Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I have a new mission for you all.”

Dazai spins around in his chair, holding the edges of it while absent-mindedly humming a song. He ignores the looks that he can feel on his back, instead opting to play with his cuticles. 

There were 5 of them in the room. The president, Ranpo, Kunikida, Yosano, and Dazai himself. They were sitting at a long table, one that reminded him too vividly of the one he, Elise and Mori used to sit at all those years ago to have ‘family dinners’ so he liked to call. He always found it amusing, considering Elise wasn’t even real to begin with. 

“I’m not gonna call Elise mom,” He deadpans. ‘She looks like she could be my little sister you sick fuck.’ He wants to add. But, he doesn’t. Mori only chuckles.

“Of course not! You’re mine, Dazai, mine only. Just as Elise is only mine as well.” And at the mention Dazai had nearly vomited, thankful for the fact that he had only been playing with his food rather than eating it. His wife. That’s what he called her. Sure, that declaration wasn’t unusual, but it still always made him sick to his stomach to hear it.

But what was Dazai to him? Perhaps a toy, or a doll that he played with over and over again, tempting it to break. A game, even. But, that bit was obvious. He smirks, picking up his glass of water and taking a sip.

A sick and troubled man indeed.

”-zai!” He perks up, but not at the calling of his name. He had heard it, but he had just simply decided to ignore it. No, it was only when the spinning of his chair stopped did that actually get his attention. He looks up at a frustrated Kunikida and watches as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Dazai pouts, slumping in the chair. 

“Kunikida-kun~ You’re so rude to me.. What could you possibly want?” There’s a twitch in the blonde’s eyebrow that he chooses to ignore, though it’s a daily occurrence. So, he’s not shocked when the man takes him by the collar and lightly shakes him.

In fact, he only chuckles, although he knows that if such a thing happened just a few years earlier he would have attacked the man on the spot. Training and self-control, it’s a wondrous thing.

With a look from the president, Kunikida lets go of Dazai with a heavy sigh and sits back down, massaging his temples. Dazai almost feels bad. Key word, almost, because he never does. “Stop zoning out! We’re in the middle of a meeting for gods sake, would it kill you to just pay attention?” He chastises angrily, and Dazai rolls his eyes. “Did you even hear what the president said?”

No, is the answer. But he doesn’t give Kunikida the satisfaction.

Dazai hums, leaning forward and resting his bandaged forearms on the table, taking hold of the folder that was in front of him. He opens it, catching sight of the picture attached to it. It was a building, the size equivalent to that of a college campus. But it wasn’t, it was a high school. U.A High School, to be exact. The most prestigious ‘hero’ school in Japan. This excluded Yokohama of course, they were shut down from the rest of Japan—that included the world as well.

To outsiders, Yokohama was a city dictated by villains. They were wrong, of course. There were no villains here, only people trying to get by, or people with sick urges amongst other things. Dazai knew who he was, and he knew that’s what he would always be. 

Flipping through the folder, he notes the names of the teachers, and the classes. Though he stops on a specific one, his eyes catching the picture. It was a gangly looking man. He had yellow goggles on above his face, and a stubble on his chin. His hair was long and black, and it looked greasy. A sense of familiarity strikes him, and his eyes drift over to look at the name and, oh of course— 

He doesn’t given a physical reaction. Not a twitch of his muscle, not a facial expression, not a sound. He just stares, indifferently. But his inner turmoil? It’s different. He reads the name over and over again. Shōta Aizawa, Shōta Aizawa, Shōta. Aizawa.

This wouldn’t end well, but what choice did he have? Sure he looked different now, but did he look different enough to fool his dearest brother? He chuckles internally, flipping through pages and looking at the other teachers with a thoughtful expression.

”So.. the mission is to infiltrate U.A., the top school for heroes in training that also employs pro heroes as teachers?”

Ranpo smirks at his lighthearted questioning, and Fukuzawa speaks up, nodding his head. “That’s right.”

Dazai cackles when he glances over at Kunikida, finding the flabbergasted expression on his face, and his glasses centimeters from falling off his face. He reaches over, lightly pushing them back up onto the bridge of his nose. “There ya go, buddy.” This seems to break him out of his stupor and then the questions come spilling out.

”Excuse me for doubting you, but how would this even work? We’re from a place that’s closed off to everyone, and besides how would we even get close enough to U.A. to be able to conduct this mission in the first place?” At this, Ranpo snaps his fingers, which brings the whole tables attention to him.

He takes his lollipop out of his mouth, putting his feet up on the table and kicking back in his chair. “It’s simple Kunikida! You two will go undercover as teachers, while Yosano-san will become the nurses aid, since her ability would prove to be quite useful to her in some instances.” 

Yosano nods from where she sits, her arms crossed against her chest. She looks concentrated, taking this seriously for god knows what reason.

Dazai whines, pouting, and crosses his arms. Ranpo turns to look at him with a teasing smile. “Are you serious? You two really think I could become a teacher? Me of all people?” Ranpo shrugs his shoulders, putting his lollipop back into his mouth and holding it against his cheek. 

“It’s not about if you can or not, because you have to and you will. Plus, we’ve already forged documents and sent them in! They don’t know you guys are from Yokohama, and besides, you three have already been accepted for the new school year.” This time, Dazai’s jaw drops and he nearly short circuits.

He has to be joking.

Ranpo only raises an eyebrow, continuing to suck on his lollipop. 

Definitely not joking.

He opens his mouth to complain, but Kunikida smacks his hand over it, which elicits a soft yelp from the man, followed by a pout beneath the skin covering his lips. “We’re doing it.” He says to Fukuzawa, but with the way his expression is trained on Dazai he knows that it’s a warning. All he can do is slump back against his chair and sigh.

The president doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow, just bringing out more case files and giving each of the three one of them. “The purpose of your mission is to find out more intel on a man who goes by the name of All For One. His real name is something we don’t know just yet, but we will find out.” The man sighs, “Usually I wouldn’t push the agency into a matter not involving Yokohama, but this is more.. serious.”

Upon hearing this, both Yosano and Dazai sit up straight. She blinks slowly, giving him a confused look. “What do you mean?”

“Apparently, this man was strong enough to almost defeat their top hero years ago. He put him in the ground, but evidence points at All For One still being alive. He’s so dangerous because he knows of ability users, and once finished with Musutafu, his intentions are clear.” Fukuzawa doesn’t have to say the rest, as Dazai’s face turns serious.

”He intends on destroying Yokohama as well.” Dazai finishes, his eyebrows furrowing.

The president only nods, and Kunikida gives a confused look. “He’s just one man, and with the amount of ability users here I’m sure we could take him and whatever army he brings on.” It’s common knowledge that abilities are stronger than quirks, but it doesn’t feel right. Dazai knows there’s a catch, but—

Oh.

The realization dawns on it, and he can tell when Ranpo notices. 

“He can take quirks, and maybe even abilities too.” He deadpans. Fukuzawa releases a heavy sigh.

Ranpo butts in, “I think so, and it doesn’t seem like an idea that’s so far-fetched that it couldn’t be true. And if All For One can take abilities, then we need to cut him down now, before he gets the chance to step foot in Yokohama.” 

The brunette only offers a weak smile, “Ah, of course if you say it it’s true. After all, Ranpo-kun is so smart.”

Ranpo doesn’t smile, he only manages a grim look. “Even though it’s close to impossible, I really hope that just this once you’re wrong about my capabilities, Dazai.”Though Dazai knows he isn’t. Because Ranpo may be smarter than him, but Dazai was smart too. All evidence pointed to this outcome, and Dazai knew it.

”Wait, hold on a second—if it’s a villain we’re looking for, why are we going to work at a hero school?” He asks, and Ranpo seems to beam at the question. Cocky bastard. But he was so admirable too.

He leans forward in his chair, glancing to Dazai. “Do you wish to say the words?”

The brunette only shrugs, “Because there’s likely a traitor at U.A. working for him. If we bust the traitor, then we’re a step closer to finding him and taking him out.” 

Kunikida shook his head, “But if the number one hero of Japan couldn’t stop him, what makes you so sure the Armed Detective Agency will be able to?”

Instead of Ranpo speaking up this time, the president does, clearing his throat and resting his hands on the table. “When the time comes, you’ll know how we’ll pull it off, but for now, you need to focus on the current mission—finding the U.A. traitor.”

The room remains silent for a moment before Dazai is glancing up and opening his mouth, looking the president straight in the eye. “The school year starts in a month, what do we have to do to prepare for it?”

Dazai Osamu wasn’t always like this.

When he was Shūji Aizawa, he remembered being a happy child, a child who didn’t have to hide behind fake emotions in order to convince the world that he is truly human. Because Osamu isn’t human, there’s just no way.

Shūji however, was as human as they come. His skin was plump and full of life, his eyes sparkling with excitement anytime someone mentioned anything sweet. It was still like this, however. At least one thing still stayed the same. Shūji had quite the sweet tooth, and so does Osamu.

Sometimes he wonders what would have come if he had just opened up about his struggles to his family. Perhaps he would’ve continued to be bullied for being “quirkless”, and instead of trying to kill himself he went to see a therapist. The thought disturbs him even now, and he has to take a step away from the memories.

He loved Shota dearly, he remembers. He had called him Sho-Chan as a child, and the name had stuck like glue. Not that Shota had minded it, of course he hadn’t—any nickname from his baby brother was something precious and cherished, something only reserved for the brunette.

Sometimes people questioned if they were really even siblings, as he just looked so different from his brother. They had gone as far as accusing his mother of an affair, which upset him greatly. Shota always defended him though, claiming that Shūji just looked more like his mom, which wasn’t false. They were practically twins, and even now—he seemed to have grown into his looks. Or, he should say, her looks. It was as if someone had copy and pasted the two. Of course, he didn’t mind up until this point. It would become troublesome to hide.

Shota’s friends seemed to like Shūji as well. He had met Hizashi when he was 9 years old, he was a very energetic blonde teenager who just loved to talk. He hadn’t expected Shota to become friends with someone like that, it was just so unlikely to him—but it felt right. 

And well, the glue to this friendship was known other than Oboro Shirakumo. A very polite young man, who took Shūji riding on a cloud every now and then without Shota’s knowledge. He was his favorite of Shota’s friends, no doubt.

So, when Shirakumo died not long after, Dazai remembered being sad. Not as sad as Shota though. He couldn’t be there for his brother in the way he needed, which is what killed him. Because he was too young and too naive to understand.

But, it seemed that just being in the black haired man’s presence did enough to at least bring a temporary smile to his face. Shota refused to cry in front of Shūji, a fact he didn’t comprehend until he was much older, and a member of the port mafia. Perhaps it was because he would feel embarrassed, or because he didn’t want Shūji to see his role model in such a way. Either way, it didn’t matter.

The day Shūji went missing was the day Shota finally cracked, it had been the second worst day of his life. But the first? Was the day he was announced as dead. He was 22 years old, and for the first time in his life he had a break down so bad Kayama had to put him to sleep in order to keep him from harming himself or the people around him. 

At first, he didn’t want to believe it. There had been no body recovered, so how did they know he was actually dead? Even on the day of the funeral service, he was still convinced that Shūji wasn’t truly dead, starting arguments with those around him.

How could they do this to Shūji? How could they just give up on him? That’s not what he deserved. 

But as days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months with no answer, Shota knew that Shūji wasn’t coming back. He knew that his little brother had also taken his life.

They had found a suicide note in his room when they were clearing up it out. The parchment was stained with blood and something else that he could only describe as tears, and once he read over it new tear stains would soon adorn the paper. He had folded it up, shoved it into his pocket and left the house just like that.

There was no more reason for arguing. No more reason for searching. No more reason for waiting up at night in hopes of Shūji somehow finding his new address and showing up at his doorstep. Because Shūji had killed himself, because he had wanted to be dead.

And eight years later, that very thought still haunts him into eventful sleeps. They ranged from finding Shūji hanging from a ceiling, being unable to get his heart started again once he pulled him down, to the boy slitting his wrists open to the bone right in front of Shota, and him being able to do nothing but watch as the light faded from his eyes.

It was torture.

Shūji plagued his thoughts while he was sleeping and while he was awake. Everytime he closed his eyes, he would see his little brother, mangled beyond repair, and in those moments he’d become so much more grateful for his quirk. Using it meant that just for a bit he didn’t have to blink, didn’t have to succumb himself in that darkness and get the smallest flashes of his soft, baby like face.

On nights where his younger brother was all he could think about it, he find it helpful to stare up at a starless sky, which is where he found himself now. He wondered, if heaven really existed, is Shūji finally happy up there? 

He sincerely hoped so.

Lying atop of the roof of he and Yamada’s house, he tucks his hands under his head, ignoring the feel of the material scraping against his bare arms. He had just returned from patrol, changed into his pajamas and immediately went up to think—something he did often.

He can smell the familiar scent of Yamada’s cherry scented shampoo before he sees or hears him, sitting up and glancing over to where his husband is climbing the roof. The blonde walks over to him and sits beside him wordlessly, wrapping his arm around him and pulling him in closer.

Shota allows it, resting his head against his shoulder without even a peep, nor a second thought. They don’t speak, only sitting in silence, enjoying one another’s company. Yamada’s places a kiss on Shota’s temple, and the raven haired man can feel the tears building up in his eyes, blurring his vision.

I miss you, Shūji.

Somewhere, hours away, Dazai sits against a tree trunk, looking up at the stars through the small cracks of the branches. For once there’s a glum expression on his face, something that only he allowed himself to show once he was alone. It was a major improvement really. If he were still in the port mafia, it wouldn’t be like this.

But he wasn’t there anymore.

He finds that a heavy weight lifts itself off his shoulders once more upon being reminded of that fact, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He tilts his head back against the tree, closing his eyes.

Thank you, Odasaku.

Late at night, in the principals office of U.A, a rodent sits at the desk, scrolling through applicant forms and clicking through them. However a few forms catch his eye, more so one of them. Clicking onto it, his beady eyes widen a bit.

The man in the picture has short deep brown hair and lighter brown eyes, and it shows that he’s had quite a bit of experience with teaching kids. But, what he finds is that he’s quirkless. Nezu hums quietly, a small smirk finding its way onto his face. How interesting.

When he scrolls to the next file he sees another man with long blonde hair, pulled into a thin ponytail. He seems to have some sort of quirk that allows whatever object he writes into his notebook to become useful.

Nezu squints, resting his furry cheek onto the palm of his hand. How useful.

Finally, the next file—a woman with dark brown hair and purple undertones. Her quirk? A healing one, allowing her to heal anyone back to full health so long as they are half dead. How overpowered. 

There’s something about the three of them that causes him to move their applications into the accepted folder, sending out the email almost instantly. They all come from the same hometown, something they can’t be a coincidence. He doubts this Dazai is quirkless, and he’s determined to find out exactly what the man is hiding.

But for now, he closes his computer and spins around in his chair without another thought on the matter.

Chapter Text

The car ride is quiet, a bit too quiet for Dazai’s liking. He rests his chin in the palm of his hand, looking out the window while the other hand rests on his seatbelt. His mind is swimming with all sorts of thoughts, ones that cloud his gaze.

Kunikida is sat beside him and Yosano is up front in the passenger seat, talking to the guy driving them to their destination. It’d be a particularly long one, especially since they had to take certain roads in order to get out of the city and into Musutafu without being seen, but that didn’t bother Dazai much. If anything, the car ride gave him time to plot out just how this all would go.

He knows Kunikida is thinking about it, but he isn’t analyzing the situation as much as he should be, and that’s a problem in itself. But, there wasn’t need to worry—with Dazai there, Kunikida could just focus on carrying out the mission rather than the mental aspect of it.

I’m such a good friend, Kunikida should be nicer to me! 

As if the man had heard his thoughts he turns to look at Dazai, and the brunette blinks, lifting his head and looking over at the other man. They don’t exchange words, only staring at each other, before Kunikida’s gaze drops and he looks at the back of the seat again.

But even from the angle in which his hair is covering his face, Dazai can see the light red flush on his cheeks. Ah, he must be thinking about it

Kunikida and Dazai were to act as lovers. Well, more-so a married couple. He wasn’t exactly sure why Ranpo required this, but he supposes it could make sense as to why three people from the same city applied to work at U.A. (and got accepted, he’s have to look into that later). If he were to explain the reason he and Kunikida were teaching at U.A., he would just say he didn’t want to be apart from his husband.

The brunette shudders upon hearing the word in his mind once more, shaking his head. It would take some time to get used to such a title, even if it was for a mere mission and not a lifetime occurrence. He found himself feeling upset at that fact for a split second, before it washes away and he turns his gaze out to the window once more.

”Huh? What did you say?” He knows Kunikida heard it, but it’s just too unbelievable. “You said, you—“

Ranpo cuts him off with a tiny smile. “While undercover, you and Dazai will be married, so to say. We have made official documents to say so!” That’s definitely not legal, Dazai thinks. But if it’s for the good of the Armed Detective Agency, he’s sure it doesn’t really matter.

The had only brought chuckles from Yosano and Dazai, while Kunikida looked as if he would soon suffer an aneurism. No matter, it’s nothing Yosano couldn’t fix.

The blonde fixes his stare onto Dazai, looking nothing short of flabbergasted. “You knew about this?!” Dazai shrugs, flicking at stray specks of dust on the table, clearly unbothered. That seems to bother Kunikida even more.

Fukuzawa wasn’t in the room, deciding that Ranpo would be the best choice to break the news to them. And, obviously, the president was right as always—because it seemed Ranpo knew how to handle the situation in his own Ranpo way.

Kunikida throws his hands up. “I— Why can’t I be married to Yosano! Or why can’t Dazai just be married to Yosano?!” Ranpo takes the lollipop stick out of his mouth, throwing it into a trash can beneath the table and grabbing another, unwrapping it.

”Because you and Dazai are work partners, and you two know each other the best. I can’t imagine Yosano would be comfortable being fake married to people she doesn’t know as well as she should, right?” He glances at Yosano, and the woman just shrugs her shoulders and raises her hands, turning away as if she didn’t even want to be apart of the situation.

Kunikida doesn’t stop his glare from showing this time, raising his eyebrow. “Okay, well, how about nobody gets married? How about that?”

Ranpo shakes his head, “It ‘outta be suspicious if three random people from the same small city were to apply at the same school hours away from their actual town. So, it’d be less suspicious if one was a married couple and the other was just a random doctor looking for a job.” Kunikida doesn’t say anything after that, but it’s obvious he’s unhappy.

The brunette can hear the way the blondes jaw clicks before he goes quiet, looking particularly feverish in the face.

”Kunikida, you don’t look so well, do you need me to conduct a small check up?” Yosano teases, and Dazai’s laughs freely.

”I’m fine!” He hisses, looking off to the side, resting his chin in the palm of his hand, his fingers splaying out across his skin to hide the color—something Dazai doesn’t miss.

Dazai glances over at Kunikida once again, who is now looking out of the window himself. There’s a brief silence, before Dazai speaks up with a soft smile.

“I wonder if I’ll be able to find another painless method of suicide there..” The brunette hums, placing a finger on his chin. Kunikida’s head snaps up, glaring at him. “I wonder if the U.A. building is high up enough that if I were to jump I’d die.” Releasing a quiet sigh, Dazai places a hand on his chest. “Goodness, the recovery would be so painful.” He murmurs with distaste.

He looks up at Kunikida with puppy dog eyes, moving across the seat a bit towards him. “If you were to find me, would you put me out of my misery since you hate me so much right now?”

The woman up front snorts, and Dazai can see the way Kunikida’s nostrils flair at the question. He braces himself as his head is slammed into the window of the car, and he whines, letting out a soft ‘ow’ and moving to cradle his own head.

“Ahh.. Kunikida-kun is so mean to me.. You have to learn to be nicer if people are gonna believe we’re married!” He says, the words meaning to be saddened, but they just come out as condescending. His partner only rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “Nobody would believe it anyway. And I don’t hate you, so quit joking about that Dazai, it’s not funny.”

His gaze lingers on the blonde for a moment longer before he huffs, turning his head and instead leaning back against the seat. The car was so tense, he hated it.

Maneuvering his body, he places his legs on the center console, drawing an annoyed sound from Yosano, though she makes no move to push his feet away and off of it. Truth be told, all he wanted to do was get the tense feeling out of the cramped space—and luckily, it had worked.

He reaches for his bag that’s sitting on the floor and unzips it, pulling a folder out of it. He opens the folder, looking over the files of the teachers and pro heroes once again.

The first one he sees is a woman with long hair and light blue eyes. She was beautiful, surely if he asked her to do a double suicide with him she’d accept. Kayama Nemuri, Pro Hero: Midnight. Her quirk was interesting. She could emit a gas that put people to sleep. Helpful, yes, but it wouldn’t work on him.

Dazai hums as he continues looking over the teachers, then reaching the guidance counselor, who was called Hound Dog (if anyone saw him flinch they didn’t say anything, and it definitely didn’t happen.)

However, he hesitates when he gets to the next person. A man with long blonde hair that was put up in his hero costume, and an overly optimistic facial expression. He looked like Dazai, except the emotion was real. Hizashi. Oh, he missed him. Sure, he had been a bit obnoxious but Dazai had known that after Oboro’s death, Hizashi helped him the most. So for that, he was thankful.

He already knew everything he’d needed to know about his quirk, so he continues to flip through the pages, paying attention to hero names now rather than their real names.

Ectoplasm, Vlad King (weird, but okay), All Might, Cementos—

Wait a minute.

He flips back to the page almost instantly, looking over the file. All Might would be teaching at U.A. What a turn of events, huh? Dazai smiles a bit, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. If the number one hero worked at U.A, it would bring much more attention to the school than before.

They’d be subjected to more villain attacks, most definitely—even despite the security protocols of the school. This could be good for their mission, and it definitely made finding All For One just a bit easier.

“Kunikida-kun! Take a look at this, then show it to Yosano-san.” He hums, handing over the file. Once it’s in the blondes awaiting hands he watches for a moment for a reaction, and when he gets one it’s what he expects. That furrow of his brow, and the twitch of his bottom lip—something he did when he was concentrating, Dazai came to learn.

There’s silence before the man slowly nods, looking up at Yosano, who’s staring at the two of them curiously. “The hero that defeated All For One is working at the school this year.”

Her brows jump and she takes the file, looking over it. “Really? That’s.. a bold move. The number one hero working at a high school. Wouldn’t that put the students in danger?”

Dazai shrugs his shoulders. “To be fair, it’s a high school for future heroes. Also, I’m sure they’ve already thought out the possibility. If U.A. is as guarded as they say it is, no ‘villain’ will be able to get in without struggle—possibly not at all with the number one there.”

“Still a high school though.” She hands the file back to Dazai, and he tucks it back into the folder with a soft hum. “I guess you’re right.” Yosano responds finally, leaning back against her seat and closing her eyes. I have a feeling this is going to be a lot funner than I initially expected it would be.

The apartment that the president had set up for he and Kunikida was only five minutes away from Yosano’s own apartment where she lived alone. which was convenient enough while also avoiding suspicion. He’s sure that by now the U.A. principal has looked deeper into their files, but he wouldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. 

Dazai and Ranpo both knew of how intelligent the rodent was. so he was sure he’d need to be careful when it came to Nezu. 

When the two step into the apartment he immediately drops his two bags, slumping down onto the floor, right onto his face. “I’m— TIRED!” He all-but shouts, his cheek pressed against the cool flooring. He can hear Kunikida sigh deeply from behind him, and decides to just ignore it. He lays flat on his stomach now, stretching out as if he were attempting to make a snow angel. Just.. the wrong way. 

The apartment isn’t much, but it’s nicer than anywhere he’s ever lived (sorry not sorry, ADA dorms). The air conditioning is turned all the way up because of how weirdly humid it is outside, and he finds himself uncaring of the bill because he knows the president is covering it.

Ah, the perks of being a sugar baby.

Not actually, though.

The blonde man walks past him and disappears into a room with his bags. When he comes back out, his bags are gone and he’s rolling up his sleeves a bit to expose his wrists (Dazai stares much longer than he should). 

“Get up, we have things to talk about.” Kunikida says, and Dazai groans, though forces his body to sit up before pushing himself up all the way, onto shaky legs. Slowly, he trudges over to the long couch and plops down. Kunikida doesn’t sit next to him, instead Dazai watches as he sits down in the love seat. 

When Dazai gets up to join the man, he holds his hand up, signaling him to stay there. He sighs dramatically, slumping back into the chair with a little pout. “Gosh, how are we going to pull of being husbands if you can’t even sit next to me? We’re gonna have to put on quite the show in the teachers lounge, you know~”

Kunikida takes his glasses off, holding them in one hand as he rubs the bridge of his nose. He then puts them back on, sitting up straight and looking directly at Dazai. “Listen, I need to lay down some ground rules.”

Wiggling his brows, Dazai sits up as well, leaning forward. “Ooo~ Sounds fun, you gonna lay me down too?”

As Kunikida sputters at his words, Dazai just cackles meanly, wiping away a stray tear that threatens to fall down his cheek. “Gosh you should’ve seen your face! You looked so disgusted and horrified! I have never seen that expression on you before.” The blondes cheeks are also flushed bright red, but he won’t tease him for that, it seems too mean after all. Even for Dazai!

When the blonde finally calms down he just sighs, “Listen, Dazai. I’m sure you aren’t happy about this decision, just as I’m not but—“

“Not happy? Oh I’m beyond excited!”

“—but, with a couple of rules I’m sure this won’t be too bad.” Dazai purses his lips but nods along, encouraging him to continue. “First, in public we will not do anything too crazy. Holding hands, hugging, and perhaps even a kiss on the forehead or cheek is fine. Anything more, I will not stand for. In private, we can drop the act.”

These seem like fair conditions. The brunette nods and hums, kicking back and resting his shoe clad feet on the coffee table in front of the couches. Kunikida’s lip curls back, but other than that he doesn’t say anything.

Dazai waits for him to speak, but when he doesn’t he hums. “Is that it? Cool! I agree to all of those rules I guess, but I have two of my own!”

The blonde looks over at him with curiosity, and he stands up, walking over to the man and sitting beside him. “Firstly..” He pulls something from his coat pocket, a box, and opens it. Kunikida’s breath catches in his throat.

In the box is a delicate wedding ring with a polished white gold band, glimmering beneath the soft living room light above them. There was an initial inside, his initial, Kunikida realizes. The edges were slightly rounded, and it looked to be a perfect fit for his own finger.

If he weren’t so flabbergasted, he’d be a bit freaked out that Dazai seems to know his exact ring size.

When he looks up from the ring, the man gives him a relaxed smile and gently takes his hand. He slides the ring onto Kunikida’s finger, and lightly pats his hand. “We can’t play the part without the rings, right?”

He’s still speechless when the brunette pulls out another box with a ring that seems to be identical in it, and takes it out. He holds it up to Kunikida, looking at him expectantly. “Do the honors?”

Kunikida only realizes after a moment of staring before gritting his teeth, unaware of the color staining his cheeks. But Dazai is. Painfully so. And it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Taking the ring out of the box, he hesitantly slides it onto Dazai’s thin finger. The jewelry looks weird on his hand, which would usually be bare, but he finds himself looking at it much longer than he should be.

When he looks back up, Dazai is smirking, and he scoots away from him. “My second rule is that you don’t beat me around at school, no matter how annoying I get—because it would only look like I was in an abusive relationship.” He says in a teasing, lighthearted voice and Kunikida groans.

