Chapter Text
Yokohama had a poor side of town. Dazai knew this very well; his tutor had always told him never to go to the so-called “dirty” part of the city. He’d never been to this desert of an area. Despite what one might think, his acts of teenage rebellion didn’t cross lines that were so far in the distance; that said, he knew how to get there. As he walked, it was as if he knew the way to Nakahara Chuuya’s exact location, despite his mind being unable to consciously determine where he was going.
As such, it didn’t take Dazai long to find this Nakahara guy once he knew his general location. His fiery red hair stuck out in that gray world, and Dazai didn’t know if that was a good omen or not.
Based on what Ranpo had told him, he had expected Nakahara to be punching a dusty wall to its final stance. He expected the man to scream and tear down a shack with the force of his yell. He expected anger, and maybe if he’d arrived sooner, he would’ve found this exact sight. However, instead, Nakahara Chuuya was sitting on the ground, defeated and already surrounded by rubble.
When Dazai had looked at his arms in curiosity one day, he’d noticed that the unhealed open wounds and bruises were completely healed. Only scars remained. However, Nakahara couldn’t have been dead for long. His wrists were littered with horizontally carved cuts, some still half-infected and others that had previously scarred over. However, just like Dazai’s wounds, none of them were bleeding.
He didn’t know what to say. His words dried on his tongue. Think! What did Atsushi say to you?
Dazai gave him a smile, even if he knew it must’ve looked insane and fake. “Hello, Nakahara Chuuya.”
The worn and tired man before him instantly lifted his head, glaring at him. “Who the fuck are you?!” It was then that Dazai noticed an emotion in his brown eyes that wasn’t reflected anywhere else— fear. Perhaps he imagined it, for the shaking of his iris assessing his surroundings ended quicker than it had taken Dazai to notice.
However, he couldn’t help but feel a little offended. Sure, this guy didn’t know what his goal was, had never seen his face before, and had no idea how he knew his name, but it wasn’t like he was spitting at the ground before him. In the moment, he took only offense. It didn’t matter why Nakahara was so upset with him. “Might want to ask for someone’s name in a more polite way, hmm?” He tried not to aggravate him too much, but it was too tempting, and Nakahara was too easy to bait.
“You little shit,” Nakahara said.
Before he could speak again, Dazai sneered. “That’s some big talk for a guy standing four feet tall on his tiptoes. I mean, seriously—”
A fist collided with Dazai’s face. He grabbed the collar of his trench coat and gripped it tight. “What the fuck is your problem? I can’t find— you’re being so— ugh!” He shoved Dazai back— surprisingly strong for such a small body.
“Somebody’s stressed,” Dazai remarked with a scoff as he quickly found his footing. “Look, you’re dead. Happy now?”
“Is that a threat?”
“No, you're literally dead,” he repeated slowly (probably condescendingly), and when the other soul still glared at him with confusion, he continued. “This is the afterlife.”
Nakahara frowned deeper with a slight roll of his eyes. “Don’t fuck around.”
Christ, this guy sucked. “Look, you already know it’s true. You know it explains everything that’s been happening since you woke up here, so just come with me and I’ll tell you how things work here, alright?” He turned around and started to walk away, assuming this asshole would finally follow him.
Instead, Dazai heard his voice again. “No,” he said.
“Oh my fucking God, ‘no,’ what?”
“I’m not gonna follow you just because you said so! And what about that parade? My death doesn’t explain that, and then there’s the fact that no one else is here. Why is no one else here? What the fuck is going on?”
“You finally died, that’s what,” Dazai replied, already annoyed, then continued explaining in a tone as dull as their surroundings. “The parade leads people to the afterlife but we don’t get to join it because we weren’t satisfied with ourselves in life. We have a job to do here instead.”
He huffed. “Doesn’t change the fact that I am not going with you.”
“Fine, I’ll just leave you here,” Dazai said with a shrug and began to walk away. “Good luck finding anywhere to go.”
Nakahara blinked, and though he maintained his glare, he looked a bit more worried than he had before.
“I suppose you won’t have to worry about food and water here, but if you don’t work with us, you’ll have to go to Hell,” he threatened casually. He wasn’t sure if that was true or not, but he couldn’t imagine any other place to be if not here. Besides, it was definitely a convincing argument.
