Work Text:
Mori liked little girls.
He liked little boys, too.
He liked soft, small children.
Mori liked Yosano.
Mori liked her almost enough to cause Elise to scream with jealousy.
But, his precious flower bloomed and wilted all too fast, leaving Mori alone.
Alone in a way that his darling Elise could not satiate.
Then came Dazai.
Mori loved Dazai.
This one was different. He was different.
Seemingly ordinary on surface-level, rich with sin and sadness beneath the flesh.
Mori craved that taste. Yearned for the false innocence that Dazai wore as casually as a smile.
That’s what it was, soiled, ivory innocence. At no older than 14, nothing about this boy was pure white.
To be Mori’s “favorite” was a claim that came with many perks. From any materialistic desire to the rarest of archives and iron-clad respect from his colleagues, Dazai had it all.
Though having no interest in life or materialism, the child mafioso couldn’t care less.
Older members of the mafia such as Hirotsu were hesitant when Mori took Dazai under his wing. They were concerned the protégée would abuse his powers, especially when they considered his mental instability. The result was quite the opposite. Dazai’s actions always confused those around him and his disinterest in the many privileges afforded him, was just another unexpected response.
The suicidal teenager had been in charge of militia practically before puberty. He was taught how to inflict pain and violence through recipience. Being the “favorite” forced vice over virtue.
Dazai was not allowed to fail.
Fortunately for the boss, the youth’s intellect surpassed expectations at an alarming rate. As a result, Mori appointed him to the most challenging trade routes, relying on a 15-year-old boy to clean up the atrocious mess made by the former boss. The sheer weight of responsibility and expectations placed upon his shoulders was enough to make a grown adult break; but Dazai was different.
Dazai had always been different.
It was another ordinary day at the agency. As ordinary as an Armed Detective Agency could get, that is. The younger members of the team chatted casually as they decided what they wanted for lunch, while the older members completed their work in silence. Or at least, most of them did.
Ranpo and Dazai were somewhat of an exception. They hung around in a conference room, Ranpo consuming copious amounts of sweets while Dazai lay flat on the table, face smushed against the glass and eyes closed. They spoke to each other in what others would perceive as code. A battered chess board with ceramic pieces sat in between the two, and as they spoke one of them would reach and move pieces accordingly.
“Sector 6E. Comic or tragic?” Ranpo asked, unamused, a lollipop lazing in his mouth.
“Comic. Approach from behind. Dusk. Strike from above,” Dazai replied, tone muffled by the table. Ranpo nodded an approving hum and in response, Dazai reached his left arm out and picked up a black rook, moving it without so much as a glance at the destination.
“Port 5,” Dazai muttered sleepily.
“Hm,” Ranpo mused. He blinked twice before responding, “that’s a trick question, right? It’s mafia territory, so of course I assume it would be comic.”
A breath passed until Dazai prompted, “…but?”
“But it’s Port 5. And you’ve never mentioned Port 5. In fact, the one time Kunikida suggested tracking down a lead in that part of town, you left the room.”
“I had to pee,” Dazai whined in response, not moving an inch from his spot.
“Except you didn’t. I ran into you in the bathroom earlier that morning and you didn’t consume any food or drink since that point. So, I defect from comic by itself and claim ‘port’ as comic and ‘Port 5’ as tragic.”
“Strategy?”
“No weapons. You, Yosano, and Atsushi.” This response made Dazai stir. He sat up casually, pondering the genius detective’s theory.
“Fascinating…” he muttered to himself, “your general analysis is flawless, as always. But your strategy lacks.”
“How!?” Ranpo yelled with the cadence of a toddler.
“Port 5 requires an alliance, or double agent.”
“Fancy Hat!” Ranpo exclaimed, moreso a statement than a question.
“Bingo.”
Ranpo sighed and moved a piece carelessly, frowning as he analyzed the board. Dazai had started the game in a conservative manner, moving only his pawns. The strategy would have been pitiful, had it been any opponent other than Dazai. However, as the wielder of this technique, it became quite clear just how terrifying the former executive could be. Using only his pawns, Dazai had managed to counter every single attack launched by Ranpo. The detective had responded aggressively, knowing just how quickly Dazai’s seemingly simple strategies escalated to inconceivable, intricate layers of multi-dimensional offensive and defensive plays. 3 of Dazai’s pawns had made their way to the enemy line, becoming supplemental queens. Ranpo stood his ground, managing to knock out all of Dazai’s bishops and knights. Though, the amber-eyed with all four of his queens, decimating any piece that had a conceivable way of approaching his king. Maintaining his defensive lines, he was one move from putting Ranpo’s king in check when the sound of a tinny explosion filled the room.