“Yeah, I can do that.” Kunikida murmurs, and Dazai nods. “Good! I’m gonna go get settled into our room.”

He then stands up, picks up his bags and skips into the room Kunikida had once been in, humming a stupid song he had ‘written himself’ that he came to learn was just about suicide. This idiot.

When he’s completely out of sight, Kunikida turns his hand over and stares at the ring on his finger. It glints a bit, and he presses his lips into a thin line. This was such a strange situation, and he chalked up his feelings to the nerves.

So, the fluttering that comes in his chest as he continued to stare was ignored, instead opting to twist the ring around a bit. Good god, I don’t get paid enough for this.

Dazai lays down on the bed, his shoes discarded somewhere on the floor of the room. His hands lay on his stomach, and he stares up at the ceiling, watching the fan spin ‘round and round. 

He hated it, but his head was plagued with thoughts of Shota. How he was doing, how he acted now, if he still thought about him—no, Shūji. Because Shūji isn’t him anymore, he’s Dazai.

Because Shūji was a human boy with feelings and dreams and aspirations, and Dazai is anything but—just an empty shell that would never be able to truly feel anything but self-hatred and agony again. The agony of the precise, hand drawn lines made by Doctor Mori’s scalpel.

Each one had been a promise to cure his ‘illness’, but it was all just a fucking joke.

”It hurts, Mori-sensei.” He had whined, struggling against the restraints, writhing in the bed. It was well into evening by now, and he would usually be asleep by now (if he didn’t have a mission), but the boss himself had requested his presence. Now he deeply regrets not having stabbed him in the leg and ran when he for the chance.

He opens his mouth to complain more, but a simple, menacing look from the older had gotten him to fall still and quite quickly. It was as if a single look could kill anything in Mori’s line of sight.

The man paused for a moment, holding the empty syringe in one hand and caressing Dazai’s bare, mangled arm in the other. He felt naked without his bandages, and he may as well be with the lack of shirt and the boxers he had on. His body was on display for him, and his gaze was heavy and calculated, which made his skin crawl.

When Mori pulls his hand back and turns away to grab something he visibly relaxes, something he thankfully doesn’t see. Grabbing a small vile, he sticks the syringe into it and begins to fill it with the liquid.

Dazai had learned not to question anymore, because questioning only brought on more punishments. Mori-san was right in everything he did, a fact in the Port Mafia. 

When he turns back around and looks at Dazai there’s a crazed look in his eyes despite the relaxed nature of his face. A small smile tugs at his thin lips, and his boots click against the marble ground as he makes his way back to the brunette. He holds his gaze daringly, never once glancing at the syringe.

He couldn’t show fear, he couldn’t scream, and he couldn’t cry—no matter how much it hurt. And he knows it will hurt.

Mori picks up his limp arm, and Dazai doesn’t fight him, just watching as he flicks the needle. “This won’t be pleasant, but you can take it—can’t you?” He smiles sweetly, and before Dazai can even respond the needle is jammed into his vein without any warning.

Beads of blood push up on his pale skin from the small puncture wound, but the burning hot agony only begins as the mystery liquid is injected into his bloodstream. His eyes widen, and despite himself his leg begins to twitch. When Doctor Mori drops his arm onto the gurney, his head slams back and he grunts, gritting his teeth to keep the scream he desperately wants to let out back in his throat.

Mori watches with that same sinister smile he always has. Fucking sadist. That’s what he would say if he could think. 

Tears well in his eyes, blurring his vision as the sting only gets worse and worse. His arm is beginning to go numb, which would be good if it weren’t for the fact that very numbness was spreading to his shoulder, his hand, and his collarbones. He would have rather taken years of bullying because of his lack of quirk than gone through this. 

Then again, the bullying was the whole reason he was in this situation in the first place. The whole reason why his wrists had bled crimson that day

He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out except for a guttural tune. When he looks back at Mori, he shrinks beneath his gaze. It’s predatory, wanting, and he forces his eyes shut to escape it. The thought shoots through his head in strings of succession, and the shaking and thrashing of his body grows stronger, more uncontrolled. 

I miss my family, and I want to go home.

Dazai reaches up to push his sleeve up, stroking his fingers against the multitude of bandages on his skin, ones that hid his secrets—ones that hid the many scars, some self-inflicted, some not. Osamu Dazai didn’t belong anywhere. Not at the Armed Detective Agency, and not in the Port Mafia. Nowhere he went could be called home, and he’s accepted that fact.

But Shūji? He had a home. He had a family, he had people who cared. But what did it matter? Because now Shūji was dead, and nothing would ever be the same.

Chapter Text

“Come on, Dazai wake up.” The brunette lays sprawled out across the king sized bed, tangled up in the blankets—the sheets quite literally wrapped around his body, restraining him.

He only groans and flails as Kunikida shakes his shoulders, turning onto his stomach with minimal effort and all-but slamming his face into his pillow. The sun peaks out through the open blinds, lighting up the room with its flair.

Osamu didn’t fall asleep easily, so when he did it was a miracle he could stay asleep throughout the entirety of the night. How dare Kunikida wake him up like this?

He can feel the brush of wind as Kunikida picks up a pillow before it hits him, and he doesn’t bother dodging, only letting out a weak whine, rolling onto his back. He lightly tugs at his bandages, opening his eyes and staring up at the ceiling with the one functioning eye he has.

Kunikida only watches him for a moment longer before shoving something into his hands. “Go get in the shower, you stink. I washed and dried your clothes this morning, so you can just put them back on.” Dazai lifts his arm, tilting his head so he could get a whiff of himself. Kunikida was just being dramatic! He didn’t smell that bad.

He blinks slowly, a smug smile spreading against his pale skin. “Oh, Kunikida is just the perfect house husband isn’t he?”

This time he’s able to dodge the pillow that goes flinging towards him, and he laughs freely as he sits up and gets out of bed. Honestly, he was thankful. Dazai wasn’t lazy, he just simply didn’t have the energy to do a lot—so his clothes likely hadn’t been washed in days, maybe even a week. He knows he should take proper care of his coat, for Odasaku’s sake, but some days he just can’t bring himself to do so.

When he stretches, there’s a sickening crack of his bones and an ache in his joints that was always faintly there, just amplified when he stretched. He doesn’t miss how Kunikida flinches when he hears it, but the other man doesn’t say anything about it, just turning and walking out the room.

Dazai sighs, grabbing the clothes and a pair of underwear from his still unpacked suitcase, as well as a fresh roll of bandages. He had bought many for this mission, as he typically used up a roll in just a few days. There was 8 packs of 10, as he wasn’t quite sure how long this mission would last, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough regardless.

Walking out of the room he doesn’t see Kunikida, but he does hear rustling in the kitchen. Heading straight to the bathroom he locks himself inside, turning to the shower and turning it on. Instinctively, he twists it to the hottest setting—one that would possibly burn his skin upon stepping under.

He slowly takes off his sleepwear, avoiding eye contact with the mirror as the clothes fall off his body. He keeps his gaze on the wall adjacent to the door, watching the steam from the shower seep into the bathroom. He had practiced taking off his bandages without looking, so that he wouldn’t have to see the monstrosity that was his skin each time he showered.

The scars were just distant memories of his past failures, his mistakes, and the devil himself. He avoids brushing against the skin, but if he were to do so he’s find the raised scars, pink that stayed hidden beneath his bandages.

When he finishes his arms he pulls off his leg and neck bandages, getting in the shower without a second thought.

The scalding water hitting and burning his skin is a good wake up, and despite hating pain so much he finds that he’s numb to the heat. Thanks a lot, Mori.

His vision blurs as he sluggishly reaches for a washcloth and the soap bottle, pouring it over the fabric and keeping his gaze on the marble wall of the shower as he runs it over his mangled and scarred skin.

It hurts. Not the water, he can’t even feel that—but his scars. He knows how old they are, and he knows that they shouldn’t be hurting but the pain is phantom and endless. He’s learned to live with it though, building up his tolerance as if it were for spice (and his spice tolerance is actually, in fact, the lowest it could possibly be—so what does that even mean?).

He makes the mistake of looking down at his arms in his daze, catching sight of the scars. His breath catches in his throat, and once he sees he just can’t look away, it’s too difficult. Because his arms have multiple eyes scattered across his skin, and they have eyes too. His eyes widen and he immediately slams his wrist into the shower wall.

When he pulls it back, the eyes are bleeding, though they are still staring at him—unblinking. It’s uncanny. Like they know everything about him just from a single look. Or, multiple looks in this case. He lets out a sound that is similar to a strangled whimper of pure distress, a sound that he hadn’t heard from himself in a while, proceeding to slam his arm into the wall over and over again.

Again, again, again. Until when he pulls back, his arm is red, raw, and bleeding. The eyes are crushed down, and when he looks at the floor he can see bits of flesh on the white ground in the shower, what he assumes to be bits of the eyes he had just crushed into mere chunks of red. If he were in his right mind, he’d notice the knocking on the door and the yelling from Kunikida, telling him to ‘hurry up.’ But, all he can hear is ringing in his ears.

His heart rate slows, and as the steam blinds him, he feels at peace. But, when he gets a good look again he finds that the flesh on the bathroom floor is gone, and the eyes were never there. All that’s left is his arm that is beginning to bruise black and purple.

He purses his lips and his face hardens, aggressively shutting off the shower, water falling from his hair onto the floor—water that looks red as it drips off of his forever devil-touched, tainted body.

After an hour, they were out of the apartment, in the car and on their way to U.A. When Dazai had gotten out of the shower, his skin was bright red. He had aggressively dried himself and begin the meticulous process of bandaging himself, one he went through every morning without fail.

When he left the bathroom, Kunikida had begun to question him. What the banging in the bathroom was, and why he took so long. But, he just put on his usual smile that never quite reached his eyes, telling him that he had just dropped something and not to worry about it. He had also mentioned that he had to bandage his arms and neck before the two of them left. After that, Kunikida didn’t push for an answer from him anymore.

Earlier in their partnership, Kunikida had questioned why he had so many bandages on him, and the only answer he had gotten was that it was some sort of ‘fashion statement.’ But that just wasn’t the truth, and he’s sure the blonde knew that as well. Kunikida knew it was a touchy subject, so he never asked him why he wore them or what was under again.

Dazai’s seat is laid back fully, his legs stretched out, feet on the dashboard as Kunikida drove. He could drive if he wanted to, but Kunikida refused to let him—something about breaking the law. So what if he didn’t have his license? He was still a damn good driver! Most of the time.

… Sometimes.

When he looks at the blonde from the corner of his left eye, finding that the man isn’t looking at him—but his jaw is clenched and his eyebrows are furrowed, as if he’s annoyed. Dazai laughs silently, turning his head to look out the window, watching the trees pass them by with a blank expression.

“Heyy, Kunikida,” He whines, and the man beside him twitches. “You look like you’d be a good teacher? What were you again? A math teacher?” When the man murmurs out acknowledgment, something he takes as a yes, he lets out a sound similar to an ‘oof.’ “Yikes.. I feel bad for you. That’s like—trauma in itself, ya know? And now you’re gonna be a math teacher again ?”

The blonde sighs, shaking his head. “It wasn’t bad. I loved my students, they were great.” Dazai raises his brow, and Kunikida elbows him in the gut, causing the man to lurch forward and hold his stomach. “Ow! What was that for?!”

Kunikida doesn’t respond, and Dazai just huffs and pouts. “Well that was your last hit of the day, because once we get to U.A. you can’t do any of that nonsense anymore!” He crosses his arms and closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat.

He could tell they were getting closer to U.A., he didn’t even have to look to know. He hadn’t been here before, but the pathway he studied was familiar. Just one more turn and—

Dazai opens his eyes, and when he looks back out the window the hero school was in his line of vision. It was so much bigger than it looked in the pictures, but of course that was expected. Things weren’t always as they seemed.

He hums quietly and looks over at Kunikida who, despite himself, is staring at the school in awe. The brunette just smirks and watches as the man pulls up to the parking garage. He slows to a stop as they reach the gate and he rolls down his window, grabbing his badge and showing it to the man at the gate. The man raises his brow and looks over at Dazai.

Dazai just sighs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out the badge as well and flashing it to him, almost impatiently. After a moment, the gate lifts and they drive into the level. There were two levels, and Kunikida had chosen to park on the lowest one.

When the car was parked, he turns it off, and Dazai sits up. Fixing his seat back to normal, he clips his badge onto his lanyard and places it around his neck, on top of where the bandages fit snug against his skin.

Before he can reach for the doorknob, the car doors lock and he blinks slowly. “Ah.. Kunikida, don’t tell me you’re about to try and kidnap me? You know, I don’t mind—but you could’ve asked me what I was into first.” He looks over at the blonde, who looks at him with exasperation in his expression.

“Please remember that we are going to be talking to our new colleagues. Be on your best behavior.” Dazai goes to speak but Kunikida holds his finger up. “And do not spout your suicide nonsense, only god knows how they would react.”

The brunette frowns. He was right, in some way. They’d probably look at him with horror, what the Armed Detective Agency had done when he made his first ‘joke’ (except Ranpo, he just laughed), or they would try and get him into counseling or something. He grew sick at just the thought of it.

So, Dazai just nods, placing his hand on Kunikida’s shoulder, making a display of the ring on his hand with a bright smile. “You got it Kuni! I won’t let you down.” He saluted the man with his other hand and the blonde only murmurs something beneath his breath about this being a mistake before the doors unlocked.

Shota has been awake for 12 hours. He has tried to sleep a bit before his patrol at a quarter past ten. He had only managed 3 hours of disturbed rest before he found that he could no longer stay asleep. And his patrol was nothing short of a nightmare.

He had apprehended 5 criminals, but a larger one managed to body slam him into the ground and good god that had hurt.

The man sighs as he waits at the coffee machine, calloused hands slipping beneath his shirt and rubbing at his back where he knows a bruise is beginning to form.

It was still relatively early in the morning, so he knew he was one of the first people here. Along with Hizashi and the principal himself of course. When the coffee machine beeps he takes his black mug off of it, white words printed in build on the side—Best Cat Dad.

Hizashi had gotten it for him as one of his birthday presents years ago, before they got married, and he had called it stupid at first. But now, he finds himself using it nearly everyday. The blonde had accused him of being a sap, to which Shota just rolled his at, hiding a smile by taking a sip of his coffee.

He adds one sugar and a splash of creamer to his coffee, just how he liked it, before making his way to one of the smaller tables in the teachers lounge. He sits down just as the door opens and Nemuri walks in. He gives her a weak nod, to which she waves before he turns away from her.

Picking up his mug, he takes a long sip of the drink, finding the slight sweetness to how bitter it was comforting. He can feel himself slowly waking, but definitely not enough to be able to hold out the whole day. He was due for at least a 4 hour nap.

He sees his mug down on the table, pulling files out of his bag that he had set down on the ground beside his chair. They were files of each student that had sent in the application for U.A. with information regarding their quirks and other skills.

There was a good variety this year, and even if some of these kids didn’t get into this class, he’s sure they’ll have a good time at U.A. Unless they got expelled that is, but Shota would just have to see if the kids he’d get in 1-A were promising enough to keep around.

Explosions, Half Hot & Cold, Basic Strength Enhancements, Gravity Control, Frog…

Frog? How interesting.

This new school year would come with new talent, as well as new teachers, the man had learned. One of them being the number one hero. He’s unsure why Nezu would hire him, after all it would bring a lot more unwanted attention and publicity to the school.

But, the rodent had said that it would be okay, and it was nothing they wouldn’t be able to handle.

And with All Might came two new teachers. He only remembered their surnames because of how uncommon they were— Dazai and Kunikida. He’d never heard them before. Alongside these teachers, Recovery Girl seemed to have gotten herself a new assistant. A talented woman named Yosano with some sort of healing quirk. As lovely as she may be, he’s making it his goal to not see her too much throughout the school year while working. Kunikida was supposed to be the brand new mathematics teacher, taking Ectoplasm’s place so that he could focus on teaching science.

The man had actually expressed how relieved it made him, having to only grade papers for one subject now. That had made Shota chuckle a bit.

His quirk was something he hadn’t seen before. Sure, most quirks were unique but they always led back to one concept that Shota had seen over and over during his time as a hero. But this was different. Any object he wrote in his notebook would come to life, which was intriguing to say the least, and it could be extremely helpful to them. He wondered what the limitations were.

The third new teacher however, was one that had intrigued Aizawa. He was quirkless. When Nezu told everyone, there had been a collective uproar in the teachers lounge.

“Now now, let’s calm down. With the new laws when it comes to the quirked and quirkless that are now set in place, it’d be good reputation for U.A. to show that we do not discriminate about quirks or the lack of.” Nezu had said, waving his paws.

Kayama speaks up, tilting her head. “What would he be teaching? I thought that we were all filled up for the school year.” Nezu smiles excitedly upon hearing this, hopping up from his chair onto the table.

“We’re introducing a new course this year that Mister Dazai will be teaching—Villain Psychology. It’ll be a deep dive into the way villains act, and how to understand them, per se.”

She nods, sitting back down in her chair.

Shota had raised his brow as Kan stood up, placing his hands on the table. “This is ridiculous! The people will treat us like fools when they figure it out!” He hisses and the black haired man’s brow twitched.

His behavior was beginning to anger him, his mind flashing with images of his younger brother. His quirkless younger brother, who had taken his own life at just fourteen years old because of how cruel this world had been to him. It wasn’t fair, he hadn’t deserved such a thing, and Shota blamed himself everyday for not noticing sooner despite being out of the house when the events occurred.

He watched as Nezu frowned at the man, “This isn’t how a hero should be acting, Vlad King.” Took the words right out of my mouth, He thought.

There’s a brief silence in the room before Kan grumbles something under his breath, sitting back down. Kayama looks worried, and Hizashi looks a bit irritated—likely at Kan’s outburst rather than the fact that a quirkless man had been accepted to teach at U.A.

Most teachers were pro-heroes as well, but those two weren’t. Shota couldn’t help but wonder how the public would react to that.

Shota sighed, tuning the rest of the conversation out and slumping back against his chair, closing his eyes. He doesn’t notice as Hizashi scoots closer to him and takes his hand in his beneath the table. Their fingers intertwine, and he spends the rest of the meeting forcing white noise into his mind.

He internally groans, pinching the bridge of his nose and picking up his mug, taking another sip. He hardly reacts as the rest of the teachers file into the room. All might wouldn’t be here today, called out on a mission elsewhere in Japan.

That’s just great, isn’t it? Chatter starts up in the small space, and Shota leans back in the chair, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling, crossing his arms. He’d only been there an hour, but he already wanted to go home.

The faces that came in were all familiar, leading him to believe that the two new teachers hadn’t arrived yet. Technically, it wasn’t required for them to come, but it would be helpful considering that the two would need to locate their classrooms.

Asides from one of them being quirkless, Shota didn’t care much for the new arrivals. He just hoped that they weren’t annoying and obnoxious. God knows he wouldn’t be able to handle another Hizashi. As much as he loves him, the blonde can be a bit loud at times (most of the time).

He looks over where Hizashi is standing next to Ishiyama at the coffee machine, a bright smile on his face. He looked like he was having a better time than Shota. Nonetheless— the sight brings a smile to his otherwise stoic face, though seen by nobody because of the capture weapon pulled up just below his nose.

The door opening catches his attention and he looks over, a man he doesn’t seem to recognize walking in. He has long dirty blonde hair that’s pulled into a ponytail, and the man glances around the room. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, nodding slowly before turning back to the door.

Suddenly his face goes from neutral to annoyed, “Da—Osamu—! Come here!” First name basis? That’s interesting.

He disappears out into the hallway once again and the rest of the teachers watch as the doors shut. There’s a silence in the room, just waiting, before the door is hauled open again.

The man—Kunikida, he knows now—walks back into the room, his arm stretched out behind him and his fist wrapped around something. A persons collar. “Ow ow! Gentle, Doppo!”

When Shota looks up to the newcomer, who would be Dazai, he freezes in his spot. A feeling of dread waters into his veins, and his hand tightens around his mug until he can feel it giving way. But, he doesn’t remove his hand, he can’t.

Because when he walks into the room, the feeling of familiarity hits him like a train going at full speed, knocking the wind out of him. His eyes widen, and Dazai seems to feel his eyes on him, because he looks over and meets his gaze head on.

His throat goes dry, and it’s like everyone else had evaporated from the room in that moment—leaving only those two.

When he remembers to breathe he tugs his capture tool down, his breath catching in his throat. Dazai’s expression shows nothing out of the ordinary, no surprise, no recognition. To him, Shota is just a stranger.

But to Shota ..

There’s brief hesitation, and he doesn’t see Hizashi looking over at him with a worried gaze. His brows pinch together, and he swallows.

“Shūji?”

The room goes silent, and all eyes are on Shota, but for once he doesn’t seem to care. He has become an underground hero because he wanted to be out of the spotlight, but now it was like that didn’t matter—because everyone was looking at him.

Dazai’s face stays the same, but then his brows furrow and a confused expression makes its way onto his face. He looks behind himself, as if Shota was talking to someone else, then when he finds nobody there he looks back at the hero.

“Sorry— who’s that?”

Chapter Text

“Shūji?”

“Sorry— who’s that?”

An idiot, that’s what Shota is.

The name had slipped from his mouth before he even had time to think it over, but the sense of familiarity was overwhelming. Even if he wasn’t Shūji, the two looked so damn similar.

Dazai (or so he says), looked exactly like how Shota had imagined Shūji to be if he had the chance to grow any older. In fact, he had dreamed about a moment with an older Shūji on multiple occasions, helping him find a good paying job, financially aiding him if he needed it, taking his little brother to as many amusement parks as he so wished because they never had that in their youth.

But those were just dreams, weren’t they?

“… I must be tired, sorry.” He runs a hand down his face and looks away from Dazai’s intrigued expression.

His younger brother had loved cats, so he wondered, if he were still alive, if the two of them could’ve went to some sort of cat cafe with each other.

Upon looking at the man longer, he pin points yet another stronger  feeling of deja vu. His mother, he realizes. He looks exactly like Shota’s mother. A carbon copy, even. Even though he hadn’t seen his mother in years, he could tell. From his hair, to his eyes, to the shape of his face, even to the way he carried himself. There were differences from Shūji though. One was the fact that Dazai was covered in bandages, it seemed.

Due to his sleeves being rolled up, he could see the white material cascading up his arms, covering all inches of his skin—none to be seen by the daylight. Then there was his neck, neatly bandaged, seeming to be tight around his throat. Dazai didn’t show any discomfort, though. He couldn’t help but wonder what lie beneath all of those bandages, what he was so desperately trying to hide.

There also seemed to be something wrong with his right eye. He couldn’t tell exactly, but from afar it was just.. different.

When Dazai speaks up (Dazai, Dazai. Not Shūji. His name is Dazai. Shūji is dead), he looks away from his eyes and instead past his head. “My name is Dazai Osamu, it’s so very lovely to meet you all! This is Kunikida Doppo.”

He points to the dirty blonde man next to him, and the man only raises his brow at him, unimpressed. Shota has to hold back a snort. “I can introduce myself, thanks.” He says, adjusting his glasses and bowing to the teachers in the room. “As you heard from Osamu—my name is Kunikida Doppo. I look forward to working with you all.”

He’s forward and straight to the point, at least he wouldn’t be a nuisance like this.. Dazai kid. He’s nearly convinced that Mic will get along with him just fine.

There’s a brief period of silence before the teachers are speaking again, walking up to the two, offering their hands and introducing themselves. However Shota doesn’t get up from his spot, just grabbing his mug and swishing the coffee in it around.

Kan shakes Kunikida’s hand but doesn’t do so with Dazai, only giving him a nod of acknowledgment, which makes feelings of annoyance and anger bristle in his chest as he recalls the most probable reason for his behavior.

Nemuri and Dazai begin to talk, and he finds himself uncaring of this whole situation now.

Shota sighs quietly, standing up and gathering his things, swinging his bag over his shoulder. He makes his way to the door, but someone stands in his path.

He looks up, tufts of brown hair are the first thing he sees.

Maybe Dazai was a bit fucked. Of course, he knew the man would likely recognize him—after all, his appearance wasn’t altered much asides from the obvious accessory change. But he wasn’t the same. Not by a long shot. And perhaps Shota could sense that, which is why he dropped the topic so quickly.

His playful grin hadn’t left his face when the man had called him out, but inside? His chest was doing all sorts of flips, and he had to force his heartbeat to slow down back to its normal, steady beats.

But no matter, he had a plan for if something like this were to happen. He had a plan for anything and everything. Dazai was a master of deception. It was something Mori had taught him very young—the art of deception. A beautiful thing, the older man had said. And it was definitely something he’d utilize in his life.

Forcing his gaze away from Shota, who’s no longer staring at him, he looks at the other teachers. He knew who all of them were, the files were filled with information. Some public, some not. Their real names, for example.

Kayama Nemuri comes up to him first, offering her hand, to which Dazai grins and shakes. “I’m Nemuri, it’s nice to finally meet you!” The brunette nods his head, a glint in his eyes. “You too! Midnight, right?”

The woman returns his grin, nodding her head. “Yes, but you can just call me Kayama since I’m out of costume.” She winks, and Kunikida stiffens. He ignores it.

Dazai’s smile widens and he’s coming up with some story before he even has to fully think it through. The words slide off his tongue as if they were practiced, sounding truthful to even the cleverest of people.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Kayama-san! My neighbors back at home  just love you!” Then he lowers his voice to a whisper, amusement dripping into his tone. “The women, not the men.”

Kayama stares at him for a few moments before bursting out into hearty laughter, placing her hand on his shoulder, which he wants to flinch back from but doesn’t (he’s trained himself on his reactions). “I like you a lot! I think we’ll be good friends, Dazai-san.”

Dazai’s grin widens, that flicker of mischief dancing behind his eyes. He’s used to this game—playing the charming fool, the unpredictable wildcard. It’s all part of the act, of course. Beneath that carefree exterior, he’s always calculating, always planning his next move.

He catches a glimpse of Shota’s distant expression as he steps aside, and a faint smirk curls on Dazai’s lips. The man’s trying to keep it together, pretending he’s not rattled, but Dazai sees through that. Everyone’s got their cracks, their vulnerabilities. It’s just a matter of finding them.

He glances over at Kunikida, who had drifted away from his side at some point, to check up on him, and he seems to be having an insightful conversation with Cementos—Ishiyama. He merely chuckles before turning attention back to the spot Shota was. Or, should be. Because Shota isn’t there anymore, and when he lifts his head and looks to the door Shota is nearly there.

Without thinking, his body moves on its own, right in front of the doorway. Why did I do that? Oh well. Come up with something, quick.

“Leaving so soon?” Dazai asks, tilting his head with a bright smile. The man just stares at him, his eyes searching his for any sign of recognition before his face hardens, turning stoic once more.

Shota doesn’t answer immediately. He lingers there, looking at Dazai for a moment longer than necessary. It looks like he’s trying to figure it out—trying to convince himself that the tightness in his chest isn’t what it feels like, that this man really isn’t him . But it’s pointless. The resemblance is too uncanny, the same trickle of recognition flowing just below his skin, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it.