He caught a glimpse of Nakahara’s eyes widening in shock at the prospect. “Fuck, wait, I—”
Hell, yeah. Religious trauma at its finest. “See you around, I guess. Then again, probably not.” At this point, he knew he was just being a douchebag, but he didn’t care. Why should he have to handle this guy? It wasn’t his problem. He turned on his heel and walked away.
About three blocks away, though, he felt the strange sensation that one gets when being followed. He didn’t even have to turn around to see who it was. “Oh? Did little Nakahara change his mind?”
“Don’t you dare call me that!”
“We’re that close already? I can call you little Chuuya?” He teased him. Something about this guy made Dazai feel comfortable with mockery— not in a sadistic way, of course, but rather in a friendly way. At least, so it seemed. He wasn’t used to the feeling, having never really been able to connect with anyone before.
Chuuya, it seemed, didn’t feel that way. He glared at the ground. “You piece of shit!”
“I’m hurt, Chuuya!”
“Well, what else am I supposed to call you? You didn’t give me your name.”
He paused. He hadn’t, had he? “My name is Dazai Osamu.” He finally introduced himself with these words. “Isn’t it such a pleasure to meet me?”
“It is absolutely not, you fucking prick.” Chuuya stormed past him, adding, “Your name sounds weird. I prefer ‘piece of shit.’”
That told him that it was definitely not a pleasure, but for the first time since dying, he felt like his emotions were being brought to life, for better or worse.
—
“Welcome in, welcome in,” he said dryly. Dazai gestured randomly around the office with Chuuya walking dismally behind him. The other workers looked up with frowns. Akutagawa and Yosano seemed annoyed, as did Atsushi, but only briefly, afraid to make eye contact. Poe let out a sigh. Clearly he had disrupted their work, but a glance at Ranpo— who was looking on amused— told him that he was free to continue his dramatic ways. “Look for your desk, there should be a toblerone with your name on it somewhere.”
Chuuya shoved his way past him and sat at the desk in the far corner.
“Or that, sure, that works too.” Dazai didn’t really give a shit where the asshole sat as long as it wasn’t near him.
He glowered at him, like an animal does before it catches its prey. It wasn’t really intimidating though, considering how much of a chibi the guy was. How tall was he? Like, barely five feet?
Regardless, at first, nothing had changed in the office, but Chuuya’s brown eyes and orange hair seemed to lighten up the room, bringing fire to it, and as destructive as it could be, it was better than ashes.
Though Dazai supposed that, because fire left ashes in its wake, Chuuya was probably just going to make this whole place more gray. And he had to be here for eternity?
He almost— almost— wished that he was still alive.
—
As time went on, Dazai found that more and more typewriters were destroyed as Chuuya’s frustration grew. He wasn’t sure where the replacements were coming from, but it wasn’t terribly rare that the red-haired man would throw one across the room— sometimes aiming for Dazai’s head, trying to get rid of him, but to no avail— and Ranpo would merely sigh before getting up and leaving for Fukuzawa’s office.
Those were the times that Poe showed the most expressive emotion he ever allowed himself to share— disappointment. Sometimes, he’d even glare at Chuuya, which Dazai found incredibly funny, to be completely honest. Poe was usually such a wuss, so to see him staring down the most vicious one of them all was a rare and amusing sight.
Eventually, Chuuya gave up on the typewriters and started shredding paper. Sometimes, that included documents they’d finished filing. This was not so fun, because that resulted in more work, which was fucking awful.
That commotion, though, was the only thing in their afterlives that could make some sort of excitement. Sure, frustration was the order of those days, but whenever he reflected on it, Dazai realized he was glad just to feel anything. That was even more than he got in his actual life.
Chuuya didn’t really do any of them any favors, but he did manage to make their work a bit more interesting. Even a slight sigh from him had everyone immediately turning their heads to look at him, waiting for him to snap and start throwing things.
One person that Dazai had paid particular attention to since Chuuya’s arrival was Atsushi. When they’d met, Dazai had shown the slightest emotion with his urgency to ask a question, and the boy had flinched back, biting his tongue as though afraid to say anything against him. However, with Chuuya’s outbursts being as fiery as his hair and as consistent in frequency as the flow of incoming papers, Atsushi had not only gotten used to harmless surprises, but wasn’t sent into a full-blown panic when they happened. It was a subtle change. He wasn’t even sure if anyone else had noticed it. In any case, he couldn’t help but feel proud of the kid for healing a bit from whatever had made him so wary and scared before.
That pride was then redirected as anger towards Chuuya. Why the hell did his actions have to be the ones to help the boy that Dazai had called dibs on detraumatizing?!