Had he been out and about, panic would have run rampant at the sound. However, they were at the agency headquarters and by this point, every team member was well acquainted with Dazai’s infuriating ringtones, especially the one saved for none other than—
“Chuuya~!!” Dazai picked emphatically, “To what do I owe this glorious—”
Chuuya cut his ex-partner off, a sense of urgency lying beneath his gruff tone.
“We need to talk. Where are you?”
“My, my, someone’s bossy today~” Dazai replied, nonchalant. Ranpo sat up a little straighter upon realizing the origin of the caller, his curiosity piqued by a mystery finally worth his time.
“Did somebody forget to drink his milk this morning? Chuuya, I’ve told you—Chibis like you need all that calcium so you can grow big and strong!” Chuuya groaned in agitation despite doing his best to remain composed. Dazai heard the redhead exhale deeply before ignoring the brunette’s jab.
“Dazai, this is serious.”
This time it was Dazai’s turn to exhale.
“Fine,” he replied in his default, flat tone that rang void of any emotion, “meet me at the café by the agency.”
There was a pause. Hesitation.
“We should go somewhere private,” Chuuya replied with reluctance.
“Oh my goodness, Chuuya! I did not expect someone as thick-headed as you to make such a bold move~ Of course, I can’t blame you for wanting me all to yourself—”
“Shut up and come to my apartment.”
“Kunikida’s gonna be ~maaaad~ if I leave, you know,” Dazai replied, curious to see the hot-tempered’s reply.
“Since when have you ever cared about—” Chuuya’s reply was cut short by angry sounds of a temperamental idealist bombarding the phone line.
“DAAAAA-ZAAAAAAAIIIIII!”
“Told ya soooo~” Dazai sang out, completely ignoring the battle ram of a coworker charging his way.
“What the—” Chuuya started, only to be cut off once more by Kunikida’s reprimanding on the other end.
“WHAT’S THIS I HEAR ABOUT YOU LEAVING FOR THE DAY? YOU HAVEN’T DONE DIDDLY-SQUAT!”
“But Kuuun-iiiii-kiiiii-daaaaa,” Dazai teased, drawing out his colleague’s name, “it wouldn’t be for a whole day, just an hour or two!”
“Enough of this nonsense! Give me that—” yanking Dazai’s phone out of his grasp, Kunikida cleared his throat and began to speak in a calm, yet assertive tone.
“Please forgive my impudence, but Dazai is tied up at the moment and cannot leave. You must reschedule your meeting for post-business hours, which begin exactly at 5:30:01 PM. Any earlier will be a breach against company policy—"
“Jesus Christ,” Chuuya complained, heaving a sigh, “Idiot with the glasses, right?”
“My name is Kunikida Doppo! Who is this?!” Kunikida glared at Dazai, who was giggling to himself in sadistic pleasure.
“Take a wild guess,” Chuuya replied, rolling his eyes in exasperation. He should have expected nothing less from Dazai’s new(er) place of work, nothing concerning Dazai had the capacity to be simple.
“Nakahara-san? Why are you—” Kunikida’s voice was strained with confusion, which Chuuya promptly ignored.
“Does that stupid excuse for an agency have any private conference rooms?”
“Why do you want—” Kunikida began to reply, but was cut off as Dazai chimed in.
“Sure we do! With a lock and everything! Perfect for all sorts of debauch—”
“Shut up!” Chuuya hissed, “I’m on my way.”
The phone line clicked.
Kunikida ogled the phone as if it were some sort of alien device.
“You don’t have to look so scared Kunikida,” Dazai replied nonchalantly, “you look like you’ve never seen my cellphone before.”
“Why… why is Nakahara-san…”
“You think I wouldn’t have my ~faaaaaavorite~ partner’s number saved in my phone? Soukoku has been on more than one alliance mission in the past year, after all.” Kunikida seethed in annoyance, taking a breath intended to be calm, but in execution posed shaky.
“Not that,” he spoke through gritted teeth, “his… his contact name. Why…why is it—?"
Dazai blinked up, bottomless eyes wide and mocking in innocence. Kunikida shook his head in defeat.
“You know what? Nevermind. I don’t want to know,” Kunikida turned, face flushed as he adjusted his glasses, “just, get back to work you lazy bum.”