“I—” Shota begins, then stops. The words taste sour on his tongue. He can’t call this man Shūji. He’s not Shūji. He knows that, logically, but everything else in him is screaming the opposite.

“I’m not in the mood for a chat.” His voice is flat, too cold. It’s much different from the voice Dazai remembered back in his youth, monotone but filled with just enough warmth towards him. No, not him. Shūji.

Dazai’s grin falters for the briefest of moments. It’s almost imperceptible, but he’s sure Shota notices. The man doesn’t step aside, just stands there with that damn smile still in place. A smile that isn’t his . Not anymore.

“Well then, I suppose I’ll have to get you to talk eventually,” Dazai teases, voice light, a hint of something darker beneath it. He steps closer, and Shota remains where he is—but he looks uncomfortable to say the least.

He takes a step back, no longer caring about the teachers behind him or the watchful eyes of his colleagues. Dazai’s gaze never wavers, and it’s almost as if he can see straight through him.

“Don’t worry, Shota.” The words are gentle, too gentle for the strange intensity in his eyes. “I’ll be seeing more of you soon.” The man looks shocked, his eyes screaming, ‘how do you know my name?!’ But Dazai doesn’t answer the unspoken question. Of course he doesn’t.

And with that, Dazai steps aside, giving Shota just enough space to leave.

Shota doesn’t look back. He doesn’t want to.

Dazai watches as he walks out of the room, the movement normal to anyone else, but Dazai can tell that he’s in a hurry, eager to get out of the teachers lounge. He smiles, holding back a chuckle before turning back to the other teachers.

(He pretends not to notice when Hizashi walks out the room 5 minutes later. It was a good interval of time to not appear suspicious, he notes. But Dazai notices, of course he does.)

“Shota?” Hizashi opens up the door to his classroom, stepping in and closing it behind himself. The blonde turns the lock without a second thought, walking to the desk where the other man was sitting.

His arms were crossed and his eyes were closed, but his head was tilted to the ceiling. He doesn’t open his eyes to look at Hizashi, doesn’t even acknowledge him, he just sighs quietly.

Shota opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He brings his hand up to his face to rub at his eyes, then at the bridge of his nose. Words weren’t coming to him, and Hizashi knew this was a difficult situation.

”He knew my name.” He says finally, and Hizashi frowns. 

“Maybe Nezu told them our names?” He offers weakly, and Shota just huffs, going silent once again. 

He wants to say his husband is just overthinking things, but he can’t. 

Because when Dazai walked in, he had thought the same thing—just not out loud. Dazai was so similar to Shūji. They had the same eyes and the same hair, and if he didn’t know any better he would’ve just said that Dazai was just Shūji pretending to be someone else.

But he knew better, because he had been to the funeral. He was the one who stuck by Shota during the aftermath of Shūji’s death. He was the one who had picked up the pieces of the man’s broken part, gluing it back together with his love and support. Shota had needed him to heal, and the process had taken several years, but it seemed that he was finally getting better.

He would never forget Shūji, but he was beginning to understand that healing didn’t equal forgetting about his brother.

So, when Dazai had walked into the teachers lounge with Kunikida, he had felt guilty for the shock and almost instant annoyance that washed over him. The dislike. Because Dazai would just reopen the wounds that Hizashi had spent so long helping. Not fixing. Helping. Because they could never be fixed. He knew it wasn’t the man’s fault, but Hizashi couldn’t help but feel like it was.

He walks over to one of the many students desks, grabbing a chair and pulling it over to sit it beside where Shota sat. He sits down himself, manspreading and leaning forward, tilting his head and staring at the black haired man with a thoughtful expression.

Hizashi reaches out, gently tucking a piece of stray black hair behind his ear, a sad smile stretching across his face when Shota finally opens his eyes to look over at him. “I’m sorry, Sho.” Is all he says, and the other man squints.

He can tell that he’s trying his hardest not to break, the way his eyes look so glassy is an obvious sign. His calloused palm flattens against his cheek, rough from hero years of hero work, and he caresses the skin with his thumb, smiling when he leans into his gentle touch. He doesn’t say anything for a while, content with sitting in silence. But, after a few minutes he speaks.

“He’s not Shūji, you know.”

The silence comes back.

“I know.”

Another beat of silence. “Are you sure?”

Shota takes a shaky breath, his eyes flicking back to the ceiling as though the answer might be written up there. His throat tightens, and he forces the words out despite the weight in his chest.

“I’m sure,” he says softly, though his voice lacks the confidence Hizashi wishes it had. It’s more like a lie than anything else.

Hizashi watches him closely, his expression soft, understanding the turmoil bubbling just beneath the surface. He knows Shota too well.

“You don’t have to convince me, Sho,” Hizashi says, his voice low and comforting. He reaches out again, a hand resting gently on Shota’s shoulder. “But I can see how hard this is for you.”

Shota’s jaw clenches, and his eyes shut tight. The thought of Dazai—his smile, his voice, the way he felt like Shūji—pushes against the fragile edges of his heart.

It’s like having a ghost standing in the room, an echo of everything that was lost. He wants to scream. He wants to run. But he can’t do either. He won’t.

“I don’t know what to do, Hizashi,” Shota admits, the words coming out raw and unfiltered. “I want to forget, I want to move on, but then... I see him, and it’s like he’s him again, and I can’t... I can’t stop feeling this... this pull toward him.”

His hand curls into a fist on his lap, the frustration building up, the confusion so thick it’s suffocating.

“Shūji isn’t coming back, Sho,” Hizashi says gently, his thumb stroking the back of Shota’s hand. “I know it’s hard to accept. But you’re not alone in this, okay? I’m here. We’ll figure this out together. You don’t have to carry all of this on your own.”

Shota swallows hard, his throat closing up again. He wants to nod. He wants to believe that he can move on, that he can be okay. But every time he tries, Dazai’s face haunts him.

“I don’t know if I can face him again,” Shota mutters. “Not with how he looks, with that smile on his face.“

There’s a long pause before Hizashi responds. When he does, it’s with an understanding that feels more like a weight than a comfort. “But that’s not him. No matter how much he looks like him, Dazai is someone else. And you can’t keep holding onto the past because of a resemblance. You know that, right?”

Shota’s lip trembles before he presses it tight. He wants to shout, he wants to argue, but he knows it’s true. Dazai is not Shūji. But the idea that someone could look so much like him, speak so much like him... it makes it all the more painful.

“I’m just so tired, Hizashi,” Shota whispers, his voice cracking. “Tired of fighting it. Tired of feeling like I’m drowning in this... this memory of him.”

Hizashi instantly pulls him into a hug, squeezing him tightly. "I know. I know you are. But we’re not fighting this alone. Not anymore. I’m right here, Sho."

For a moment, Shota just lets himself sink into the embrace, feeling the weight of everything—his grief, his confusion, his fear—melt away, even if just for a little while.

Hizashi pulls away from Shota, his hand still resting on his shoulder. He’s seen this look before—this fragile wall Shota puts up when the pain becomes too much. Twice he’s seen it. After Oboro, and after his little brother.

He wants to comfort him more, to tell him that it’s going to be okay, but he knows better than to offer false assurances. Not when Shota’s heart is so conflicted.

“You don’t have to go through this alone,” Hizashi repeats, softer this time. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Shota finally meets his eyes, a fragile smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks, Hizashi. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Hizashi chuckles lightly, brushing his thumb against the back of Shota’s hand one more time. “Don’t worry about it. Just don’t shut me out again, okay? I don’t know if I’d be able to handle it.” He says with a soft chuckle.

Shota nods, but it’s a hesitant, reluctant nod. Instead of dwelling on it further he closes his eyes and leans forward, pressing his forward against Hizashi’s.

A man stands at a large glass window pane, his hand behind his back while the other holds up his phone. His neck is adorned with a red scarf, cascading down the suit he wears, the color contrasting with his purple tie.

There’s a thoughtful expression on his face, a small smile that appears when he reads over the message a second time.

Dazai is in Musutafu.

He had kept tabs on the boy since he first appeared back into the general public 2 years after he left the mafia, his obsession running too deep to just forget about him completely. Every thing he did, the Port Mafia boss watched.

The boy had made his life interesting, that’s for sure. Joining the Armed Detective Agency was quite the choice, as Mori recalled that Dazai had never really cared for virtuous acts. It was interesting, to say the least. Oh how Mori wanted to break down those carefully constructed layers and bring back the boy he once knew and loved.

The Demon Prodigy.

As far as he knew, Dazai hadn’t left Yokohama while he was out of the light, because he would’ve known. But now, why the sudden change?

He hums quietly, turning his back to the window and walking to his seat. He places his phone down on the glass table and instead grabs his mug, taking a long sip. It must have something to do with a mission, but even so, why would Fukuzawa-dono risk so much to send Dazai and (likely) his other co-workers out of the city, into Japan, where the Yokohama citizens were so feared?

Mori sits down in his chair, leaning back into the cushion and crossing his legs, resting his forearms on the arms of the chair. In the corner, Elise was sitting on the floor, her red dress splayed out around her small form. She was coloring something, the crayons scattered on the carpet.

He smiles, his gaze lingering on her for a few more moments before it sets forward again.

Mori’s fingers drummed absentmindedly against the porcelain of his mug, the rhythmic tap-tap echoing faintly in the room. He let his mind wander, tracing the threads of possibility. Dazai was a deliberate and calculating boy, he would know, after all he was the one who had shaped the boy into who he was today.

He allowed himself a quiet chuckle, low and soft, as not to disturb Elise. The world outside the Port Mafia was so different, so full of hope and naivety. Did Dazai find comfort in that, or was he simply playing another role, putting on the mask of a hero for his own amusement? The idea of Dazai pretending at virtue was almost laughable, but Mori knew better than to underestimate him. The boy—no man, he had grown into a man so satisfyingly—was unpredictable, a wild card, and that was what made him so fascinating.

“Rintarou! I’m hungry!” Elise pouts from where she sat, and Mori glances over. His gaze softens into something more predatory when he looks at her, and he stands up. “Oh no, we can’t have that, can we, Elise-Chan?”

She crosses her arms and shakes her head with frustration, her movements so similar to that of a real child.

Mori sets his cup down onto the table with a soft clink, walking over to her. The young girl stood as well. “How about some strawberry cake, hmm?” The glint in her eyes tells Mori all he needs to know.

He doesn’t give the mission another thought, picking up the girl and cradling her soft body in his arms.

She looks annoyed, “Put me down, you disgusting man.” Elise says, and he only chuckles, shaking his head. “Now now, let’s behave.” Without another word he’s walking to the door, his hands running through her inhumanly soft blonde hair.

Chapter Text

Kunikida is confused, to say the least.

He had thought the introduction to the teachers had went particularly well yesterday. Of course, if he didn’t count the interaction between Dazai and the Class 1-A home room teacher.

It was all so strange. It was as if they knew each other. Or at least, Aizawa (he had come to learn was the man’s name) knew Dazai from somewhere. But it wasn’t possible. Yokohama was cut off completely from the government of Japan, having a completely different government from the rest.

Nobody could get in or out, and nobody could contact anyone within the city unless it was approved by the Yokohama government.

So how could this man know Dazai?

He wanted to ask Dazai, but he knew that he would get nowhere with the questioning, as the man was a master of evading things he didn’t feel like talking about. That part was obvious, especially when it came to questions regarding his health, or his.. tendencies.

It was an unspoken rule in the agency not to talk about Dazai’s suicidal tendencies—unless he was in true danger of dying. All of his attempts had been brushed off of course, but Kunikida would never forget the day that he had found the man hanging from his ceiling in the dorm rooms.

When he got him down, he had already assumed Dazai was dead. He was too still, and his face was calm—he looked at peace. It had made Kunikida sick to his stomach.

After 5 minutes of CPR the man had begun to breathe again, and he swears that he had never felt so relieved in his life.

After that, he had made sure to put into his daily to-do list to call Dazai twice a day to check up on him, and to make sure he eats at least two meals a day. Sure, he acts annoyed when the man practically forces him to treat him to a meal, but internally he can’t help but feel relieved. Because at least Dazai is eating.

When they first met, he had noted that Dazai was far too skinny for a man of his age. He had originally believed the brunette had suffered from malnutrition, but he had never had the time to prove his theory true, nor did he want to ask Dazai about it.

It was always like that with Dazai—questions that had answers buried under layers of apathy and deflection. Kunikida had long since learned that digging too deep only made the man retreat further into his shell, like a hermit crab clutching onto secrets instead of safety. Still, this new development with Aizawa stirred something uneasy within him. Kunikida prided himself on control, on order, on knowing the variables. Dazai was the exception to every rule, but this… this felt different. This felt dangerous.

Aizawa didn’t seem like the type to involve himself in idle speculation or games. The man was observant, sharp, and carried himself with the quiet burden of someone who had seen far too much in too little time. That look he had given Dazai—it hadn’t been one of curiosity. It had been recognition. And worse, it had carried a hint of sadness. Maybe even regret. Kunikida couldn’t shake the way Dazai had paused under his stare, just for a second, before sliding back into his usual mask of cheerful confusion.

If there was a connection, it wasn’t one that Dazai was eager to acknowledge.

Kunikida sighed, leaning back in a dining chair as the early morning sun filtered through the windows of their apartment. Yosano had come over early, and her and Dazai were sitting on the couch in the living room. Today was the day of the entrance exam, and all the teachers were expected to be there.

He glances over when he hears Dazai’s voice, watching the two of them. Dazai’s hand is held out, and there seems to be something in his palm.

“Can you tell me what these are?” She blinks, and looks down, squinting her eyes and staring at the gathered pills(?) in his hand—all of a multitude of colors.

Yosano hums, pointing them out. “Vicodin, Lipitor, 2 Percocet’s, half a pepto-bismol, and a green m&m.” She says matter-of-factly. Dazai nods, staring at the things for a moment before he brings his hand to his mouth in one quick motion, downing everything with a dry swallow.

Kunikida’s eyes widen and he stands up, staring at the man with a look of disbelief—one that Yosano mirrors. There’s silence for a moment, before she speaks. “… Why would you do that?”

Dazai shrugs, checking his watch before standing up with a small smile, brushing off his coat. “Well, it’s nearly go time! Come on folks.” He walks out of the room, leaving Kunikida and Yosano alone.

He looks over at the purple eyed girl with an exasperated expression, and she sighs quietly. “That’s gonna fuck up his stomach.” She deadpans, and Kunikida just crosses his arms.

“I swear to god, if he vomits in my car I’ll kick his ass..”

Yosano chuckled humorlessly at that, shaking her head as she stood up and grabbed her bag. “He probably will. He probably planned to,” she muttered, more to herself than to Kunikida. There was no real malice in her tone, just the tired resignation of someone who’d known Dazai too long to be surprised by anything he did. Yosano then opened the door and walked out, reaching in her pocket for her keys.

Still, the concern was there—in the way her eyes lingered on the door he had just entered, in the way her fingers tightened slightly around the strap of her bag.

Kunikida knew that look. He wore it himself far too often these days when it came to Dazai.

Following after her, he grabbed his keys and tried to push away the building pressure in his chest. It was too early for this kind of chaos. And yet, with Dazai involved, chaos was practically the default setting. It was exhausting. It was infuriating. But more than anything, it was worrying .

He didn’t understand why the man insisted on participating in such detrimental behaviors—whether it was a cry for attention, an elaborate joke, or something darker that he didn’t want to name. Whatever the reason, it left Kunikida constantly on edge, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like one day, Dazai wouldn’t be joking like that time in the dorms. One day, he wouldn’t get there in time.

He pushes those feelings away and glances over as Dazai exits their bedroom with his bag over his shoulder. He smiles at Kunikida and walks past him, out the door. The blonde stares at the back of his head for a moment before sighing and closing the door, locking it behind him.

Walking down the steps, he finds that Dazai is already in the car, the door slightly opened because he’s sure the car is hot. There’s no way it isn’t. It’s nearly 90 degrees, and with the extra layers of bandages he wears on his skin Kunikida is sure he’d get uncomfortable in the heat rather quickly.

Yosano had already left in her own car that was waiting for her when they reached Musutafu, as to not draw suspicion to the three of them all arriving at the school together at the same time.

He walks over to the drivers side, opening the door and puts the key into ignition, twisting it. He turns the air up and glances over at Dazai as he closes the door completely. The man looks at Kunikida with a bright grin, and he can’t help but give a small smile back.

“Hey, what kinda quirks do you think we’re gonna see?” Dazai asks, tilting his head.

He just shrugs his shoulders. “Probably a variety.”

Dazai purses his lips, resting his head back against the headrest. “That’ll be cool.”

Kunikida pulls out of the driveway, beginning their drive to U.A. It’s a moment before he responds, but when he does there’s an obvious smile on his voice. “Yeah, it will be.”

The room is quite small, Dazai notes. There’s about 15 chairs, and a huge panel in front of the chairs. There’s live camera feeds of training grounds of some sort, where Dazai is sure the students will be going for their practical exam after the written portion.

He crosses one leg over the other, lounging easily in his seat, the picture of a disinterested observer—except his eyes are tracking every movement on the screen with laser focus.

Kunikida sits beside him, spine ramrod straight and clipboard at the ready. Always the diligent one.

Dazai hums quietly under his breath, ignoring the annoyed glance from the teacher two seats down—Vlad King, or Kan, so people called him. He offers him a lazy smile, and he looks away with a frown, muttering something under his breath.

It’s around 30 minutes later when Hizashi returns, seeming to be finished with giving the written portion of the exam. As if on cue, students begin to walk out into the arena, ready to fight. Nobody in particular catches his eye, though he’s sure that’s bound to change.

Dazai slouches in his seat, long legs stretched out in front of him and arms folded loosely across his chest. His bandaged fingers tap an inconsistent rhythm against his bicep as his eyes flick from feed to feed, scanning the would-be heroes lining up. His mouth curves into a light, almost lazy smile.

Shota is standing off to the side. Dazai doesn’t look at him.

He doesn’t need to.

He can feel the man’s eyes on him—has been able to since the moment he stepped into the room. Quiet, intense, and familiar in a way that gnaws at his distant, locked away memories like a dog with a bone. Dazai hasn’t acknowledged it, of course. Acknowledging things makes them real, and Dazai has always preferred ambiguity. It allows him room to breathe. Room to hide.

He’d always been good at hiding. After all, he hid for 8 years of his life.

Kunikida is seated beside him, posture stiff and hands folded in his lap, already scribbling notes in that meticulous little journal of his. No doubt tracking potential students, their strengths, weaknesses, and how many seconds late Dazai was this morning. It’s comforting, in a way—Kunikida’s predictability.

There’s an announcement, and Dazai looks up at the monitors with a quiet hum. His eyes scan over them until they settle on a particular figure. A boy—small, trembling slightly, standing at the edge of one of the groups. Wild green curls, oversized uniform, eyes too big for his face and far too expressive. Nervous. Raw.

Dazai sits forward slightly, resting his chin in his palm.

He watches as Present Mic—Hizashi— begins the countdown.

The boy—Midoriya Izuku, if he remembers correctly—doesn’t move.

At the signal, the others burst forward, racing into the mock battlefield like unleashed hounds. Some fly. Others leap, sprint, or create strange and dazzling effects with their quirks. Powers on full display. Dazai watches Midoriya’s reaction with quiet fascination.

The boy stares after them like he’s just realized he forgot how to breathe.

And then he bolts forward with clumsy, ungraceful strides, as if the delay has only just registered in his limbs. No power. No fire. No clever trick or calculated start. Just legs and desperation.

How intriguing.

Dazai taps a finger to his cheek. “That one,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

Kunikida glances at him. “Which one?” He asks, seemingly confused.

Dazai doesn’t answer immediately. He watches Midoriya trip over his own feet, scramble to recover, then vanish down a street on the feed. A robot appears moments later—an easy target for anyone with a halfway decent quirk. Midoriya stops. Looks panicked. And then—retreats. He avoids it entirely.

No points. No attempt.

The rest of the faculty seems more interested in other students—Bakugo with his explosions, Iida with his speed, that girl with the anti-gravity quirk. Midoriya barely registers to most of them. But Dazai is still watching.

Because something doesn’t make sense. Something is different.

“You saw his application, didn’t you?” he asks Kunikida, pointing to the green haired boy on screen.

The man nods. “Midoriya Izuku. Quirk: Super Strength. Late manifestation, supposedly. Unverified, but it passed inspection. Why?”

Dazai hums. “Super Strength, huh?”

“Yes. Why?”

“No reason.”

That’s a lie. He doesn’t even bother making it a good one.

Dazai leans back again, hands resting behind his head. He closes his eyes, letting the sounds of the test—distant explosions, microphone commentary, the scribble of Kunikida’s pen—fade into the background. He lets himself think.

A quirk like that doesn’t just flicker into existence one day, especially not with that level of magnitude. There would be physical signs. Changes to muscle density, shifts in posture or gait. A body doesn’t simply wake up one day and become capable of shattering steel without consequence.

And yet..

He flips through memory.

The way Midoriya held himself. The way he studied the course before it began, memorizing layouts and calculating routes like a soldier planning a mission. His eyes were sharp, despite the fear. Intelligent. Hyper-aware. That’s not the mindset of someone relying on brute strength. That’s someone used to compensating. Someone used to being weak .

But not anymore. So what changed?

Dazai’s smile grows faint.

“Tell me, Kunikida—how often do people manifest a quirk after age fifteen?”

Kunikida frowns. “Almost never. Only a fraction of a percent. Usually due to medical anomalies or suppressed genetics.” Ah, seems he’s done his research as well.

“Right,” Dazai says, and opens his eyes. “But this boy doesn’t seem sick, does he? No signs of prolonged hospitalization. No family notes. No quirk suppressant drugs in his bloodwork.”

“How do you—“

“I looked over all applicant information before the test.” Dazai says simply.

Kunikida sighs, pushing his glasses up. “Of course you did.”

On the screen, a robot lumbers toward a girl with pink skin and horns. Midoriya appears at the edge of the frame—pauses—then veers off, not even attempting to interfere.

Dazai’s eyes narrow. “He’s not using it.”

“Using what?” Kunikida asks.

“His quirk. Super strength. It’s not showing up.”

“He could be saving it. Or—nervous.”

“Maybe,” Dazai says, voice light. “Or maybe he doesn’t know how to use it properly. Or—here’s a thought—it’s not really his at all.” He murmurs, low enough for only his partner to hear.

Kunikida freezes. His pen stills. “That’s a serious accusation,” he says slowly.

Dazai shrugs. “I’m not accusing. Just observing.”

The blonde turns toward him fully now, mouth set in a firm line. He lowers his voice, “Dazai. If you know something—”

“I don’t,” He says honestly. “But I think I will. Soon.”

He’s already forming the theory in his mind. The way this boy, quirkless all his life according to public record, had suddenly received a clean bill of “super strength” just in time to apply to U.A. Sure, it could be a late manifestation, but does that really make sense? Dazai’s too clever. He knows something is up.

He’s used to secrets. In fact, he’s full of them. He recognizes the shape of a lie when it breathes.

He doesn’t say any of this aloud. He just watches. And then, suddenly—

Midoriya moves .

The screen shakes as a massive robot—a ‘zero pointer’—emerges from the far end of the course. Most of the students scream and scatter. The test doesn’t even reward points for defeating it. It’s meant to be a scare tactic. An obstacle.

But the boy stops.

Dazai watches, breath caught in his throat for a moment, as Midoriya’s eyes fix on a girl trapped beneath rubble. His whole body shifts—tension rising like a bowstring pulled taut. Every instinct screams at him to run the other way. And yet he doesn’t.

He charges.

The next sequence is almost too fast for Dazai to follow, but he does .

Midoriya leaps . Not jumps— leaps —with enough force to shatter the ground beneath him. The wind snaps like a whip as his fist collides with the center of the zero pointer’s head, sending it crashing backward in a spectacular explosion of smoke and debris.

Silence falls across the control room. Dazai’s smile fades.

The boy plummets. Arms flailing. No coordination. No strategy for landing. He crashes hard, the sound of bone breaking audible even through the speakers. Pain. Lots of it. But his bones had already been broken before he hit the ground. The very arm that he had used his quirk in, had been mangled the moment after impact.

Kunikida leans forward. “That... that wasn't control.”

“No,” Dazai agrees. “It wasn’t.”

That wasn’t the move of someone who had trained with their quirk for years. That was a wild, desperate blow. A swing powered by instinct, not technique.

He winced. “That’s going to leave a mark.”

Recovery Girl is already moving toward the site, but Dazai is still staring.

The power in that punch—it wasn’t just strong. It was too strong. Disproportionate to the body it came from. There’s no way that kind of output belongs to a new quirk user. It would tear their body apart.

And it did .

Dazai smiles.

Got you.

“Well, well,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. “Isn’t that interesting?”

Kunikida glances at him sharply. “What is?”

Dazai doesn’t say anything, just turning his attention away from the screen as soon as Recovery Girl places a kiss on the green haired boys forehead. The other teachers are already standing, talking quietly amongst themselves.

He turns his attention to All Might and finds the man looks anxious , his gaze remaining on Midoriya. Dazai blinks. Of course.

Dazai’s gaze lingers on All Might for a moment longer, the pieces in his mind already starting to fall into place. The man looks... shaken. Not surprised by Midoriya’s actions, but deeply concerned. His hands are clenched at his sides, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the boy like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion and can’t do anything to stop it.

Dazai leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, that ever-present smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“That confirms it,” he murmurs.

Kunikida stiffens beside him. “Confirms what ?”

“That this isn’t just a fluke,” Dazai replies, his tone light but layered. “There’s something going on here. And I think All Might’s right at the center of it.”

Kunikida gives him a sidelong glance, wary. “You think he gave the boy his quirk?”

Dazai tilts his head thoughtfully. “That’s not what I said, but since you’ve practically put the words in my mouth.. Is that possible?”

Kunikida frowns. “Technically? No. Quirks are tied to genetics. They can be passed down, sure, but forcibly transferring a quirk from one person to another…” He shakes his head. “There’s no established method.”

“Mm,” Dazai hums. “And yet—there the boy is. With strength far beyond what he should be capable of. Strength his body can’t handle.” He says softly.

Kunikida doesn’t respond, jaw clenched. He knows Dazai isn’t grasping at straws. If anything, his deductions tend to land uncomfortably close to the truth.

“What do you plan to do with this information?” he asks quietly.

Dazai straightens, stretching his arms overhead. “Nothing. For now.”

“For now?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be polite to go poking around in the Symbol of Peace’s business on day two,” Dazai replies with mock cheer. “We’re guests, after all.”

Kunikida doesn't answer, but the look he gives Dazai is sharp, skeptical, and edged with frustration. "You’re not going to let this go," he says flatly. It's not a question.

Dazai’s smile turns almost wistful. “No,” he admits. “Probably not.”

The blonde man just sighs, running a hand down his face and standing up, walking to a separate part of the room. Dazai stays seated, left alone with his theories and thoughts.

Chapter Text

There was blood on her gloves—nothing serious, just shallow cuts and abrasions—but still enough to remind Yosano that she was useful.

The air around the exam grounds still hummed with the aftermath of the entrance exams conclusion. Emergency teams had already carried away the worst cases, taking them to Recovery Girl, but those with minor injuries—sprains, scrapes, twisted ankles, bruised shoulders—had been ushered to her. She worked in the shade of a white canopy, with a folding table full of supplies and a line of awkward, aching teenagers.

