Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chuuya swore Fyodor was smiling when he died.

Smoke billowing in crashing waves, dark smoldering ash, and bright blistering orange flames licking at the sides as the helicopter exploded into the side of the building.

Surely that must be a painful way to go, he thinks grimly.

Still, in the moments before destruction, he could see a pale drawn face contorted into a grin – a mouthful of malice and blood.

He’d like to say he imagined it but it’s hard not to see Dazai mirroring that same smile. More of a bitter sneer, hints of satisfaction gripped between his teeth, a taunting laugh tucked in the corner of his lips,

The only difference was tired envy swollen in his eyes.

He moves closer to Dazai, catching a glimpse of a mangled eyeball, chewed up and spit onto the dirty ground, thin vein trailing behind in. He’s careful to step over that – these are his favorite shoes after all.

Together, they silently watch Golgo’s mourning rite, knees sinking into the rubble, cradling the grotesque dismembered arm in his hands as if it were a precious gift from God. His eyes look up towards the swirls of clouds and curling plumes of ash. His whole body sags under the heaviness of his own grief, though there’s a glittering light of tenderness in the way he holds the arm in his grasp.

It’s as if the gentleness he grants could erase all the scars of pain they gouged into each other.

(In another world, a far distant one where the agency failed and Dazai lost this game all alone – he wonders if that would be him buried in heartache right now. Pride stripped from him, flooded with an agony, only time might ease.

Perhaps in that world, Chuuya would have been finally allowed to love Dazai. Adoration for a corpse that no longer held the ability to be cruel and violent.  A dead body enshrined only by memories of arcade games and highball whiskey, tins of crab and sake on weekdays.

He gets it, in some way: it’s easier to love something that can never love you back, to regret the unspoken possibility rather than the crushing blow of having it fail.

In this world, one where they met as broken children and parted ways as bitter adults, an uneasy exile watered with drunken sorrow and fed by burning hate –  Chuuya knew he couldn’t let himself fall in love with Dazai.)

Dazai brushes past him after a minute, the sneer replaced by a hollow look of consideration.

“What no witty commentary,” He scoffs, hiding some degree of amazement in his voice. A million years ago, Dazai wouldn’t have hesitated in doling out spite. A bullying inflicted to conceal that fact he can’t feel something as human as mourning, he couldn’t even care enough to try. Of course that was before –

“No,” he replies suddenly, “I’ll leave this one be.” He swings around, heading for the door. “I’ve got the antidote, too. Let’s get out of here.”

Chuuya blinks, his musings fading as a more pressing thought reaches him.

For all the planning and effort – they didn’t have an extraction plan.

They’re in bumfuck France; the tower is still on fire. And they don’t have a way out.

Faintly, Chuuya hopes it’s just one of those times shitty Dazai can’t be bothered to tell him the plan. Another, trust me and find out, and won’t be until they’ve caused 5 blunders that were actually 7 calculated steps in the long game – will Chuuya actually see the desired result.

But something’s wrong. Dread swirls in his gut because Dazai is a little too calm, a little too at ease.

He tried to quiet his nerves because of course there’s no rush to leave, they won. Whatever battles ensuing in Yokohama, although it’s at least in its final stage of victory, takes priority to dragging their sorry asses home.

Still, the rage and power, sometimes even the omnipotence of the Arahabaki flicks acid in his veins and rattles his bones.

The visceral sense of wrong rakes down his spine like claws, but as always, he can’t quite figure out why.

Instead, he watches Dazai swing the case at his side, practically skipping like a child toddling off to school.

“C’mon Chuuya,” He coos, back still turned. The sickly-sweet cheer in his voice does nothing to soothe the prickling at his skin, “We just need to get Sigma and we’ll be on our way.”

“Hold on a danm minute,” He snaps, almost trying to stall for time. This feeling prods at him like an itch he can’t scratch, he’s never once has he been able to figure out the endgame Dazai sets until the man himself lets him, “Fucking useless waste of bandage.” He mutters, slowly shuffling his feet to catch up.

Dazai pivots on his good leg, looking drunk with glee as his eyes crinkle into happy little half-moons and his cheeks dimple with a smile.

“Aw is someone’s little legs too slow?”

It’s a macabre and eerie thing - seeing someone so happy whilst dragging a broken leg and blood still sluggishly seeping out a gunshot wound.

It’s like Dazai has squeezed his mangled soul back into the shell of the ruthless Port Mafia executive Chuuya was so hatefully acquainted with.

(A gangly bandaged teen drowning in violence and a black coat smiling as he strolled past the broken bloody corpses they both put there.

It didn’t make Chuuya sorry pe se – the knowledge that he’s stolen a life.

The streets taught him hunger and rage, taught him that you are born alone and die the same.

The people he killed were never innocent ones, albeit Dazai never afforded the same kindness to civilians.

Still seared in his mind, is the manic fascination Dazai got from killing. Sparing no mercy, no life really. From a deserving sinner to an innocent caught in the crossfire, a true nihilist who felt that there was no real value in either life.

Too many times Chuuya saw Dazai empty a clip with some kinda of sickening fascination, like he was chasing something else. Killing someone else maybe.

It was probably some of the only times Chuuya ever saw through the many facades of his partner; peeling it back to reveal all the ugliness of self-hatred rooted deep inside of the man he almost loved.

It was then and there, within the first few days of knowing him, of being almost in love – he knew, that he could never love someone like that, no matter how he thought he felt.)

But now looking at Dazai again, nearly 8 years and a car bomb later, he thinks maybe he was wrong.

He had thought Dazai’s violence was irredeemable; there would never be a way to fill that sucking putrid void of loneliness inside – the phrase was true.

The biggest misfortune for Dazai’s enemies is that they are Dazai’s enemies. If there was anyone who hated Dazai most, it was the man himself.

And most heinous crimes, the bloodiest of cruelty were always cast inwards.

Suicide is still a sin after all.

And with that ugly, uncanny smile scribbled onto his face, Chuuya can still see even the light couldn’t fully make it disappear.

But in the 2 years since reuniting, he could see the bleak hole had dimmed to just a cast shadow instead. Dark corners hiding scars and secrets, but he looked happier, even if it was an act expected by the blissfully ignorant coworkers he genuinely cared for.

As Dazai stands, head cocked in blank confusion, still waiting for Chuuya to catch up, he could see he was still bathed in loathing and desperation.

But the appeal of cruelty and tournament was gone from his eyes. He hasn’t disturbed Nikolai’s mourning – though that fucker has since portal-ed himself, and Fyodor’s arm, somewhere.

The agency made him better, as much as Chuuya would hate to admit it.

Mori happily indulged his desire to be submerged in death, but the others demanded better. They wanted his mind to solve puzzles and crimes, make foolproof plans that could save everyone.

Mori just wanted a toy, a plaything that rivals his own loneliness and could be sculpted into a weapon for the city.

He thinks of the meeting, just hours before he hopped a flight here. Mori’s oh so sly remark about the special favor he’d cleverly acquired.

For better or worse, Dazai was needed back alive.

“Dazai,”  He says again, thinking about his own mission at hand instead of whatever plan Dazai wasn’t sharing, “You haven’t taken the antidote yet.”

The brunette cocks his head, eyes childish wide and so painfully empty, “Oh yeah I guess so.” He shrugs, “I don’t really feel the poison though, maybe it was a dud.”

Chuuya grimaces, not at all reassured, “Yeah so just take it anyways.”

“Aw is little Chu-chu worried about me?”

“Just take the stupid medicine.”                                     

Dazai laughs, a tinkling sound –  familiar in all the worst ways, before swinging back around and marching on.

It was that same dry and broken laugh he had the day he left the Port Mafia – bandages worn like a suit of armor and second skin; ebony coat strangely absent as it had been for the past week.

The sound echoing down the darkened halls after Chuuya begrudgingly asked if he’d see the younger in the morning. No quick dog joke, no pointless jab at his height. Just a pipe bomb in his car and 4 long years of silence.

It makes something foul and acidic rise up in Chuuya’s chest because there’s just one more piece of the puzzle that Dazai doesn’t know, something he couldn’t possibly have guessed, and yet –

Chuuya rips the case from Dazai’s unassuming and lax grip.  His heart beats faster to catch up to his own recklessness, as he dispenses the dose into the syringe and blocks the doorways.

They’re at a stalemate somehow. 

Too many chess pieces had been out of Dazai’s reach. He had exiled himself to Meursault, knocked King Fyodor clean off the board but every bishop and rook was never on the playing field.

If the nauseous panic wasn't osculating like tide waves in his chest, inevitable for a tsunami – Chuuya might be impressed. That smug idiot won with just pawns alone but between his shot shoulder and broken leg, he’s knocked down enough for Chuuya to get an upper hand.

“Take the anecdote Dazai.” He says flatly, “No more games.”

Dazai only blinks owlishly, the cracks in his façade becoming more present. The impatience and displeasure from disobedience began to seep into his smile.

“It could actually be the poison Chuuya,” Dazai chides coolly, “A clever trick to kill us both – a threat to his free – “

Chuuya lunges at him with the needle before he can talk himself out of it.

He misses, of course.

Dazai is quick to redirect his arm, the glass syringe goes flying out of his hand, almost shattering on the ground before Chuuya elbows Dazai in his gunshot wound to let go. The antidote is mere inches from the ground before being caught in a red glow and safely returned to Chuuya’s gloved hand.

Dazai swallows back the jolt of pain, reaching out to grab Chuuya again but he’s already floating above,

For the sake of pretend, the sake of the lies upon lies that make the crumbling foundation of their friendship, Chuuya slouches from above seemingly uncaring, “Nice try Mackerel, still slow as ever.”

Dazai moans dramatically, “I’m hurt Chibi, cut me some slack.”

And he looks tired. Not in the usual way of course. If there’s one of many paradoxes Chuuya’s learned about Dazai, it is that body language will usually tell you the opposite.

Shooting him in the shoulder made him howl in pain, but that was more likely an act. Another puzzle piece slotting into place to lull Fyodor into a false sense of victory.

Sure, it did hurt, but he also knew Dazai could withstand that pain tenfold and manage a cool blank expression.

And Dazai may look mildly amused now – arms crossed; weight casually leaned on his good leg as he raises an amused eyebrow at Chuuya’s floating form – but he’s starting to get pissed.

“I get it now,” Dazai drawls on, “Little Chibi just wanted to be taller than me. How does it feel living like the other 99% of the world?”

“Cut it out bastard,” Chuuya calls back, his voice growing a tone of pleading, worry blooming out.

Because despite all his efforts to appear normal, Chuuya can see past it. The clarity in his eyes seems more like the translucency of a ghost than bright consciousness, and he can’t hide the drooping bags sagging underneath them.

There are things that not even a mastermind like Dazai can control. 

And he’s seen Dazai work 5 days straight with nothing but Mori’s pills and sugary sweet coffee for fuel, seen him make masterful plans as he barely escapes gunfire, silver-tongue remarks peppered in as he thinks of it all on the fly.

Meanwhile, this was a simple orchestration, not some twisting, convoluted plan. A fake set of vampire teeth and a few phone calls to a friend, and yet –

“Chuuya get down, we need to go get Sigma.” He teases, “I’ll give you a little treat if you do. C’mon~ who’s a good Chuuya.”

“Dazai,” He floats closer, almost pulled by some unknown force, some dreadful concern willing him to get closer so he can see through his act.

Because there’s still something the other isn’t saying, another trapdoor hidden in plain sight – Chuuya burns with fury because what is he not getting, “Dazai, you need to take this. You have maybe 10 minutes left.”

And it’s not like Chuuya can’t see the wheels turning in Dazai’s head – the thoughts weighings out each option, precise calculations being methodically done inside his head, planning his next move.

It hits him suddenly – there was no extraction plan.

“Hmm,” Dazai chuckles darkly, that blanket of faux cheer finally shaken off, “I see the mutt finally worked it out.”

He stretches, joints popping and bones grinding before he allows himself the comfort of no longer pretending not to ache.

The sudden hunch in his posture read more like a weary resign than pain as his eyes turn cloudy and devoid, and his face drained of a rosy amused blush to reveal a sallow paleness under the dirt smudges on his skin.

Like some hauntingly beautiful, terrible eldritch creature, he sloughs off that jovial mask to reveal just a fistful of exhausted pain shoved inside a human being.

He looks ready to lay down and die.

And distantly, Chuuya realizes that’s exactly what he plans to do.

Dazai blinks up at him, lazy and slow – so terribly bored of this whole thing. Meanwhile, Chuuya who has always been excruciatingly human, never one to do anything but wear his heart on his sleeve, his storm grey eyes can’t hide the wretched strikes of lightening in them as every realization brings frightening clarity.

“Oh, don’t look so horrified Chu.”  Dazai complains with an eye roll, the sharpness in his tone vaguely reminds him of a kid barking orders at grunt twice his age, “Don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming?”