When that thought crossed his mind, he almost laughed out loud, then chided himself for his own childish behavior. If he did that, he’d have to explain himself, and then Chuuya would probably mock him, and they’d probably get into an intense argument, which would probably lead to a physical fight between them, and they’d end up destroying more of the work materials than Chuuya could ever destroy entirely on his own.
The funny part about those fights was that none of the punches and blows ever caused any pain. At this point, they were doing them for one reason and one reason only: the two were bored. And, quite frankly, who wouldn’t be?
There was really only one thing that managed to end their fights, and that was the voice on the speakers. Dazai had only heard it a few times before Chuuya had arrived. It really only announced that Ranpo was occasionally needed, and that was all.
After those mysterious meetings behind the closed door he’d walk through, he was usually the one who brought in unusual paperwork. Whether that was a strange death or otherwise uncertain situation, if it was the organization of some sort of special event (none of which Dazai had ever experienced or even heard the name of), or bringing newcomers to the office, Ranpo was the one who’d be giving everyone their duties.
That wasn’t really the weird part; after all, most things were strange about the afterlife, and it was only natural to assume that there were good reasons for it. So no, that didn’t bother Dazai one bit. What really troubled him was that Ranpo got rewarded for these menial tasks with various candies and other sweets, not to mention that asking to borrow those treats was the fastest way to get on Ranpo’s bad side, apparently.
Dazai didn’t realize Ranpo had a bad side. He hid behind his snickers and glasses and candy most of the time, but when he’d harmlessly asked for a lollipop or something, the guy glared up at him, green eyes slamming him with a cold glare.
He should really calm down, honestly. What was so special about candy?
Aside from that tiny privilege, another thing about the other man pissed Dazai off more than he ever thought he could be: Ranpo knew something, and he wasn’t sharing it with anyone at all.
It had to be something to do with their jobs. That would explain why he seemed to have a bit of liveliness left in him, contrasting the solemn fog that drifted around the room. He was rewarded for abetting the privacy of that knowledge in some way, and for some peculiar reason, there was no conclusion that Dazai could possibly come to as to why; at least, certainly not one that answered all of his questions.
He’d been wondering about the afterlife ever since he was little.
“Right, but what happens when we die?” He had asked.
“Matthew 25:46,” came the reply from his tutor.
He remembered the insistence pushed on him that there was certainty about what came after death.
“So why doesn’t God just tell us what He wants us to do directly? I mean, He contradicts himself all the time—”
“1 Corinthians 2:14. Read,” his tutor demanded when he asked.
If only his tutor could see what had actually happened to him after death. Maybe then, he would take his childhood self more seriously. That said, after all these years, Dazai realized that he still didn’t understand nearly enough about the afterlife to mock his tutor; not yet, at least.
It wasn’t worth crying about, but it was definitely worth thinking about. That was the only truth he knew about this strange situation.
“Putain!” A curse came from across the room. Another flying typewriter pulled Dazai out of his thoughts, and he laughed at the angry expression on Chuuya’s face. He couldn’t take him seriously when he knew the guy wouldn’t have the guts to defy him by the end of an argument. Chuuya might have more muscle (that was honestly unproven at this point, though), but Dazai held it over his head that he was smarter. He held a lot of things over his head; after all, Chuuya very literally couldn’t reach that high.
Ranpo snickered around his popsicle. Pulling it out of his mouth, he said victoriously, “I knew you grew up in France! I couldn’t wait to hear you speak French. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it spoken in person before.”
“Hey! What does that—” Chuuya cut himself off, eyes widening. “How did you know that?”
“Eh,” Ranpo shrugged. “I mean, it was pretty obvious.”
“What the fuck do you mean?!”
He sighed and grumbled, “I really do have to explain stuff like this every single time, don’t I?” Ranpo rolled his eyes and pushed his classes up over his nose. “You have this faint accent. I couldn’t tell at first, but then you had a bit of French-kinda rasp when you said something. Plus, judging by the style, that hat is old, but it’s in great condition. It was probably only sold in a certain region for a short period of time and to a select few people. That’s why you’re so protective of it. It’s probably from a person close to you, too, but I doubt you’d admit it. Anyway, the point is that it’s from a super outdated fashion line with most production companies based in Western Europe. I could go on,” he explained, sounding bored.
Dazai snickered. He hadn’t been at the office for long, but Ranpo could read people like a book.