“Sit down,” she said to the next one, not looking up as she replaced her gloves. Green shoes shuffled into view. “Um… Miss?”

She raised her eyes, arching a brow at the familiar mess of green curls. “Midoriya, was it?”

He nodded, cradling one arm. “I think I sprained my wrist. During the zero-pointer, I—uh, punched it. Recovery Girl fixed up the most of it, but I’m still a bit worried.”

Of course he did.

“Right,” she said. “You’re the one who broke both legs too, yes?”

He flushed. “I… yeah. That’s kinda why I’m here? I figured most of her quirk went into fixing my legs then anything else.”

Yosano gently took his arm, checking the swelling. “Not broken anymore. You’re lucky Recovery Girl didn’t lecture you into a coma.”

Midoriya offered a sheepish smile. “She did.”

Yosano applied a cold compress, then began to wrap his wrist. “You’ll live.”

Midoriya sat quietly as she worked, then glanced at her hands. “Your quirk.. is it a healing one?”

She paused, eyes flicking to his. There was curiosity there, yes—but also something else. The kind of hunger she recognized in doctors who didn’t yet know they’d become doctors. Or in soldiers who didn’t yet know they’d lose everything.

“My quirk,” She said carefully. “Let’s me heal someone from near-death injuries. But only after I’ve injured them enough to qualify.”

He stared. “Wait—what?”

Yosano smiled. “Yeah, found out I had it after my mom got hit by a car when I was younger. It’s a bit.. dramatic. But effective.”

“That’s… kind of terrifying.” Midoriya says genuinely, though his eyes are bright with interest and admiration. How odd.

She chuckled under her breath, tying off the bandage with practiced precision. “You’d be surprised how many people say that. Right before begging me to save their life.”

Midoriya laughed nervously, but it faded as he seemed to mull over her words. His gaze dropped to her gloved hands again.

“So… you have to hurt someone to heal them?” The green haired boy asks carefully, tilting his head to the side, watching as she works in silence as he awaits her response.

Yosano sighs, “That’s the requirement.” She flexed her fingers, the phantom memory of a bone saw resting in her palm. “But I don’t do it unless I have to. I’m not a monster, Midoriya.”

He paled slightly, then nodded. “No, I didn’t think that. I just.. I guess I’ve never thought of healing quirks having conditions like that.”

“They all have a price,” She said softly. “Whether you see it or not.”

For a moment, the air between them was quiet. Hushed. Then Midoriya tilted his head.

“But it’s still amazing. You save lives, even if it’s not in the way people expect. That’s.. kind of heroic, isn’t it?”

That stopped her.

Yosano blinked, her hands frozen mid-motion. She’d heard many reactions to her ability. Fear, revulsion, fascination. Even envy. But not that.

“Heroic,” she repeated, like she was tasting the word for the first time in years. Her? Heroic? The Angel of Death herself? It was all so strange, the kid was weird. If he knew the truth about her, would he still be saying such a thing?

Midoriya nodded again, earnest to the core. “If quirks reflect the heart of the person using them… then yours is definitely one of a hero.”

She looked at him longer than necessary. There was something raw and bright in him. He reminded her of younger medics in the field—idealistic, shaking from their first battlefield, still believing they could fix the world if they stitched it back together fast enough.

“You’re a strange kid,” She said at last.

He smiled. “I get that a lot.”

She patted the completed bandage. “You’re good to go. Don’t punch any more robots for a while, all right?”

“No promises,” Midoriya said sheepishly, standing and bowing a little too deeply. “Thank you again, Miss Yosano!”

As he walked off, still cradling his wrist with the reverence of someone who saw it as a lesson more than a wound, Yosano allowed herself a rare, small smile.

He was reckless. Soft-hearted. Clearly untrained. But there was something about him. Something fragile, and still forming.

“Strange kid,” She murmured again, this time almost fond.

Shota hated wasting time. That included the usual orientation routine: speeches full of half-truths, guided tours designed to impress, and the kind of hollow pep talks that made teachers feel better about their jobs but did nothing for the students they were meant to prepare.

He’d seen too many young heroes crack under pressure because no one had taught them what that pressure really felt like. Easier, he thought, to start with the truth. Let them flounder in it now instead of when it got someone killed.

So, thirty minutes into Class 1-A’s first day, instead of sitting in an auditorium, the students stood outside in matching P.E. uniforms, blinking against the morning sun like ducklings shoved out of the nest a week too early. Most hadn’t said anything yet, though a few shifted their weight, unsure whether to be confused, impressed, or annoyed.

“So,” Yaoyorozu finally asked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “this is what we’re doing instead of the opening ceremony?”

Her tone was polite. Curious, not combative. But the implication hung there all the same.

Shota didn’t bother explaining himself. “Ceremonies are a waste of time for people training to be heroes.”

He watched the reaction ripple through them. Uneasy glances, furrowed brows, a few hushed words passed between neighbors. Not panic. Not yet. But the ground beneath them had shifted, and they knew it. That was enough.

“Bakugo,” he said, pulling a standard yellow softball from a nearby box. “Catch.”

Bakugo’s reflexes were sharp—he caught the ball without effort, but his eyes were already narrowing in suspicion.

“Throw it as far as you can,” Shota said. “With your quirk.” The suspicion vanished, replaced by something close to glee.

Bakugo wound up and launched the ball with a violent burst of smoke and fire. It rocketed across the field, disappearing somewhere past the visible boundary line. The measuring drone chirped a moment later: 705.2 meters.

Gasps broke out like firecrackers. A few students leaned forward, wide-eyed. Others exchanged quiet, half-panicked looks, as though realizing—perhaps for the first time—that this wasn’t going to be like middle school. That the game had changed, and they weren’t sure of the rules anymore.

“You’ve all taken these tests before,” Shota said, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise. “Grip strength. Long-distance runs. Softball tosses. But you’ve never taken them with your quirks. That changes today.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He never needed to. Silence settled again, uneasy this time.

A hand lifted hesitantly. Uraraka.

“Isn’t this against the rules?” She asked. “We’re supposed to have orientation first, aren’t we?”

Shota didn’t sigh. He just looked at her.

“U.A. is given leeway to structure its curriculum as it sees fit,” He said. “And in my class, you either adapt quickly—or you leave.”

That was the moment he saw them tense. Saw their postures stiffen, their mouths tighten into uncertain lines. “Whoever ranks last in this assessment,” He added, “Will be expelled.”

Now they understood.

The panic wasn’t loud. It wasn’t chaotic. It sat behind their eyes like static, humming with what ifs. What if I’m not good enough? What if I mess up? What if I blow my shot on day one? Even the cocky ones fell quiet. Bakugou stopped grinning. Iida adjusted his glasses twice in thirty seconds. And Midoriya—Midoriya looked like he’d swallowed something sharp and hadn’t figured out how to breathe around it yet.

Good.

Shota activated his capture weapon, letting it slide loose around his shoulders, and began calling names for the tests. They rotated through the dash, the grip test, the standing long jump. He said little, but he watched everything. How they used their quirks. How well they recovered. How they thought through their movements. Some approached it like a game.

Others, like it was already a battlefield.

Bakugou was force incarnate—fast, volatile, relentless. Todoroki used only what he needed to, no more, no less. Every step was calculated, every motion efficient. Yaoyorozu had poise, a knack for strategy. Iida was built for speed but lacked adaptability in close quarters. Uraraka’s timing was off, like she was waiting for permission to move the way she wanted to.

But Midoriya..

He was trying not to use it.

Shota watched as the boy hesitated during the grip strength test, fingers hovering too long before making contact. During the dash, he ran hard—harder than most kids his size should be able to—but not with whatever had shattered that zero-pointer two days ago. There was power in him, somewhere. But he didn’t know how to reach it.

Or worse—he was afraid to.

That was a problem.

Shota filed it away.

Then it hit him: that tugging feeling at the back of his neck. Like static before a storm. The discomfort of knowing you’re being watched without knowing who’s doing the watching. He swept his gaze across the field, the rooftops, the windows above. Nothing stood out.

It wasn’t the students. Their eyes were on the test. It wasn’t Recovery Girl—she was still inside, tending to minor sprains. And it wasn’t Present Mic; he was loud enough to be felt before he was seen.

Still, the sensation lingered. Too focused to be a coincidence. Too deliberate to ignore.

He activated his quirk and scanned again. If someone was using a quirk to stay hidden, to observe from afar, he’d cancel it. Simple.

But there was no change. No shimmer, no disruption. Nothing blinked out of existence.

Which meant either the observer was quirkless.. or so good they didn’t need to hide. There was only one quirkless person on campus, and he dreaded the thought of his ‘stalker’ being him .

“Sensei?”

He blinked, and the tension snapped. Midoriya stood in front of him again, hands flexing nervously at his sides.

“It’s my turn.”

Shota nodded. “Go on.”

Midoriya stepped up and squeezed. The grip meter chirped back a number just below average. Not terrible. Not impressive.

The kid looked crushed.

Shota didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The disappointment was already written across Midoriya’s shoulders, in the tight line of his jaw. A boy used to studying every detail but still unsure how to handle his own.

The test continued. The students moved through the remaining events, tension mounting as the finish line crept closer. By the time they reached the softball throw again, Midoriya was visibly sweating.

“Midoriya,” Aizawa called. “You’re up.”

The boy stepped forward, movements stiff, and cradled the ball like it might turn against him. Shota didn’t speak at first, waiting until his student was close enough to hear him clearly.

“You’ve been holding back,” he said, voice low. “All day. I’ve noticed. So are you going to finally show us what you can do, or are you hoping I’ll overlook it?”

Midoriya froze. “I-I can’t control it, Sensei,” he admitted, words trembling. “If I use it.. I’ll break something. Maybe everything.” Shota exhaled through his nose.

“If that’s the best you can do,” He said, pulling down his capture weapon before continuing, “Then maybe you don’t belong here.”

Midoriya’s face crumpled. Not in tears—yet—but close. He looked terrified. But not of failing. Of proving something terrible about himself right.

Still, he lifted the ball and readied his stance. He prepared to throw it, his fingers begin to light with electricity.

Then… nothing happened.

No surge of power. No glow. Just a stifled breath and the confused wobble of someone who expected something more. His eyes widened as he turned to look at Shota, who stared back, quirk active, gaze glowing faint red and his hair floating above his head.

“You think a power you can’t control is enough to make you a hero?” Shota asked. “That kind of thinking will get you—and everyone around you—killed.”

Midoriya’s shoulders trembled. But somewhere in that quiet panic, something solid clicked into place.

He threw the ball with only the strength he had—muscle, grit, and spite. It wasn’t elegant, and it didn’t go far. But it went far enough.

The drone beeped. Passable.

Shota released his quirk and blinked away the sting. The kid didn’t flinch. Just walked off, face pale, fists clenched tight enough to go white. The man turned to resume the test—and paused again.

The feeling was still there.

The same weight. The same quiet pressure. Not hostile. Just… interested.

He glanced back at the rooftop above the field. There—something caught the light. Nothing clear. Just a shape, a shift. And then it was gone.

He narrowed his eyes.

God, this is a fucking nightmare.

Dazai hums quietly, finally backing away from where he stood on the roof, further into the shadows so that he’s practically undetectable now. Shota looks in his direction for the third time, still confused. It was amusing, watching him activate his quirk to try and catch the culprit.

Of course, it wouldn’t work on him. It’s not possible after all. He’s not sure of all the details, but anytime an ability or quirk comes into contact with him it nullifies. He learned this after the first time Shota looked his way.

Dazai had his theories, but he wasn’t exactly sure if his ability would work on quirks. But it was such a relief and non-relief that it did, because he would need to avoid quirks like crazy now. It’s a good thing he’s only a villain psychology teacher, right?

He had felt No Longer Human nullify the man’s quirk, the feeling running through him like feelings of burning hot fluid rushing through his veins. The soft blue glow had encased his body, alongside the words that spelled out his ability’s name. And as quickly as it came it was gone. This happened until the man had eventually given up on finding him.

From this newly discovered blind spot, Dazai’s gaze drifted from Shota back down to the students, settling on the boy with the green hair—Midoriya. He stood awkwardly among the others, shoulders hunched just enough to betray his own internal battle. The quirk he bore, so new, so volatile, still fought for control, and Dazai could see it in every hesitation, every careful step the boy took.

His theory was slowly but surely proving true.

Midoriya’s attempt at the softball throw was pitiful by Dazai’s standards, but he knew better than to dismiss it outright.

His eyes glide back over to look at Shota and he sits down, crossing his legs. He hasn’t had the time to think about it, but he was so different from the Shota he had once known. Sure, in his youth he was stoic, but it was so much more different now—he couldn’t help but feel like he was the direct cause of it.

Suddenly, there’s an achy, sick feeling in his stomach, and he purses his lips. Maybe it was the effects of those pills he had taken earlier that morning. Kunikida hadn’t been awake at the time, so he didn’t get to see the way the man had almost desperately scarfed down the tablets, following them with a stream of water.

But, he knew that wasn’t the case. His tolerance was too high. He had Mori to thank for that.

Lifting his hand, he would touch the area just beneath his right eye, the one he could no longer see out of. A result of one of Mori’s tests gone wrong just a little after the first month he had met him, and now he had to deal with its long term effects.

Of course, after 8 years he had learned how to function without it, and he was an even better fighter then he would have been if he still had his sight. But sometimes it still hurt.

They were phantom pains, a burning sensation, the same sensation he had felt the day it happened. Whatever Mori had injected into his eyelid had made him feel like he was imploding, and back then his tolerance for pain was still low, so he had screamed and writhed.

It brings a small smile to his face, and a humorless chuckle leaves his lips. He had been so pathetic.

He looks up just in time to see the ball launching off. His eye gleams. When he looks back at Midoriya, he can see the boy cradling his hand with a shaky, yet determined smile, his finger already purple and bruised—broken, it seemed.

Dazai leaned forward slightly, elbows balanced on his knees as he watched Midoriya rejoin the group, cradling his hand in that same way he had done after the entrance exam just a few weeks prior.

“That’s one way to break yourself,” He murmured.

Not out of criticism. If anything, there was admiration in it, masked by his interest. Stupid, bleeding admiration. He’d seen too many people shatter under power they never asked for. Midoriya was breaking on purpose. Bit by bit. Like he thought it was the only way forward.

It reminded him of himself in all the wrong ways.

And of Shota, in the ways that mattered. Dazai knew that the man could feel that too.

Below, Shota hadn’t moved. He was still watching Midoriya, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable but no longer dismissive. Dazai could see the shift in his posture—minute, almost imperceptible. His capture scarf twitched as if in thought. That was the problem with Shota: he never said anything. But he always noticed everything. He’d remember this moment. File it away like a weapon or a wound.

Dazai dragged a hand through his hair, letting the breeze tug at the loose strands. His coat flared lightly around him, blending with the shadows pooled along the rooftop edge. Below, the test wrapped up. Shota began speaking again—flat and dry—but the students listened with the kind of reverence only fear and fascination could earn.

Midoriya glanced over his shoulder once. Not at Shota. Not at any student in particular.

At the building.

At this building.

And Dazai felt for just a moment, that the boy might be looking directly at him .

He laughed under his breath. A real one this time. Soft and low and all the more painful for how quickly it evaporated into silence.

He didn’t wave. He didn’t need to. Instead, he rose to his feet in one fluid motion and turned away from the edge, disappearing fully into shadow.

“Welcome to your mathematics class. Even though you all are training to be hero’s, you’re still high school students. Therefore, your basic core classes still stand.” Kunikida says, crossing his arms and facing the front once he finishes writing on the board.

The Class 1-A students stare at him with wide eyes, unasked questions shimmering in them. The heavy weight of the gazes makes Kunikida sigh. It was only the first day, so maybe he could allow a couple more.

Just then a hand shoots up, it belongs to a blonde boy with a black streak in his hair. He hums, pointing at him. “You. What’s your question?”

The boy blinks and tilts his head to the side. “Are you a pro hero? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around before.” Kunikida hums, shaking his head.

“I’m not a pro hero.” Suddenly the class erupts into disorganized speech, they’re talking over themselves and speaking so loud the blonde can’t even decipher what any of them are saying.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut and releases a hearty sigh. He finally speaks, raising his voice. “Quiet!”

Finally, the room goes silent and he finds himself internally relieved. “No, I’m not a pro hero. But I am still your teacher and you will treat me with the same respect as you do all of your other teachers, are we understood?”

The class is quiet asides from a couple coughs, and a few of his students nod their heads.

“If there are no more questions, then pull out your binders. You’ll find the material on page three of your syllabus.”

A hand goes up—Kirishima, red hair and confusion. “Wait, so we’re not doing hero training right now?” The blonde sighs. He thought he had made that clear with the whole ‘I’m not a pro hero’ thing.

Kunikida adjusts his glasses with one finger. “No. You’re doing trigonometry. Sit down.”

He doesn’t say it unkindly. Just firmly enough that it leaves no room for argument. The students look at each other, torn between protest and obedience, until the chairs scrape reluctantly into place and the rustle of notebooks replaces their earlier disbelief.

He starts the lesson without waiting for more questions.

From the back row, Bakugo mutters something about “bullshit,” and Kunikida pretends not to hear it. It’s hard to do so, though.

Midoriya, for his part, is sitting straighter than necessary, scribbling furiously, eyes darting between the board and the textbook with the kind of frantic energy Kunikida recognizes. Not just diligence. Obsession. Like he’s trying to make sense of the world through numbers alone.

It’s familiar in a way Kunikida doesn’t care to admit.

By the time the bell rings, the class is silent and exhausted—but they’ve finished two full sets of problems, and even the loudest among them looks vaguely afraid of misplacing their assignments.

Kunikida clears his throat. “Tomorrow, you’ll be tested on the applications of sine and cosine in real-time trajectory analysis. If you can’t pass it, you won’t be allowed to participate in combat drills.”

That gets their attention.

A few jaws drop. Someone whispers, “No way.” Kunikida doesn’t smile. But inwardly, he’s satisfied.

“Dismissed.”

Chapter Text

A rumbling sounded distant to his own ears, and when Dazai finally finds his way back into the consciousness of the world he realizes that the rumbling isn’t coming from Kunikida—it’s coming from him.

Dazai was hungry, but with the ache for food deep inside him came the sickness that attacked him at full force at the very thought of anything edible sliding down his throat into his stomach, anything delicious.

He didn’t deserve it. And even if that weren’t the case, he wouldn’t be able to consume it. Because Dazai was No Longer Human, and he’s almost completely sure he’s never been considered one. He was too different.

At first, his mother had told him that different was good—but in the long run, he realized that the type of different he was only called for trouble.

He looks up when Kunikida calls his name, but he’s not fully listening, still slouched on the couch in their living room with his feet up on the table, his arms crossed over his chest. He hums his acknowledgment.

The blonde squints at him, holding a cup in his hand. There’s a plate sitting in front of him, and there’s a couple pieces of bacon and a half eaten piece of french toast on it. The smell of it had only been making him nauseous.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Lying would be the easiest thing, Kunikida didn’t need to know after all—especially with how concerned the man always was for him. It never made sense to Dazai, why he cared so much.

The true answer would be that he can’t remember the last time he’s eaten, as he only finds himself eating one thing—however never truly hungry for it.

Canned crab was great, it was a food he felt safe eating and it was his holy grail. He’s sure Kunikida knows with the amount of times he’s used his card to purchase it, but the blonde had never said anything to him about it. That was the most surprising bit.

Dazai hums, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “Yesterday.” He says, the lie rolling off his tongue with practiced ease.

He can feel Kunikida’s scrutinizing gaze, and he knows the blonde wants to say something, but he’s doesn’t give him the chance. He stands up, opening his eyes and checking his imaginary watch. “Ahh, would you look at the time. Come on, Kunikida-kun! We’ll be late!”

Raising his eyebrow, the blonde looks at his own wrist (where an ACTUAL watch adorns his skin) and his eyes widen a bit. There was 15 minutes before homeroom started, and Kunikida actually curses under his breath.

He quickly takes the plate and dumps the remnants of the food into the trash, dropping it in the sink with a deafening clatter. Dazai almost laughs at how frantic the man looks and just begins to whistle, throwing on his coat and grabbing his bag.

He’s out of the door by the time Kunikida looks up and the blonde makes quick work of grabbing his own things and walking out behind him, nearly forgetting his keys sat on the small table by the door.

Quickly, Kunikida grabs them, locking the door behind him. Dazai’s laughter echoes from the passenger seat, mocking more than anything.

“Uhh, so when are they coming?” Kirishima asks from the corner of the classroom, staring at the front where there is an obvious lack of teacher.

There’s a few collective murmurs of agreement in the room, and he rests his head on the desk.

From another corner, Kaminari speaks up. “You know if the teacher doesn’t show up in the first 15 minutes we can just leave.” He says, sounding rather proud of himself, a small smirk finding its way onto his face.

One of his friends looks at him like he’s grown a second or third head, and he blinks and stares at him. “What?”

Bakugo speaks up with a disbelieving scoff, “That’s not how it works, dunce face.”

Before he can argue back, the door swings open. Instantly the class goes quiet and all attention is turned back to the front. A man walks in, taller than average but just beneath 6’0. His brown hair is slightly messy, and he’s got visible bandages on his throat and some on his wrists peeking out from beneath his coat.

He hums and doesn’t pay the class any mind yet, setting his bag on his desk and moving to grab something from it. A book. He sets the book on the top of the desk then finally looks up at the hero students.

His gaze is calm and there’s a hint of playfulness to it. He smirks, “Why’s everyone so tense?” A soft chuckle pulls itself from deep in his chest and he walks to stand just in front of his desk, before sitting down on it, crossing his legs.

There’s a soft gasp from Iida, and the man just raises his brow.

“My name is Dazai Osamu. But you can all call me Dazai-san. Or sensei, whatever you prefer—I really don’t care.” Dazai hums, stretching out his arms over his head. “I’ll be your villain psychology teacher for this school year.”

Silence settles after Dazai’s introduction—not discomforting, not quite stunned, but uncertain. A few students shift in their seats. Their eyes flicker between one another, gauging the weight of the man’s presence. Villain psychology is not a light subject, and their teacher does not look light either. Bandages speak of either recklessness or history. Maybe both.

Dazai notices the subtle signs: clenched fists, darting eyes, a shared glance between Bakugo and Kirishima. Good. They weren’t going to tune him out like a math lecture. No offense, Kunikida!

He taps the book once with the flat of his hand. “Let’s start with a simple question.” A pause. “Why do people become villains?”

Uraraka tilts her head. “Because… they want to hurt others?”

“Mm.” He makes a noncommittal sound, neither approving nor dismissive. “Anyone else?”

“They have a bad upbringing?” Sero offers.

“They’re evil,” Bakugo mutters. His voice is flat, matter-of-fact, as if daring someone to disagree.

Dazai hums again, shifting his weight slightly. “Interesting. No one said ‘because of their quirk.’”

That, at least, gets a reaction. A few brows furrow. Jirou leans forward a little. Midoriya is already scribbling something in his notebook.

Dazai lets it hang in the air for a moment before smiling faintly. “We’ll get there. For now, though..”

He stands from the desk, pushing himself upright in one fluid motion, letting his coat sway behind him as he walks slowly in front of the class.

“I imagine some of you are wondering what kind of quirk you’re dealing with in this classroom—what kind of man’s been trusted to teach you the inner workings of a villain’s mind.” He taps his temple. “A terrifying place, make no mistake. One wrong foot, and you fall in.”

There’s a light laugh from a few students. Kaminari chuckles nervously. Dazai’s tone has been friendly, but his words linger like something acrid in the back of the throat.

Midoriya’s hand goes up slowly.

Dazai pauses, eyes flitting toward him. “Yes?”

The green-haired boy lowers his hand partway, seeming unsure of himself. “Um. If you don’t mind… Can I ask what your quirk is?”

There’s a beat of stillness. Even Bakugo glances sideways at the question.

Dazai smiles—not wide, but with that strange curve that never seems to reach his eyes. “Ah,” he says, stepping back to lean against the edge of his desk again. “That question.”

He raises one hand as if to reveal something delicate. “My quirk,” He says slowly, drawing it out as if it were a big secret. “Is ‘i-know-you-have-a-stick-up-your-ass.”

There’s an audible pause as the class processes this.

“Wait, what?” Kaminari blinks.

“That’s not a real—” Jirou starts.

“That’s not in the registry,” Iida says, nearly rising from his chair. “I would’ve remembered, especially with that elaborate name—”

Dazai holds up a hand, the smile tugging sharper at the edge. “I jest. Mostly.”

He lets that sink in.

Then, softer, clearer, he adds: “I’m quirkless.”

The silence this time is entirely different. It falls like a weight.

Shock is etched across the classroom. Eyes widen. A few mouths open in disbelief. Even Bakugo stiffens slightly.

Midoriya freezes.

He doesn’t just tense. He stops breathing for a second. His pen stills mid-scratch. His whole posture—already upright, already coiled from weeks of anxiety—becomes rigid.

And then, too quickly, he forces himself to relax.

Dazai watches it all.

How Midoriya’s hands twitch, just once, before curling inward. How his shoulders drop a little too deliberately. How his eyes don’t meet Dazai’s anymore. Dazai mentally adds a new line to the file he’s compiling in the back of his mind. It’s getting long.

The class doesn’t know how to process it. Some of them look at each other as if to confirm they heard it right.

“You… you’re really quirkless?” Ashido asks slowly, as though waiting for him to say it’s a joke.

“I was born without one,” Dazai says easily. “Never developed one. No tragic activation in puberty, no power waiting to awaken. Just… empty.” His tone is airy, too light for the topic, and that contrast makes it stick in the back of their minds.

Another silence blooms, less out of shock now, more out of uncertainty. What do you say to that? They’ve been raised on stories where quirks were a given. An extension of self. A world where power is woven into your identity.

Quirkless meant powerless.

Powerless meant discarded.

Finally, a voice cuts into the stillness—hesitant but genuine.

“How… how did you deal with it?” Hagakure asks, her outline faint and flickering at her desk. “Like… going through school and stuff? People can be kinda…” She trails off, maybe thinking better of finishing that sentence, but her tone says the rest.

Dazai regards her quietly. Then he nods.

“Cruel?” he finishes for her. “Unkind. Careless.” He waves a hand like he’s brushing off dust. “Yes. They can. Especially when they believe the hierarchy of power is natural. When they think quirks make you worth something.”

His smile turns, just slightly, and there's something brittle beneath it now.

“The answer is—badly,” he says, tone deceptively light. “I dealt with it badly.”

A ripple of discomfort passes through the room.

“Not because I cried about it. Not because I felt small. But because I learned very quickly that I was meant to feel that way. That the world wasn’t built for people like me. And so, I asked myself—if I didn’t have a place here, could I still exist in it? Could I make one? Or would I be better off...” He trails off with a quiet hum, glancing briefly toward the window.

For a moment, even the light outside seems thinner. Then he pulls his gaze back and straightens.

“But this isn’t about me. I’ll tell you something useful. Something practical.”

He taps the side of his temple. “Quirks… are not neutral.”

That gets the class’s attention again. A few students blink. Sero tilts his head.