Chuuya’s cheeks flush at the insult but the memory of all those painfully real suicide attempts floods him with a dread that overrides all sense of pride.  The flashes of pure desperation as Dazai, just some mess of a child, would heave himself into the icy port waters over and over, any chance he could. The way his arms would be wrapped twice as thick, with just a hint of red and pink bleeding through most days.

He calls him ‘Mackerel’, but it wasn’t just some rabid insult to loosen the pressurized hate Chuuya felt.

It unnerved him to see a person so fucking dead inside, just a walking corpse not yet rotting. A fish begging to be caught and speared just to escape polluted water.

And sure, there were joke attempts and half-hearted threats but like everything else, it was just a ruse to trick everyone into whatever mindset Dazai wanted. Perhaps just for the fun of it, no compassion involved, he wanted them to roll their eyes, wanted them desensitized just enough to think he was kidding.

And then he would hang himself in the first room he could find.

Chuuya had forgotten how terrified he was as a teen. The way his heart would suddenly leap into his throat when Dazai wasn’t in eyesight.  His insides twisted painfully as he tried to pick out the truth from whatever lies Dazai would spoon-feed him that day.

(Sometimes he was right, sometimes he was wrong.

And sometimes, with hands still pink and chafed with blood that wasn’t his, he’d fall into Ane-san’s arms because he just wasn’t smart enough to see that his partner was writhing in a pain so bad he’d rather die than live with it.)

Only this time, there’s a countdown. No time to try and decipher Dazai’s riddles and codes, not enough time to try and outsmart him.

 He could fight Dazai but that would probably take too long. He could wait for the poison to finally weaken him but then it might be too late even for the antidote to work.

Dazai seems to work out the same; wisely choosing to refrain from fighting lest his injuries put him at a disadvantage.

And somehow worse than all that – Chuuya can see Dazai still didn’t know the best move. Behind the vacant stare, there is the small flicker of his mind working at rapid speed. There’s no plan; no more manipulating – it’s just a scared animal Chuuya has backed into a corner.

Chuuya hears Mori’s silvery voice tut in his ear – 10 minutes left. We need him back alive Chuuya.

And the reality of the situation only clouds his brain with panic, he has one card to play.

“Mori made a deal with Fukuzawa,” Chuuya says in a rush, his heart beating too fast and his breath coming out with harsh gulps. “We help you and Mori get to take a member of the agency.”

Dazai stretches, hands intertwined and resting behind his head, the posture, no matter how relaxed, must be hell on his shoulder. Still, his eyes were sharp and his mouth remained pinned with a smug all-knowing smile. “Yes, and?”

“Do you think Mori will be satisfied with a corpse? He’ll just take one of the others.”

Dazai’s nose twitches, eyes tighten just barely, “He doesn’t want any of them.”

“He wants the Armed Detective Agency with less power,” Chuuya says pointily, words still tripping over themselves to get out, “He wants you as executive sure, but taking one of the other members would still achieve something.”

“You can’t just force people into the Mafia,” Dazai scoffs, “We both know this. They won’t understand the long game of it – they just won’t cooperate. Mori can try and kill them for insubordination, but those kids will just come running back to the agency for protection.”

“Rampo gets it, he would cooperate,” Chuuya blusters wildly, but still the notion seems to make Dazai pause to consider but he shakes his head.

“He’s as good as Fukuzawa’s son,” Dazai counters, “Mori wants to gloat power, not antagonize the ADA.

“Shin Soukoku.” Chuuya reminds and there’s a crushing moment where Dazai’s face twitches into a snarl and his eyes harden.

 Chuuya knows he’s hit a nerve and he’s willing to twist at it till Dazai gives in. There’s no more time for kindness, no matter how much Dazai may deserve it.

When do either of them ever get what they deserve?

“Mori will break that boy, just like he broke you, just like you broke Akutagawa – ”

“Mori didn’t break me,” Dazai spits suddenly, his eyes gleaming with an unbridled fire, secrets ready to spill off his tongue as he snarls. Chuuya nearly flinches at the almost unnatural display of such caustic emotions.

There’s that lingering tension, rusty words, festering from a 5-year-old wound they never took the time to heal.

Of course, Chuuya never understood the strange, connection between them.

They could banter like old friends, plan heists like thieves before acting like lovers having a quarrel.

Dazai never once talked about what went on behind closed doors – that smug smile, a single twinkling eye as he taunted never in a million years could silly old Chuuya guess what we get up to

There was a disgusting implication that was probably just some sick joke to see Chuuya squirm yet –

Yet underneath it all, he had been right, there was something devasting about those two, something immoral and wrong about the mind games they poisoned each other with.

Just as quickly, as if realizing his slip up, he cools his expression back to a twitching annoyance, “And I went easy on Akutagawa, even if he or anyone else didn’t realize it.”

And Chuuya wants to rip up the false placation and argue back. With a sick fascination, he’s always wanted to know how deep these scars run but now, with barely 7 minutes left, he can’t afford the unpredictability of playing with fire.

He wrings his hands, fighting back at the urge to scream till this sudden nightmare is over.

It dawns on him that he knows exactly what to say.

They know each other too well these days, and Chuuya grimaces to think of how he’ll play his next turn.

 Because the words are ugly and sharp, so bitter that it’s come to this. He grits his teeth because he’s not a fucking monster after all – he knows how much this will cut Dazai to the quick.

Whereas the mention of Mori can be used like a serrated blade, unsure of its sharpness, clumsy in its execution – the haunting of Oda is a scalpel right to the heart Dazai will claim doesn’t exist.

“You think Oda would be proud of you letting that kid take the fall, letting anyone else take the fall for this?”

Chuuya’s nearly shaking by the end of his brief tirade, the sentiment and cruelty scaping his own throat raw and bloody as they’re coughed up like razor blades.

He hates being forced to cruelty, to yanking at Dazai’s emotions, manipulating his feelings just to get his way.

His hands curl into bruising fists, a faint red light just beginning to pulsate – because DazaI, for all the sorrow, is still just standing there.

And Chuuya’s always been the brawn, not the brain so he can’t fucking figure out what Dazai’s gonna do next – he’s never been able to completely and totally read that boy like a book, no one, not even Mori, ever has.

With tears just beginning to pool in his eyes, slightly stinging at his cheek, Chuuya silently pleads that just this once he got it right – that for once he’s navigated this minefield alright.

Because nothing is ever new under the sun and it’s no different than being 16 and frightened when his friend’s got that manic look in his eyes and a gun in his hand. How do you push someone away from the railing, instead of over it, when you can’t even see where the edge is?

But then he stops.

He stares at Dazai, through blurry rage, watching him finally wilt, and thinks, for just a second, maybe Dazai’s about to cry.

There’s no tremble of his crackling lip, no watery glaze pooling in his eyes, but there’s an intangible air of devastation that seems to loom over Dazai and threaten rain.

If anything, his mouth just barely parts open like a dry silent cry is being forced from the depth of his heartache.

But then he exhales with a winced stretch, standing tall and remolding his crumbling form into pure marble.

He gathers all his strength on inhale and slowly shakes his head in some reproaching scold.

“Odasuke is dead. And in 5 more minutes so will I.” He laughs brightly as if this cosmic joke isn’t so sick, “And once I’m dead, none of this will matter.” He stalks closer, looking up through twin black eyes at Chuuya, “I’ve given my pound of flesh for the agency I think; I didn’t take the deal with Mori; I didn’t agree to anything else except taking out Fyodor.”

Chuuya opens his mouth to rebuke, the words not even forming in his brain, but just a jumbling mess of pure desperation to try and convince him otherwise – but he sees a speck of black quickly hurtling towards them, the sound of a plane engine only growing louder.

He finally floats down to the ground as Dazai whips his head back to see a jet inching closer on the reddening horizon.

Dazai takes a step back, a wary but schooled expression on his face as he searches Chuuya’s also surprised one.

“Not the Mafia?”

“Not the Mafia.” Chuuya confirms, “It’s the agency, must be Ranpo’s doing.”

Dazai sags again, bones and muscles wilting with an irate frustration. Chuuya flickers a glance over before eyeing the rapidly approaching aircraft.

Truthfully, he’s not sure if they’ll get here before the poison runs its course. Chuuya swallows thickly, the tension of the situation creeping up – they both feel it.

Still, Dazai grounds his stance, stark white determination growing sore as he straightens his back – ready to fake it till he fucking kneels over.

Maybe, a lifetime ago, Chuuya would have still believed this act. Now he knows that it means Dazai’s truly anxious. Nerves pulled taunt, unable to think even two moves ahead because he’s clouded by the fear of losing control. But the best he can do is pretend he’s still holding the winning hand, even if it's bluff.

It suddenly hit Chuuya that this performance is something he’s only really seeing through because of earlier.  Dazai may have revealed his hand, hoping to stall but for all intents and purposes – the agency won’t see through it till it’s too late.

“Yosano will just bring you back dumbass,” Chuuya warns because the clock is ticking and Dazai is more determined than ever to see this suicide through till the end. He tries to soothe the ache with a thin veil of banter, “You really want those guys to see what suicidal manic really means? She’ll bring you back!”

Dazai says nothing, just stands taciturn and waiting.

“You don’t want a painful suicide,” He shouts, “Blood out your ass and ears remember?”

“I don’t want to be in the mafia.” Dazai says after a long while, the quiet admission almost drowned out by the engine purr hovering a mere 100ft away. “The plane?”

“Fuck,” Chuuya spits but dutifully steps in line with Dazai, syringe firm in hand, another outstretched, a red tendril shooting out to latch onto the plane, allowing it to softly land. “Yeah, I got it.”

,

Dazai smiles grimly as he looks up. Chuuya can see his Adam’s apple bobbing, actual tears dangerously close to falling in the corner of his eye.

“You’re right,” He says gravely, throat full of dirt all bitter and wet, “Give the dog a prize.” Chuuya opens his mouth to apologize maybe, but Dazai goes on, swallowing back the salt of sorrow-soaked tears, “You get it don’t you?”

The younger sighs, wiping his face clear of the hurt and fear that had been ebbing at his expression this whole time. It’s just a smooth mask of wiry indifference, an expression Chuuya has seen a million times – yet for the first time he’s finally realized it’s all been an act.

“He’ll wait till it’s all over, till everyone’s safe and secure. Maybe let me work a case or two.”

Kunikida steps out first. Adjusting his waistcoat, straightening his glasses.

“Then he’ll schedule a meeting, only to arrive unannounced a day or two later.”

Kenji jumps out next, giving the two a happy wave – so blissfully unaware of what’s to come.

“He’ll start the negotiation with Tanizaki. He’s got a good ability, and he’s just old enough for Fukuzawa to be almost alright with it. More so he’s got some untapped anger issues for Mori to exploit.”

Kunikida marches closer and closer, only to be beckoned back when Rampo all but falls out the side.

“His sister will cry and wail so Mori will benevolently choose Atsushi instead.” Dazai’s mouth quirks into a smile but Chuuya isn’t laughing, “For a tiger, that kid is such a good little sheep.” He quickly clears his throat and soldiers on, “So, he’ll agree out of duty, and he will do as he’s told and hate every second of it. It’ll start with little morally- grey things and snowball into more and more till his hands are as drenched as ours. Shin Soukoku, right?”

The ragtag group of 3 is finally all out and making their way over and Chuuya knows it’s now or never, but Dazai won’t shut up, and won’t stop laying out the plan. Every word makes his gut twist and all he can think is how unfair it all is.

“So, I have to volunteer instead. I’ll have to beg to go back. In front of everyone. Beg to Mori so he’ll choose me instead. And then at the meeting he scheduled – I’d be paraded around the office as Mori’s righthand man. He wanted to gloat after all.”

Dazai suddenly holds out his arm, and Chuuya raises a shaky hand to inject him. It feels selfish though; it feels wrong.

He wonders if this is how Dazai always feels whenever someone spoils one of his attempts – this hollowness, this desolation. Like there’s no point in letting him live like death truly would be a kindness.

He looks at Dazai’s eyes, but they’re trained on his friends in the distance. He looks content, he looks happy. The syringe is suddenly a heavy weight in his hand; the strange liquid gleams yellow as he flicks the air bubble out. Just bidding time really.

“Hey,” Kunikida shouts, a mere 20 ft away, eyebrow furrowed “What are you giving him.”

“Relax Kunikida,” Dazai groans jovially, “It’s probably an antidote.”

Kenji gasps looking worried, “I thought you weren't going through with that part of the plan!”

Dazai grins and shrugs, “Couldn’t be avoided. I would have died anyway if I lost.”

Kunikida sniffs, pushing up his glasses again, “Well, give him the antidote Nakahara.”

All eyes go to him and so many words suddenly fight their way up his throat. He wants to tell them everything Dazai just said but he doesn’t even know where to start.

