai leans over on all fours at the top of the fifth set of stairs. It gasps for air, unable to ignore the jittery twitches of skinny limbs, flinching from the worst kind of nervous excitement.

“Dazai!”

The sound of its name catches it off-guard. Instinct kicks in as it huddles into a ball, slamming its hands over its ears and rocking back and forth.

Atsushi and Kunikida approach cautiously.

“You’re okay, Dazai,” Kunikida speaks as gently as his gruff tone will allow. Atsushi inches closer.

“We’re really glad you’re safe. We just—”

Dazai winces, its body spasming as the two men near.

“Go away!” It hisses, no more than a whisper.

“Dazai-san—” Atsushi calls out. Dazai begins to hit its head. “Stop, you’ll hurt yourself!” Atsushi comes next to it, placing his hands on its skinny wrists to pull them away. Dazai thrashes more.

“We’ll bring you back to the Agency,” Kunikida says, “you’ll be safe there.”

Dazai shakes its head, flailing in Atsushi’s hold.

“NO! I need—I need to—”

“What?” Atsushi holds it tight against his chest. Strangely, it seems to be calming it down rather than riling it up.

“I need…I need to talk to him.”

“Who? Mori?”

A nod.

“It’s not safe for you to be here,” Kunikida asserts.

Dazai shakes its head fervently, “You don’t get it.”

“Dazai—”

“You don’t! You don’t get it! You don’t!”

“You’re right,” Atsushi replies, turning Dazai around to face him head-on, “we don’t get it. What you’ve been through—I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. I understand that cage outside was your home, but it doesn’t have to be anymore. You have friends who love and care about you, friends who don’t want any harm to come your way, whether or not you think you deserve it. Please just—” heterochromatic glimmered, gleaned with hope, “come home.”

Dazai shook, its entire body tremoring.

“Can’t.”

Stressful silence spread.

“Why not?” Atsushi prompted.

“I need…” it—he stuttered before stumbling forward, clinging to Atsushi’s small build. He shoved their head in the crook of the younger one’s neck as they begged, “I need to see him. There’s something I need—I need to do.”

--

No one likes this plan.

No one aside from Dazai.

Still, they agreed.

“Closure,” is what Dazai called it.

That’s why the trio climbed fifteen more flights of stairs, Dazai perched on Atsushi’s shoulders for the duration of the excursion. The walk was long, anxious and tiresome. By the time they reached the top, everyone was exhausted.

“Alright,” Atsushi whispered, placing Dazai down gently, “Kunikida will stand guard at the back door while we head into the quarters. I’ll tail Dazai from a safe distance as he meets with Mori. You’ll have your conversation,” he gestured to Dazai, who was fidgeting with a drenched hoodie sleeve, “you’ll have ten minutes before I come and get you. If I hear anything suspicious, I’ll come sooner. Okay?”

The plan commenced.

Dazai knew his way around the top-level of the Port Mafia headquarters like the back of his hand. It was easy enough to make his way to the boss’s office.

The Mahogony doors stood their ground, intimidatingly colossal in size.

There was no need to knock.

The inside of the room was exactly as he remembered. Plush red carpet, floor to ceiling windows, luxurious furniture, the stench of tobacco and tea. Their body jerked, assaulted by familiarity.

The room was empty.

He walked. Nervousness leered, looming over him like the cumulonimbus of outside’s fever.

Walked past the unused fireplace and desk full of scattered papers. Past the chairs, tables—all of which he’d been fuc—

He walked by one vile memory after another.

The walk twenty feet across the room felt like hundreds before there was a sign of life.

Sounds of a person. Sounds of sensei. Of—

No.

No.

That couldn’t be what he heard.

There was no way—

that couldn’t—

no.

No.

No.

They ran, bursting into the doctor’s private chambers where—

Sensei was not alone.

There was someone

someone else

another

a

a

no

No.

No.

There was a child—

No. No no no no no no.

A child that wasn’t Dazai.

NO.

A child that was

smaller

and prettier

and everything Dazai, an 18-year-old human, could no longer be.

A child that wasn’t an ex-Pet.

Bile crept up in the back of their throat at the sight. Is this what he looked like? So small and supple, bruised and battered?

Sensei finished.

“It appears we have an interruption to deal with.”

With the snap of his fingers, a guard appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He bent down, taking the small, naked child away.

“If it isn’t my beloved Pet. Or,” sensei paused, standing up straight. His presence was commanding, tall and powerful despite being completely bare of clothing. “Oh, no that’s inaccurate of me. You don’t deserve that title anymore. Perhaps I’ll call you my precious Osamu-kun? That’s how that little friend of yours addressed you, right Osamu dear?”

Dazai cringed, the name he adored feeling sullied off of sensei’s tongue.

“How can I help you, love?”

Frozen and unable to speak. Terrified and—

“I…”

They couldn’t talk.

“You must be awfully uncomfortable in those clothes,” sensei addressed their soaking attire. “Come Osamu, let’s take those off.”

Sensei stretched forward, reaching a hand to remove the drenched sweater. Dazai recoiled, hissing at the motion.