“They’re like weapons,” Dazai continues, “but no one teaches you how to use them responsibly unless you sign up for it. And even then, the guidance you get is shaped by someone else’s morality. Someone else’s idea of justice. But quirks don’t care about justice. They just exist. And people shape themselves around them. Or get shaped in spite of them.”

Midoriya has resumed writing, fast and tense, as though trying to catch every word.

Dazai crosses his arms now, pacing slowly. “Imagine a quirk that causes constant pain. Imagine one that harms others if you so much as breathe the wrong way. Or maybe one that lets you do something incredible—but only if you give up something else.”

Midoriya blinks slowly, his mind traveling back to his conversation with Yosano-san just a few weeks before. He remembered how she had told him she had to injure her patients to heal them, and found himself feeling empathetic.

His tone sharpens slightly. “You see these gifts as advantages. And they can be. But they’re also burdens. And when you’re twelve, or ten, or five, and you start to realize that your ‘gift’ is a liability, or a curse, or something you’re not allowed to show— that is where the danger begins.”

He lets that hang for a beat. Eyes sweep the room. No one dares interrupt.

“People don’t become villains because they woke up one morning and decided to hurt the world. Not most of them, at least. The truth is far less dramatic. And much more common.” His voice lowers.

“They become villains because no one helped them when it mattered. Because they were afraid. Because they were angry. Because their quirk isolated them. Or twisted them. Or made them feel like they were only valuable if they used it to fight. Or destroy. Or survive.”

Kirishima’s brows are drawn, eyes slightly wide. Jirou sits up a little straighter. Even Bakugo, arms crossed and scowling, looks faintly unsettled.

Dazai continues, softer now.

“You want to stop villains? Understand them first. Understand that behind most of them is someone who once asked for help and didn’t get it. Or someone who learned that pain was the only way to be seen.”

Midoriya is frozen again. Pen in hand, but not moving this time.

Dazai doesn’t look directly at him, but he doesn’t have to.

“There are exceptions, of course,” he adds with a dry smile. “Some people are just bastards. But most?” He lifts a shoulder. “Most are people who didn’t make it through something you did.”

There’s silence again, but it’s not hollow this time. It’s heavy. Reflective.

Ashido’s voice is faint. “That’s… kind of scary.”

“It should be,” Dazai replies, not unkindly. “Because it means you’re not as different from them as you think.”

He walks back to the desk, letting his coat sway behind him, and hops back up onto it in one smooth motion.

“Here’s a fun little exercise. Think of the worst thing you’ve ever felt. Something real. A time you were humiliated. A time you felt alone. Now imagine no one helped you. Imagine you couldn’t talk about it. Imagine your quirk made it worse. Then imagine someone offered you a way out.”

He tilts his head. “Wouldn’t you take it?”

No one answers.

“That’s where villainy begins,” he says. “Not in malice. In need.”

Dazai let the silence grow again. It wasn’t empty this time—it was thick, full of awareness and unease, like a fog that had settled over the room, muffling the once-lively tension of the class.

He didn’t smile. Not really. There was a faint lift to his mouth, but it wasn’t amusement. It was acknowledgment. Recognition. Satisfaction, perhaps, that the weight of his words had landed where they were meant to.

Good.

He shifted back on the desk, the bandages on his arms rustling softly as he laced his fingers together and rested them on his knee.

“This class,” He said at last, voice a little quieter, a little steadier, “isn’t just about identifying villains. That’s what news reports are for. This class is about seeing them before they fall. Understanding the fracture before it becomes a break. Not every villain wears a costume, or announces themselves with a scream and a camera crew. Most of them are quieter than that. Slower. Sadder.”

He looked around at them—not with challenge, not with pity. Just… watching.

“You’re going to meet people who scare you. People who confuse you. People whose quirks you don’t understand and whose choices make your stomach turn. If you want to be real heroes—not just idols in a magazine—you’ll need to know what makes them tick.”

Another pause. A breath. Then, more softly he adds. “And maybe, if you’re lucky… what would’ve saved them.”

It hung in the air like a whisper too heavy to blow away.

Aizawa could tell them about responsibility. All Might could tell them about hope.

But Dazai—Dazai would tell them what it meant when both ran out.

He hopped off the desk lightly and moved behind it, scooping up the book he hadn’t even opened. The class remained silent. Watching. Processing.

Then he glanced back up at them, smile sliding back into place with a little more mischief.

“Well! That’s enough depressing philosophy for one morning.” He clapped his hands once, sharp and final. “Consider that your first lecture. No quiz—yet, maybe even never because I’d rather die than grade quizzes.” He murmurs that last part beneath his breath. “But I suggest you write down what stuck with you. If anything did.”

A few students began to move, slowly—like they weren’t sure if it was really over.

Then Dazai glanced at the clock. “You’re dismissed.”

Chairs scraped against the floor. Conversations started hesitantly, as if each voice had to remember how to be light again. But there was no escaping the shift in atmosphere. Something had changed. Not broken—just bent. Tilted slightly off center. Just enough to notice.

As students filtered out—Kirishima and Sero whispering, Iida adjusting his glasses more aggressively than usual, Ashido trailing behind with a strange expression—Dazai’s eyes flicked back to Midoriya.

The green haired boy was still sitting at his desk, his pen held tight in his hand. He looked to be deep in thought, staring at the wall.

Dazai didn’t speak—didn’t interrupt his thought process. He just watched him for a few seconds, long enough for Midoriya to feel his gaze, before the boy stands up, gathering his things and stuffing them into his bag.

He caught up with the rest of his class quickly, a nervous half-smile adorning his freckled face. But before he left, he cast a glance back to the classroom, watching Dazai maneuver around the room like owned it.

Finally, after a moment longer he turns his back to the classroom and begins his trek to his next class.

Dazai can conclude after his first day that he despises teaching.

Putting on a facade and giving such a pitiful story about how he was treated for being quirkless came easy to him, but he still found it annoying that his students showed such empathetic expressions.

But, he supposes it makes sense—considering the fact that he was teaching future heroes.

Dazai wasn’t even qualified to teach, and sure, he’s alright with kids (Akutagawa being the exception, but that was a completely different situation)—but teaching them? God he wouldn’t survive.

He had only taught one child in his lifetime, but even then he was all but a child himself. And, his method of teaching was definitely frowned upon at U.A. and within hero society.

But, Dazai was smart enough to be able to handle this job. The president wouldn’t have chosen him for this mission if that wasn’t the case.

Sighing, the brunette gets out of the car as soon as Kunikida parks in the driveway that he is coming to be familiar with. They’ve been staying in the apartment for half of a month now, and Dazai found that it was quite the comfortable place.

His only objection was having to sleep in the same bed as Kunikida due to it having only one room, but he supposed that’s not the worst thing in the world. However, to the blonde it may as well be.

Dazai trudges up the stairs, stopping in his tracks half-way up when he finds a package sitting at their doorstep. He squints his eyes, remaining in place as the numerous possibilities run through his mind.

It could very well be from the boss, Ranpo-kun, or someone else from the agency, but the unsettling feeling in his stomach tells him otherwise. Something was off, and his senses never failed him.

He can feel Kunikida behind him, the blonde peeking over his shoulder with a soft grunt. “What is it?” He asks, his eyes landing on the package with curiosity nestled within his gaze. Dazai doesn’t speak, just walks the few steps to the top and stands an inch away from the package.

There’s a small tag dangling from the top of it, and he reaches out, turning it over in his hand.

Instantly, his heart drops to his stomach, a chilly and foreign panicked feeling overtaking his senses. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt like this, felt like his spine was close to ripping through his skin.

Kunikida is speaking behind him, but he can’t register anything he’s saying, only able to discern his own breaths—or, lack of breaths.

Only when the man places his hand on his shoulder does he snap out of his subconsciousness, looking back slowly—calmly. He can feel Kunikida flinch at the dull nature of his gaze, but it’s masked by a smile. “What? Sorry, what did you say?”

“… I asked what was wrong.” He says, looking at the package and moving to turn the tag over. Dazai doesn’t stop him, it wasn’t like he’d be able to figure out who exactly sent the package anyway.

— Love, M.O. ♡︎

He squints his eyes, looking up at Dazai. “Who’s M.O?” He asks, to which the brunette just shrugs his shoulders. This one time he was grateful for Kunikida’s lack of use of context clues.

“Nobody you need to worry about. Just..” He pauses, hesitating over his words. “An old friend.”

Dazai flinches as the words roll off his tongue, feeling like sandpaper pressed against the pink muscle. Nausea crawls up his throat, and he would have thrown up if not for the fact there was nothing in his stomach to be emptied.

He hesitantly picks up the package, standing up and nodding his head towards the door.

The blonde stares at him for a moment more, as if he were concerned, before taking the keys out of his pocket and unlocking the door, pushing it open.

Dazai walks in before he does, and instantly he finds himself moving towards their bedroom door. Opening it, he closes the door calmly, locking it behind himself before Kunikida can get another word out.

He sets the box down on the small desk adjacent to their bed. Dazai sits down on the chair that sits in front of it and stares down at the box.

A small smirk lifts his cheeks, though it doesn’t reach his eyes—just as a majority of his smiles don’t. He chuckles, though the sound is humorless and bitter, his fingers moving down the side of the package. Ah, Mori-san. Why am I surprised? Of course you’d find out.

There’s a beat of hesitation before he fishes his switchblade out of his coat pocket, flipping it open and jabbing it into the cardboard, dragging it down the top, effectively cutting it open. Once he’s done he sets the knife to the side and opens up the flaps created.

When he looks in, the contents cause his breath to hitch, and he grits his teeth. A note lays on top of the item—an article of clothing that just so happens to be a red dress that’s eerily similar to the one Elise wears.

The note is something straight out of his nightmares, and he finds himself picking up the piece of parchment and tearing it apart without a second to think about it. It’s so unlike him to give such a visceral, untrained reaction, but when it comes to Mori and his disgusting face all practices flies out the window.

He takes the dress out of the box with shaky hands, throwing it onto the floor and kicking it beneath the bed. He covers his mouth with the back of his hand, and he’s sure that this time he will get sick.

Standing up from the chair, he walks to the door and unlocks it, walking out. Instantly, he heads for the bathroom, ignoring Kunikida as he tries to stop him on the way.

He locks himself inside, kneeling before the toilet and just staring into the clear water with parted lips as only bile begins to dribble out of his mouth. The taste is putrid, but it helps ground him.

Dazai must have been there for close to an hour, because when he fully comes to, Kunikida is sitting beside him with a hand on his shoulder and a conflicted expression. A small, genuine smile finds its way onto his face and he chuckles weakly.

“Hey Kunikida.”

“Hey.” He murmurs back.

To My Darling Osamu,

I’ve missed you dearly. I was shopping in the precinct today and I found a larger size of the dress you used to wear. The same one you loved so much! I figured, why not get it for you?

I think about you daily. Oh how much I miss you, my demon prodigy. If only you’d knock back into your senses and realize that the Port Mafia is the only place you truly belong. Elise misses you as well, strangely enough. Though perhaps that’s because I feel so strongly, my feelings have passed onto her.

You’ve grown into such a fine young man, I’m almost jealous I wasn’t able to see you blossom. But, I don’t doubt that you’ll come back to me soon enough. You always have.

But please, don’t keep me waiting too long Shūji, I don’t think my poor heart could take it.

Sincerely, M.O.

Chapter Text

The morning began with the usual bustle—students chatting too loudly in the corridors, shoes squeaking on polished floors, lockers slamming open and shut like distant gunfire. Kunikida, as always, stood in the eye of the storm, furiously reorganizing the lesson schedule someone had tampered with.

“You spelled ‘literature’ with a 3, Dazai,” he snapped, stabbing a red pen at the printed sheet like it had personally insulted his principles.

“I was being modern,” came the muffled reply from the top of the faculty lounge couch, where Dazai had been upside down twenty minutes prior. “Kids love numbers in words these days. It's called staying relevant.”

Kunikida looked one breath away from launching a coffee mug across the room.

Elsewhere, Aizawa was already deep in a state of exhausted resignation. He moved through the halls like a ghost, eyes half-lidded, wrapped in his capture weapon like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world of the living. No one spoke to him. No one dared.

Dazai, of course, was late. Not that anyone was surprised. Not even Kunikida, who had resigned himself to his colleague’s chronic disregard for punctuality with the kind of long-suffering exhale that suggested this was far from the first time—and would be far from the last.

He drifted into the observation room ten minutes after the battle trial began, hands in his pockets, scarf trailing behind him like the ghost of a thought. His posture was as casual as always—shoulders loose, gaze lazy, that lopsided smile on his face like he was only half here and the other half drifting somewhere just beyond comprehension. Shota gave him a look. Not one of reprimand—just a glance that said, Of course. He had stopped being awkward around the brunette, thankfully.

Dazai responded with a subtle shrug that might’ve meant: You started without me? or I was busy analyzing our students’ inevitable descent into villainy. Hard to tell with him.

The screens were already lit with feeds from the various combat zones, angles rotating gently across the building layouts—multiple floors, twisting corridors, and a single glowing object marked as the “nuclear weapon.” One by one, students were sent in pairs—villain team, hero team. Capture the objective or defend it. Standard exercise. Controlled chaos.

Midoriya was set to go fourth.

Dazai slouched into a seat near the back, not bothering to greet the others. Eyes half-lidded but alert, he watched the display in silence. He wasn’t here for the flashy quirks or the overzealous battle cries. He wasn’t like Kayama, who giggled at dramatic entrances, or Hizashi, who practically vibrated with commentary. No, Dazai watched for something else.

Patterns. Subtleties. Human behavior at the edge of control.

He watched the students’ footing. How they entered rooms. The way they turned corners or lifted their hands. He watched the rhythm of hesitation before a blow and the breath someone took before a retreat. All of it spoke. All of it revealed.

Power revealed. Power withheld.

Midoriya entered the arena beside Uraraka.

Onscreen, the boy fidgeted. Not fear. Not hesitation. Calculation. His fingers twitched slightly, brushing against his palm. His hand hovered near his mouth, almost reflexively, like muscle memory was trying to piece itself back together. Dazai leaned forward a fraction, watching him with quiet interest.

“Ah, Young Midoriya’s up next!” Toshinori’s voice boomed from the far side of the room, where he loomed at full height—golden and larger than life even in a surveillance bunker. His grin was wide and hopeful, his eyes gleaming. “I have high hopes for him!”

“Mm,” Was all Dazai said.

The boy looked small in the wide halls of the simulated building. Wide-eyed, scanning every inch, whispering strategy to his partner. Uraraka leaned in close to listen, nodding with admirable focus. But it was Midoriya doing the directing. That in itself wasn’t unusual. But the way he spoke—sharp, efficient, eyes darting as if pre-mapping enemy movement before contact—that was different.

Then the fight began.

The internal camera flickered as it adjusted to motion. Midoriya darted into a corner of the building with Uraraka at his heels, whispering hurriedly behind a stack of concrete slabs. His hands moved as he spoke, gesturing angles and ranges, something fast and precise. Across the simulated space, Bakugou and Iida moved like two different kinds of fire. Bakugou surged forward, reckless and explosive. Iida played containment, anticipating avenues of escape.

Dazai didn’t blink.

From the corner of the observation room, Present Mic was muttering commentary under his breath, occasionally turning to Aizawa for confirmation. Midnight sipped tea. Snipe stood with arms folded, silent. Kunikida had entered behind Dazai, carrying two folders and his habitual scowl.

“Midoriya’s approach is reactive,” Dazai murmured, barely audible.

“You say that like it’s a flaw,” Kunikida said, still watching the feed.

“It’s not,” Dazai said, smiling faintly. “But it’s not quite hero-like either. Heroes tend to be proactive. Loud. Determined. Midoriya adapts. He waits. He responds. Like he’s seen this play out before.”

The others didn’t comment, but the room seemed to pause. Even All Might tilted his head slightly.

Onscreen, the skirmish escalated. Bakugou had found them.

The sound picked up—grit grinding under boots, the echo of explosions, sharp shouts through the simulated corridor. Smoke coiled along the walls. Uraraka ducked behind a pillar. Midoriya stepped forward.

A shaky breath escaped him, visible even through the feed. Bakugou snarled something—no audio, but you could read it on his lips. The boy lunged.

Midoriya didn’t move.

He didn’t have to.

A sharp pivot. A redirect. Suddenly Bakugou’s blast met nothing but air. Smoke veiled the camera briefly, and in that second, Midoriya surged—not forward, but sideways. He didn’t strike. He disrupted. A measured shove here, a slip past Iida’s line of sight, a feint that left Bakugou snarling in frustrated fury.

It was a careful kind of violence.

Almost reluctant.

“Interesting,” Dazai muttered, tapping his chin lightly.

“What’s interesting?” All Might asked, voice warm but laced with something deeper—an edge of scrutiny.

Dazai didn’t answer right away. He reclined in his seat, gaze never leaving the screen. Onscreen, Midoriya took a hit—shoulder slammed against a pillar—but instead of collapsing, he rolled with it. Recovered. Moved like he’d been hit harder before and knew how to fall.

Too fast. Too familiar.

“He’s holding back,” Dazai said finally.

Toshinori’s brows lifted. “You think so?”

“Don’t you?”

For a heartbeat, their eyes met across the room.

His smile didn’t falter.

Dazai didn’t smile at all.

The trial ended ten minutes later.

Midoriya and Uraraka secured the weapon after Midoriya baited Bakugou into overextending. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t graceful. But it was effective. He’d made Iida chase his own tail, and forced Bakugou to act emotionally.

Not bad for a kid who supposedly just got his quirk.

The students regrouped outside. Laughter echoed faintly over the monitors. Some of it real, some of it the exhausted kind that followed adrenaline. Bakugou stormed off. Iida lectured no one in particular. Uraraka gave Midoriya a high-five that nearly knocked him off balance with delight.

Dazai turned off the monitor.

The observation room cleared slowly.

Kunikida left first, muttering about grading standards. Hizashi followed Kayama out the door, still arguing about Kaminari’s “stupid laser hands.” Shota paused near the door, casting a sidelong glance toward Dazai.

“Don’t get weird.”

“I make no promises.”

Only Toshinori lingered.

He was no longer the shining symbol of peace. Just a man now. Thin. Hollowed out around the edges. Toshinori Yagi, with a frame too large for his coat and shoulders bowed under invisible weight.

He approached slowly.

Dazai beat him to the first word.

“He wasn’t supposed to win.”

Toshinori didn’t answer.

“Bakugou’s a walking explosion, and Iida’s a tactical nightmare with that speed. Midoriya shouldn’t have had a chance. But he did. And he took it like someone who’s been given something he’s still trying to prove he deserves.”

Toshinori folded his arms. “He studies hard.”

“That’s not it,” Dazai said lightly. “Plenty of them study hard. Plenty of them dream. But Midoriya? He acts like someone carrying a borrowed miracle.”

Silence stretched thin.

“You’ve seen it too,” Dazai added. “That tension. That guilt. That fear of exposure.”

Toshinori didn’t move, but something in his expression—behind the quiet—pulled taut.

“I don’t care about your secrets,” Dazai said softly. “But he deserves better than to unravel under the weight of someone else’s legacy.”

Toshinori’s reply came slow. Measured.

“What do you want?”

“To understand him.”

“And if you don’t like what you find?”

Dazai smiled, soft and unreadable.

“Then I’ll adapt.”

He left with that.

Before the door shut, he glanced back.

“Oh. Tell him not to clench his jaw before a punch. It’s an obvious tell.”

Then he was gone.

The corridor outside the locker rooms buzzed with post-trial chatter—students comparing strategies, airing grievances, teasing each other about scraped knees and close calls. The distant echo of a vending machine whirred, punctuating the atmosphere with mundane normalcy. Yet for Midoriya, the corridor felt different: tighter, quieter, almost… charged.

He carried his shoes slung over one arm, body humming with adrenaline and that familiar, almost painful mental replay of each decision he'd made. Behind him, the metal doors to the locker rooms clanged shut. Footsteps approached, hesitant but deliberate.

“Feeling heroic?” Dazai’s voice emerged from the shadows, soft as a knife’s whisper.

Midoriya startled, nearly dropping his sneakers. “S-Sensei! I—uh—I was just leaving—”

“Mm. That’s a shame,” Dazai said, stepping forward. The scarf at his neck fluttered in the corridor breeze like a dark banner. “I was hoping to ask you something.”

Midoriya stiffened, heart thudding like a percussion instrument. He swallowed hard. “Y-Yes, Sensei?”

Dazai paused in the hallway. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing serious. Just curious.”

Midoriya nodded, throat dry. Dazai’s presence had that uncanny ability to twist nerves into knots—like sand in a machine, he always found just the right crevice.

Dazai drifted closer, eyes bright yet unreadable. “Tell me,” he said softly, “what drives someone like you to become a hero?”

Midoriya blinked, caught off-guard. He steadied himself. “I—I want to save people,” he said carefully, voice wavering.

“Everyone wants to save people,” Dazai replied, strolling slowly so their steps echoed together. “But most don’t break their bones doing it. Most don’t leap off rooftops for strangers. Most don’t study hero tactics obsessively in middle school despite… being quirkless.”

A tremor ran through Midoriya. He froze, insecurity pooling in his chest. “I—I had to… prove myself.”

Dazai nodded, gaze softening just enough to unsettle him. “I read your file,” he said, quiet enough that only Midoriya heard. “Of course I did. A transfer like yours stands out. Developing a quirk after fourteen years of life? That’s not usual.”

Midoriya opened his mouth. Closed it. His palms itched where his hands clutched his shoes.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Dazai said gently. “Secrets are currency in this business. I just hope you’ve spent yours wisely.”

Without waiting for a response, he slid past Midoriya into the stairwell. The door swung shut. Midoriya stood frozen, heart hammering, mind buzzing with every loaded word.

He stood there for a long minute, shell-shocked. The hum of the vending machine sounded intrusive now—as if mocking his exposed tension. Every nerve-shaped fragment of his consciousness felt raw and humming.

Midoriya’s mouth worked, seeking something to steady him. But no words materialized. The crowded corridor felt hollow. He slumped against the lockers, sliding slowly down until his heels hit the cool linoleum.

His gaze focused on nothing, too exhausted to think. Part of his mind—the part Dazai had pulled at—felt like a dented coil spring, compressed and twisting inside. He pressed his hand to his chest, breathing in shallow, jagged strokes.

Had Dazai really read his file that thoroughly? Did he know about the true reason for his quirk developing so late? About One For All? Midoriya’s stomach gave a nervous twist—as if knowledge was a weight, and it was slowly piling onto his chest.

He exhaled, breathing out some of the tension. But part of him stayed taut—like a coiled spring, like Dazai said.

Late that evening, the staff lounge was emptying. Moonlight filtered through slatted blinds, painting the room in long, muted stripes.

Toshinori sat alone at a low table. His teacup trembled in his hand—luckily the tea itself was cool. He didn’t notice. His mind was elsewhere, wandering through layered echoes of the day.

He thought of the Battle Trial—Midoriya’s calm strategy, the bizarre hesitance in his movements, that silent admission of guilt in his eyes every time he landed or recovered.

He thought of Dazai: late, casual, sharp-eyed. That knowing look. A predator’s gaze. And that confrontation—the softly probing conversation, a staged minefield laid bare.

All Might recalled Dazai’s words word‑for‑word: “Plenty of them dream. But Midoriya? He acts like someone carrying a borrowed miracle.” He had said “borrowed miracle.” The phrasing lingered with uncanny resonance.

He’d replied calmly that “Midoriya earned his place.” But now alone, the color of those words drained. On the monitors, on the floor, on his mind, Midoriya had seemed more than earned—he’d seemed… layered. Split.

All Might stirred his tea, but did not drink.

What did Dazai truly know?

The question tumbled over and over in Toshinori’s head.

What did he know—and when might he reveal it?

He glanced at the poster on the wall: All Might in full flamboyant hero gear, static and flattened by years of legend. His younger self, bright and unflawed, stuck to the panel like a mask.

He tapped the empty cup down, took a slow breath.

Midoriya would have to grow up fast.

And Dazai… well..

From the shadows, from rooftops, from behind a lazy smile that saw too much—Dazai would keep watching.

Toshinori closed his eyes, willing steadiness back into his blood. The day had been about training students—but tonight, it was about truths that hovered just off the skyline.

He would watch them too.

He would protect them.

He had to.

Chapter Text

When Dazai first accepted this mission, he didn’t believe that he’d have time for silly things like fun and hangouts. Hell, he didn’t think he’d ever even have someone he could call a friend—not since Oda and Ango.

Those things never went well for him. It was as if he were cursed, bringing pain and suffering to those he loved.

He wasn’t sure if he even considered the members of the agency his friends. His colleagues? Yes. His acquaintances? Definitely. But friends ? He wasn’t quite sure about that. Demons couldn’t have friends, or maybe that wasn’t true anymore.

After all, Odasaku was his beloved friend. His one and only. The only person who ever cared about Dazai Osamu.

But he did care about their well-beings, and the brunette found that he would heavily dislike if any of them were to get hurt or pass on.

So, when Kayama Nemuri invited him out to look around the city shops with her, he was skeptical at first. The woman was friendly enough. She was quite the flirtatious character, and it seemed like she was the female version of him. It was… strange, really.

Talking to her almost made him feel bad for everything the agency has had to deal with regarding his wonderful personality for the past few years. But not that bad. He wouldn’t change.

Although… now that he and Kunikida were supposedly married, he couldn’t ask any beautiful women to do him the honor of ending their life with him. That was the only frustrating part about their ordeal.

Swinging the familiar coat over his shoulders, nimble arms slipped into the sleeves of the dusty brown jacket. It falls down to his ankles, but is just short of the ground, which Dazai finds himself relieved about.

He knows he wore the coat yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and the day before that, but he didn’t find himself caring.

After all, Kunikida had practically stolen it from him last night and thrown it into the washing machine (which the brunette was actually grateful for, the cloth was beginning to stink, but he would rather go through the most painful death than admit that to him).

Despite Dazai being quite tall, the coat was suited for someone just a bit taller than he was—bigger, too. So, he has to fold back the sleeves at the end, cuffing them around his bandage-clad wrists and gently patting down the fabric, smoothing out the wrinkles that may have been accumulated with his handling.

He always tried to be careful when it came to Odasaku’s coat. He treated it as if it were the most fragile thing on the planet, as if the garment was glass that would shatter into millions of unfixable pieces if he handled it too roughly. It was laughable, really. A man who didn’t care about his physical health in the slightest, who didn’t even care for anyone else’s well-being; obsessing over the care of an inanimate object? Pathetic was another good word for it.

Patting over his bandages once more, he stood up from where he sat, the bed creaking as he does so, returning to its original fullness. Kunikida was out at the moment buying groceries for the apartment, but he knows of Dazai’s plans.

Of course—at first, he had been shocked. Dazai making friends and plans? It was a recipe for disaster.

“Really, Dazai? You’re actually going to go?” Kunikida had asked him with a disbelieving tone, his arms and legs crossed. One of his eyebrows was lifted, and he had an almost conflicted look on his face with the slightest hint of worry.

Worry likely over the duo which was Dazai and Kayama. The Womanizer and the Maneater. Two sides of the same coin, is what he liked to call it.

Dazai only chuckled, shaking his head and standing up from where he sat on the couch, stretching out his limbs. Two loud pops from his knee joints follow, and he didn’t miss the way the blonde grimaces upon hearing it.