He sees their faces shining with confusion and just the first light of mistrust as he hesitates. Then he sees Dazai’s ease turn to bracing anger, the rebuke resting ready on his tongue; he wants to be saved now, surely that’s permission?  

“I…” He stutters, “We can’t – “

Then Dazai suddenly lurches forward with a ragged cough, blood spraying out. Abandoning all thought, Chuuya quickly injects him, pulling the needle away as he goes to catch him.

Dazai goes to inhale but it is cut off by more blood choking him, ribbons of crimson streaking out his nose, slick and wet as it drips onto Chuuya’s arms.

“We need him to the Yosano.” Rampo instructs, running back to the plane as Kenji takes over carrying Dazai.

“There’s not enough time,” Chuuya shouts, the guilt already swelling in his chest because sure he didn’t want to be the catalyst for Mori’s plan, but he didn’t want Dazai dead.

Dazai can’t just be de –

“She’s in the helicopter obviously,” Rampo snaps sharply from up ahead. 

And then there’s a fury of movement as they all huddle in, and it’s crammed what with the were-tiger bandaged up in the corner and Yosano suddenly covered with Dazai’s blood as his organs hemorrhage out.

“I need his heart rate now!”

That poor boy is as pale as Dazai just watching as more blood shoots out his mentor’s nose, drenching the cannula.

“Fuck,” Yosano mutters, which does nothing to inspire confidence in the situation. “We need to go now.”

“Wait,” Chuuya says, suddenly remembering the other half of the mission, “Sigma – “

But then the scrawny kid in overalls comes barreling back, Sigma slung over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.

“He’s not awake though,” Kunikida says frantically, “Is he injured –“

“One nearly dead person at a time!” Yosano shouts over the doors hissing close and the turbines rumble, “Dazai’s heartrate now.”

And then there’s more blood coughed out and Dazai’s head lulls against Chuuya’s chest as they try to get him more upright.

“Why did you hesitate Nakahara,” Kunikida demands. He looks ready to strangle him if not for Atsushi and Kenji clinging to his sides. “How long did you guys wait? What kind of poison was it?!”

And Chuuya grits his teeth, trying not to focus on the sticky feeling of blood soaking through his coat or the way his ability is slowing but surely fighting back against Dazai’s weakening one.

He tries not to see the blood pooling in Dazai’s right eye and tries not to see the bandages becoming saturated with scarlet hues. It’s too much, too familiar –

“Nakahara!”

“I…” He starts, then swallows, Yosano thankfully rescues him from the harder question.

“What kind of poison?” She snaps, still hooking Dazai up to a million machines and wires.

“I don’t know!” He shouts, shoving the nearly empty syringe for someone to take, “Gogol said just it would kill them in a half hour. They’d bleed out or something. I don’t know for sure how long it’s been.”

“Apparently over half an hour,” She mutters, eyes transfixed on a screen, before flickering to the object warily held in Kunikida’s hands, “We can analyze that later if we still need to.”

There’s a steady warbling from the ultrasound machine as she scans Dazai’s stomach and chest. The screen is just a mess of grey and black blobs mixing together. None of it is apparently good based on Yosano’s grim expression or Kunikida’s sudden outburst.

“Why did you – “

“Enough Kunikida,” She reprimands, and everyone quails at her fury. “I can’t focus with you two at each other’s throat.  Blood pressure. Now.”

Kunikida swallows hard, his fists clenching but he dutifully reads out the stats.

In the tense lull, there’s only the faint sound of the engine and machines beeping and the feeling of Dazai’s frail chest under his hand. His gloved hand runs through greasy, long hair praying it offers a comfort as other writhes and shivers, unable to quiet the choked moans of pain.

The whole scene is far too familiar despite its absurdity.

Dazai on the brink of suicide. Chuuya covered in his blood.

As a teen, he wondered how many times till luck ran out. How many times till they were just too late, till Dazai’s poor beaten body would just give out.

Looking now at his brown eyes just hazy with poison, ghostly pale on the cusp of shock – he blandly thinks maybe this is it. That bastard finally got what he wanted.

Dazai’s left eye, the only thing not covered in blood it seems, is swimming and unfocused, his weakening muscle shivers under his papery skin.

But then his gaze finally catches on Chuuya, and he shakes his head knowingly, only able to move for a few seconds before passing out.

He doesn’t want them to know.

And something about the realization makes his blood boil and the power of Arahabaki crashes against the fragile hold of No Longer Human, threatening to break free.

“Bastard.” Chuuya mutters, voice choked with tears, “Fuck you.”

 “He’s almost tachycardic,” Yosano reports gravely, “BP is still dropping.” She takes a deep breath and then snaps off her gloves.

Kunikida and Atsushi pause their work mopping up the blood for a second and watch her anxiously instead. She takes another long breath before beginning to put out his transfusion IV.

“Hey what are you – “ Chuuya growls.

“We have to let him bleed out.” Yosano snaps venously. Only the brokenness in her eyes betrays her cool medical demeanor. “We can’t do surgery on the plane; I don’t even think surgery would help; his insides are…”  She huffs, blinking back helpless tears, before regaining her composure

“Just…” She swallows, eyes locked on Dazai’s pale form, even unconscious he looks in agony. “It’ll take some time, maybe an hour or so. It’s hard to say what the poison did and what the antidote stopped; but in the meantime, we’ll make him comfortable.”

“We’re not giving up sir!” Kenji says brightly, coming back to the cockpit with more towels, “Yosano-sensi will bring him back.”

“I should probably examine Sigma now to make sure nothing’s life-threating.” She says making their way to the chair where they unceremoniously dumped the poor guy.

Chuuya scowls but says nothing more. Instead, he takes a rag from Kenji and swipes at the blood on his partner’s face. He’s mindful of the bandages, careful not to scrub too harshly at the dirt and blood stains on his cheek.

It’s far gentler than he’ll ever admit.

But it’s hard to be angry when he’s exhausted by the weight of Dazai’s words, difficult to yell in a foaming tirade when the memory of being carried softly in the wake of destruction compresses his lungs with barely contained sobs.

He isn’t sure how long he sits on the floor, cradling Dazai, lost to his own reminiscence but at some point, Kunikida crouches down next to Chuuya, uncharacteristically defensive and quiet. “Rampo wants to speak with you.”

Chuuya wants to tell them to fuck off. Dazai’s dying and it’s only been maybe 30 minutes since they took off and he has to watch the mackerel slowly die for another hour and it’ll all too fucking much.

There’s a faint scribbling sound and suddenly a blanket appears around his shoulder. It’s heavy and warm and fuck them all but it helps ground him just a little.

“We’ll take over watch for a bit.” Atsushi says softly from behind. “Just till you come back.”

Wordlessly he gently deposits Dazai’s lax form into the boy’s lap, Kunikida and Kenji flanked at the side, carefully dapping at the blood.

“Don’t touch his bandages,” Chuuya says suddenly, “Don’t even think – “

“I know,” Kunikida says softly, “My partner has a penchant for wasting them, but it seems its actually useful today. Nonetheless, I know he’s quite sensitive about it.”

Chuuya swallows that truth down hard as he watches the quiet scene from above. It’s true – Dazai isn’t his partner anymore, hasn’t been for nearly 5 years now.

The tiger kid has silent tears dripping down and the other boy just rubs his back as a gentle comfort. Kunikida says something to them that makes them let out a wet laugh before settling down again.

They’re like a family, Chuuya thinks as he marches to the cockpit. Danm it all if Mori’s gonna take that away from him.

Dazai didn’t know whether he would take the antidote or not – didn’t know if their whole scheme would even work.

And now he’s backtracking on his earlier ploy, and wants to take a page from Fyodor’s book but look where isolation got that anemic bastard? If he wants to keep secrets, manipulate his family – he shouldn’t be sleeping on the job then.

Besides Chuuya’s not his partner anymore, so to hell with what Dazai wants.

Chapter Text

He finds Ranpo in the cockpit lazily sucking a sweet, feet relaxed on the controls.

The lackadaisical scene makes him flicker with anger. Shouldn’t the danm idiot be a bit more concerned that his fellow colleague is literally at death’s door? But then he swallows back any sharp retort. He isn’t supposed to care for the bastard; they aren’t partners anymore.

“Fancy hat!” The older greets cheerfully.

“You wanted to see me?” He responds dryly.

Ranpo hums, giving a lazy stretch. “Straight to the point then.”

Chuuya looks down at his gloved hands. He had scrubbed his skin raw with burning soapy water but there were still flecks of blood under his nails. Dark rusty brown barely noticeable, hidden under the silk farbic, but all the same it makes a lump in his throat. “It’s been a long day.”

Ranpo fidgets, just a little. He kicks his feet down as he begins to spin back and forth in the chair, the nervousness bleeding into his cool demeanor. “Dazai is a very calculated person.” He starts hesitantly, “He trusted me to take care of things in Yokohama but ultimately it was his intel that saved us.” He looks a bit tense, a bit sad.

Chuuya considers his words as he looks off at the clouds through the window. It’s bright and endless as they cruise on. He’s never really fly this far up. Air pressure and the blistering cold make it nearly impossible. It’s lonely, up so high, he thinks suddenly. There’s not a speck of dazzling city lights or grey hues of smokestacks, no skyscrapers to ground him in time and space. So utterly bleak and isolated.

“I know Mori ultimately wants Dazai back as executive.” Ranpo goes on, oblivious to Chuuya’s distracted mind, “But I don’t know Mori like you or Dazai. I can’t figure out the entirety of his plan.”

Chuuya reluctantly pulls his gaze back from the window and onto the scene in front of him: Ranpo’s twitchy hands, the determined set of his jaw. “Dazai knows it.” He says grimly, “It ends with him volunteering himself to go back. A jab at the agency’s pride. Punishment for Dazai for deflecting.”

“What if he doesn’t volunteer?”

Chuuya smiles bitterly, “Would you rather one of those kids back there go?” Ranpo opens his mouth to rebuke, but Chuuya beats him to it, “I’m not for this by the way. I’m happy to let one of those snot-nosed pansies play around in the blood and grime of the Port Mafia but…” He thinks about cryptic little words tossed between the Boss and Dazai. The mental games of chess he’s never understood the rules to and Ane-san’s firm warning not to even try. “I don’t even think Dazai knows what to do beyond this. But there’s no talking him out it. Boss has planned everything to play out exactly in this way and both me and Dazai know better than to cheat once the game’s started.”

Ranpo’s eyes are hard, but his mouth remains pinned closed in a frown. “This can’t just be the end.” He growls, “We can’t just give up. I’ll think of something. I’m the best danm detective, smarter than Mori and Dazai, I’ll think of something!”

Chuuya chuckles dryly. The agency’s starry-eyed hopefulness never ceases to amuse him. “Yeah, let me know you divine the answer. But until then, don’t go fucking this up for us both.”

“Wait,” He cries, halfway out of the chair, eyes finally betraying all his fear and concern. He falls back into the plush of the seat hesitantly. “Yosano…Yosano is very strong – mentally and physically, one of the most resilient people I know.”

The mention of her has Chuuya raise an eyebrow with mild interest. He remembers her face from meetings with the agency, her name whispered behind closed doors in the mafia from time to time.

Ranpo swallows back a million words and memories, a bit of shame from thinking the truth, “She wouldn’t survive going back.”

Chuuya stiffs, already feeling the question Ranpo hasn’t yet asked. “Well, it’s a good thing Fukazawa made sure she’s off the table then.”

Ranpo nods, but his gaze says it all.

“Dazai...” Chuuya starts pinching at the bridge of his nose, “He…He knows how to play a long game. He’s an emotionally repressed bastard. Probably about as manipulative as Mori; Boss genuinely fears him a little – he...” There's aren't words, really, in this language or the next, to encompass all that Dazai is, "He knows what he's doing." He says instead.

And before Ranpo can respond, Chuuya turns on his heel to leave. He’s tired and there’s still blood under his fingernails and in his hair and it’s all because of his danm indecision. All becuase of Shitty Dazai.

“You said Dazai doesn’t have any moves beyond getting himself back into the mafia.” Ranpo calls, his voice wrung with panic and fear.

Chuuya falters for just a second.

His hands curl under the steel of the doorway, nearly making it groan and dent from the pressure.

He wonders how he got here – caring far too much for Dazai, conspiring with the enemy. His head dips down in shame as the words wash over them both.

But then he sighs and adjusts his hat as he eases his grip on the door. He’s been away long enough, can’t have Dazai truly dying if he isn’t the one to kill him, “Well if you’re so fucking smart, think of something.”

Yosano sighs as she stands from inspecting Sigma. His vitals are fine, maybe his heart’s a bit fast but no obvious reason to just be in a coma.

“Is he gonna be, okay?” Kenji calls from his place on the floor.