Well, that guy could read individuals, but when it came to a group of people, forget it. Learning to read the room was definitely out of his capacity.
“Well, do you speak French?” Chuuya asked loudly, almost seeming concerned.
Ranpo frowned with an eyebrow raised. “Of course not.”
Chuuya seemed relieved.
“I could learn it if you want, though,” he offered. “It might help with the files you write in French.”
“Huh?”
He sighed, exasperated. “You know, the ones you keep in the middle drawer on the right so you can access and defend them easily.”
Dazai snickered, earning himself a glare from Chuuya, who was already pissed off. That only made him grin more, which definitely didn’t help the situation.
“So,” Ranpo continued, “where in France are you from?”
“Shut up!” Chuuya spat out loudly, fists clenched with knuckles turning white.
Dazai wasn’t as smart as Ranpo, but he did pride himself on being able to notice little things about everyone around him. Whenever Chuuya yelled, Dazai managed to notice that his face heated up, embarrassed as much as he was angry. When Chuuya yelled, Akutagawa tensed and appeared to breathe with the intent of maintaining his composure, while Atsushi visibly cowered for many seconds before finally snapping back to reality. When Chuuya yelled, Yosano rolled her eyes and Ranpo whispered remarks to her that made her cackle. When Chuuya yelled, Poe had no noticeable reaction, seemingly used to ignoring hectic background noise.
As for Dazai, he didn’t know what to feel. Part of him was annoyed, he supposed; another, amused. It was confusing, honestly.
As Chuuya continued to shout with frustration at Ranpo, who remained collected (even laughing a bit), Dazai shifted his attention to Poe, who sat at his typewriter, undeterred by the commotion, as usual. He clicked away at the machine, letting the flow of ink fill the page with words in what looked like English that looked as smooth as a typewriter font could make it. It also didn’t take long for Dazai to recognize that he was not at all working on the forms they were usually tasked with filling out and organizing.
He was writing something completely different.
The ceiling speaker began to crackle from the sound of a phone being lifted and spoken into. Ranpo instinctively stood up, but when the man’s deep voice rattled the room, it called out, “Yosano Akiko, please report.”
She looked up from her typewriter, eyes narrowing with confusion. She glanced at Ranpo, who shrugged. “Oh, c’mon, I know you know something,” she accused.
“Gag order,” he summarized.
Yosano rolled her eyes. “I just go in there?” She pointed at the door that Ranpo usually left through.
He nodded. “Make a right turn.”
It was the first time Dazai had ever seen the two look even mildly irritated with the other. They always seemed to be perfectly fine, sitting next to each other and (presumably) gossiping over whatever could possibly be interesting.
Even though— judging by the solemn expression that had been gracing his face since the announcement came— Ranpo must’ve known she’d be upset with the surprise, he looked emotionally unprepared for the coldness with which she had frowned.
Yosano wasn’t mad at him. She couldn’t be; after all, if Dazai had noticed anything, it was that they told each other everything.
When she left the room, Chuuya spoke up with what everyone else seemed to be thinking: “Hey, why does she get to leave?!”
Akutagawa grumbled something along the lines of “Shut up and deal with it,” but that didn’t seem like something the fiery man was capable of.
“Gag order,” Ranpo answered him.
Chuuya huffed and buried his head in his arms.
Dazai realized then that his frustration and constant anger couldn’t hold. It was too draining for him, and soon enough, the dam that held back his true despair would snap in two.
They were all there for that reason, right? They hadn’t been satisfied in life, and now, not in death.
Fuck.
—
Yosano came back after a while, pushing open the door and letting it swing closed to slam back into place. The loud noise it made upon hitting its frame made Atsushi jump. Akutagawa sat rigid, and Chuuya wore a glare over thinly veiled confusion.
Her heels clipped against the ground much louder than usual. She wasn’t quite stomping, but a thunderclap would’ve been heard if she were a cloud. It was an electric snap that echoed around the quiet room, which sat full of tension.
Dazai frowned with a curiosity he hadn’t cared to offer until then.
Ranpo sat up and pulled his feet to the ground from where they’d previously rested on the table. He looked up at her.
She glanced down at him and said nothing, just opened her drawers and grabbed a notebook. Yosano then tossed it onto Ranpo’s desk and without any emotion in her voice, said, “You can keep it.”
That was the last thing Yosano told anyone before leaving the building entirely.
Ranpo slammed his head on the desk.