“Come now,” the man pouted, “I’m just doing you a favor.” Sensei’s face warped, a salacious, malicious thing of a grin strained across cheek to cheek. “You see,” he snarled, “you’ve gotten a little too…big for my tastes.”

They think back to the sight of the child. The small, little thing, a state of being to which Dazai could never return.

“The mere concept of me even touching you is more than you deserve. Especially after you abandoned me.”

Insecurities tumbled forth, face crumpling with the harsh reality painted by silver tongues.

“You’re a disgusting thing. The fact that I’m talking to you right now is more than a traitorous whore deserves.”

It’s shaking.

When did it start shaking?

When did it—he?—start—

it's dark it’s dark it’s dark it hurts everything hurts

it hurts

it hurts it hurts it

“But, since I’m feeling generous today, I’ll give you a taste of what you’re looking for,” he paused, mirth seeping into wine eyes, “for old time’s sake.”

It couldn’t breathe.

“What do you say?”

It can’t breathe.

“Nothing?”

It’s dying, they’re dying everything is incinerating and their world is nothing but flame and shamble—

“What a pity. If you’re uninterested, you are dismissed. I have no need for you.”

It wants to die.

“I’ve found someone else.”

It needs to die.

“You’ve been replaced.”

no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no—

the world spun, chaos ensuing impoverished souls and ravished hearts,

they wanted to die, needed to die, needed to—

“Oh dear. What a pitiful thing you are.”

There were hands.

There were

“I suppose I do have a few extra minutes.”

there were hands and they

they peeled the

the clothing. The clothing came off it came off piece by piece and

he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t see couldn’t

but it could feel

it was naked someone was on top of it

he couldn’t breathe

there was pressure

touch touch touch touch touch

he can’t breathe he can’t breathe it

“Get off of him!”

It’s ripped away it hurts it hurts it hurts it wants it back it wants it back it needs it back

Without this touch, it is nothing.

It is nothing it is nothing it is

The bodies are pried away

Dazai is stumbling,

tripping over himself

landing on the floor.

What’s going on?

They’re naked and cold and scared and

“I know I can’t kill you right now,” Atsushi growls, a sound more feral than Dazai’s ever encountered, “but if you ever touch Dazai-san again, I will murder you.”

Sensei—

Mori—

He laughs. There is no sign of pain despite bloody gashes painting his torso courtesy of tiger claws. No sign of—

Sensei’s bleeding.

Sensei’s hurt which means—

Dazai lunges. He tackles Atsushi to the ground, scratching and biting despite his own nakedness, despite kinship despite—

He is weak. So very tired and so very weak and scared.

Dazai is petrified.

Still, he attacks.

Atsushi pulls him off, it’s all too easy to ignore the stinging of bite marks forming on his neck.

“Dazai-san! Calm down, it’s just me! You’re okay—”

They howl, panic rising.

“Enough with the theatrics, Osamu-kun,” this man that is sensei is Mori is Dazai’s everything—he speaks so carelessly, clawing at the plastic remains of cremated hearts. “As I said earlier, this was nothing more than me doing you a favor, Osamu-kun. I have no use for you. You are dismissed.”

“No…” Dazai stands up, amber eyes trembling and wide, “no I’m—you—you own me I’m yours I’m—”

“You’re not, Dazai-san!” Atsushi retaliates.

Sensei—Mori—this stranger in front of them laughs heartily with giddy glee, “The boy’s right. You’re not my plaything anymore. I have newer, prettier toys to play with.”

“No.”

“Dazai!” Atsushi snapped, “We have to leave!”

“NO!” They screamed over and over again, a scratchy, fractured record.

He shouted, crying and wailing and shrieking and

again there were hands and he was being touched and

he was being touched.

He was being touched which is what he wanted but the hands were young they weren’t—they didn’t belong to him to sensei to Mori to the one person Dazai needed, craved—

Mori was oxygen.

Mori was water.

Mori was life itself, was all that mattered was—

Dazai lunged. Mori stumbled back at the attack, seemingly caught off-guard.

“NO!” Dazai shrieked, pounding his fists on Mori’s bare torso, “No no no no no no!” Mori sighed, irritation swelling at the commotion. Atsushi ran to them, yanking Dazai off with all his might. He lifted them into the air, ignoring the kicks and screams of a child ripped from their mother.

Mori stood, dusting himself off, “Goodbye now.”

He turned around, and left.

--

The Agency was quiet when he awoke.

“Dazai!” Yosano gasped, “How are you feeling?”

They sat up, looking over dizzily, disoriented.

“Atsushi-kun and Kunikida-san brought you here,” she supplied, filling him in. Something felt off.

Something was—

The memories of the night prior infiltrated, collapsing inwards.

There was

there was a man and he was

he was touching and he

and unwantedness

he was unwanted

Dazai was unwanted

He’d been replaced. Replaced with someone smaller and cuter and prettier and—

“Dazai?”

They trembled.

“You’re okay, sweetheart,” she cooed, “you’ll be okay.”

Dazai crumbled. They fell into Yosano’s chest and comforting arms. She held him tight, stroking their matted hair and rubbing his quivering back.

“You’ll be alright, Dazai. Everything will be alright.”

Dazai screamed.