She grimaces, that kid is too green for his own good, “He’s…resting Kenji. He’ll be fine once he wakes up.”

The assurance seems to be enough as the boy goes back to sitting vigil with Dazai.

“We should move him to a seat,” She says mildly, “It’ll be more comfortable.”

The trio still eye him a bit wary, like any sudden movement will send him over the edge. Still, isn’t that the goal right now anyway?

Kunikida finally sets forward, looming over Atsushi, who has yet to stop crying.

“It’ll be good for him,” He says in awkward comfort, “You know how cranky he’ll be if he wakes up with a stiff back.”

Atsushi looks up with red-rimmed, watery eyes, but nonetheless shuffles away from Dazai. Kenji does the honor of lifting him up and onto one of the reclined seats; Atsushi carefully navigating the wires and machine closer.

 There’s a sicky, dark outline where his body once was. None of them can stomach looking at it for too long.

“Danm idiot’s gonna ruin the upholstery,” Kunikida grumbles but it lacks any real heat, “How much longer Yosano?”

She checks his vitals again, trying not to be distracted by the fact that this is her friend and he’s dying and there isn’t anything to do except let him die.

He’s ice-cold and clammy. Heart rate skyrocketed and his blood pressure on a slow and steady decline.

“Not long now,” She whispers, voice caught with tears, “I need one of you guys to keep hold of his pulse – tell me exactly when it stops. I don’t want to risk a delay on my end from his ability going from active to…” She swallows, “Active to dead.”

Despite the earlier closeness on the floor, none of them seem willing to touch him. They had cleared away most of the blood, a mountain of once pristine white towels now crusted in red, but his eye is still sluggishly bleeding, and he looks transparent enough to just disappear together.

“Why are we all standing around like jackasses,” Chuuya growls as he makes his way up the aisle.

He comes closer to join them and his eyes shift to Yosano for an update, which she repeats.

“Oh,” he says calmly as he shrugs off his jacket and removes his gloves before immediately settling down in the chair next to Dazai.

No one comments on how he gently takes Dazai’s hand instead of a steady two fingers on his neck. Still the redhead frowns as he shifts his hold around trying to find the pulse.

“His bandages are in the way aren’t they,” Atsushi says, his voice wreaked from the earlier tears, all gritty and small. He cowers a little at the fierce glare Chuuya gives in return.

Dazai’s heartrate, once a fast but steady rhythm begins to fluctuate and quicken on the monitor.

“Nakahara,” Yosano says haltingly, but no one makes a move to unravel Dazai’s wrappings. For all their snide comments about him wasting rolls after roll mummifying himself for seemingly no reason – they can’t help but feel intrusive at the thought of removing them.

It feels gross and violating, no matter how pure the intent for doing so may be.

Even Chuuya feels nauseous at the thought, though he’s never seen what’s under there before. Still, he thinks of Dazai drowned in mafia black, smiling as he remains still and seated with Mori for meetings no one else is privy to –  the white gauze sometimes the only thing keeping him sane after Mori has flayed him open.

“Well,” Chuuya snaps because he can’t be the one to betray Dazai’s privacy. Partnership be dammed, it doesn’t make him Mori, “Undo them.”

Kunikida's arm twitches forward, distracting himself with the thought of the stupid amount of money the guy must spend every month playing dress up – but even the will of his ideals, to protect everyone at all costs, can’t override how wrong it feels to unravel them.

“Only you can,” Kenji pipes up earnestly, sparing Kunikida the moral conundrum, “He trusts you. He wouldn’t be happy if we did it, but you can.”

“Only a few minutes left,” Yosano warns, her eyes transfixed EKG lines.

Chuuya flickers his glance back and forth from each of them. They all look sick and tired and aching – he reckons he probably looks the same. But that farmer kid nods sincerely, the only one who looks certain of anything right now.

“Fuck it,” Chuuya sighs, and he tentatively tugs at the end of the bandages.

He unwinds them, trying to ignore the angry red indents left on Dazai’s skin and how damp it is with sweat and blood. When all this is over, he’s gonna lecture the shit out of him for making them this tight. 

He untangles it until he sees a thin purpling vein and after a quick check, it’s decidedly enough. Dazai’s skin is cold and the pulse stutters irregularly under his fingertips, almost bursting to get free before suddenly going still.

“Yosano!” He shouts and immediately she splays a hand over Dazai’s chest.

Chuuya squeezes his eyes shut, ears ringing, mind going numbly blank. He thinks maybe, for a minute, he’s praying to something. He’s not aware of what happens next, but the fear plummets straight into his stomach and Arahabaki roars in his chest unrestrained.

The power rattles in his bones, electrifying his blood, a peircing ringing in his ears - but then there’s that familiar cottony feel of No Longer Human swathing around him, and the world goes quiet.

He knows something wrong the second he sees Odasaku.

He remembers the sharp sting of pain burning him from the inside out, the cold metallic taste of blood gagging him as he squeezed his eyes shut.

But then eyes fly back open to the sound of thunder crackling in the distance and the buzz of Bar Lupin’s fluorescent lights aglow in a soft wash above.

The rain pats down on his back as he lingers in the doorway, but he can’t quite bring himself to move forward.

He feels weightless, dizzy, and floaty as the once bright scrapes of pain suddenly disappear into a cold detached numbness.

“C’mon Dazai,” Odasuku sighs from the barstool, “It’s been some time since we’ve had a drink.”

His tongue bites back a million words, half of them pleads and not enough of them are apologies.

Still, he stumbles closer – never been able to deny an old friend’s request. He’s had dreams like this before; more like an old film playing sepia memories of their usual place.

It’s wrong because this isn’t a dream. He can see out both eyes; feel his beige trench trailing at his ankles instead of a black coat hung on his arm.

Dazai takes another step, and with a harsh swallow, he realizes he lived longer without Odasaku’s friendship than with.

“Is this the afterlife?” He asks, flagging down the bartender, still not looking at the other, focusing instead on the glossy wood in front of him.

“Do you believe in such things?”

The whiskey is as sharp and sweet as he remembers it. It tastes awful.

 “No, probably not.”

“Well, then there’s your answer.”

“Must be hell then,” He jokes through with a laugh that twists itself into more of a surprised sob as he rests his head in his hands. 

The clinking of glass, a replacement for his hastily downed whiskey, breaks his moment of sorrow.

“Do you believe – “

“No probably not.” Dazai interrupts sharply because he can’t stand to hear his dead friend’s voice either.

Of course, Odasaku has always been a pro at breaking his heart, “I meant you do you believe you deserve hell?”

Dazai doesn’t have an answer for that.

Heaven and hell, gods and mortals, heroes and monsters – it’s all the fucking same to him.

“Wanna play poker Dazai?” He says, moving over the topic entirely as he pulls out a deck.

This must be hell – Dazai thinks miserably as he bites back on a refusal and coughs up a dusty ragged memory that he’s always treasured too much to ever reminisce.  

“I won’t cheat this time,” Odasaku says with a smile, “Though you’ve gotten good at sidestepping my ability, you might even win this time.”

“Never happened before.” He says but the words come up like sandpaper on his throat.

And it feels like a façade, like an elaborate game of charade – as if this isn’t some infernal purgatory state, as if it’s been mere months since they’ve drank at this usual place and they’re just bidding time till Ango joins them for a round.

As if Odasaku isn’t dead and buried and rotting 6ft under.

But it’s a kindness, a blithering stupid kindness.

It makes him want to cry, to beg for forgiveness, and then scream at Odasuku to give an apology of his own.

But he doesn’t do any of that.

Instead, he downs his whiskey, turning bravely to face Odasaku, letting their knees bump together as No Longer Human curls around the buzzing warmth of Flawless.

“Shall we bet on it,” Dazai teases, though his voice is a thin imitation of his usual bluster.

If Odasaku notices he doesn’t say anything. He just scratches at his stubble as he considers his own cards. “Same bet as before?”

Of course. Them: 8 years younger, in a homely little flat in the worst part of town betting on cards as Odasaku played nursemaid to an ornery teenager mafia boss.

“If I win, I get to stay.” Dazai amends quickly but the older just rearranges his cards with a slight frown.

“I don’t remember that being the deal.” He says lightly, shuffling around to procure a handful of coins. He distributes them evenly before throwing one by the river, “10 to buy in.”

“Your memory is shit.” He scoffs, but Odasaku doesn’t seem offended.

“Must be getting old.” He sighs, “Fold.”

And Dazai looks up, seeing his old friend for the first time. He’s still forever 23, stubble patchy around sharpened features. Crow’s feet and smile lines but no wrinkles really.

Clear blue eyes flicker up in confusion to see Dazai’s broken stare.

No, Dazai thinks, you’ll never get older than this.

“Raise.”

Another card.

“I fold.”

Dazai raises a brow, pulling in the coins hesitantly.

“You’re cheating.” He spits, “You’re letting me win.”

“That’s not cheating Dazai.”

“Is to!”

“Is not.”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

He pouts, absently counting his winnings, and Odasaku shuffles and redeals.

“You’re that eager to let me stay here,” Dazai mutters after another quiet two rounds.

“That’s not the deal.”

“Is to.”

“Is not.”

Odasaku rakes in the round’s winnings as he gives a scolding look that still makes Dazai click his mouth shut.

2 more cards for the river. Bet, raise, call.

Repeat.

“You win, you get to leave.” He says calmly pushing the coins back to Dazai, “I win, you stay.”

“Eager for me to leave then,” Dazai mumbles petulantly, bumping his knee softly into his. If Odasaku is back to 23, then he sure feels like he’s 18 again. “I certainly remember you holding me hostage last time.

Odasaku finishes turning over the river and stares down at Dazai with that same piercing gaze he had right before he died.

“I saw a stray cat in need of help last time, an injured thing too clever and bored for this world. I wanted you to stay because you would have died if I didn’t make you.”

Dazai fights back a snarl, a blistering boldness to reject that sentiment and more.

But maybe it’s true. Maybe in another life where Odasaku didn’t save Dazai, just kicked him to the curb outside, Dazai would have killed himself just a day later.

He wins again – a pair of aces. “So it was pity then.”

Odasaku reshuffles, “I don’t recall.” He deals the cards, “I must be – “

“Get fucking old – I know.” Dazai sucks on his lip; it doesn’t bleed. “Check.”

There’s a silence, more prolonged than just a consideration for the card. Dazai levels his temper as he looks up.

Probably for the first time in this timeless abyss, Odasaku actually looks sad. He looks tired and pale and ancient.

He isn’t looking at his card – he’s looking at Dazai with all the sorrow that’s gone unspoken.

He looks sorry.

“I fold.” He says quietly and all the money goes to Dazai.

There’s a stark realization that the game is over.

Dazai won.

“Another round?” He offers with an almost nervous laugh. “I’ll give you another coin for next buy-in.”

“Dazai,” Odasaku chides but unlike the last time, it isn’t an anger thing. “It’s time we both cash out.”

Pitiful, maybe – some soft, gentle thing born out of love.

Dazai supposed there’s no grief here to color the sentiment hateful and pained. Odasaku’s long since made peace with the demise of the orphans – long since made peace with his own death.

He spins a coin on its side, blinking back furious tears because despite his friend’s tranquility – he still has chaos in his soul.

“That color’s good on you,” Odasaku remarks mildly, nodding to the trench coat. He’s packing up the cards, slipping at the watery remains of his drink, “Black never suited you.”

Dazai laughs, “Good thing I burned the old one then – well wasn’t even mine, it was Mori’s.”

Odasaku shrugs, “Who’s Mori again?”

Dazai laughs till a tear runs down, plinking into his empty glass. “It can’t be over; I’ve never beaten you at poker before.”

“I suppose that just means you’ve gotten better than me.”

And isn’t that just the crux of it all?

Odasaku stands, brushing his coat, hands shifting around the pockets for something. Cigarettes probably.

Dazai heaves himself up too, procuring a matchbox from his own coat.

When they stand together, it’s obvious who’s changed and who hasn’t.

Dazai is taller now, almost 23 himself. No more starry eyes looking up, no more childish awe for his strange forgetful friend who seems to understand him best.

Another tear falls because at the crux of it – Dazai wasn’t mean to grow older or taller or ever live up to this legacy. He was meant to die brutal and young; Oda was meant to live forever in all the books he never got to write.

Easily, Dazai procured the object, and their hands brush briefly as he hands it to him but it’s a blurry sorta of picture as the tears still wobble in his eyes.

“You won fair and square Dazai,” Odasaku says, “No one can take that away from you.”

Childishly, he asks, “What if I don’t want to go?”

“You’d find the afterlife boring.”

“What’s it like?” He croaks, because for all Dazai’s mistakes and blunders and selfishness, this might be his only regret.