With his final remark, Kunikida marched out of the room, hoping his shred of dignity would be left intact.
“Let me guess,” Ranpo looked up, eyeing Dazai inquisitively, “he’s saved in your phone as ‘<3 Chibi-chan ≧◠◡◠≦ [aka my favorite partner of all times, far cooler than Kunkida] <3 ’”
Dazai smiled wide, lifting a chess piece without looking at it. “Yup!” he chirped.
Kunikida’s dignity was, indeed, no longer intact.
He placed the piece in a seemingly random space on the board.
“Check.”
It was dark. Late at night. Nearly morning.
Their mission had been long and exhaustive.
Though Dazai had never been the kind one of the two, something was different about that night.
When they returned to HQ, he urged Chuuya to go to bed.
Typically, when missions ended, both halves of Soukoku were required to report to Mori with detailed descriptions of their successes, failures, body counts, and additional analyses. Dazai did most of the talking during these meetings, but occasionally Mori would ask Chuuya a pointed question. Even on days when Chuuya used Corruption, if he could stand he was expected to attend. Therefore, when Dazai insisted on Chuuya skipping their meeting, alarm bells sounded.
Dazai’s excuse had been perfectly logical; he had been assigned a confidential mission adjacent to the one they had just completed, and his reports involved critical, overlapping information. The excuse was sound, so much so that any ordinary person would have bought it and gone home without a second thought. Chuuya on the other hand, was far from ordinary. He pestered Dazai, curiosity overwriting his sense of danger as it often did.
Though, his attempts yielded fruitless and after some reluctance, Chuuya agreed to go home and skip the meeting.
Other than Dazai’s unusual behavior, Chuuya’s night had been relatively uneventful.
Eyes closed as he lay in bed, drifting to sleep, the boy was startled by a loud tone.
A ringtone that did not belong to Chuuya.
Searching frantically, the gravity manipulator tracked down the source of the sound to an alarm on none other than Dazai’s phone.
Of course the idiot left his phone before heading to the boss.
Chuuya rolled his eyes in exasperation.
He figured he should return the phone to shitty-Dazai before morning otherwise there was a good chance he would completely lose track of his unstable partner. Dazai went missing on more than one occasion and losing a form of communication with him would only make Chuuya’s life harder in the long run.
Momentarily, he wondered if Dazai had finished up his debrief. A little over an hour had passed since their conversation, and in Chuuya’s experience, debriefs could last anywhere from five minutes to two hours. If Dazai was reporting on two missions, one critical in nature with overlapping intel, Chuuya had a feeling the meeting would last a lot longer than an hour.
Grunting in annoyance, Chuuya tossed on his shoes and a jacket, grabbing Dazai’s phone before heading out the door.
As he walked, a thought nagged at his head.
What was that alarm for?
Punctual was not a word one would use to describe Dazai. Intelligent, risky, dangerous, skilled, bizarre—that was Dazai. Punctual, was not.
For such a boy to have an alarm set for 3:15 AM was unexpected.
Chuuya hoped the mackerel would be finishing up in Mori’s office and not fast asleep in that God forsaken shipping container. While Chuuya wanted to get the phone back to its rightful owner sooner than later, he refused to walk through the dump that acted as a sorry excuse for a backyard, only to hang out in a shipping container at three in the morning. No thank you.
He approached the large double-doors that led to a hallway, which led to another set of doors that guarded Mori’s office and specialized infirmary. The Port Mafia had its own infirmary with high-end underground doctors and incredible medical care. However, Mori kept his own private clinic for severe cases involving high-level members, such as executives or teams like the Black Lizard and Soukoku.
Chuuya preferred the general clinic. He had a feeling Dazai would agree with this sentiment.
Nodding at the guards, Chuuya waltzed through the first set of doors, making his way to the boss’s office entrance.
He reached a fist to knock, when a sound caught him off-guard.
A cry.
Or, a whimper?
It was soft and subtle, but pained.
Worry creased Chuuya’s forehead. He knew the punishments that awaited failed missions were all kinds of despicable. However, Chuuya only knew this from hearsay and thankfully not personal experience. It was rare for him to fail a mission, Soukoku or solo. Plus, being one of the strongest members of the mafia despite his rank kept Mori from issuing him anything more than slap on the wrist. Mori was too intelligent and conniving to egg Chuuya on and risk his own well-being.