To further up this discomfort, Dazai took to cracking his neck. “My, my, Kunikida-kun! If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re jealous. You’re playing the role of a controlling husband very well, are you sure you don’t actually have feelings for me?”

Upon hearing this the man’s eyes widen, and he sputtered, beginning to stutter out his next words. It was a bunch of, ‘Well—‘, ‘I’m not jealous’, but they were all so jumbled together he couldn’t quite tell. The brunette just raised an unimpressed brow.

A frustrated groan left the other man, and he lifted his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose—something that he did a lot when it came to Dazai. It brought the lightest of smirks to his face. He got flustered so easily, but it seemed to have gotten first since the three of them took the mission. Perhaps it stemmed from the embarrassment of the situation?

“Relaaxx, buddy! I’m just messing with you.” Dazai hummed, drifting into the kitchen and opening up the cabinets; likely in search of canned crab. Of course, there’s none, because Kunikida just loves to complain about how much crab Dazai eats and how it’s bad for his body.

But, if the younger just took one quick look at Dazai, he’d realize that he hasn’t taken care of himself in a long time, and he probably never will.

Releasing a quiet whine, he begrudgingly trudged back into the living room, sitting down on the couch adjacent to Kunikida. The man stared at him for a few moments, seeming to have recovered from his flustered state before he just sighs, tilting his head back onto the couch and closing his eyes—chin pointed to the ceiling.

Dazai watched him in silence for a bit longer before choosing to speak. “Soo, can I go?”

“Dazai, you’re a grown man. You don’t have to ask me if you can leave the house like you’re some kind of delinquent teenager.” He didn’t open his eyes as he said this, a neutral tone to his words.

The brunette considered this for a moment before just shrugging his shoulders with a little grin. “Well, you are my husband for this mission after all, it would be rude of me to not ask for permission to hang out with another woman.” Kunikida flushed at that, and Dazai pretends not to notice.

He flashes him a thumbs up despite knowing he wouldn’t be able to see it, and stood back up, skipping back to their shared bedroom. He had taken out his phone, navigated to his messages app and pulled up Kayama’s contact, typing out his affirmative to the ‘hangout’.

The answer comes a few minutes after in the form of 7 words and a plethora of emojis following the message that detailed where the two of them would be meeting.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

He could convince Kayama to take him to a seafood restaurant, and convince her to pay for the food as well—after all, he wasn’t just a master in deception, but persuasion as well.

It seemed he just always has been, even when he was still Shūji. Convincing his parents to buy him the latest video games, or take him out to eat fast food were the easiest things he had ever done. Even Shota couldn’t resist his charm!

….

Oh, Shota.

Shaking the thoughts of the older man from his head, he hums quietly and slips the house keys into his pocket. He eyed the car keys that sat on the small table beside the door, squinting and frowning at them for a few moments.

Kunikida had banned him from driving the car, because it was known that Dazai wasn’t the best driver in the world. Scratch that, he was possibly the worst.

He remembers the first and last time Kunikida got into a car with him. He had run two stop signs, and three red lights, turning corners so sharply that the man had been jostled out of his seat over and over again. He was certain he had almost given the man a heart attack; perhaps he had even caused a mini one.

When the two of them got out the car, he was subjected to 45 minutes of yelling about safety measures and the dangers of driving so recklessly. Though of course, Dazai hadn’t been listening, hadn’t even been paying attention—just agreeing to everything the man said with boredom evident in his gaze.

That proved to be a bad decision, because he came to find out the next day that he had agreed to Kunikida confiscating his car keys like he was a child , uttering the exact words of: “As your partner, I will be doing the driving from now on.”

After one last longing look to the car keys, he bid the empty apartment a sweet, longing farewell and stepped out into the fresh air, locking the door behind him.

The moment he was out in the open, a gust of wind blew his hair into his face, strands of the unkempt tresses landing upon his lips and getting into his mouth. He spluttered and spit, his face scrunching up with distaste as he pulled the thin strands from between his lips. This was already a nightmare. Why did he agree to this again?

Ah, right. How bad could it be?

Bad enough.

He had half the mind to turn on his heel, unlock the door and march back into the living space with his chin held up high, but he didn’t do that. Instead, he forced himself to walk down the steep steps.

Once he was at the bottom, he began the trek to the designated meetup spot Kayama had set for the two of them. It wasn’t that far of a walk, because thankfully the city plaza wasn’t far from the apartment that the president had set up for the two of them.

Despite how early in the morning it was (except it was 11 AM, which was early to Dazai), the plaza was bustling with activity. Children screamed and shouted, throwing tantrums in the streets, and their exhausted parents simply rolled their eyes and drug them along.

He almost regrets not picking up his headphones before he left the apartment, but it wasn’t anything that could be helped now.

Upon turning the corner, he noticed Nemuri leaning against a small coffee shop—the address that she had texted him the night before. Her eyes were glued to her phone which she held horizontally in her hands, a focused expression on her face. Definitely playing a game.

He walks up to her, about a foot away when she finally looked up in his direction. Her expression morphed into one of recognition, and a smile spread across her thin, extra pink lips. Did he see a bit of gloss too?

She looked just a bit different when out of her hero costume, ditching the skin-tight, dominatrix style for a simple pair of flared black yoga pants and a light purple wool sweater that hugged her frame (perfectly, may he add). Instead of her eye mask, there are black frames on the bridge of her nose, something he already knew of.

An overwhelming scent of floral perfume hit him hard, making his head spin and his eye ache—and he resisted the urge to cover his nose and walk away.

Nemuri beams at him, tucking her phone into a pocket in her coat. “You're late.”

Dazai scoffed upon hearing this, pressing a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “You wound me, Kayama-san. I had to fight off the urge to return to bed at least three times this morning. That should earn me a little sympathy.”

She snorted, then looped her arm through his with an ease that unsettles him—too natural, too friendly. His mind screamed at him to pull away, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. “Come on. I’ve got a list of places to hit and exactly zero patience.”

They walked together through the plaza, weaving through the crowd like a mismatched pair from a romantic comedy. Dazai's stroll is lazy, his expression unreadable; Kayama is purposeful, dragging him towards a store that she claims is “perfect for his vibe” like a force of nature in heeled boots.

(Said store is in fact not his style, as it is a boutique and Dazai cannot stand going shopping for clothes—what’s the point of just walking around and trying on random clothes? It’s boring !)

Kayama pulled him along, their arms still intertwined tightly. She began to look through the racks of clothing at the very back of the start, and he noted the fact that all of the shirts were meant to be cropped just atop of the belly button area. He smirked. Maybe I could get Kunikida and I matching crop tops.

However that was a thought he quickly pushed away as he realized that Kunikida would never in his life wear anything of the sort. Though perhaps it would be worth a try..

She took a light grey cropped camisole off of the rack and held it up to herself, frowning as she looked over at Dazai. “Do you think my boobs will fit into this?”

The brunette hummed, placing a finger on his chin and tilting his head to the side with a thoughtful expression. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t risk it. I mean, unless you’re fine with a nip slip.” The probability of that happening was roughly 70% with how small the cups of the shirt were.

Kayama pouted, though hung the shirt back up as she continued to file through the multitude of garments on display. Dazai inwardly groaned, the weight of his unfortunate predicament finally settling in.

Why did I come?

The morning passed with surprising speed. Kayama had ended up forcing him to try on half the shop, laughing at every complaint and whine that left his mouth. He retaliated by picking out the most ridiculous accessories and insisting they’re “very in this season.”

At one point, she held up a fuzzy purple scarf and insists he’d look good in it. He didn’t protest—merely throwing it around his shoulders with a dramatic flourish and declares, “Kunikida-kun will faint when he sees me in this.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Kunikida?”

A sly smile curves his lips. “Ah, we live together. Did I not mention that?”

Kayama narrows her eyes at him suspiciously, but he doesn’t elaborate. By the time the two of them had left the boutique, Kayama had somehow convinced him to get the disgusting purple scarf and a pair of mittens.

She had claimed that he would need them for the colder months, but he just couldn’t seem to understand why he needed to get these items now considering how far winter was.

They paused at a takoyaki stand around noon. She ordered without asking and handed him a skewer with all the familiarity of someone who’s done this before.

Dazai glanced at it, then tilted his head at her. “You’re oddly domestic.”

“Only with people I like,” She replied smoothly, winking at him.

He hums in amusement. “And here I thought you only saw me as a fellow menace to society. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re flirting with me.”

“I do,” She said. “But a menace can still be tolerable company.” She didn’t comment on his last sentence, simply chuckling quietly.

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, leaning against the edge of a decorative fountain. The plaza was still bustling, possibly even louder than before—but there was a little patch of quiet between them, shaded by a willow tree, tucked out of sight.

Nemuri eventually broke the stillness. “You’re different from what I expected.”

Those words caused Dazai to look up, blinking slowly with a slightly startled expression. “Oh?” He raised a brow, eyes half-lidded.

“You’re... not just a pain in the ass.”

He tapped a finger to his cheek in mock-thought. “High praise, Kayama-san. I’ll treasure it forever.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t look away. “You can call me Nemuri.”

Dazai’s eyes widened a bit, but a grin spread across his face, followed by hearty laughter tearing from his throat. “Well then, call me Osamu, Nemuri-chan .”

“Osamu it is.” Nemuri’s  smile widened, and she nodded her head. “So, Osamu , what’s your deal?”

He didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched long enough that he’s sure she’ll think he’d just change the topic, but he didn’t. He’d have his fun. What was the point of being undercover if he couldn’t make up a few stories along the way? “I was part of a place. Not quite a hero agency.”

She waited.

“It wasn't good,” He added, eyes flicking up toward the sky. “But I got out. That’s what matters.”

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t exactly a lie, more-so a twist on the truth. But she didn’t need to know the full truth.

Nemuri recognized the evasion for what it was, but didn’t press.

Heroes, villains—labels, Dazai had learned, can mean very little. Especially when they’re wrapped around someone like him .

He shifted to face her slightly, that usual smirk returning. “Though if we’re sharing now, what about you, Nemuri-kun? Always been the scandalous schoolteacher?” She hadn’t, after all he knows everything about every teacher at U.A.

“Scandalous?” She echoed with a grin, and Dazai merely shrugged his shoulders. She was quite scandalous, and she was also quite the flirty hero.

“I mean that in the most complimentary way.”

She nudged his shoulder. “I was a normal hero once, you know. Got bored. The usual story.”

“Mm. Somehow I doubt your life has ever been ‘normal.’” He commented while stuffing his hands into his coat pockets, dodging the shove that she attempted to give his shoulder.

They strolled again after that, popping into more shops and bickering over useless trinkets. He convinced her to buy a crab plushie ‘for Kunikida-kun,’ and she retaliated by tossing a frilly apron into his arms and insisting it would ‘match his energy.’

Eventually, they find themselves back at the fountain. The sun was starting to dip lower, casting long golden rays over the plaza. It’s the kind of late afternoon that feels timeless.

Dazai sighed contentedly and leans back on the bench they had claimed. “You know, you’re a very beautiful woman, Nemuri-chan.” He said, and he could see her blush.

Before could can answer, he spoke once more. “I would ask you to commit a double suicide with me, but my husband wouldn’t like that.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Then—

“Your what.”

He couldn’t help but snort at the disbelief in her voice, finding it damn near hilarious how she didn’t even address the elephant of the sentence. “My husband,” He said, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “Doppo. Well, Kunikida to you.”

Nemuri nearly dropped her drink. “What?”

“You see, we met two years ago,” Dazai began, his voice turning dreamily nostalgic and sappy. If Kunikida were here right now, he’d probably smack him over the back of his head. “And just after six months, we got married. We just knew we were meant for each other. It was love at first sight!”

She stared at him, silence overtaking the both of them for a few moments.

“That doesn’t seem smart. What if he was a serial killer?” She asked at last, somewhere between horrified and delighted.

“Well,” Dazai muses, “he definitely isn’t. My Doppo could never have it in him to kill somebody. He seems intimidating and stuck-up when you meet him but he really is just the cutest teddy bear ever.”

Nemuri was laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered. “I just—I never would have thought. You two are so… different, from each other.” She paused, smirking. “He must hate you so much.”

“Oh, he does.” Dazai grins. “With love, of course.”

He let her laugh for a while longer before letting his expression settle into something quieter. Not serious—never quite that—but less absurd.

“Don’t tell him I said that about him though, he’d punt me into tomorrow.” He added after a moment. Nemuri laughed again upon hearing that, then the two of them fall into comfortable silence.

“I appreciate today,” He said, and he finds that a small part of him was genuine about it. That definitely wasn’t good.

Nemuri eyes him. “Is that your way of saying thank you?”

“Possibly.” He stretched his arms above his head, joints popping. “You’re not so bad, Nemuri-chan.”

“Aw,” She teased. “You’re making me blush.”

Dazai feigned shock, placing a hand over his heart. “Don’t say that! I’m a married man.” Though after a moment, he continued with a smug grin. “I’ll add it to my list of achievements.”

They walked together back toward the train stop where she would take the train back to her house, the air turning cooler as evening creeps in. He hadn’t meant to stay out this late, but as the day went on he found himself uncaring.

Dazai kept his hands in his pockets, humming under his breath. Nemuri was relaxed beside him, her hair drifting with the breeze.

It’s not so bad, he thinks.

A friend. Maybe. Just one. Maybe that’s okay. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her, things wouldn’t be the same.

He probably won’t mind , Nemuri thought as she stood in front of the coffee machine.

She watched as the caffeinated substance steadily poured into her cup, running a hand through the deep purple tresses atop her head.

Finding out that Dazai and Kunikida were married had been quite the shock to her. It made her briefly wonder why one of them didn’t have the other’s last name for a few moments, before she mentally scolded herself. It was probably because they didn’t want the students to question why two of their teachers shared the same surname.

Honestly, she had been giddy to hear about it. To her, Kunikida seemed like a grump who would never find love in his life because of how picky he was with everything. It almost didn’t make any sense. And the way Dazai spoke about the blonde? Definitely insane.

Nemuri was taking her coffee cup off the stand when Hizashi walked in, and she quickly turned around to look at him. She pursed her lips, giving one last thought to the situation before rushing over to him.

The man startled, looking down at her with widened eyes. “Nemuri? What’s up?” He asked as she took his wrist and pulled him over to one of the tables in the lounge, roughly shoving him into one of the seats.

He just blinked, looking confused and just slightly bewildered. “I need to tell you something, I literally cannot keep it to myself any longer.”

After hearing that, he leaned forward with his elbows planted firmly on the table, squinting his eyes. Hizashi lowered his voice into a whisper, taking sneaky glances around the room. “Hit me with it.”

The words came out in one quick, jumbled sentence. “Osa—Dazai and Kunikida are married !”

Silence took over the teachers lounge. In the far corner, Kan looked up from the newspaper he’s reading with a clenched jaw. Anxiously chewing on her bottom lip, Nemuri looked over at Hizashi once again.

After a long minute, Hizashi shrieks . “ What ?! Are you serious?”

She covered her ears, her face scrunched up and the blonde looked at her with an apologetic stare. “… Sorry. Where did you hear that though?”

Nemuri set her coffee down with a sharp clink. “Dazai told me.”

His mouth dropped open.

She nodded, her brows raising. “Yesterday. We hung out in the city for a bit—shopping, talking. You know, just a friendly thing. He kept bringing up Kunikida and told me they lived together, but I didn’t think too much about it. Then a few hours later, he just… said it . Casually. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

“Really? He did?” Hizashi blinked rapidly. “Wait. Wait. This like—changes everything!” Hizashi looked down, gripping his pants. “It all makes so much more sense..”

Nemuri took a sip of her coffee, smirking faintly. “I know! And then while we were waiting on my train, he told me about how Kunikida forgot their anniversary last year, so now he’s only allowed to pick the hotel if Dazai picks the wine.”

Hizashi’s hands flew to his head, cradling it as he stared at the table in disbelief. “This is so much better than I imagined.”

In that moment the door clicked open and in walks Shota in all his ragged glory. He stopped in the doorway, taking one good look at the glances towards him, before narrowing his eyes. “What?”

“Nothing!” Hizashi shouted quickly, a sheepish smile on his face. “Nothing at all, Sho.”

Chapter Text

“Sho!”

A voice whispered directly into Shota’s ear, and his nose scrunched up as the warm breath tickled his ear. He groaned, turning onto his other side as he face planted into the cool pillows.

There’s a quiet sound of annoyance before small hands roughly shoved into his side, the impact of the push doing nothing to move his body—not even an inch.

Silence filled the room for a few, short-lived moments before the voice whispered again. “Shota! Wake up! You promised that you’d make my breakfast today because mom and dad aren’t home.”

The bed dipped under extra weight, the sheets rustling with each little movement.

Upon hearing that, Shota finally opened his eyes, grunting quietly. The moment he blinked the light from his eyes, he’s met with wide brown hues and a frustrated, yet pouty expression. It morphed into one of excitement and slight relief when he opened his eyes.

“Morning! Come on, hurry up. You promised, remember? 6 am, on my birthday—you’d get up and make me the fancy chocolate chips pancakes with the whipped cream and berries on top. Remember? Remember?”

He groans, and Shūji just giggled at his slight annoyance. However, it didn’t matter how early it was, or how little sleep Shota had gotten the night before—he had made a promise to his brother, and he would fulfill it.

After a moment of basking in the warmth of his bed, he sat up, which causes the brunette child to shift to the side to give the older boy space.

Shota glanced over at him, a warm smile spreading across his lips. He lifted his hand, his palm laid flat on top of the boys head, ruffling the brown tresses of already messy hair. “You’re 8 already, huh?”

A nostalgic sigh left his lips, and Shūji giggled upon hearing it. “You’ll be 10 in no time, I remember I was so excited to finally be in the double digits.” He hummed, eyeing the boy. “It feels like just yesterday you were 7.”

This draws another laugh from the boy, and he lightly punched Shota’s shoulder. The older boy winced in faux pain, scrunching his face up. “I was 7 yesterday! You’re so silly, Sho.”

Shota feigned a gasp. He frowned, and held his arm like it hurt. “You wound me, and now you’re calling me silly? My little brother is so mean .” He said solemnly, flopping back into the pillows like he’d just taken a fatal blow.

Shūji only laughed harder. “You’re so dramatic!”

“Drama is a symptom of sleep deprivation,” Shota mumbled, his voice muffled by the fabric. “And I’m severely sleep deprived.”

“But you promised,” Shūji said, crawling over and plopping himself right on top of Shota’s stomach. “And you never break your promises.”

Shota huffed but didn’t argue. He blinked slowly at the ceiling, as if trying to will his body into moving. After a moment of quiet stillness—save for the boy sitting triumphantly on his abdomen—he heaved a final sigh, one of deep resignation. “Alright, alright. Pancakes it is.”

The young boy lit up like a lantern. “Really?!”

“Yeah, really,” Shota groaned again, shifting to sit up and dragging the boy off of him with practiced ease. “Go brush your teeth or something. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

The second Shūji’s feet hit the floor, he took off like a bolt of lightning, shouting over his shoulder about all the toppings he wanted—extra whipped cream, maybe some strawberries, and “don’t forget the chocolate chips!” trailing behind him as a reminder.

Shota stood slowly, rubbing a hand over his eyes. His joints cracked in protest as he stretched his arms overhead. Still, he couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he padded into the kitchen, barefoot and drowsy.

The light was already on—Shūji must’ve flipped every switch in the house on his way down. The boy was nowhere to be seen for now, but Shota could hear the sound of the bathroom faucet running upstairs, and it gave him a moment of quiet before the storm returned.

He set to work, grabbing ingredients from memory. Flour. Eggs. Milk. Vanilla extract. The chocolate chips were easy—his younger brother always made sure they were in plain sight, right at the front of the pantry, like they were the crown jewel of the kitchen. Shota shook a few into his hand and popped one in his mouth, more for the sugar boost than anything.

The batter came together quickly. Years of doing this made it muscle memory, even this early in the morning. He whisked lazily, tapping his fingers against the bowl as the smell of warming butter filled the room.

By the time the first pancake hit the griddle, Shūji returned—this time dressed in his favorite cartoon-print pajamas, a little mismatched, but somehow that only made it more fitting.

Shota had been the one to buy him the pajamas. He had inquired about why the younger boy had wanted race cars for pajamas, but upon asking he was just ridiculed and made to feel stupid for asking in typical 7 year old sense.

He climbed onto one of the kitchen stools and leaned forward like he was watching something sacred. “Is that the good vanilla?”

Shota raised a brow. “What do you mean, ‘the good vanilla’?”

“You know,” Shūji grinned. “The one in the glass bottle that smells like a cake.”

The hero course student laughed under his breath. “Yeah, it’s the good vanilla.”

“Yay!” He exclaimed, a soft giggle escaping him.

The pancakes sizzled as they cooked, warm and golden, and soon enough the plate began to fill with a short stack. Shūji kicked his legs beneath the counter in anticipation.

“Can I help with the toppings?” He asked, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Sure,” Shota said, sliding the last pancake onto the plate. “You do the whipped cream, I’ll handle the berries.”

Together, they decorated it like it was a birthday cake—spirals of whipped cream, chocolate chips pressed into the surface like constellations, and a ring of fresh berries crowning the top.

It was over the top and a little messy, but Shota couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when Shūji looked at it like he’d just been handed treasure.

“Okay,” Shūji declared, hopping down from the stool, “Let’s eat at the table like fancy people at a fancy restaurant.”

Shota followed him over with the plate and two forks, setting everything down in the middle. They didn’t bother plating their own servings—just dug in from opposite sides, like kids at a sleepover.

Shūji made an approving noise as he took the first bite. “This is the best pancake I’ve ever had.”

“You said that last year.”

“I was right last year, too.”

Shota smiled into his fork.

For a moment, the room was quiet, save for the soft sounds of chewing and the occasional clink of fork against plate. The morning light had started to pour through the curtains, casting golden stripes over the table. It all felt still, suspended somehow in a warm, fleeting kind of peace.

“I’m sorry for waking you up, you didn’t have to get up so early.” Shūji said suddenly, voice a little softer.

Shota looked up. “Yeah, I did.”

The brunette blinked at him, curious. “Why?”

“Because it’s your birthday,” Shota said. “And I promised.”

Shūji smiled again—smaller this time, but genuine. He set his fork down and leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands. “You’re the best big brother ever.”

Shota chuckled. “I’m your only big brother.”

The boy shrugged and replied confidently. “Yeah, but you’re the best one in the world. Better than all the other big brothers.”

There was something about that that settled in Shota’s chest. Heavy in a good way. He didn’t say anything back—just reached out and tugged gently on one of Shūji’s messy curls.

“Thanks, birthday boy.”

Despite the pout that once rested on his face from his curls being messed with, he beams at those next words.

However, all good things don’t last, because the sound of a key jangling becomes distantly heard outside the front door. The door knob jiggled and opened, and Shota can only think of one person it could be.

“Happy birthday to my favorite star!” Comes Hizashi’s voice, ringing out into the air like a banshee’s. The blonde man closed the door behind him, and in held in his hand were 2 plastic bags filled to the brim with wrapped items.

Shota sighed and placed his hand on his face, running it down with annoyance.

Shūji however, looks beyond excited. “Uncle Zashi!” He exclaimed, standing up and abandoning the pancakes that he had so desperately wanted just a few minutes before.

When the shorter boy went barreling into the blonde, Hizashi gasped and smiled, the one arm that wasn’t holding up the bags wrapping around his small frame.

“Hey buddy. How old are you now? Five, six?” He joked, and Shūji took the bait.

He frowned, “No I’m eight, silly! Eight! I’m practically as old as you are.”

Hizashi let out a theatrical gasp, eyes wide behind his yellow shades. “Eight?! No way. That’s like... ancient! You’re gonna be driving and paying taxes before I know it.”

Shūji giggled, clearly delighted by the absurdity. “I’m gonna drive a race car, and I won’t pay taxes. They’re boring.”

“Atta boy,” The blonde said with a wink, setting the bags down on the coffee table with a dramatic flourish. “But don’t tell your teachers I said that.”

Shota dragged a chair out from the kitchen table and flopped into it with a sigh, arms crossed and expression flat. “You’re encouraging tax evasion now?”

“It’s a life skill,” He replied breezily. “Like knowing how to make an entrance.” He glanced around at the half-eaten pancakes and leaned over to sniff dramatically. “Ooh, is that the good vanilla I smell? You’ve outdone yourself, Sho.”

“So that’s where he got it from..” Shota said dryly. “I’ve been up since six, of course I did.”

“Psh. Six is practically noon if you’re cool like me,” Hizashi quipped, but his attention quickly drifted back to the excited birthday boy tugging at his sleeve. “Right, right! Okay, presents first, pancakes later.”

He dropped onto the couch with a theatrical grunt and began pulling items out of one of the bags. “Alright, so I might’ve gone a little overboard. But what’s new?”

From the crinkling plastic emerged a series of gifts wrapped in colorful paper—bright blues, reds, greens, all dotted with cartoon characters or sparkly foil. Shūji’s eyes went huge.

“Woah,” He whispered, dropping to his knees in front of the table.

“Okay, okay. This one’s from me,” Hizashi said, plucking out a long, rectangular box and handing it over. “And I know you said you wanted to be surprised, so I hope this works.”

Shūji tore into the paper with the enthusiasm of a storm. Bits of wrapping flew in every direction, and within moments he was holding up a sleek digital drawing tablet, complete with a matching stylus and protective case.

“No way!” He gasped, and Shota gaped. Good lord, the Yamada’s were rich. “No way no way no way! This is like the one the guy on the art channel uses!”

“I remembered you said that last week. I also remember you saying that you wanted to get into drawing.” Hizashi said, puffing out his chest. “Uncle Zashi’s got ears like a hawk.”

Shūji looked up at him with a stunned, glowing expression. “You’re the coolest teenager ever.”

“Well, obviously,” Hizashi laughed, and Shota snorted quietly from the table.

Before Shūji could get lost in testing buttons, the blonde reached back into the second bag. “But wait—there’s more! After Shota, though.” He nudged Shota with his elbow. “Come on, your turn, brooding one.”

Shota looked reluctant to move, but eventually he stood and walked to the hallway cabinet. From behind the coats, he pulled out a soft bundle wrapped in fabric. He passed it to Shūji wordlessly, though his expression was a little softer than usual.

The boy sat up straighter. “You wrapped it in one of the pillowcases!”

“You like that pillowcase,” He replied, as if that explained everything. Hizashi just stared at him with furrowed brows and a wordless expression.

With more gentleness this time, Shūji unwrapped the bundle to reveal a thick sketchbook with a leather cover, its paper a higher quality than the cheap ones he normally used. Nestled on top of it was a set of new colored pencils—real artist-grade ones, the kind that blended like butter on the page.

Shūji blinked down at them, lips parting slightly. “Whoa.”

“I figured if you’re gonna draw,” Shota muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “might as well try it both ways. Digital and traditional.”

There was a beat of silence before Shūji jumped up and wrapped his arms around Shota’s middle, squeezing tight. “You’re the best big brother in the world,” He said again, this time even more earnestly.

Shota froze for a second, then returned the hug with one hand. “Happy birthday, squirt.”

After the presents were safely stashed on the couch and the pancakes were revisited for a few more bites, he stood abruptly. “Wait! I almost forgot!”