Odasaku smiles, laying a calloused palm on Dazai’s head. It’s heavy and familiar and probably the last time he’ll ever feel this content, “It’s a room by the seaside,” He says gently, “And I sit and write all day long.”

“Sound nice.” He tries to say but the words are thick and bloody and come out as more of a cracked sob, “My afterlife might be the room next door to you, you know.” There’s a sudden drowsiness that makes his mind fill with fog, a lazy thought tells him that perhaps their time is truly up now, “Maybe I want to stay.”

“Chuuya wouldn’t be here,” He comments with a wry grin, “Besides you have your own orphans to look after now.” Odasaku pauses to light his cigarette and take a drag, “You’ve done good Dazai, I’m proud of you.”

The swell of grief and pride is only overshadowed by the truth lingering in the back of his fading mind. There’s a confession and problem and sin lying on the tip of his tongue, sticky and clumsy through the growing haze, yet Odasaku beat him to it.

He shakes his head solemnly, “You’ve outgrown the Port Mafia, even if Mori seems to think he can just take you back.”

Dazai tries to respond, then there’s a sharp tug on his chest, bright and burning, “I thought you forgot who Mori was.” He says through a wince.

His vision doubles, then stars dance around the edges.

He looks up once more to see plumes of smoke and a tunneling image of Odasaku smiling lazily, relaxed as he slouches against the bar.

It’s a familiar scene, a better parting image than blood and tears and a final gasping goodbye. He squeezes his eyes shut, mind still thick and sticky with pain and malaise.

“Try not to slip on any more banana peels or pick fights with crazed old women.” He says gravely but beneath his tone, there’s a hint of humor – a hidden thing that only him and Ango could ever hear.

“And Dazai,” His voice now just a just a cool whisper as the harsh light engulfs his entire being “Even in the Port Mafia, you can be your own version of good; you will be I have no doubt.”

And then he opens his eyes to see 5 faces staring at him and the thick smell of blood and fire in the air.

Dazai all but rises from the dead, eyes wide and innocently confused. Everyone else breathless, on the edge of their seats.

He blinks, a shaky hand going up to swipe at the blood still dripping in the corner of his mouth.

“Woah,” he says, voice still gritty, eyes still swimming and red. He coughs and spits up more blood – which does nothing for anyone’s already shot nerves, “Who died?”

The ensuing chaos of Kunikida's foaming tirade of you blasted idiot what were you thinking is only subdued by Kenji’s blithering smiles and brute strength alongside Yosano’s barking instructions not to injure the guy they worked so hard to fix.

Dazai winks at Atsushi who still hasn’t recovered from the shock, if his renewed tears say anything, and gently reaches out a hand to his protégé.

“Are you really okay Dazai-san?” He asks softly.

The older sighs, clearly still exhausted, “Yeah. Leg’s a bit sore but the bullet wound is mostly healed, and my organs feel like they're back in the right place.” He grins furiously and slaps his palms on the armrest, “Right, now who wants to see me make the plane do a barrel roll?”

He jumps up from his seat, immediately wobbling on unsteady feet, only to be caught by Chuuya.

“You’re still recovering from blood loss dumbass.” He growls in return, unceremoniously dumping him back in his chair.

Yosano pauses her argument to give Dazai an appraising look. “He’s right Dazai, I don’t think my ability was able to do much except the bare minimum. You lost a lot of blood, probably around 3 or 4 liters.”

Dazai waves over her concern, though it’s hard to be convincing when he’s trembling in his seat, “Pah, it was mainly internal bleeding, that’s where the blood's supposed to be.”

Her unimpressed glare makes him swallow nervously, “Heh okay maybe not.”

“Rest.” She deadpans, “Unless you want to recreate all this using a chainsaw instead.”

“Oh Yosano,” He sighs, dramatically lovesick, “You know how much I love it when we play doctor.”

Kunikida once again looks nauseous, if not slightly disturbed, “If you’re well enough to make jokes,” He sniffs, “You’re well enough to do paperwork.”

Dazai smiles bemuses, before settling down more relaxed in his seat.

“I still need to examine you Dazai, especially your eye,” Yosano says, eyes flickering to the crowd that her patient probably doesn’t appreciate right now.

Dazai shakes his head, “It’s the same sensei,” He says lightly, though she looks a little sorry, “I’m a little lightheaded sure but there’s no other pain.”

She nods, tentatively satisfied, “You can’t stay in those clothes though,” She states firmly, their eyes conveying back more words than spoken aloud. “We have a spare set of clothes and other stuff for you to change into.” She pauses, still overtly aware of how uncomfortable Dazai must feel with the other so close. He seems to understand regardless.

“Atsushi!” Dazai singsongs, “I’m so terribly wounded right now ~ would you and Kenji-kun be dears and help me with something?”

The two boys sigh unamused but reluctantly nod, “Yeah,” They groan in unison.

“Can you go guilt-trip Ranpo into giving me the fancy chocolate he keeps on him?” Dazai punctuates the charade with a pout and bat of his eyes.

They look longingly at Yosano to save them from the herculean task of getting candy away from Ranpo but she only shrugs, “Sugar would be good for his blood pressure right now.”

They groan but nonetheless shuffle their feet towards the cockpit.

With just the adults in the room, the air turns a bit somber.

Kunikida nervously swallows and pushes up his glasses, “Do you need…help changing Dazai?” He grimaces, fully expecting some embarrassing jokes to be hurtled his away but Dazai only smiles placatingly.

“How thoughtful but I think I can manage on my own.” He smirks at Kunikida, but the latter could see how thin the expression is, “If you wanted to see me naked Kuni, you’ll need to buy me dinner first.”

The joke has the desired reaction as he still flushes bright red and stomps off towards the front to calm himself with paperwork.

Dazai sighs, barely suppressing a wince, “And then there were two.”

Yosano can see the wary look in Dazai’s eyes as he glances at Nakahara. She may not know him as well as the other, but his time in the agency had made him softer around the edges, more open with his expressions.

“As your doctor, I really should be examining you now,” She cuts in carefully. It’s a way out, should Dazai want it. “Might as well do it while you’re changing.”

In the corner of her eyes she sees Chuuya stiffen, almost affronted by the accusation that he isn’t trusted. Still, Dazai only grimaces, though it quickly morphs into just a tired frown.

“Chuuya’s helped me out a thousand times before,” He lies, Chuuya can’t find the heart to call him out. “You can examine me after slug here give me my sponge bath.”

“Now hold on a minute,” Chuuya starts, an angry finger waving around Dazai’s face.

The two begin to bicker pointlessly as Yosano slips out of her seat, quietly taking guard by Kunikida to ensure no one will go back there for the time being.

She sighs, cracking her joints and rubbing at her neck, the waves of anxiety finally catching up.

Kunikida scribbles in boxes, turning over page after page in silence. It’s a nice peaceful lull in contrast to the chaos of earlier. She can’t help but rest her head on the cool table, eyes fluttering closed.

“Do you think he did it on purpose?”

She blinks, chin resting on the fold of her hands, as she looks up at Kunikida. He hasn’t wavered from his unending mission of admin work.

“What?”

“Do you think he did it on purpose?” He repeats.

She stares blankly off into the distance, too tired to face the truth.

“He’s never shied away from telling us his hobbies.” She says absently. It’s a hard question to ask, almost as hard to answer.

Another page turned, “That’s not what I asked.”

“You’re his partner,” She retorts, “What do you think?”

Another few scratches of the pen, “I think we’ve been manipulated by that ex-mafioso for long enough.”

“You don’t trust him,” She comments coldly because that ex-mafioso just risked life and limbs for them, how dare he use Dazai’s past against him, how fucking dare –

But then Kunikida shakes his head. He pulls off his glasses, cleaning them with a cloth. All her fury melts to sorrow as she sees a few tears quietly streaming down his face. “I trust him with my life.” He says solemnly, “I no longer trust him with his own.”

She reaches a tender hand out to wipe at them. He lets out a quiet sob as he leans in gently to her touch.

“Good thing he has us then?” She muses, voice velvet and soft.

Kunikida pulls at her hand, holding it in his own before placing a chaste kiss on her knuckles.

“Yes,” He says, gathering himself into composure once more, “Yes, it is.”

God, you’re such a freak,” Chuuya snaps, falling back into his chair with a scowl. 

“Ah where did Chuuya go? All I hear is a tiny little mosquito in my ear.” 

“Fucking hell, have fun stumbling around on your own.” He growls, storming off towards the front where at least he’ll get some danm peace and quiet. 

Dazai exhales a chuckle, looking so uttered poised and collected for a guy who just died 10 minutes ago. 

The look is so infuriating that it almost fools Chuuya. Once again, he’s played right into Dazai’s hand. Master of control indeed. 

He groans angrily and stomps his way back. 

“Sorry, are you lost, little fella?” Dazai quips innocently but Chuuya won’t take the bait. 

“C’mon.” He bullies on, “Get your clothes off.”

Dazai lets out an honest belly laugh, hissing a little at the unexpected pain, but for the first time today, he’s eyes look genuine and clear. 

“Didn’t know you’d be so forward Chibi.” He wheezes, legs kicking back and forth like a child. 

Still, he actually looks his age for once, just so goofy 20-some laughing with an old friend. 

Chuuya’s cheeks flush a little, but he remains firm. 

“I can keep my eyes closed if you want, but lean on me for support.” 

Dazai hums, the bright mirth in his eyes dulling as he weights out the best move. 

“Stop thinking so much.” Chuuya reprimands, “Would it make you more comfortable if I helped or not?”

Dazai doesn’t answer but starts to stand on trembling legs again. His eyes swim, vision tunneling for a second before blinking back the black spots that dance along his vision. Chuuya’s eyes are the first thing he sees, deep hazel brown and wrinkled with concern. 

“No one’s looking?” He says shyly and Chuuya steals a glance back. He sees Yosano dozing on at a table, Kunikida’s back turned towards them. 

“Yup.” 

Dazai is shaky and clumsy as he grips the end of his prison jumper, but he eventually manages to pull it over his head. 

Left in its wake is line after line of bandages stained with splotches of red, like wine stains up and down his torso. 

Dazai’s near breathless, trying to stave back exhaustion and embarrassment all at once. He rests both his hands on Chuuya’s shoulders as he catches a breath. 

“You want to sit down again?” Chuuya says timidly, “While you redo them?”

Dazai swallows, eyes twin black pools of emptiness, flecks of maybe fear in them too.

“I'll close my eyes,” He offers politely like he’s almost afraid Dazai will shut down completely.

The younger just hums in agreement, slumping down as Chuuya dutifully shuts his eyes, content to just listen to Dazai’s breath and the sound of the saturated gauze sticking as the're pull off. 

“Do you have a towel?” 

Chuuya stills; he hadn’t thought that far ahead. 

“Never mind,” Dazai says quickly, but Chuuya blinds reaches out a hand. He feels ice-cold skin and slick blood, a heart thudding firmly under his palm.

“Just stay there, I’ll get it.” He says, though the semantics of trying to acquire it blind is suddenly dawning on him.

He hears Dazai shift around in his seat, and feels a hand grab as his own. 

“I’m not…” He starts, voice oddly stilted, “I’m not ashamed.” 

Chuuya furrows his brows confused, but then Dazai goes on, still demure and dull, “You can look you know. Chuuya's allowed to see me.”

“I’m going to open my eyes to get a rag,” He responds equally as soft.

He turns away before opening them, standing safely in the aisle before going to Kunikida, who promptly scribbles out a few packs of wet wipes and haughty says let me know if you require more.

He takes his time coming back, not sure exactly what’s he bracing for, but he wasn’t expecting Dazai to look so small in the chair. 

They’ve seen each other injured before. Seen each other at the end of their sanity, tired and run ragged. Whipped into brutal shape by their mentors alike but never has Chuuya seen Dazai cower like this.

He has a crooked smile to hide his nerves, gauze undone halfway down his stomach, blood flaking at his shoulder.

His ribs are more prominent than any billowing trench coat would suggest, pale skin stretched tightly over each bone. But scars are not unexpected. Some puckering like fireworks over his chest, others look like closed bullet wounds on his side. 

Chuuya moves slowly, the damp cloth firmly in his grasp as he begins to clean off the sweat and grime. 

Dazai just quails at the tenderness, utterly baffled by it all. 

They don’t bicker or fight, don’t try to alleviate the tension with sharp words or petty insults. 

Dazai goes to wind the bandages, tugging them rough and flush against his skin, but Chuuya stops him. 

“You do it too tight,” He grumbles, hands gentle as he works, firm but not squeezing at the skin. 

“Since when do you care?” Dazai grouses before seeing the soft surprise in Chuuya's eyes.

He can’t help the hurt confusion in his tone. “I’ve always cared.”

Dazai looks painfully young as the realization strikes him. He nods dumbly and then they go back to silence. 