Dazai was not so lucky. Yet, he never once complained. In fact, Chuuya only knew Dazai had been dealt these punishments more than once by reading the subtext of their conversations with Mori. If a mission failed or even had room for improvement, Mori would request that Dazai, “stay to examine what went wrong” and be taught to “avoid making silly mistakes” in the future. A near-imperceptible shift would invade Dazai’s expression and no matter how good of a player he was in the game of emotional hide-and-seek, Chuuya always found him.
“Conversations” and “learning opportunities” between Dazai and Mori lasted long into the night. Their indicators, much like a medication, included the need for new bandages, limping, and irritability.
3 AM outside the office of the Port Mafia’s boss was unnerving. The sounds on the other end perpetuated this sensation, making every breath louder and harsher in the eerie, echoing emptiness.
Almost knocking once more, he stopped upon hearing another strange sound. This was deeper, that of a man, not a 16-year-old boy. It was quiet yet guttural and could almost be mistook for moaning. Almost.
Or at least, that’s what Chuuya reminded himself. There was no way the boss would actually be—
No. Mori was no doubt unusual, erring on the side of creepy even. But he was an incredible leader whom Chuuya held in high regards.
“Someone’s—” the sound of a weak, young voice pulled Chuuya out of his thoughts. The voice teetered between speaking tone and a whisper, making it difficult for Chuuya to fully grasp what the person was saying. “Here. Out— I’m not—no that’s not—” Chuuya strained to hear the complete conversation but could only make out snippets. “It’s not an—no, I was just—” The harsh sound of skin hitting skin brought Chuuya’s fist away from the door in one swift motion. The reality of the situation began to sink in and Chuuya knew he shouldn’t be there, standing in front of this door, in front of secret conversations meant for no one’s ears but it’s inhabitants.
“What did I tell you—”
A voice sweeter than sucrose bled through the hallway.
Heart beating heavily, Chuuya was torn between staying, barging in, and getting the fuck away.
“I’m sorry, Mori-san,” a near-robotic voice replied. Hollow and lifeless.
Chuuya knew that voice.
Didn’t he?
“Promise you’ll be a good boy?”
Chuuya chose the latter.
Everything was upside down. Atsushi’s bashful smile was contorted into a fake frown, Kunikida’s frown was an uncharacteristic, upturned smile, the floor was the ceiling, and everything swayed back and forth.
“Dazai, what the fuck?” a rough, irritated sound pierced the room. Unapologetic and seemingly out of place.
Dazai smiled, eyes creasing into little half-moons with pleasure.
“Chibi-chan!! You really came for me!” Dazai cooed in delight. Chuuya shivered, raging inward.
“Seriously, what the fuck?” Chuuya replied.
“Chibi looks funny!”
“Can someone please tell me why the fuck this man is upside-down?” Chuuya snapped, posing the question to anyone in the agency who would be willing to answer.
Kenji looked around, assessing the situation. He was one of the few agency members who didn’t so much has flinch when the petite Mafioso graced them with his presence.
“Oh, hi Chuuya-kun!” Kenji waved with a bright smile.
“Who the hell are you?” Chuuya asked, “Don’t be so informal with strangers, that’s weird. Dazai, this whole damn place is weird! Why the fuck are you hanging upside down from the ceiling?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Dazai chastised, “This rope isn’t hanging from the ceiling Chuuya. It’s hanging from a hook that was drilled into the ceiling. The hook reaches all the way through the ceiling, as part of a flexible metal rod that’s wrapped around a pipe. This pipe isn’t for typical plumbing, it’s connected to a special chemical used in suite 6A. The chemical is to only be handled by professionals, fully suited in hazmat. Should this chemical come into contact with human flesh—” Dazai took a thoughtful pause, “well, you’d be a goner.”
The agency at this point grew completely silent, in a terrified awe at Dazai’s explanation.
“You all look confused…do I need to repeat myself?” Dazai pondered, “I guess I could begin describing the specific chemical reaction that would occur upon contact with the susbtance but—”
“So, why are you hanging from the hook?” Kenji asked innocently, unafraid of breaking the tension.
“Ah, that Kenji-kun, is part of my new suicide method!” Kenji stared back at Dazai, curiosity gleaming in his bright doe-eyes. “The purpose of this contraption is to ensure complete success when I hang myself!”
“Oh my God,” Chuuya muttered.
“Have you no shame!” Kunikida scolded.
Dazai smiled.
