Chapter Text
The sun was just beginning to set over the city skyline, casting long shadows across the rooftop where Dazai lounged like a cat who'd found the perfect spot to nap.
Atsushi stood stiffly nearby, clutching the mission briefing like it was a bomb set to explode.
“You really think this mission is low-risk?” Atsushi asked, eyes flicking nervously to Dazai, who was busy balancing a pencil on his nose.
Dazai didn’t even bother to look at him. “Low-risk is just code for ‘someone’s about to get hurt and it probably won’t be me.’”
Atsushi raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who usually gets hurt.”
“Details, details.” Dazai grinned, catching the pencil before it fell.
“I’m an expert at dramatic entrances and injuries. It’s practically an art form!”
Atsushi sighed. “One day, I’m going to have to explain to the next team leader why I’m covered in bruises and half the enemy’s teeth have mysteriously gone missing.”
“Now that’s a story I’d pay to hear,” Dazai said, stretching out his arms.
“I’m just saying,” he added, dangling his legs over the rooftop ledge, “for a mission labeled ‘low-risk,’ this one suspiciously involves a lot of potential bone-breaking.”
Atsushi glanced up from the mission folder, already regretting everything.
“It says we’re just supposed to intercept a black market deal and retrieve the evidence. No actual fighting unless necessary.”
“With us involved?” Dazai grinned over his shoulder. “Violence is always necessary. It’s practically tradition.”
Atsushi sighed. He was going to get gray hairs before twenty.
The two had been dispatched by Kunikida (who assigned himself desk duty that day, suspiciously smug about it) to investigate a string of illegal ability-enhancing drug deals happening near the edge of the industrial district.
Standard detective work. Follow the trail, get the evidence, don't get stabbed.
Simple.
But Atsushi had made the rookie mistake of assuming anything was simple with Dazai involved.
They arrived at the location— a conveniently creepy, rusting factory straight out of a low- budget horror movie— and quietly made their way in.
It didn’t take long before they spotted the targets: a sketchy-looking dealer, a briefcase full of glowing vials, and several guards who looked like they benched small cars for fun.
“Alright,” Atsushi whispered, eyes narrowing.
“We go in fast. I take the left, you disable their abilities, then we—”
“Or,” Dazai cut in, already strolling out from behind cover like he was on a Sunday walk, “we say hello politely and cause mass confusion. Works every time.”
“Dazai-san, wait—”
“Gentlemen!” Dazai called out cheerfully to the criminals. “What’s all this then? Definitely not illegal activities, I hope!”
The thugs blinked. One reached slowly for a crowbar. Atsushi (mentally) facepalmed.
“Of course.”
And then, chaos.
Dazai weaved through the enemies with practiced ease, tapping each one with a quick touch to nullify their abilities — all while humming a cheery tune that definitely didn’t belong in a fight scene.
Probably some upbeat song about suicide—because, of course, that’s just his style.
Things were actually going pretty well..?
…Until the universe remembered it was Dazai.
One thug — half-conscious, fueled purely by spite and muscle memory— picked up a rusty steel pipe and swung with all the finesse of a gorilla in a rage.
Dazai, mid-spin and probably thinking about lunch or double suicide, turned just in time for the pipe to make direct contact with his lower jaw.
CRACK.
The sound was AWFUL. Like a tree branch snapping.
Or, you know, a jaw dislocating.
Time slowed.
Dazai stumbled back, hand flying to his face.
His dark brown eyes—usually so sharp and mischievous—widened with a mix of shock, disbelief, and unmistakable betrayal, as if his very soul had just been sucker-punched along with his jaw.
Behind him, the thug who swung the pipe suddenly went thud—collapsed flat on his back, knocked out cold by the recoil of his own wild swing.
“My face,” he whispered, horrified. “He hit my face.”
Atsushi landed beside him, panting. “Are you okay?!”
“No, I am not okay!” Dazai wailed— or, well, tried to.
What came out was more of a gurgled whimper, as his jaw now refused to function like a normal human jaw.
“He dislocated my jaw, Atsushi-kun! That was my money-maker!”
“You literally get punched in the face every other mission.”
“Yes, but never there!” Dazai whimpered dramatically, clutching his chin like a dying Victorian woman. “I think my teeth moved. My smile — my aesthetic! Gone.”
Atsushi peered closer, wincing.
“Um… yeah, that’s definitely not how your teeth used to look.”
“Oh, cruel fate,” Dazai moaned, collapsing back against a wall.
“Yosano’s gone for five months! FIVE! I am doomed to suffer with a crooked bite and unkissable mouth!”
“…Unkissable?” Atsushi blinked.
“Don’t act like it’s not a tragedy!”
After an awkward call to headquarters (in which Dazai tried to write out his pain in haiku), and a failed attempt to beg Kunikida for morphine via text, it was decided that Dazai would be taken to the nearest emergency clinic— where the doctor, unimpressed and mildly horrified, confirmed the jaw was dislocated and a few teeth had shifted due to the force of impact.
Meanwhile, the thugs, still groggy from the fight and the unexpected knockouts, were promptly rounded up and handed over to the authorities.
Their plans to make a quick buck were thoroughly derailed, much like Dazai’s smile.
“You’ll need braces,” the dentist had said flatly, while Dazai stared at the ceiling like he’d just been handed a terminal diagnosis.
And thus, the beginning of a dark era.
Atsushi, trying (and failing) to lighten the mood, muttered, “Well… I guess you gotta brace yourself..?”
Dazai groaned at the poor joke. “You’re going to pay for that one.”