His arms are worse, muscles tensed and eyes firmly away from Chuuya’s as the other gently swipes over too many messy scars. Some as wide as his thumb or as long as his pinky, along with cigarette burns and other assorted marks that trail up and down his bicep. Questions pepper at his tongue, hot and aching to be asked, but he bites back his curiosity. 

(How many were on purpose? How many were your own doing? Did Mori do that one himself or did it come after whatever Mori did to you? 

Why didn't you tell me)

But slowly they work until Dazai’s relatively clean and patched up, though he never loses the trace of unease in his expression.

The sweats are more troublesome, they stand again, one hand gripping Chuuya’s shoulder in a vice grip, as he tries to coordinate bruised legs into moving. 

More scars, more bruises and blood. He swears he could see an embarrassed blush flare on Dazai's pale cheeks and hot tears threatening to spill at the corner of his eyes. 

(There's an achingly soft part of Chuuya that wants to trace every single one of the puckered lines with a gentle finger - wants to show Dazai that there's no need to hide his gaze or tense under the comforting ministrations. 

Part of him wonders if it would even be appreciated; wonders if Dazai's even capable of accepting such tenderness anymore. 

A part of him doesn't care, he just wants to teach Dazai the foreign concept of kindness even if it kills them both.)

He doesn't do any of that though. He cleans off all the blood as they bathe themself in silence till it's finished.

“No peeking,” Dazai jokes weakly as he removes his underwear, though Chuuya’s eyes are firmly shut closed again. 

“Very funny. Now don’t forget to wipe your ass.”

It’s a similar process, though Chuuya doesn’t do much besides serve as Dazai’s balance as he hobs on his one good leg, using the towelettes to clean himself and then steadying himself to pull up new trousers.

“Okay, I’m done.” He says, all but collapsing into his chair, his eyes are half-lidded as he stares out the window again. 

Chuuya feels tired just watching him. Something nags at the back of his mind – all the things Dazai said back in the hallway, the act he was putting on to goad Fyodor. 

“I meant it.” Dazai mumbles, making Chuuya startle, just a bit. Bastard isn’t a mind reader, right?

“Meant what,” He asks coolly but Dazai shrugs.

"Everything."

“You’re just tired Mackerel.” Chuuya rebukes, “Just go to sleep.”

Dazai smiles back but it’s a brittle, ugly thing. “Too much work to do.”

“Paperwork’s that way, dumbass,” Chuuya says hitching a thumb to the front of the plane. 

Dazai’s expression never loses the sadness at the edges, “Gotta figured out Mori’s plan here, why he needs me back now. Could be Soukoku but…” He raps his fingers on the armrest, “Could literally be for nothing.”

Chuuya snorts, “Really all this commotion and planning for nothing?” 

“Mori’s more emotional than he likes to admit.”

Chuuya picks at his fingernail, “He’s still mad about you deflecting?”

“No. Well yes, but his ego gets in the way don’t you think? The Agency clearing their name is big - it doubles down on our credibility, our power.” Dazai pauses, he seems to choke on his own mistake, “Their credibility, their power.” He corrects with a grimace, “Taking me back is a personal blow, and it strengthens the Mafia arsenal for something to publicly display their power.” He sighs, smiling more sincerely at Chuuya again, “Just don’t know what that something is yet. Once I’m back in the fold, either Mori will tell me, or I’ll just work it out myself.”

Chuuya frowns, “Don’t you ever get tired of thinking?” He says absently and it sends Dazai into another laughing fit. 

“There’s nothing left to do but think.” He explains, “That’s what I’m good for right?”

Chuuya thinks of arcade games and long-since-expired tins of crab collecting cobwebs in his cupboard. Of stupid insults and glimpses of tenderness after Corruption.

He thinks of the pictures he once saw at the agency, frames reading Sports Day! or 3rd Annual Christmas Party and bad, but amusing reviews about Dazai’s work tacked to a corkboard. Of hugs given freely and laughter and jokes and comradery unmarred by violence and grief.

The only thing Dazai had in the Port Mafia was two old men he’d drink with on weekends. Then one betrayed him, and the other one died.

“Think of a way out of this then.”

“Oh, I have.” 

“Care to elaborate?” 

Dazai grins wolfishly, “Nope! Too complex for a tiny slug to comprehend.”

He stares for a second longer, still worried the other might just disappear altogether. Another attempt foiled, no one ready to acknowledge what it means. 

He’ll capitalize on that, Chuuya thinks, he’ll dive deep into his persona of a carefree clown right until he’s back to his true colors. 

But that’s not quite right, is it?

Sure, Dazai’s still just hollow, still just pretending to play human but mafia black never suited him. He’s more relaxed at the agency, more himself in all the best ways. 

Sure, right and wrong never matter to him, kill a life or save one – it’s all just ways to pass the time till death. 

But he’s allowed to be soft, even if it’s an act. Allowed to be gentle with Atsushi and pull pranks on his partner and not risk tortuous punishment for a mistake. 

Someone as empty as Dazai is filled by the details of his surroundings. Mori knew that – Mori exploited that till he pushed a little too hard, and underestimated Dazai’s humanity a little too much. 

Chuuya thinks of the horror so clearly painted on everyone’s faces – the sharp edges of regret as they saw what an honest Dazai-suicide looked like. 

Meanwhile Chuuya, for all his anxiety and fear, he’s seen worsen from his partner. Seen him younger, and skinnier and bloodier and not even bother to get back up. 

“Alright,” Dazai says amused, finally catching on Chuuya’s stares, “Spit it out.” 

“You’re gonna kill yourself, aren’t you.”

Dazai smooths his surprised expression. “I could. Why, are you signing up as my partner for a doubl – “

“It’s not funny.” Chuuya snaps, “I just got you back, you can’t just…” He thinks of Dazai’s words, that their story doesn’t end here, “You can’t.”

Dazai appraises him for a second, seems to observe something Chuuya can’t even begin to decipher before closing his eyes. 

“Okay.” He says easily, “I won’t.”

Chuuya holds his snarl, uneased by the placation but he can’t help the waves of relief at the omission, no matter how fake it probably it.

Dazai hums, papery eyelids fluttering shut, a smile never leaving.

It doesn’t comfort Chuuya in the slightest but it’s as good of a promise as he’ll get. He starts to leave to join the others before a hand tug at his coat. 

The hand twitches into a fistful of fabric before easing and falling to his side as if it never even happened. His expression never changes, his breath still in soft stuttering rise and fall of his chest.

Dazai doesn’t say anything, but Chuuya understands all the same. He takes a seat, hat pushed down over his eyes, hand just barely grazing Dazai’s. 

And Chuuya falls asleep to the dancing grazes of No Longer Human just barely wrapping around him and Dazai’s raspy breath in his ear.

Chapter Text

Chuuya wakes a little bit midflight. They stop for refueling every few hours of course.

That alone prompts a slight fluttering of his eyes all too often. Blurry vision making out one of the ADA members shuffling around, the rest sleeping in various chairs around him. He’s awake long enough to take inventory of which ones are dozing in the seat across and whose turn it is to help as ground crew, then give a lazy check to Dazai before he’s drifting off again.

Dazai never seems to wake.

But this particular time, just over central China, he stirs at the behest of Yosano gently shaking his shoulder, her big black eyes staring at him almost apologetically.

“Yeah?” he mumbles, dredges of sleep still edging at his mind.

“We have about 6 hours left.” She reports mildly, giving him time to shake off the fog of exhaustion. “I was hoping Dazai would be awake by now.”

The cold panic helps do just that, “Is there a problem?”

She shakes her head, and he exhales a silent sigh of relief. Danm Mackerel just loves giving him a fucking heart attack.

“Rest is good, but I’d really like to give him a transfusion.”

He furrows his brows at the hesitancy on her face.

“I didn’t want to stick him in his sleep if I could help it,” She explains carefully, “Atsushi thought it best to consult you first.”

“Ah,” He responds dumbly in lieu of a real answer.

She only blinks back.

He sighs again, running a hand through his greasy hair. This day just never seems to end.

“Yeah, he probably wouldn’t be too happy if we did that.”

They both nod a bit to themselves before turning a long glance at the man in question.

The shaking had subsided, but he was still tinged green and blue on near-translucent skin.

For all their time spent together, better or worse, it’s probably the first time he’s actually seen Dazai asleep. Usually, it was Chuuya passing out to the sight of the bastard’s smug dust-lined face. Exhaustion only shown in dark ringlets under his clear eyes and maybe a slight hunch of his shoulders.

(“Rest Chu,” he’d say starving off a yawn as he wrapped his coat around Chuuya. Cold, always ice cold pressed against the other, but it was a welcomed change to the sweltering power of Corruption.

They’d sit for God knows how long before Dazai would navigate them to the extraction point. Chuuya just listless and tired – only finding himself fully awake on Ane-san’s couch. Warm tea creating aromatic wafts of steam and a few bites taken out of his biscuit as proof that it was in fact Dazai who had dumped him there.

“Preliminary mission report,” Mori had explained once when Chuuya questioned where the other goes. “Osamu doesn’t always do his paperwork, so I make him recite it orally in case he weasels out of doing a written one.” But then he laughed darkly, a hungry smile stretching at his lips, “And of course, his healing response is abysmal let alone supernatural like yours, so I always give him an examination.”

At the time he didn’t think much of it. The comment elicited an eerie dread in his stomach, but he couldn’t figure out why. Instead, he kept his expression schooled till he was dismissed and pointedly never brought up the subject again.

He was 17 and ornery and pissed off that his partner was always late and technically his boss which only gave him the power to pass off the paperwork onto his most loyal dog.

Tch – what a fucking useless waste of bandages.

He was 17 and hated Dazai far too much to ever wonder why the guy never seemed to sleep nor eat.

Good fucking riddance if the guy dropped dead from malnutrition or sleep deprivation or throwing himself off a bridge.

Yet 3 weeks later, waiting outside the infirmary, staring at an empty pill bottle, label clawed off, vomit splattered on his shirt – all he could think was how Dazai’s hazy brown eyes had crystallized at the mention of Mori, and how much Chuuya wished he could take it all back.)

“Dazai,” Chuuya barked, giving the other a light slap to the face, “Wake up.”

Yosano frowned at the redhead who only shrugged, “Dazai,” She tried more gently, “Dazai can you hear me? Do you know where we are?”

Chuuya shifts a glance to her as she continued to frown, “Confusion and agitation are common, I’m not sure how he’ll react.”

The other stirred a little at her voice, eyes rolling under thin lids, a slight groan rumbling in his chest.

“I…” Chuuya starts, “Maybe stand back a bit.” He pauses cautiously, “And take your coat off.”

Her eyes read understanding though her lips seem to purse even thinner. Obligingly, she steps off to the side, shrugging off her white coat, as Chuuya positions himself directly in front of Dazai.

“Oi blockhead,” He quips with an even harsher slap to the face.

Dazai’s eyes snap open, fist weakly flying out, though Chuuya catches it immediately. He quickly registers Chuuya’s lazy smirk and allows the older to lower his shaky aim, remnants of panic still consuming his gulps of air.

“We’re still on the plane,” Chuuya explains seeing just the slightest traces of confusion in Dazai’s eyes. “Yosano-sensi needs to give you a transfusion.”

“Yosano,” Dazai echoes, eyes still trained on Chuuya as he moves his head to look at the doctor. “Right,” He says placatingly, eyes crinkling in sleepy half-moons as he finally smiles at her, “I see you roped Chuuya into playing nursemaid?”

“He’s just missing the outfit,” She retorts dryly, moving in closer. “Arm.”
He holds his left one out, carefully shifting the bandages around at the elbow so she can find a vein.

“Yeah, don’t get your hopes up pervert,” Chuuya grumbles, hand still holding Dazai’s. He can feel faint tremors, maybe a quick flex of fingers driving his own nails into his palm. Despite the easy banter between agency members and the lackadaisical expression – Dazai clearly doesn’t like needles.

However, Yosano is a very skilled doctor, quickly inserting the IV and hooking the blood up to the pole to drain.

“Can I examine your eye now?” She asks lightly, purposefully not looking at Dazai as she fiddles around with the machines; she really does hate to pressure him any further albeit it's necessary for her duty of care.

Only Chuuya catches how the other stiffens at the prospect, though his expression reveals nothing but indifference.

“Do as you please Sensei, faster you work, the faster I can go back to sleep.”

She nods at his approval and shines a light into his right eye. Chuuya feels Dazai tense and sees nails gouge into his hand again. He wiggles his own fingers in between the knuckles, prying the fist apart, lacing his own fingers with Dazai’s. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want the idiot losing even more blood via self-mutilation and not because he hates to see the other so uneasy. 

Yosano hums again, frowning at the inactive pupil. “I don’t have any eye charts with me but I’m guessing you're around the same level of blindness.”