“See, hanging oneself on its own isn’t painful, it’s quick and easy. However, a failed job can be quite painful, and my last experience wasn’t very pleasant—”
“Uhh, when exactly was that, Dazai-san?” Atsushi asked, voice seeping with hesitance, fearing the answer. Dazai looked around as he thought.
“Last month, I think!” His reply rang out with undeserving cheer, “By testing the impact of my weight now on this hook, I can successfully prove it can withstand my body for an extended period of time. Yet, there is always a chance of a disruption. Perhaps someone tries to pull on me to foil my attempt! In which case, should the force exceed the capacity of said hook, the metal contraption will puncture the pipe, causing chemical spillage. And you know what that will make for?”
Atsushi responded through a grimace, “A double suicide…”
“Precisely!! What an intelligent pupil I have!” Dazai sang his praise as Chuuya resisted the urge to spin him round and round while he hung; one of the arguably best torture methods Chuuya had used on Dazai during the early years of their partnership. Before the upside-down detective could say anything else, Kunikida reached over, swiftly cutting the rope with a pair of gardening scissors taken from Kenji’s desk. Dazai fell with a thud and a whine.
“Enough!” Chuuya hissed, beyond done with Dazai’s ridiculous antics.
“Chu-chu’s so mean to me!!” Dazai sobbed in melodramatic irritation. The ginger rolled his eyes and glared Kunikida’s way.
“Blondie,” Chuuya snapped. Kunikida bristled with annoyance. “I’m borrowing waste-of-bandages for the day.”
“The day!?” Dazai and Kunikida gaped in unison. Dazai’s bottomless brown eyes were full of stars while Kunikida shot daggers at the short executive.
“Absolutely not,” Kunikida started, “Dazai has mountains of untouched paperwork and he is not permitted to leave this office until he makes so much as a dent in it. And no, that dent does not count the work you assign to Atsushi!” Kunikida shot Dazai a nasty look as he uttered the last part of his reprimand. Chuuya let out a frustrated sigh, massaging his brow with calloused fingers.
“Fine.” He glanced towards Dazai, who was moping on the floor, still irate from Kunikida’s lecture. “You, me, conference room. NOW,” he demanded.
“Chibi’s feisty today~!” Dazai trilled making his way to the nearest conference room with the most privacy.
Sending one last scalding glare towards his old partner’s colleagues, Chuuya followed.
They settled into the room and closed the door. Dazai hopped on the table, crossing his legs in a manner one could only describe as seductive.
“So,” he started, voice deeper than ordinary with sultry undertones, “if Chibi wanted me so bad, he could have just asked nicely.” With a wink of his amber eye, Chuuya grew flustered. Regaining composure as quickly as it was lost, he rejected Dazai’s notion.
“Shut up mackerel, that’s not why I’m here,” he paused and licked his lips, averting his gaze, “this is serious.”
Dazai contemplated. Chuuya visiting him out of the blue for something other than sex was a rare occurrence. Anxiety blossomed in the pit of his stomach, which he promptly disregarded.
“Fine. What do you want then?” Dazai replied, tone flat once more.
Chuuya inhaled. He exhaled. He returned Dazai’s gaze, cerulean eyes twitching a nervous dance.
“I have a question. I really didn’t want to ask you here, but that stupid stick of a coworker isn’t giving us much of a choice.”
“There’s something so important, Chuuya couldn’t have waited until the evening to ask me?” Dazai’s head tilted askew in confusion.
“Yeah, sorta,” Chuuya replied sheepishly, “I work in the evenings and I have a mission in France that starts tonight.” A silence drenched in mild discomfort settled between them.
“Ok?” Dazai prompted.
“It’s… it’s kind of a heavy question. So just… let me know if—if you’re not. Comfortable. Or whatever. You don’t have to answer it, I guess.”
“Chibi, I was the youngest Port Mafia executive. My hands are coated in blood,” his eyes clouded as he spoke words that sounded as natural as a script recitation, “I think I can handle whatever question you have.”
“Ok, but—” Chuuya began to protest, only to be cut off by a cheery interjection.
“And if I can’t handle it, I’ll just lie! We both know that’s one of my specialties, you know?” Dazai’s intricately careless smile irked Chuuya to no end.
“Fine. But it’s about Mori.”
Dazai’s heart rate sped and for a flicker of a second, an indiscernible look swept through his features. Though like most of his real emotions, it vanished before Chuuya could decipher its origin.
Forcing his pulse back to normalcy, Dazai edged Chuuya to continue.
“Yes?” Dazai asked with an air of nonchalance. Chuuya said nothing for a long pause.