He dashed out of the room, socks slipping on the floor as he turned the corner. Shota exchanged a glance with Hizashi.

“What now?” He asked, sounding almost exasperated.

Hizashi shrugged. “Kid’s got more energy than the sun.”

Moments later, Shūji returned, carrying a small foldable sheet of music in one hand. “I’ve been practicing a song! And I want to play it for you guys,” he said to Hizashi, cheeks a little pink with embarrassment, “... Since you weren’t here last week when I learned it, and mom and dad aren’t here to listen.”

Upon hearing that, the black haired teen froze up, a frown etched deep into his exhausted features. He’d have to chew their parents out for that later.

Hizashi, however, looked visibly touched. “You wanna play for us? Oh man, I’d be honored to hear!”

The three of them moved to the living room where the old upright piano sat nestled against the wall. Shūji scrambled up onto the bench while Hizashi settled beside him on the floor, legs crossed and face bright with anticipation. Shota lingered in the doorway, arms crossed but watching closely.

“Okay, okay,” Shūji muttered, smoothing the page and cracking his knuckles like he’d seen real pianists do. “Don’t laugh if I mess up.” He pleaded.

“Never,” Hizashi said, placing a hand over his heart.

With a deep breath, Shūji placed his fingers on the keys. The melody that followed was sweet and simple—halting in a few places, but undeniably earnest. The notes filled the room in a soft, wobbling tune, and though he stumbled once or twice, he pushed through with all the determination of a kid giving a gift from the heart.

When the final note faded, Shūji turned to Hizashi, face flushed and hopeful. “Did you like it?”

Hizashi blinked rapidly, sniffed once, then broke into a grin. “Are you kidding me? That was amazing! I’ve never heard anything like it.”

Shūji giggled, proud but shy.

Shota watched as Hizashi ruffled the kid’s hair with exaggerated enthusiasm, and Shūji leaned into it without complaint. The piano keys still gently hummed from the last chord.

The room smelled like pancakes and the soft sweetness of morning, and for once, it felt like nothing else mattered.

And if Shota stayed leaning against the doorframe just a little longer, soaking in the sound of their laughter—well, that was nobody’s business but his own.

Pancakes.

The smell drifted into Shota’s nose, brutally awakening him from his peaceful slumber like a slap on the face. He sighed, running his hand down his face—his vision blurring as he stared up at the ceiling.

It’s not fair, was his first thought.

He closed his eyes, darkness filling his vision. And it’s upsetting, because when he closed his eyes he expected the image of Shūji but instead he just got—Dazai, in all his glory.

Dazai who looked so much like his little brother that he wasn’t entirely sure any more if he was dead or not. But that’s a silly thought, because Shota knows he’s dead.

The letter in his pajama pants weighed him down, a constant reminder of his failure. That same letter he kept on him every single day, no matter where he was. At school, on patrol, at home sleeping.

For the past 8 years, he had made sure that all of his clothes had some sort of pocket on them just to hold that letter.

It wasn’t the last thing he had of Shūji, but it was the most important. Because in that letter, Shūji had instructed that his drawing tablet be given to Shota to keep. He had wrote that Shota could look at all of his drawings, and that the traditional drawings were his to keep if he so wanted.

Those same drawings had told him all he needed to know about his brother’s mental health, and the emotions that lead up to his death. And he couldn’t help but think that maybe, maybe if he had just asked Shūji if everything was okay things would be different. He would still be alive.

Maybe if he had been the best big brother that Shūji said he was, he could have somehow prevented this.

But that was a big maybe.

Shota didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the wet warmth streak down his cheek.

The tears came slowly at first, then all at once—quiet and angry and full of things left unsaid. He curled into himself slightly, knuckles brushing against the edge of the nightstand as he sat upright in the quiet stillness of their bedroom. The bed beside him shifted, and then he felt a hand—familiar and gentle—touch his back.

“Sho…?”

The voice was low, rough from sleep, but it held concern in every syllable. Hizashi didn’t need to ask why he was upset. He already knew.

“It was the dream again,” Shota whispered, voice flat and thin. “The pancakes. The song. His laugh. You remember it, don’t you?”

The hand on his back moved in slow circles, grounding him.

“Yeah, I do.” Hizashi murmured. “Sounds like a good one, exactly like how it happened.”

“It was,” Shota replied. “And that’s the worst part.” Silence settled between them again.

Hizashi shifted closer, wrapping an arm around his waist and pressing his forehead lightly to Shota’s shoulder. They sat like that for a long moment, the quiet stretching between breaths. The sun hadn’t even risen yet, but it didn’t matter. Today wasn’t about time—it never was.

Eventually, Shota wiped his face and stood, his movements slow, deliberate. Hizashi didn’t stop him, only watched as he changed out of his pajamas and into something simple: a dark hoodie, jeans, sneakers. His mourning clothes, Hizashi liked to call it.

The blonde followed suit, getting up without a word, already knowing the routine.

They didn’t speak much as they left the apartment. The city was still asleep, the streets hushed under the veil of early morning. Shota kept his hands in his pockets, the familiar weight of the letter brushing against his knuckles with every step. He didn’t need to read it again. He knew every word.

They stopped by the little corner bakery first—Shota's choice. It had been Shūji’s favorite, the one that made red velvet cupcakes with the perfect swirl of cream cheese frosting and the little white chocolate stars pressed into the top. The kind of cupcake that, even now, made Shota’s stomach turn with how much it reminded him of sticky fingers and laughter.

He paid for one—just one. The woman behind the counter recognized him but said nothing, just gave a soft smile and handed it over like she understood.

Next was the flower shop. A small bouquet of sunflowers. Always sunflowers. Bright and big and loud—just like Shūji. Shota didn’t even glance at the roses or lilies. He never did.

Hizashi stayed close, offering quiet comfort but never overstepping. He knew this was Shota’s day to carry.

By the time they reached the graveyard, the sun had risen. The soft gold light bathed the rows of headstones in a kind of holy stillness. Theirs wasn’t far. Shota knew the way with his eyes closed.

He stopped in front of the stone that bore his brother’s name. His chest ached.

Shūji Aizawa
Beloved Son, Brother, and Aspiring Pianist.

21XX - 21XX

Shota crouched, placing the cupcake down gently, then the flowers. He adjusted the bouquet twice before it looked right. The cupcake leaned slightly to one side, and for a split second he imagined Shūji’s voice whining about the frosting being crooked.

He sat.

And then he didn’t move.

The silence pressed in around him like cotton—soft, but suffocating. Hizashi remained a few feet back, giving him space.

Shota let the minutes bleed into one another, watching shadows shift as the light changed. The longer he stared at the headstone, the more the ache inside him turned sharp.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered.

He didn’t know if he was apologizing for surviving, or for not noticing sooner, or for not being enough. Maybe all of it.

His hands trembled in his lap. His throat tightened. The tears came again, heavier this time, unfiltered and raw. He hunched forward, elbows on knees, face hidden behind a curtain of dark hair.

It wasn’t loud. Shota never cried loud. But it broke something all the same. The only sound that came from him was the quietest sobs, and the occasional sniffle.

After what felt like hours, he finally stood, rubbing the salt from his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. The letter stayed in his pocket. The pain stayed in his chest.

He looked down at the grave once more, the frosting starting to melt in the rising heat.

“Happy birthday,” He said, voice hoarse.

Then he turned and walked back toward Hizashi, who waited silently with open arms.

And this time, Shota let himself be held. The blonde led him out of the cemetery with gentle care, but there was a solemn aura to him—one that didn’t match the wild and careful Hizashi he knew.

The graveyard had long emptied of its early visitors by the time Dazai moved.

He’d been there from the beginning, of course. Hidden just out of sight, tucked behind a withered tree that still hadn’t quite recovered from winter. The bark pressed cold against his back, the chill threading its way through the layers of his coat. He barely felt it.

His eyes had never left the two figures near the grave.

Shota hadn’t changed much, but then again he had gotten a glimpse of him in the files. A little older, maybe. A little more tired around the edges. His hair was longer, his back a little straighter—but it was still him.

And Hizashi was there too, a half-step behind like he always had been, bright blond dulled in the overcast morning. Like light through thick clouds.

Dazai had stood silently as they left the cupcake. As they arranged the flowers. As Shota sat down in front of the grave and didn’t move.

He knew every line of the headstone before he ever laid eyes on it.

Shūji Aizawa. Beloved son, brother, pianist.. That’s right. He had wanted to be a pianist before his dreams were ripped from his grasp.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

His name. It was still there.

Still carved into stone like it was final. Like it wasn’t a lie.

But he was here, wasn’t he?

No, that’s not right. Because Dazai wasn’t Shūji anymore, Shūji was dead.

Dazai pressed his palm against the rough bark of the tree, grounding himself. He didn’t step closer. He couldn’t.

The last thing he wanted to do was bring more pain into Shota’s life. And yet, watching him kneel by a grave he thought was real—it made Dazai feel like he’d already failed. Like he’d already broken whatever fragile tether he had to that life.

Because he had done this.

He had let himself die.

No, not die. Disappear.

Leave.

He had abandoned his family. Because he had the opportunity to come back, but he didn’t. And he still didn’t know why.

Dazai exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet. The sound of Shota crying stuck in his ears like an echo. That low, wounded kind of crying he hadn’t heard since they were kids—when Shūji had nightmares and Shota, still a boy himself, would pull him into his lap and hum whatever lullaby he could remember.

And now…

Now Shota was here, alone, mourning someone who hadn’t even given him the truth.

Dazai turned away from the scene.

He walked slowly, every step heavier than the last, boots crunching over gravel and wet grass. He didn’t look back.

He couldn’t. He didn’t deserve to.

The bar was dim and sticky with heat and old bourbon.

Dazai didn’t remember walking there. Didn’t remember ordering. Didn’t remember the way the lights above his head swam, or how the bartender eyed him like he was one wrong word from being dragged out by the collar.

He sat slouched in the corner booth, face half-buried in the crook of his arm, one hand still loosely clutching a half-drained glass.

His coat was off, crumpled beside him. His tie had vanished at some point between the fourth and fifth drink. A wry smile hung crooked on his lips, bitter as rust.

“Y’know,” He mumbled to the (unfortunately) male bartender, voice rough, barely audible over the thrum of the jukebox, “Maybe alcohol poisoning would be the thing that finally kills me.”

The bartender glanced over at him and looked away just as fast.

It wasn’t the first time Dazai had said something like that. Not the first time he’d tested fate to see if it had the decency to call his bluff. And it definitely wouldn’t be the last.

His phone buzzed on the table. He didn’t move.

Then it buzzed again—twice, this time. A third buzz, longer. A call.

He stared at the screen through blurry vision. Kunikida’s name glowed across it in judgmental white.

Dazai squinted. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered turning his location on. A mistake, clearly. Or maybe a quiet cry for help. It was hard to tell the difference.

He let the call go to voicemail. The buzz stopped.

Dazai’s fingers trembled slightly as he reached for his glass again, the burn of whiskey scraping down his throat like a punishment he deserved. He should have known better than to come here—alone, at night, in a foreign city, drowning himself in the dull roar of a world that felt less and less his own.

Night…

How long had it been since he left the graveyard in the early morning and numbly stumbled his way to this bar? Several hours, probably. That was likely why Kunikida was blowing up his phone.

The bar’s smoke-stained walls pressed in, the clinks and murmurs around him fading into a muted blur. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the weight of the day crashed down. The graveyard, the cake, the boy’s laughter that wasn’t his anymore. The letter. Shota’s face, twisted in that quiet sorrow, so much like the ghosts he’d been trying to outrun.

A slow, bitter laugh escaped him. “Birthday, huh?” He muttered, voice hoarse. “I hate my birthday.”

His gaze flicked to the phone again, then away. The light dimmed, and so did his will to fight the numbness spreading in his chest.

A shadow darkened the booth beside him.

“Dazai.”

The voice was firm, steady—an anchor dragging him back.

He didn’t turn. Kunikida’s presence was enough.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Dazai let out a humorless chuckle. “And yet, here I am.”

Kunikida slid in next to him, eyes scanning the wreckage Dazai had become: the rumpled clothes, the wild, unkempt hair, the hollow eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept for days.

“I found you because your location was on,” Kunikida said quietly, voice low but edged with concern. “You’re not hiding very well.”

Dazai’s smile twisted. “You always find me.”

Kunikida’s expression softened, but his tone stayed practical. “Come on, we’re going home. If you keep drinking, you’ll regret it in the morning. Speaking of—how much have you had to drink so far?”

The brunette looked up at him, eyes glassy but searching for something in the sharp gaze. “Enough.” Just then he belched, and the other man’s face scrunched up for a moment before returning to normal.

Kunikida’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he reached out and grabbed Dazai’s coat from the floor, wrapping it around him like a lifeline.

“Let’s get you out of here,” He murmured.

The bar seemed to dissolve around them as he helped Dazai up, steadying him more than once as the world tilted and spun beneath his feet. The night air hit Dazai like a slap—cool and clean, pulling him back from the edge just enough.

The drive back to the apartment was quiet but not uncomfortable. Kunikida kept one hand on the wheel and the other one hesitantly planted on his thigh, giving a comforting squeeze every minute or so.

He found himself looking over at Dazai a few times, though he just found the man staring out the window with a glassy and distant look in his eyes.

When they finally reached the apartment, they got out the car and Kunikida helped him to the door. He fished his keys out with practiced ease, unlocking the door quickly. Inside, he flicked on the soft living room light, the sudden brightness making Dazai blink.

Kunikida wasted no time. “Sit down. I’m getting you some water.”

Dazai slumped onto the couch, arms spread wide and legs sprawled like a child who’d lost his way.

Kunikida disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a glass of water and a damp cloth. He knelt beside the couch and carefully wiped the grime and sweat from Dazai’s face.

“You don’t get drunk like this unless something’s wrong,” Kunikida said quietly.

Dazai didn’t respond at first. He let the cool cloth soothe his skin, the simple act of care washing over him in waves.

After a long silence, Dazai’s voice cracked through the quiet. “It’s my birthday,” He murmured. “I hate my birthday.”

Kunikida’s hand stilled.

“I miss my brother,” Dazai continued, voice barely above a whisper. “My brother needs me.” He paused, breathing shallow and uneven. “I… need him too.”

“I know,” The blonde said softly, voice steady despite the catch in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

He hesitated, a thoughtful look in his eye. “Why don’t you go visit him? If he misses you as much as you say he does, then I’m sure that you both would benefit from a visit.”

It didn’t get the reaction that he expected, because Dazai had nearly shoved away from him. “No, I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

Kunikida’s eyes widened slightly, and he placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Okay, okay. You don’t have to, I’m sorry.” After hearing that, the brunette visibly relaxed.

He helped Dazai to his feet, guiding him toward the bedroom. With gentle fingers, he began unbuttoning the rumpled shirt, peeling away the layers of the day’s torment. He eyed the bandages over his body for a moment, mulling over what to do about them.

Eventually, he decided to leave them for the brunette to change in the morning. He hadn’t been sure if he would appreciate Kunikida seeing what was beneath them, especially not when he was in such a vulnerable state.

Meanwhile, Dazai’s murmurs grew fainter, fading into soft whispers. “I just wanna go home.”

The blonde man nodded silently, the weight of those words settling deep between them. He wouldn’t ask Dazai about it, and even if he did he knew he wouldn’t get a straight answer from him. Denial would be more likely.

He slid a soft, worn pajama top over Dazai’s head, then tugged the matching pants up carefully.

As he helped him into bed, Dazai’s defenses cracked further.

“I’m not okay,” He confessed drunkenly, voice barely audible. “I’ve never been okay.”

Kunikida sat down beside him, a hand resting on Dazai’s shoulder.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of ragged breathing.

Then, as if some dam finally gave way, Dazai leaned into him, his body shaking with silent sobs.

Kunikida froze. He’d never seen Dazai like this—never, even on nights when the alcohol had loosened his tongue or slurred his words.

It was awkward. He considered what to do for several moments, his eyes scanning over the man. Eventually he made his decision and pulled Dazai closer, wrapping his arms around him in a protective embrace.

“It’s okay,” He whispered, resting his chin atop the mass of messy brown curls. “I’m here.”

Dazai cried into his shoulder, the tears soaking through the fabric.

Kunikida held him, steady and silent, letting the fragile moment stretch.

When Dazai’s sobs finally slowed, Kunikida sighed witch relief, and after a short internal battle he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head.

“You’re not alone,” He said. “… I’m—I’m your partner, and I’ll be there for you.”

And for the first time in a long time, Dazai found that he believed it. He believed that he could rely on Kunikida with his emotion. But those were just the drunken thoughts, weren’t they? He wouldn’t feel like this in the morning.

He didn’t know when the two of them had moved into a lying position, but they had. Kunikida’s large, warm frame was glued to his back, one arm wrapped loosely around Dazai’s waist.

Normally, he’d find that he hated anything to do with physical touch, but with Kunikida it just felt right.

His embrace felt loving, like how one would embrace their romantic partner. He had half the mind to question it, but he found that he was too tired and his brain was too mushy to be able to hold a conversation, or to even tease him.

And if Dazai wasn’t teasing Kunikida, then what was the point of living, and—

… Oh.

Maybe he had found a reason after all.

Chapter Text

“Do you ever not complain in the morning?”

Kunikida asked while adjusting his tie with careful precision, his eyes focused on the small mirror hanging by the front door. The man had always groomed himself appropriately whenever he left the house, it was admirable.

Dazai however…

The brunette sighed, kicking back on the couch and placing his feet on the small coffee table in front of the couch. Kunikida scowled when he saw, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t even dressed yet, his thin frame still adorned by his pajamas.

Ugly things, they were. The pajama top was black with a bright red race car slammed in the middle of the blank canvas. To match, he wore red pajama pants with black race cars in contrast. It was something Kunikida had likely never expected Dazai to wear.

He had assumed that he would wear dull colors, just like that—hideous, but he would never say it—coat he wore every single day.

But, due to their less than unfortunate living situation, he had come to realize that the bandaged man favored more odd-looking lounge wear.

“Only when there is nothing to complain about.” Upon hearing that, Kunikida let out a frustrated sound that borderlines a sigh. His hands smoothed down his shirt, getting out the non-existent wrinkles on the fabric. How professional.

Dazai tilted his head, fingers wrapped loosely around a cup of lukewarm tea, awaiting an answer. When it came, he couldn’t find himself surprised with the exasperation of his tone.

“So never.” It was more of a question than a statement, and Dazai just shrugged, eyeing Kunikida through his peripheral while holding back an amused laugh.

“Exactly.”

There was a pause. Dazai leaned back on the couch, watching his partner move around their shared staff housing with all the grace of a man both married to order and permanently outraged by its absence.

“You know, you’d live longer if you let yourself loosen up a little. Maybe read a trashy romance novel. Go to karaoke. Cry in the bath.” He offered, moving his arms in a fluid, wiggling motion with a grin that the blonde could positively call mischievous.

Kunikida gave him a withering glance. “I’m not like you , Dazai.”

“A shame. I’d make an excellent you. I already have the scowl down. Watch.” He straightened, drew his brows together, and crossed his arms in a near-perfect imitation. “‘Society must function by order, logic, and carefully color-coded spreadsheets.’” His voice was mock-filled, as was his expression.

Kunikida’s sigh was so deeply resigned it could’ve passed for grief. “You’re not even—“ Then the man paused. He looked so distressed that Dazai is sure he saw a blood vessel about to pop in his face. “ Go . Get dressed.”

The tone in his voice left no room for complaint. He sighed and stood up, setting his mug down on the table. He raised his arms in mock surrender. “Alright alright, I’m going..”

Dazai disappeared down the hall with an exaggerated shuffle of slippered feet, humming something tuneless under his breath that sounded suspiciously like the theme song to an old soap opera. Kunikida pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something under his breath about patience being a virtue wasted on idiots .

By the time Dazai reemerged, he had swapped his racecar pajamas for his usual half-buttoned dress shirt and long, tan coat. The bandages wrapped around his neck and hands were freshly done—neat, but not professional—clearly self-applied. His slacks were wrinkled. His belt was fastened in the wrong loop. Kunikida stared.

“You look like a homeless person who just crawled out of a dumpster behind a convenience store.”

Dazai blinked at him, completely unbothered. “How flattering! I was going for ‘tragically romantic.’ Do I not look like I’ve witnessed the fall of Rome and lived to write poetry about it?”

“You look like someone I should shove back into the laundry basket,” Kunikida muttered, grabbing his coat and walking toward the door.

Dazai followed, hands in his pockets, face upturned as if contemplating the ceiling like it held the secrets of the universe. “You know, it’s such a pity you don’t appreciate fashion. Maybe I should take you shopping, Kunikida-kun. We could get matching scarves. Or—oh! Couple outfits!”

“I am this close to leaving you behind,” The blond snapped as they locked up and headed for the car.

“Would that make it a date then?” Dazai asked sweetly.

The drive to U.A. was uneventful, or at least as uneventful as anything involving Dazai could be. The sky outside the window was clouded and cold, still deciding whether it wanted to rain. The city passed by in a blur of steel and tired people.

Kunikida drove like a man determined not to die today, hands firm on the wheel, jaw tight. Dazai sat slouched in the passenger seat, fiddling with the buttons on the radio.

“You know, one of these days, you should let me drive.”

“No. You know what happened last time.”

The brunette released a whine, “It’s been so long since then! I’ve gotten better, why don’t you give me a chance?”

“Because I’d rather drown myself than let you back behind the wheel.” The man deadpanned.

Dazai laughed, resting his cheek against the window. “Such little faith. I’m hurt.”

“You’ll live. God knows nothing can kill you anyway.”

The rest of the ride passed in a relative peace that could almost be mistaken for contentment. Dazai didn’t push, and Kunikida didn’t scold, and that was about the best they ever managed.

When they finally reached the gates of U.A., the school loomed before them, shining in the half-lit morning haze. Students bustled in small groups beyond the courtyard, and staff began filtering through the front doors, some already mid-conversation about lesson plans or hero training modules.

They parked in the faculty’s parking garage. Kunikida, predictably, moved with purpose toward the entrance, while Dazai lingered a few steps behind, observing the space with that same mild smile that never quite touched his eyes.

Once inside, they made their way to the teachers’ lounge. The familiar scent of stale coffee and overused air freshener greeted them. Hizashi was already there, chatting animatedly with Thirteen and Toshinori, who looked like he’d only just remembered how to be human again post-transformation. Shota was half-asleep in the corner, cocooned in his scarf.

How typical.

But, when he entered the room he immediately veered towards Nemuri.

She was lounging across one of the couches with all the effortless elegance of a queen on her throne, long legs crossed and one of her dark nails tapping against the side of her travel mug. She wore a red lipstick that looked like danger and amusement both. When she saw him, she raised a brow.

“Osamu-kun. You’re late.”

He approached with a frown on his face. “You wound me, Nemuri-chan. Surely my presence makes up for my timing?”

“You’re ten minutes late.”

“And yet, here you are, still waiting.”

Nemuri rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her amusement. “Kunikida, I don’t know how you do it.”

“With caffeine,” Said man muttered, heading toward the coffee machine and ignoring the snort that came from Hizashi.

Dazai perched himself on the armrest of the couch beside her. Nemuri sat up, crossing her arms as she gave the blonde man a quiet look.

“What?” He asked and tilted his head.

Nemuri pursed her lips, her brows furrowed as she turned her attention back to Dazai. “Are you sure you guys are married?” She asked, though he could hear the joke in her tone.

A quiet hum left the man, and he crossed his legs, leaning back in the seat. “Why? Jealous you couldn’t get to him first?”

Before she could shoot back, a sudden crackle sounded through the school-wide intercom, loud and staticky. It wasn’t often the internal speakers were used during the early staff hours—usually only for drills or emergencies.

“Attention all staff. We have a potential security breach. Please remain in the building while we investigate the situation. This is not a drill.”

The room went still. Even Shota straightened in his seat.

Dazai’s smile didn’t falter, but his fingers flexed slightly against the couch cushion. “Interesting,” He murmured, half to himself.

Kunikida stepped forward at once. “Do we have details? Was anyone injured?”

Toshinori shook his head. “We’re not sure yet. Security just picked up a disturbance near the front gate.”

Shota was already rising to his feet, scarf slithering around his shoulders like a living thing. And perhaps it was living, Dazai would figure it out sooner or later. “I’ll check the cameras.”

As murmurs started to ripple across the room, Dazai’s gaze drifted toward the window. His eyes narrowed.

“I’ll be back,” He said quietly, voice pitched too soft for most to hear—but not for Kunikida.

“Where are you going?”

“Curious,” Dazai replied, already halfway to the hallway. “I’ll be back soon.”

Kunikida opened his mouth to argue, but Dazai was gone before he could even frame the words.

The rooftop was quiet.

Dazai stepped into the open air without a sound, the wind tugging faintly at his coat. From here, the school grounds stretched out below him—neat paths, orderly hedges, the distant shimmer of the training zones beyond.

But his eyes weren’t on any of that.

They were locked on the front gate.

From above, it was obvious— something had damaged it. The tall steel bars that usually stood proud and protective were twisted and blackened at the edges. The decay was unnatural. Not scorched or exploded— rotted , as though time had moved wrong over that specific patch of metal.

Dazai crouched near the edge of the rooftop, fingers curled against the concrete. He didn’t smile.

It wasn’t just a breach.

It was a message.

His mind flicked rapidly through possibilities—quirks, known villains, threats from past cases or underground rumors. None of them fit neatly, but some came close. Too close. He frowned, eyes scanning the streets beyond the school’s perimeter.

No movement. No enemies in sight.

Not yet.

Still crouched low, Dazai exhaled through his nose. It felt like the moment before a chess match began—when the pieces were arranged just so, and the silence itself held tension.

Something was coming.

And whoever had sent the first move… they wanted it known.

After a few moments longer, Dazai stood and turned, heading back toward the stairs. His footsteps were silent. His mind was not.

When he returned, Kunikida was waiting exactly where Dazai had left him, standing near the lounge’s entryway like a sentinel. As soon as the brunette stepped inside, he approached.

“What did you see?” He asked immediately.

Dazai brushed imaginary dust from his sleeves. “Ever the perceptive one.” Is all he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Only when it comes to you. Kunikida’s eyes narrowed. “What was it?”

Dazai met his gaze, unreadable. “I’ll explain in a bit.”

And for once, Kunikida didn’t push.

But his hand clenched faintly at his side, and Dazai could already feel the storm coming.

The bus was loud.

Too loud for Dazai’s liking, really. But then again, he supposed this was to be expected from a class full of teenagers hyped up on adrenaline and the promise of fieldwork. They were all buzzing in their seats, voices overlapping with energy, even as the road curved up toward the hills that led to the USJ facility.

He sat near the front where the teachers were meant to be, one leg crossed lazily over the other, shoulder pressed against the window. The glass was cold. He watched the scenery go by in muted shades of green and gray, eyes half-lidded and distant. Every so often, someone from the front would shout something—Hagakure calling for a game, Kaminari trying (and failing) to start a singalong—and Dazai would flinch ever so slightly.

Kunikida sat beside him, a book in hand and a firm glare that had already silenced Bakugou twice.

“You’re quiet,” He said eventually, low enough not to draw attention.

Dazai turned his head just enough to glance at him. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

“It usually is.” The blonde sighed, hesitating for a moment. “Are you gonna tell me?”