Dazai covers his working eye, looking off almost in childish wonder. “No wait, I think I’m cured! Chibi it’s a miracle, hold up a number, I’ll tell you what it is!” He says dreamily and Chuuya goes to flick his head, but Dazai moves out the away. His faux innocence replaced by an impish grin.

“Are you sure he’s not just pulling your leg doc?” Chuuya grouses, fingers put up into a sequence of numbers that Dazai doesn’t fail to recite.

She smiles with amusement, “Okay enough showing off Dazai.” She chides before finger spelling something in a foreign sign language.

“I believe you called me a jackass.” He says happily.

“Hmm good now can you repeat the gestures?”

He chuckles weakly, rubbing at his neck. His daft fingers shakily repeat most of the movement but it’s more of a half-hearted guess than anything.

“Heh, you got me,” he shrugs, “I’m still blind.”

Yosano’s eyes flicker to Chuuya almost too quickly for him to notice. Almost.

Nakahara, can you go see if we have OS-1 or juice in the cockpit?”

Of course, Chuuya knows a dismissal when he hears one, but something still sets his teeth on edge. He thinks of Mori’s chilling laughter and the resounding thud of the boss’s oak doors shutting behind him, locking some scrawny teenager with a Mafia boss trice his age.

He hadn’t thought much about the optics of it all till now. Only once did he find Dazai overdosed on stolen pills, only once did he hear him all but beg to be taken anywhere but to Mori.

Never did Chuuya ever listen.

“Right,” he says, barely a moment’s hesitation, face betraying none of his turmoil.

Of course, they’re not teenagers anymore and Yosano is the complete opposite of Mori. Besides, he reasons, looking at Atsushi and Kenji leaning on each other as they sleep, he lets the were-kid get treated by her. Mackerel never even let Akutagawa within eyesight of Mori alone.

He gets the supplies from Kunikida of all people. It was a goose chase, probably to stall for time, but nonetheless, he comes back to see Dazai’s tired face propped up on his hand, and Yosano knelt down as they furiously whisper back and forth.

He clears his throat coming back up the aisle and they cease their talk at once.

 She raps her fingers on Dazai’s thigh, who only laughs lightly in return.

“We can talk more when we land,” she says tersely before handing the electrolyte solution and jelly to her patient, “And take both of these, you’ll feel less nauseous.”

Chuuya waits til he can’t hear her heels clicking before shooting him a dirty look, “You did tell me you're nauseous.”
Dazai shrugs, sucking at the little packet of glucose, “You didn’t ask.”

Chuuya sniffs, “Just don’t throw up on me.”

“Ah well, there goes my master plan.”

He doesn’t see Dazai again after they land.

He’s whisked away, back to the Port Mafia and Dazai goes to the agency.

It’s of course, the natural order of being on enemy sides yet –

“Quit looking so down lad,” Ane-san chides one morning when they’re having tea.

It’s early, though he’d been up for hours. His mentor, on the other hand, had yet to ready herself. Her cherry hair was down, face naturally pale and soft without her normal makeup.

It’s before the chaos of the day and before sharp orders and intimidation.

It’s an unspoken custom where he wanders in sometimes, and they simply enjoy conversation like old friends.

“Truly you’ve hospitalized 8 men and made another 5 cry in this week alone.” She continues with a tut, “Your temper will start eating into the budget.”

He snorts, reaching for another scone till her bats his hand away. He scowls, slumping back in his seat.

Her office isn’t much like Mori’s. It’s lavished in rich red hues and plush mahogany furniture that glistens from natural light through always polished windows. He looks up at the oil painting crackling on the ceiling, framed by delicate crown molding and velvet emerald drapes.

“Like the Port Mafia is in such dire straits.” He grumbles into his cup.

She hums, adjusting her glasses and shifting her legs as she reads through a report on the couch, “You’d be surprised.”

He frowns, looking at her across the table, “I’ve seen the budget, it ain’t that bad.”

“We’ve never quite managed to replicate Dazai’s success with net profit though.” She chuckles under her breath, “Drives the Mori insane you know.”

Chuuya hum sardonically, “So Boss is gonna squander his golden ticket just to bring shitty Dazai back as an accountant?”

She stops her work and looks up at him, thoroughly unimpressed by with seemingly spiteful words, “Don’t get involved Chuuya.”

“I was just – “

I mean it, lad.” She cut in, “This is another one of their games, another thing we don’t concern ourselves with.”

She’s known that boy long enough to see the hint of misery just barely present in his eyes. She sighs, expression losing its harsh reproach – God age is apparently making her soft.

“Chuuya, I mean this as a kindness.” She says firmly, “Dazai understands his fate, and this…” she waves the pen around vaguely, failing to find the words to describe the utter madness that encompasses their relationship, “This agreement they seem to have. Mori got the upper hand this time and for once, Dazai lost. So do not try and interfere. No matter how you feel about the situation, I assure you it's more dimensional than you realize.”

He looks down at his tea, long since gone cold, before finishing it. It’s bitter and grainy but he does it out of politeness and the fact he can’t grace any of her words with a response. 

“Besides, as an executive, you must appreciate that skillset Dazai has for the organization.”

“He’s a traitor.” Chuuya bites out, “He may have lost but I don’t believe he just gonna switch loyalties so easily.”

She pauses, ever so slightly, “Mori’s taken care of that, so to speak.”

Chuuya frowns. She’s right – he doesn’t understand any of this. But he knows better than to even dare to speak, especially after her firm warning. Ane-san doesn’t take kindly to repeating herself.

“Right then,” He says, standing on cracking joints, “I’m off. That strip club stiffed us again.”

She hums, much more pleased by the change of topic, “They paid up for the girls. Even convinced them to pay for collateral damages.”

“Yeah, well that was their third strike considering they skimped on protection money twice now.” He says slinging his jacket over his shoulder, “Remind me to put them on the blacklist after this if I forget.”

“I’ll just do it myself; your head seems terribly distracted as of late.”

He grimaces at her none-too-subtle jab, “Kind offer,” He says with an apologizing bow, “But don’t worry, I’m on top of things.”

“It’d better stay that way.” She says as a warning. I’m not helping you clean up your mess if it doesn’t. She doesn’t say.

“Yeah, I know.” He responds all the same.

Her office doors shut firmly as the sun rises high enough to warm the dark room through the windows.

He’ll rough up the club, break some fingers along the way. By afternoon he’ll have yet another fire to put out courtesy of some low-level’s hubris. And then end the evening with some long meeting about the still vampired members where he’ll be kicked under the table by Kouyou for looking terribly bored.

Only to sleep and do the same thing over again tomorrow.

Just another day in the Port fucking Mafia.

Like clockwork, the days turn to week and into months.

He goes on missions, some abroad, others local.

The agency’s exoneration makes the news which he occasionally reads through cigarette smoke on Kouyou’s couch all sprawled out on quiet mornings.

There’s no news about Dazai – either in the paper or otherwise – but that’s expected. The charges weren’t dropped per se but it’s not a good look that the highest, most security max prison had a break – a place that isn’t even supposed to exist mind you.

He’d bet his hat that it was Ango who persuaded the higher-ups to quickly let the younger go unchecked lest they risk a P.R. disaster on top of the already cowering apology to the Armed Detective Agency.

In all honesty, he forgets.

The tender moments and harrowing fear – the whole ordeal between life and death on the plane becomes just another thing he buries because he can’t linger too long on that bandaged idiot without spiraling into a mess of anger and frustration.

 He spent 2 years repressing the thoughts, what’s another 2 months?

Perhaps that’s why it’s all the more bruising when Mori calls him into his office on some gloomy Tuesday morning.

(Oda died on a Tuesday, a quiet unassuming death.

That week was a long blur of changes and paperwork and bubbling anticipation for a brighter tomorrow – a week where he hardly had the time to notice Dazai holed up in his shipping container or Mori’s manic fury.

They celebrated the permit with a profligate party all weekend, half a billion-yen affair with everyone drunk with victory and absinthe.

He was thoroughly hungover on Monday.

And then Dazai said his final goodbyes on a Tuesday, even if Chuuya hadn’t known it.)

“Ah Chuuya,” Mori said smiling at his desk. “Do come in.”

By contrast to his Ane-san, his office is bleak. Usually, a few of Elise’s clothes or toys strewn about, but otherwise it’s devoid of anything except his desk and a small lounge chair, often enshrouded in darkness by the closed blinds.

Today it looks particularly like a tornado of her things have been thrown about. Said girl is pouting on a plastic pink stool facing the corner.

Kouyou, as beautiful and sharp as ever, is waiting by the desk, her hands folded deep within her flowing robes, a sullen look painted on her face.

 Chuuya bows respectfully, pointedly ignoring Elise’s huffing sob that echoes around the room.

“Boss,” he greets as he rises. “Kouyou-sama.”

“I’ll be going to collect our well-earned prize today.” He explains calmly. “Kouyou was supposed to come with me but,” He laughs, eyes boring daggers into her, “She finds herself preoccupied suddenly.”

Her eyes narrow as she glares off to the side. Had her makeup not been so perfect, an embarrassed blush might have been seen dusting her cheeks.

“Kouyou had instructed me to handle something at the brothel today.” He says casually, though it’s a slight bend of the truth. “Surely I can attend to whatever she was meant to do as well.”

While it’s true that their duties are something intersected, it isn’t often that they completely regale a task to an executive of a different division.

Nonetheless, they are still close after all these years. She occasionally oversees minor drug transactions, and likewise, he’s helped settle disputes at the shops.

It’s just that today isn’t one of those times.

And apparently, his fib was the wrong answer as Mori’s laugh only grows louder and darker. “Kouyou tried to say the same thing to me, but unfortunately, I believe both tasks require her attention.”

“I don’t see why two executives are needed at the agency,” She snaps, her face still turned towards the door. “Why not take Akutagawa or Gin for protection if you’re this worried.” 

Chuuya nearly raises a brow but knows better than to react, though it isn’t often Kouyou goes toe-to-toe with the Boss in front of him.

“You want me to accompany you to the agency?”

“Indeed.” Mori responds, “I think it will be good to see your old friends, no? You’re somewhat of a liaison with the agency what with all the time you’ve been spending with them.”

He nods because he doesn’t trust the growing pit in his stomach to not expel itself out on the carpet if he were to try and speak.

“You’re not bringing Dazai back!” Elise screeches from her timeout, “He’s mean, and he doesn’t play nice!”

“Now Elise,” Mori scolds, unusually sharp with the girl, “I told you. Osamu isn’t returning with us.”

Kouyou once again looked away, face pinched with anger and something else Chuuya couldn’t identify. There’s a subtle yet halting swish of her kimono. 

“Who we taking then?”

Her ire turns tartly toward Chuuya but there was an insatiable curiosity he couldn’t help; that flickering anger from the plane was stalking back and he viscerally remembers how much he hated the feeling.

Yet another reason his adolescence was stained with angst was the undeniable hatred for always being the slowest in the room whenever Mori and Dazai decided an executive meeting was the perfect time for a mental spar. While Kouyou and the others had age and seniority as excuses to tune it out – he just couldn’t help the insecurity.

“Junichiro Tanizaki.” Mori replied calmly that eerie smile once again plastered on his face, “We all agreed he would be the best suited for the Mafia life; that sister of his will be the perfect leverage for his compliance.”

A question lingered on his tongue unspoken; he didn’t remember taking a vote.

“Oh, sorry my boy,” Mori tsks, voice silky and soft, “You were away in Berlin remember? Kouyou voted on your behalf; surely you don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” He replied cooly, fingers suddenly itching for a cigarette, “I trust her judgment as well as yours and the rest of the executives.”

“Yes,” Mori rises from his seat with a pleased sigh, “Just as I predicted.”

Chuuya only nodded, waiting for a dismissal and trying very hard not to think about the impending chaos of this transaction when suddenly Kouyou’s red eyes catch his.

For just a second – as Mori was distracted trying to bribe Elise out of her tantrum, busying himself with his coat – she looked devastatingly sorry. It’s a sudden and far cry from her earlier sentiments that morning months ago.

Her eyebrows knit together, lip reddening as she bit into it before her expression settled on a wretched frown that dryly parts almost to say something.

But then her shoulders dropped back into a perfectly defeated posture, and with a blink of her eyes, she’s back to that blank porcelain face.

“You ready to go now Chuuya?” Mori questioned, knowing the other can’t refuse, “Oh, and one more thing.”

He walked over to his desk and pulled out a paper bag to hand to him. It had the logo of some luxury brand they once owned stock in – some actually legal company Dazai drunkenly won a part of at a mahjong game years ago. Mori hadn’t been furious per se, though it was an irritated gripe between them for quite a few days.

Dazai now personally owns the stocks, as far as company records show, but every now and again, Chuuya checks the stock price as it continues to rise and rise. A well-timed, anonymous gift of their expensive shampoo or lotion often finding its way to Chuuya’s apartment door after the end of the fiscal quarter.

Part of him wonders if Mori ever gets the same, but with a dead animal buried under tulle and tissue paper.

“Well then,” Mori exclaims cheerfully, stalking his way to the door, hand in hand with a still teary Elise “I’ll be in the car Chuuya, Kouyou needed to tell you something right? I’ll wait for you there while you two finish up business.”

That’s…unexpected to say the least.

The doors allow just a fraction of light before closing again bathing them in once again in near darkness.

Kouyou doesn’t say anything at first. Her hands are still hidden in her kimono, a vaguely uneasy expression on her face.

“Is everything…alright?”

She walks straight past him, as if a ghost had spoken instead, and is nearly out the door when her hands pause on the handle.

“I meant what I said about not getting involved but…I am sorry Chuuya,” She inhales, looking regal and beautiful and still terribly sad. Her eyes peer up through dark lashes, the wounded sorrow all too apparent and horribly misplaced on her usually cold expression, “Will you tell Dazai that too?”

And then it’s just him – once again left in the dark.

The first few days back are…tense to say the least.

Fukazawa, their enduring faithful leader, had locked himself away in mourning.

Only Ranpo was allowed to disturb him, per said detective’s order, though when their boss did make a rare appearance, it was always with a kind tried smile.

There’s a new air of unspoken tension, a thin razor wire that no one wants to break.

Their rebuilding is quiet and somber, but steadfast and undeterred.

The office had been trashed, broken glass and tables unturned – reports and files confiscated by police and vandalism by once friendly patrons.

Kunikida grumbles about the budget; Ranpo is always mysteriously absent for the more laborious tasks.

It reminds Atsushi of his earlier days – the aftermath of the Black Lizard attack.

Except of course now Kyouka is here, a silent little presence trailing behind with heavy books to reorganize, or carrying the tools to Kenji as he, as well as of some his friends from the farm, build them new desks and chairs.

Quietly, he admits, he is a little glad for it. They feel more like family than just a team. Naomi bakes muffins and scones occasionally for their morning briefs and Yosano brightly laughs as they all sulk to her office to get their medical exams redone.

The secretaries, despite the fact they cannot be paid at the minute, still come fluttering in and dutifully refill coffees or bring in newly returned paperwork.

Before long, they settle into the new normal, tension and all, as pieces fall back into place – brighter and stronger than ever.

Even Dazai greets them every morning, only an hour late most days, with a cheery grin and creatively bogus ideas on how to improve the décor.

“A disco ball!” He exclaims, waking suddenly from his nap, “Oh Atsushi can’t you see it now? A glittery disco ball for all our impromptu dance parties.”

“Dance parties?” He questions from his place on the floor. He’s supposed to be helping Kenji with sanding the wood but it’s not going exceedingly well based on Kyouka’s very blunt comments, “Have we ever had a party dance here?”

“My idiot partner only wants one so he can try hanging himself from the ceiling.”

“Oh, I see.”

Dazai flops back down, returning his headphones to his ears, “Ah Kunikida~ why must you always foil my plans.”

A looming shadow rudely materialized to block his afternoon sun, “I believe you still haven’t started your paperwork,” The shadow says with a piercing glare. “I don’t suppose the timeout room would be a more productive environment.”

To the tune of Dazai’s wailing and Kunikida’s tirade, Atsushi smiles happily to himself.

Yes, things really have gone back to normal.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­No one really notices at first.

After the rebuilding, the cases come in one after another – and before long they’re knee-deep in work.

At least two, sometimes three people away at a time.

It was good.

Good for the ADA, good for their fractured hearts, and good for their distracted minds.

Despite the air of lingering tension, that foreboding feeling of something just right under their noses, on the cusp of breaking – they all leaned into the familiar feeling of home rather than looking towards the storm clouds gathering.

Dazai, privately, can’t quite do the same.

Firstly, he’s fucking boiling all the time. It might be the dead of summer, but even in the air-conditioned rooms of the office, he finds himself sweating buckets.

The heat of hellfire is creeping up on him and there isn’t a way to stop it.

Hunger and sleep allude him as his body prepares for the inevitable, a transformation of the soul he regretfully doesn’t even try to stop.

(Odasaku once told him that the mind often knows better than the body.

Dazai was 15, shaking like a leaf and high as a kite on his couch like some wet-managed cat dragged in from the rain.

He has just finished a botched mission with Hatrack

Just finished a session with Mori

He had been fine, perfectly calm and still – and uncracked marble thing no matter how Mori prodded and poked.

The walk to Oda’s was a peaceful saunter through the neighborhood, watching the houses and flats slowly deteriorate as he moved further into the east end of town.

He refused to rush.

Each step burned, a limp just barely noticeable in his snail’s pace but admittedly smiling at the sparse few flowers still growing between the cracks in the pavement.

He waltzed in at half past 4, Oda barely paying him mind from the kitchen as he plopped down on the couch with a lazy sigh.

Then the shaking started.

He was in pain, but he’s always in pain whether it’s an ache in the mind body, or soul - pain is nothing new.

Well.

What was new was Oda fluttering closer and closer to his side.

A blanket gingerly tucked around his shivering form,  tea resting on the table in front of him, and the gentle chatter of a sitcom on TV to detract from his panting breath.

Oda didn’t ask; Dazai didn’t explain.

But they sat there for God knows how long til the panic subsided and all that was left was the comedown of a cocktail of Mori’s drugs and an overwhelming exhaustion on his bones.

He would have been terrified if he had the energy. He wasted most of it on a bitter self-scolding instead.

“Eat,” Oda said, pushing a bowl of noodles in a clear broth into his hands. “And finish the tea.”

He scowls and takes a meager bite, “Not hungry.”

“Eat half then.”  Oda amends because they both know that Dazai will then finish at least a fourth of it.

The TV drones on for the long duration it takes Dazai to stomach the food. It serves as background noise when the food inevitably comes up again and into the toilet.

The acidic bile makes his eyes water, but the tears still seem to sting for other reasons.

“This has never happened before.” He croaks from his place on the bathroom tiles.

Oda, unbothered, is crouched down beside him, rubbing a gentle hand up and down his back. “It’s normal.”

“Not for me,” Dazai snarls, “I’m…” He pauses because of course Odasaku is right and he’s read enough books to know what trauma and panic attacks will do to people – but what Odasaku fails to realize is that he isn’t exactly human.

“It’s not normal for me.” He whispers.

He thinks of torture chambers in the basement and hands roaming his body and needles injecting him with drugs that make his heavy and floaty all at once.

He was fine then, wading through the haze, losing time in a faint blackout only to open his eyes to see his success in Mori’s displeased eyes.

Beady black things among the spirals of colors and questions.

He retched again, dry heaving because, before the noodles, there was nothing else for the past 2 days.

Odasaku’s hands should remind him of terrible things, but they don’t. They’re gentle and constant. Fingers brushing back his long greasy hair and a kind warmth on his back.

Dazai doesn’t explain; Oda doesn’t ask.

But sometime between him blacking out again, almost cracking his skull on the porcelain, and getting tucked into bed, he heard Odasaku’s voice rumbling in his ears.

“Your mind knows danger and safety better than the body, it’s a rare talent I’ve never quite seen like this before.” Odasaku wipes at his mouth with a damp cloth like he’s a child once again, “Your mind knows it’s safe here, so you’re body can finally process everything you’ve been repressing while in danger.” He glances up at the ceiling in thought, “Which appears to be quite a lot.”

They don’t say simple words like I love you or I will always be here – maybe because both were untrue. 

But Oda just smiles thinly at him and pulls the covers smugly to his chest. And Dazai won't impulsively reach for his hand, or beg him to stay but Oda will just fall into a chair beside him with a book in his hands. 

And maybe that was better, maybe it was worse. 

Dazai never returns to Oda lest he allow himself the weakness but sometimes his hand twitches over glasses of whiskey or his voice stutters out an order when it’s just the two of them alone.

After Odasaku dies, there’s never a place for such a luxury like weakness again.)

But now it seems the simple truth has returned and in the absence of other members, he finds his vision tunneling and breath quickening over something as mundane as paperwork.

It’s weak and lonely and Dazai hates everything about this loss of control. 

Oh if Mori could fucking see me now

He does try to pry back the autonomy. For the most part, it works. An outside eye would just see Dazai as stressed out and pale, hunching and hiding at his desk - but even that is a far cry from his usual cool facade. A very careful mask he's painstakingly built is somehow crumbling with every passing second. 

There's no one to keep him in check, no good reason to stave off the meltdown - he would laugh at the irony of this if it wasn't already making him cry. 

Fukazawa in his office, his mind unhelpfully supplies, which means he could potentially come out and see this at any time – but it only manages to stop the tremors.

He bites his tongue till he tastes blood and makes his pulse flatline in hopes it will choke out the hyperventilation.

It works well enough to fool Atushi and Kyouka who come skipping back 20 minutes later.

“Still working on the same paperwork Dazai?” Atsushi says in near amazement.

Dazai lets out a sigh, the practiced lines falling lazily from his lips with flawless execution, "You can never underestimate the value of paperwork, my protege - I prefer to take my time to ensure perfection."

Atsushi looks on with a convinced awe but Kyouka isn't neatly as impressed. 

"You took a nap didn't you?"

He grins and it doesn't feel fake but honestly, would he even be able to tell? 

"Yeah," He lies easily, "I just took a nap."

The inevitable comes 2 months later, a bit sooner than Dazai was expecting but then again, this whole thing must be making Mori impatiently excited.

Naomi exits Fukazawa’s office with a frantic click-click of her heels and for once, doesn’t make a beeline for her brother.

Kyouka sees tears gleaming at her lashes as the older girl hurries past them to the bathroom.

Tanizaki, of course, notices and quickly calls after her.

Atsushi and Kunikida are off on a quick assignment to the city to help settle a minor dispute – which is good, she considers – since they never fare best around anything Port Mafia-related.

Even without Fukazawa’s presence in the office, the grim lines around his somber frown, she knows it has to do with that.

It’s the way Demon Snow’s presence curls protectively around her and her hair rising on goosebump skin.

“Dazai.” He commands and the other sits at rap attention. She can tell he already knows it too. “My office.”

And he follows in, Ranpo and Yosano slinking in as well before the door shuts and clicks with the lock.

It’s just herself in the quiet room, till the siblings come back: Naomi still sniffing tears and her brother rubbing soft circles on her hand.

She honors them with a moment of vulnerability as she pretends to be overly engrossed with her paperwork.

She smiles to herself. It’s a report from a silly little assignment, a favor to Kenji and his family for their help.

Herself and Dazai solving the infamous case of the missing pigs.

It involved an epic chase to wrangle the creatures, the harrowing near drowning in a mud puddle, and the clever arrest of an ability user.

It was Dazai placing Ranpo’s deerstalker hat on her hat, faithfully following her every lead and of course celebratory crepes and ignoring the side eyes from strangers.

Though, it was probably fair considering they were both doused head to toe in mud.

Nonetheless, she works meticulously on her report, mindful of spelling and grammatical errors, taking extra care on her penmanship.

But then Fukazawa’s door flies open, Dazai’s coat billowing as he storms out.

His face hardened with pain; his hands shoved in his pockets.

Just as quickly, he’s slamming the main door closed too, leaving clueless children and all too knowing adults in his wake.

The siblings give a longing glance at the doors but make no move to follow.

She fidgets in her seat, stuck between wanting to yield comfort, an empathic shoulder that remembers all too well the haunting memories of the Port Mafia.

“Stay here, Kyouka-chan,” Ranpo says, slumping in his seat. She hadn’t noticed him nor Yosano came out of Fukazawa’s office. “That’s kind of you but…”

The rest of the sentiment goes unspoken.

But the kindness wouldn’t be appreciated; Dazai’s too full of caustic emotions to care right now.

It’s a kind thing to do but wouldn’t do any good.

Fukazawa steps out, an air of cold authority and lingering sadness trails behind as he straight up to face his subordinates.

“We are having a meeting when Kunikida and Atsushi get back,” He states firmly, “I will explain everything when they return.”

And then he turns back to hide in his office.

She doesn’t blame him.

It’s hard to watch a car crash when there’s nothing you can do – still, it’s even harder to look away.

Chapter Text

Hi....long time no see....

It's with a very very heavy heart I wave a white flag of surrender: this work is on an indefinite hiatus.

I have much more story to tell and angst to deliver but as I juggle two jobs, full-time uni work, and my extracurricular, I can firmly say I am just burnt out.

I haven't looked nor added anything for the 4th chapter draft in a month and I see no real timeline on the horizon.

However, I only say this because I WILL return and I WILL finish this so please do not abandon hope and/or interest.

You guys have been great and kind and lovely and I promise the story doesn't end here. Thank you so much for the support and comments and kudos but I sign off for now

with love,
just a loser with a pen