A soft hum. Dazai picked up on his implication quickly and leaned his temple back against the glass, lowering his voice. “I saw the gate this morning. It wasn’t just vandalized. It was decayed. Rotten.”

Kunikida blinked, looking up from his book. “…Rotten?”

“Like time had passed over it wrong.” Dazai didn’t move, his voice quiet. “Corrosion, but not the chemical kind. Organic. Deliberate.”

Kunikida straightened in his seat. “You’re saying it was a Quirk.”

“I’m saying it wasn’t an accident.”

There was a pause between them, long and taut.

Dazai finally turned his full attention toward the blond. “You ever hear of a villain who could decay inorganic matter with a single touch?”

Kunikida’s brows drew together. “There are rumors. Old cases with no confirmation. But none of them were ever tied together. Not enough evidence to establish a pattern.”

Dazai smiled faintly. “Then maybe today is the day we get proof.”

Kunikida closed his book with a soft snap, eyes hard. “You think we’re walking into something.”

“I know we are.” His gaze flicked toward the front of the bus. “That wasn’t just a test this morning. It was a warning. Something is going to happen,” He paused. “And when am I ever wrong?” He said with a wink.

Kunikida didn’t speak for a long moment. His jaw was tight, his spine stiff.

The bus hissed to a halt at the front of the USJ facility.

Students pressed to the windows, faces alight with curiosity, awe, or in Bakugou’s case, thinly veiled irritation. The building loomed like an observatory, its round dome glittering faintly beneath the cloudy sky. Mist pooled around the edges of the structure, curling low around the support beams like it was breathing.

Dazai was the first to stand, slipping off the bus with an easy gait, his coat fluttering around his ankles. He waited at the base of the stairs, hands shoved into his pockets, watching as each student filed out with a kind of calm detachment.

Kunikida walked down next, already snapping at Kaminari to stop shoving and Iida to stop apologizing. The usual.

Shota followed shortly after, tugging his scarf more securely around his neck, shoulders hunched like he’d already regretted being awake. It would likely be ideal to avoid any kind of conversation with Shota unless necessary , he thought. But this was necessary, wasn’t it?

The brunette turned, subtle as a shadow, and placed a hand on the man’s upper arm.

“Aizawa-san.”

The sound of his voice was low. Measured. Almost gentle. He flinched upon hearing it come from his mouth. That name had once belonged to him, after all.

Shota paused, eyeing him with a mixture of wariness and faint surprise. There was an edge to his gaze, a hidden emotion in his otherwise stoic expression. He was still weary of Dazai, that bit was obvious.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking toward the students. “Walk with me for a second.”

Shota didn’t answer immediately. His gaze narrowed a fraction, then slid toward the group of students milling around the front entrance, all chatter and motion. Bakugou was already yelling. Midoriya was nervously asking Thirteen about something that looked like a scientific containment door.

The brunette’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers pressed once, a gentle urgency, against Aizawa’s sleeve.

Reluctantly, the man nodded. “Alright.”

They stepped a little away from the group, just out of earshot.

The moment they were alone, Dazai’s demeanor shifted. Subtle—but there.

His posture straightened, his eyes lost their playful gleam, and he finally met Shota’s gaze fully.

“I think something’s coming,” He said lowly. “And I think it’s coming today.”

Shota’s jaw tensed. “… Is this about the gate?”

“You saw it?”

The gruff looking man nodded, and his eyebrows furrowed. “I reviewed the footage from this morning.”

“Then you know it wasn’t the press.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Shota’s hands folded inside the sleeves of his capture weapon, the faintest line between his brows deepening. “You think it’s targeted?”

“I know it is,” Dazai replied, voice low and sure. “Whatever did that wasn’t testing our defenses. They were showing us that we have none.”

A breeze stirred the edge of his coat. Shota didn’t move.

“You don’t think it’s just a message.”

“No,” Dazai murmured. “I think it was the first move. And it’s smart, really. Someone I once knew always told me that the player who makes the first move always win.” I hope that’s not the case this time around.

Shota’s lips pressed into a flat line. “They sound wise.” His voice was quieter when he spoke again, but the intensity was all the same. “How bad?”

Dazai exhaled slowly. “I don’t know yet. But I need you to stay sharp. You’re going to be the one closest to the kids.”

The older man snorted, his next words coming with little thought. “You sound like someone I used to know.” There was a pause, long and full of something brittle.

And Dazai… He didn’t expect that at all. His resolve almost crumbled, facade nearly tumbling down. But it doesn’t, and his expression remained exactly the same. “Well, I’m assuming it’s a good thing. After all, it’s me we’re talking about.”

The words were light and breezy, almost teasing.

Shota blinked, then nodded his head. “Yeah.”

Well shit. Dazai narrowed his eyes, then he smiled, faint and humorless. “Good,” He said. “I’ve always been told I have great instincts.”

The man looked at him then—really looked—and for a moment, something raw flickered behind his tired eyes.

Dazai looked away first.

“I’ll be watching,” He said. “If anything feels off—don’t hesitate. Your feeling is probably right.”

Shota nodded once. And then he turned and walked back toward the group.

The brunette stayed where he was, eyes fixed on the dome of the USJ, its curved ceiling bright and reflective. It looked like an eye. Closed. Waiting to blink open.

He hated symbols.

Inside the USJ, the students were still gawking like tourists.

“Woah, this place is massive!” Kaminari exclaimed, cupping his hands around his mouth to shout into the echoing space.

“Careful,” Yaoyorozu said gently. “Sound carries.”

“Echooo!” He yelled again anyway, grinning as the sound bounced back. In Dazai’s peripheral, Kunikida rolled his eyes.

Thirteen stood at the front, gesturing for everyone to gather around. Their smile was bright behind her helmet. “Welcome to the Unforeseen Simulation Joint!” They said, arms spreading wide. “We created this facility to simulate all kinds of disaster scenarios—from earthquakes to floods to landslides and even chemical attacks!”

“It’s a training ground?” Ochako’s eyes were huge. “It looks like a spaceship…”

“It’s so clean in here,” Kirishima marveled, elbowing Sero. “I expected, like, scorched dirt and fire and broken buildings.”

“There’s a fire zone over there,” Thirteen said helpfully, pointing. “And to the left is the landslide zone, and past that—”

“Why do we even need a landslide zone?” Bakugou snapped.

Thirteen turned to him with what was probably a smile. “Because you’ll need to know how to respond in cases where the environment is more dangerous than the villain.”

Bakugou muttered something about already being better than most villains.

Midoriya, meanwhile, looked like he was about to pass out from excitement. His notebook was already open in his hands, pen scribbling frantically.

“This place is insane…” He murmured, “Each zone is individually maintained with simulated environmental factors… Look at the mist distribution! And the fake trees are made with rubber for controlled impact…”

Dazai stood at the far wall, watching it all with a neutral expression. Every now and then, his gaze flicked toward the entrance. No movement. No alarms.

But his stomach remained tight.

He caught Kunikida’s eye from across the room.

Kunikida gave a subtle nod. One hand rested in the pocket of his coat. The other was at his side—loose, but not relaxed. Ready.

Dazai exhaled through his nose.

He could feel it.

The air was too still.

Too—

A ripple spread through the center of the USJ.

And there it is.

It started as a shimmer. A distortion in the air, like heat off asphalt. For a moment, the students thought it was part of the simulation—another training feature, perhaps.

Then the mist turned black.

Midoriya’s pen stilled, and he looked up. “What…?”

The air at the center of the plaza collapsed in on itself, curling inward like a drain had opened in space. A dark mass spread outward. Lightning flickered. Shadows twisted.

And then—

A portal opened.

Wide.

Teeth-like edges of smoky black mist licked the air as the shape expanded, round and pulsing with unnatural energy. From the center, figures began to emerge. Dozens of them.

At the front of the group stood a man in a black robe with a hand pressed over his face—no, not over. Attached. His presence was chilling. Uneven.

Wrong.

Behind him stood a hulking creature covered in exposed muscle and armor plates. Its brain was visible. It did not blink. It was nothing Dazai had ever seen before, and god it was ugly.

“Everyone stay back!” Shota barked, voice sharp and loud. He was already stepping forward, scarf unfurling like a whip.

The students froze.

Thirteen’s voice was firm behind their helmet. “Get behind me. All of you. Now.”

Kirishima’s jaw dropped. “Wait, are those—?”

“Villains,” Dazai said simply. His voice barely carried, but the calmness of it somehow made it worse. “Real ones.”

Midoriya turned to him, panicked. “But—how—?! How did they get in?! U.A. has top-level security—”

“They shouldn’t have.” Dazai’s eyes were locked on the portal. His tone was clipped now. Quiet. Dangerous. “But someone made sure they did.”

The robed figure took a step forward. His hand—if it was a hand—tightened slightly over his face.

“Hello, U.A. students,” He said, his voice grated like sandpaper against stone. “We are the League of Villains. Pleased to meet you.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Behind the man, the beast shifted. The sound of its weight dragging against the concrete echoed with the finality of a closing coffin.

“We came here to kill All Might,” The man continued, tone almost conversational. “But… it looks like he’s not here today. What a pity.”

Good grief, why does everything always have to do with that man.

Shota stepped fully in front of the students. His scarf snapped around him like a snake. His stance was defensive and focused.

Dazai remained calm, his gaze traveling around the dome, catching sight of the multitude of villains now in their sight. His theories were correct, of course they were.

He turned slightly, catching Kunikida’s eye again. They both knew.

This was it.

The first move.

The game had started.

Chapter Text

“We are the League of Villains. Pleased to meet you.”

“We came here to kill All Might.”

Everything always circled back to that man, and Dazai despised that fact more than anything. It was a wonder that Nezu had approved Toshinori to teach here with how much of a glass cannon the man was.

It was dangerous and idiotic, of course villains would attack the school under the impression that All Might would be there. And normally, he would be—however this time was a special case.

Dazai hadn’t known the Class 1-A kids long, but that didn’t change the instinct that he felt to protect the bunch of high schoolers (perhaps the feeling stemmed from the helplessness he felt as a kid, and the desire to prevent his fate from happening to another).

Immediately, he turned to Kunikida and shot him a look, one that the man instantly returned.

They didn’t need to speak. Years of partnership had taught them more than words ever could. Kunikida’s hand went instinctively to his notebook, already thumbing through pages with brutal speed. He knew that look—calculation, containment, strategy. They’d done this before. Not with teenagers at their backs, granted, but battlefields were battlefields, no matter how many desks or gym mats you shoved into them.

Dazai remained still—observing, calculating. His gaze flicked over each of the villains spilling from the dark mist, each face and weapon logged like pieces on a board.

A mistake, he thought, that they came here expecting All Might.

Because he was here.

And he was much worse.

Shota sprang forward with sharp, efficient brutality. The scarf whipped around him as he launched himself into the fray without hesitation, already erasing quirks and flooring the first wave of villains. Dazai watched for a moment, marveling—he was capable, an even better fighter than before.

Midoriya shouted something that Dazai didn’t catch—his voice was drowned beneath the roar of combat, the shriek of metal clashing against power.

Students began to scramble, Thirteen issuing rapid commands—formation, retreat, fallback points—their calm breaking slightly under the weight of reality. This wasn’t a simulation. This wasn’t a drill.

"Bakugou—Kirishima—don’t!" Kunikida barked, voice cutting through the rising panic just as the two boys shot forward toward the fog-creature.

Too late.

Their attacks landed—Bakugou’s explosion, Kirishima’s punch—but instead of impact, the mist warped around their bodies.

A portal opened beneath them.

"Dammit!" Kunikida lunged forward.

Dazai reached out to stop him, but he was too late. The mist caught Kunikida mid-step, warping and dragging them both under—Bakugou, Kirishima, Kunikida—and at the very last moment, Dazai felt the pull against his coat as well.

His world twisted sideways.

The ground met Dazai’s side with brutal force. He rolled, his body skidding along uneven terrain until a jagged outcrop caught him square in the back and stopped his momentum. Gravel bit into his palms. The world was spinning.

He hissed, propped himself up on his elbows.

“—Dazai!”

Kunikida’s voice cut through the fog. He was already on his feet, scanning the area with sharp, frantic eyes.

“Over here,” Dazai muttered, dragging himself upright. He flexed his shoulders—nothing broken, though he’d probably bruise. He took stock of the terrain as quickly as he could.

They’d landed in a mountainous zone near the rear corner of the USJ—a mock landslide site, judging by the terrain. Large boulders littered the uneven ground, surrounded by steep, jagged hills of compressed dirt and concrete slabs meant to simulate rockfall. There were scattered students, a handful of villains approaching fast.

Dazai’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

No time to regroup.

He was already moving.

“Two students to the left,” Kunikida said, voice clipped. “Another pair on the ledge above us. We need to—”

“I see them.” Dazai’s eyes flicked to the nearest threat—a man with claws, his skin thick and cracked like stone, barreling toward a pair of younger students still dazed from the warp. “You take the top. I’ll sweep the base.”

Kunikida nodded, flipping open his notebook mid-run. The page tore free, his ability sparking blue.

“Grappling hook: Materialize!”

The construct sprang from the page in a crackle of light. Kunikida caught the rope mid-air, launched himself upward with practiced precision, and vanished over the ridge.

Dazai didn’t watch him go.

He had other problems.

The stone-skinned villain was almost on the students now. An invisible girl was backing away from him—Hagakure, he recognized almost immediately. He couldn’t see her face, but he could only imagine the fear she felt.

Dazai reached him a heartbeat later.

He didn’t need a weapon. He had momentum. And well, he wasn’t as useless in combat as some of his peers believed.

He rammed his elbow straight into the man’s throat.

The impact made a sickening crunch, and the villain stumbled back, clutching his neck. Dazai took the opportunity to slam a knee into his side, the grunt and gurgling sound that left him doing nothing to deter his assault. When he dropped, Dazai kicked him again—twice, hard, until he was down and wheezing in the dirt.

“Run,” Dazai said without looking at the students behind him.

“Wh-What? But, Sensei you—“

He cut her off, almost impatiently. “Now.”

They didn’t argue. He heard her footsteps skitter off across the stones, and when the sound faded he allowed himself to return his focus back to the situation at hand.

Another blur of movement to his right. A villain lunging low, knives gleaming.

Dazai ducked, twisted, and let the man overshoot. He grabbed his arm mid-swing and used the momentum to flip him, slamming him into the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

Above him, Kunikida was pulling students to safety, shielding them behind barriers made of hastily constructed walls, hurling flashbangs of paper-light. A villain lunged at him with a whip of fire, but Kunikida ducked behind a stone slab, then rolled out the side and struck with an extending baton.

“Hand Gun,” He muttered, flipping to another page.

A blue light flared, the indication of his partners ability being used.

The weapon appeared in his hand with the solid weight of conviction. He exhaled once, then fired.

The villain dropped with a scream, clutching his leg.

From below, Dazai looked up and let out a theatrical gasp. “Kunikida, how bold of you! In front of the students no less? Bad Kuni!”

“Shut up, Dazai,” The man snapped, ducking behind a boulder and scribbling again. “Here.”

Another page was torn free, and he tossed it down. Dazai caught it, and a second later, the weight of a newly constructed gun settled into his palm.

He blinked, then grinned. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Dazai turned just in time to shoot the arm of a villain charging him with a metal staff. The man must have a non-combative quirk if he’s resorting to using weapons. The villain howled and dropped it, crumpling to the side. Dazai shot once more, grazing his thigh.

Non-lethal.

He didn’t aim to kill. Not anymore, especially not now. But he would ensure they didn’t get back up.

The fight wore on.

The two of them moved like a tide. Wherever Kunikida went, Dazai wasn’t far behind. They worked in tandem, covering blind spots, tossing ammunition and notes to one another, pushing the villains back with a kind of brutal precision.

They didn’t speak much. They didn’t have to.

A student nearly fell from a rockslide—Kunikida dove and caught him by the wrist.

A villain tried to encircle the back—Dazai was already there, knocking him flat.

And still more came.

It wasn’t until they cleared the immediate perimeter that the tension finally cracked.

They crouched behind a concrete slab, breathing hard. Kunikida was already jotting down defensive measures, reinforcing the walls of the makeshift barrier. Dazai leaned back against the stone, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his sleeve.

“How many more?” Kunikida asked, voice strained.

“At least ten left in this zone,” Dazai murmured. “Some are heading south. I’ll intercept.”

Kunikida nodded without looking up. “I’ll hold position and reinforce the students.”

Dazai pushed off the wall. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

It should’ve been a bad sign. That neither of them joked this time. But Dazai didn’t think much of it. He had a priority, and that priority was to protect the students.

He had glanced over to see Iida run out of the building, and nodded to himself. The boy was the fastest in his class, obviously—he would be back with help soon enough. But until then, he needed to ensure their safety.

If someone had asked Dazai just a few months ago, would he put his life on the line to protect a couple of kids he hardly knew? His answer would have been ‘perhaps.’ But now? He was certain.

The terrain shifted underfoot as Dazai moved, uneven gravel crunching beneath his soles. The USJ’s simulated landslide zone was eerily realistic—faulted earth, dislodged stone, and jagged rebar protruding like fractured bones from the earth. Above him, the fake sky domed artificial light across ruined ground.

Another scream echoed in the distance—one that he wasn’t sure belonged to a foe or a friend. Not close enough to act on, but close enough to remind him: they were still outnumbered.

He ducked behind a chunk of debris just in time to dodge a hurled pipe. It clanged off the concrete wall behind him, spinning out of sight. Dazai sighed through his nose.

“Tacky,” He muttered, straightening to face the source of the attack.

A tall villain was approaching fast—scars across his face, knives for fingers, an expression so empty it was almost disappointing. Not the worst he’d ever seen, but definitely one of the more theatrical. The man moved like he thought he was in a horror film. How comical.

“Nice manicure,” Dazai said flatly, yet full of humor, just before the first strike came down.

He twisted to the left, avoiding the downward arc of the blade-hand. It grazed his shoulder, slicing through his uniform and nicking the skin beneath. Purposefully, of course. There would be suspicion if he came back unscathed.

Dazai didn’t flinch.

Pain was secondary.

He ducked another slash, darted forward, and slammed the heel of his palm up under the man’s chin. The villain staggered. Dazai stepped to the side, let a blade whistle past his ribs, then elbowed the man in the spine and kicked out his knee.

A flurry of slashes followed. He evaded most of them, but one caught him just above the hip, shallow and stinging. A red line bloomed beneath his coat.

He grunted and caught the villain’s arm, twisted it sharply until he heard the pop of dislocation, then threw him against the nearest boulder. The man crumpled and didn’t move again.

Dazai exhaled. Blood dripped down his side, warm against the cooler air of the dome. He pressed a hand to it for half a second, then released. Nothing fatal.

Just annoying.

Ahead, he saw two more students pinned down—a hulking villain stood over them, clearly toying with his prey. Sato and Ojiro, both bruised but upright, cornered near a fallen steel beam.

He moved quickly, ducking low across broken ground.

The villain didn’t even see him coming.

Dazai swept his legs out from beneath him with a fluid, low kick, then drove his knee into the man’s solar plexus before he could rise. The breath went out of him in a whoosh. Dazai struck again—twice—until the man collapsed face-first in the gravel.

“You two okay?” He asked, already scanning the area.

Sato blinked at him. “Y-Yeah, I think so.”

Ojiro, ever more composed, gave a sharp nod. “Thanks, Sensei.”

“Hagakure is just northeast, maybe fifty meters. Fortify there. Kunikida reinforced the walls. You won’t come across anymore villains on your way.”

“But you’re bleeding—”

“I’ll live,” Dazai said shortly, almost reassuringly.

He offered the two boys a smile and turned away before they could say more. Every second counted.

He moved toward the last remaining cluster of villains in their area. Three of them—one with an electricity quirk that sparked wildly from his palms, another holding a jagged axe that vibrated like it had a frequency pulse, and a third that seemed entirely unarmed. That one, Dazai clocked as the most dangerous. He had no visible quirk, and no weapon in his hands—so his quirk could easily be a strong combative-type.

They spotted him at once.

The axe-wielder lunged first. Dazai parried, stepped in close, disarmed him by breaking two fingers, and used the handle to club him unconscious which cut short the cry of pain that the man let out. The electric one was trickier—Dazai had to dodge a few sizzling bolts that arced toward the stone around him, charring the edges.

He slid under the next blast and kicked the woman in the chest, following with a headbutt that made the villain crumple backward with a dazed groan. He winced, offering an internal apology. It wasn’t elegant. But it was fast.

The last one came at him silently.

Bare hands. Blank eyes.

Dazai raised his arms instinctively. The man was fast, eerily so. He twisted Dazai’s arm in a lock, drove a knee toward his gut, but Dazai managed to shift in time to lessen the blow. Still, the impact made him hiss, and he stumbled backward.

A second later, his attacker froze mid-step.

Dazai had jammed a tranquilizer dart—swiped from one of Kunikida’s earlier pages—into the man’s side. His quirk didn’t matter if his muscles went slack.

The villain hit the ground like a dropped puppet. He wasn’t dead of course, just knocked out with the high dosage of propofol, the amount likely to keep him knocked out for half an hour.

That should be just enough time—the situation should be over by then.

For a moment, the air went still.

Dazai stood in the quiet, breath shallow. Blood itched at the edges of his cuts. He flexed his fingers, exhaled, and looked toward the cliff face that marked the edge of the landslide zone.

He wondered where his students were now, and if they were safe and out of harms way in the place he had instructed them to go. Iida was taking much longer than he had originally expected, and he’s almost certain that rounding up the rest of the staff shouldn’t be this time consuming.

Dazai didn’t stop moving.

His coat flared behind him as he cut across uneven terrain, boots grinding against gravel. The next cluster of villains was already forming—ragged silhouettes breaking from the treeline of fake rubble and jagged steel.

Three, maybe four of them. Too spaced out to work as a coordinated unit, but still dangerous.

He adjusted his grip on the makeshift gun Kunikida had given him, narrowing his eyes.

The first came sprinting forward with reckless abandon—a woman with metal talons sprouting from each hand, her breath hitching in erratic bursts. Panic fighter. Quick. Untrained. He let her come close before stepping neatly to the side, catching her wrist mid-swing and using her momentum to hurl her shoulder-first into a concrete slab.

Her head hit with a crack . She didn’t get back up.

The second was smarter. Kept his distance. Something in his stance screamed ranged quirk. Dazai raised the gun, fired once, and the man dove—but not fast enough. The bullet grazed his side, and the next one punched into his thigh. Non-lethal. Satisfying.

Dazai exhaled and flicked the safety back on.

That left two.

One emerged from behind a shattered support beam, skin a dull, matte gray—likely a defense-based quirk. The other hung back, younger-looking, eyes darting like a cornered animal. A support player. Maybe controlling something he couldn’t see yet.

He didn’t wait to find out, reaching into his coat. He yanked free a strip of fabric—meant for field binding, technically—and wrapped it once around his hand. When the tank of a man lunged, Dazai dropped low and slid under the swing of his arm, then pivoted, grabbed the back of his collar, and wrenched him backward off balance.

His foot lashed out, colliding with the side of the man’s knee.

There was a satisfying pop , and the smile that followed it on his own face would likely be startling.

The younger villain’s hands flew up—panicked—and Dazai spotted it: the faint shimmer in the air, nearly invisible. Threads. Wire quirk. He ducked just as a line of it sliced through the space his throat had been, whistling by like a razor.

Tch. That one would’ve hurt.

Dazai darted forward, grabbed a rock, and flung it with precision. It struck the kid square in the face. Enough to distract him. He followed up by slamming his elbow into the older man’s temple and twisting him to the ground, keeping low to avoid the shifting wires.

He moved fast.

By the time the wire user recovered, Dazai had already disarmed him—literally. A firm kick to the ribs, a twist of his wrist to snap the tool controlling the threads, and it was over.

Three more unconscious bodies littered the gravel-strewn hillside.

He didn’t spare them a second glance.

The adrenaline was thinning. Sweat clung to his neck. Blood from the earlier knife slash had soaked partway through his coat now, sticky and warm against his side. He could feel the ache building behind his ribs.

He let out a breath.

Kept walking.

The front couldn’t be far from here. If he kept low and took the cliff pass around the edge of the zone, he could loop back toward the central point of the USJ and meet back up with Kunikida.

That was the plan.

Dazai crested the next ridge, one hand resting lightly on a piece of crumbled rebar as he moved.

Below him: a brief lull in the chaos. The slope dipped into a flat plateau scattered with crushed mock-vehicles and torn-up terrain tiles. The fight was thinning. Good. Maybe—

Before he could process anything there was a sickening crack that rang through the air.

It didn’t echo like a building collapsing or concrete splitting.

It sounded wet . Final .

Then came the scream.

Dazai froze.

It wasn’t a scream of anger. Not fear, either.

It was pain. And he recognized that voice.

His eyes shot toward the ridge across from him, higher than the one he stood on now. The vantage point had a clear view of the northern slope—where Kunikida had said he’d be fortifying students.

There, on the far ridge, he saw him fall.

Kunikida .

For once he seems out of order, his breath caught in his throat. White, hot panic crashed downward into his chest like a marionette with its strings severed. His coat snapped behind him. He could tell from here that Kunikida’s glasses had already flown off. He didn’t move when he hit the ground.

There was a figure looming over him. A man. No, a brute —shoulders like slabs of concrete, a metal jaw, hands the size of car tires. Standing still, watching. Expression unreadable from this distance. But Dazai knew violence when he saw it.

Time seemed to lurch.

The breath in Dazai’s lungs stalled.

He trusted Kunikida in battle, and he trusted that the man could hold his own—but he couldn’t know. He was unmoving on the floor, looking like a corpse from where he could see.

Dazai didn’t register it when his feet began to carry him back to the slope that Kunikida had kept the students behind, needing to get to his partner.

Not him. Not Kunikida too. This wasn’t fair.

But, it was too far.

Dazai couldn’t even see if he was breathing.

He moved faster.

He had been so out of it, he didn’t see the man until the last second.

A blur of motion to his side—low and fast. A knife in hand. Another villain lying in wait.

Dazai turned—

Too slow.

The blade plunged deep into the meat of his thigh. White-hot pain lanced up his leg, sharp and sudden. His breath caught in his throat as he looked down at it, the weight almost causing his knees to give. The pain would have had him on the floor if he were a normal person, but he wasn’t—he had been through things that other people hadn’t. Been accustomed to the pain that living brought.

Only half an hour ago they were on their way to the USJ, where he and Kunikida would have just monitored the exercise. He thought, But of course—things could never be that easy.

He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, too loud, too fast. He forced it to calm.

The villain yanked the knife free, blood spurting from the wound in an ugly spray. In the short moment that the villain was distracted Dazai lashed out, catching the man across the jaw hard with the butt of the gun still clutched in his fist. Bone cracked beneath the blow. The villain dropped.

Afterwards he flips the gun, aiming it at his feet and shooting both of them. The man cried out with pain before crashing to the ground.

He moved to look back up at Kunikida, but another pained cry caught his ears, from the other direction this time. When he looked over, his heart dropped.

A large, inhuman, looming figure stands over another more humanoid one, its large hand wrapped around the man’s hair. Dazai’s first thought is, what the hell was that? But it was quickly whisked away when he sees exactly who it’s holding.

Shota.