“I saw—well, heard… something. When I was coming back from a mission.”
More silence interjected.
“Chibi, you’ll have to give me more details than that if you want my input.”
Chuuya sighed and continued, “Yeah. So I was heading to his office to report for a debrief and I…” Chuuya trailed off, remembering exactly the order of events that took place.
He approached the doors briskly. It was late. He was tired. Exhausted. Drained from a mission that took far too long for its laughable level of difficulty.
Mori had many rules for mafia members, though most didn’t apply to executives. It was one of the reasons Dazai had gotten away with so many transgressions. One, however, was exclusively obeyed by all, no matter their rank.
If Mori’s door is closed, you knock before you enter.
While this rule mostly came from a place of common courtesy, there had been a variety of theories regarding its existence.
That night, as Chuuya was bone-tired, wanting nothing more than to get his debrief over with and go to sleep, the knocking was forgone.
“I should have knocked,” is all he said. Dazai’s eyes widened, just enough to hint at his unforeseen knowledge regarding the topic the conversation was dangerously close to approaching. He remained quiet, dark umber eyes unreadable.
“When I…barged in, I didn’t see much but,” Chuuya looked at his feet, suddenly intrigued by the dirty crevices between each tile beneath him, “there was a child. And they were… well I left before I could…”
Dazai’s comment from earlier echoed in Chuuya’s mind, And if I can’t handle it, I’ll just lie!
“Dazai,” Chuuya forced eye contact with the stone-faced man who looked much younger than his actuality.
“Did Mori—?”
--
Panic.
Sheer panic.
That’s the song that sang in his deathtrap of a mind.
His life was planned; cold and calculated. Rarely was he faced with unpredictability, and even those times that were unpredictable could be easily calculated through deduction and probability.
This moment,
This physical reaction,
The visceral pain that laced his body, coursing through his veins;
None of this was predicted.
“Dazai?”
Someone was calling out to him, repeating his name, but he couldn’t respond. His brain and body were out of sync. Disconnected. The world was blurry and violently sharp all at once. Pitch black and overexposed. Saturated yet monochromatic.
The voice was so soft, yet the loudest sound in the room next to the pulse thrumming in his chest.
Control.
He thought to himself. Closing his eyes in a slow blink, he forced his pittering heartbeat to a semblance of regulation.
“Dazai? Can you hear me?”
The voice was so far away.
Through forcibly even breaths, Dazai tried manipulating himself into a state of calm. Despite best efforts, the rest of him ached, screamed, fought, and refuted de-escalation. His entire being resisted that concept, the very presence of calm within his chaotic, screeching mind.
He wanted to answer Chuuya’s question. Wanted to regain control. To take over the situation, manipulate the circumstances and curate its result.
But no matter how hard he tried, nothing came out.
--
“Dazai, can you hear me?” Chuuya asked, again. It felt like he had been asking for hours, simple queries that seemed incomprehensible to absent ears. “Are you there?”, “Are you ok?”, “Can you hear me?”, “Can I help?”, and so on.
“Shit,” Chuuya muttered under his breath. This was bad.
He’d seen Dazai in numerous compromising situations. Wounded and on the brink of death, through psychotic breakdowns accompanied by self-induced injury, from every stage of a violent outbreak to candid dissociation. He thought he’d seen it all.
What a diluted perspective Chuuya held, thinking he had seen all of the violence trapped within his ex-partner’s mind. He should have known the enigma known as Osamu Dazai encapsulated more masks and mirrors than an apeirogon has sides.
Chuuya was running out of options. Touching Dazai wasn’t something many people did, and Chuuya knew it would likely backfire. As the executive walked through his limited options, Dazai’s breathing grew labored. Abandoned, was any attempt at a leveled disposition.
“Hey, you’re okay, you’ll be okay, Dazai,” Chuuya reassured sitting close enough to the boy to speak in a whisper, without encroaching on his personal space. Pale, bandaged arms shook violently, his ordinarily blank and unnerving visage contorted with the rare sight of fear. Unsteady fingers clawed at fresh bandages, scratching his forearms uncontrollably. Bandages loosened as red began to seep through. He hated knowing why Dazai’s arms were so quick to bleed.
“Dazai, I don’t want to touch you, but you’re hurting yourself.”
No sound entered Dazai’s ears. Chuuya’s devastatingly kind voice went unheard, though he persisted.
“I’m going to touch your hands, Dazai. This is Chuuya—you’re safe. I promise.”
--
Pain. It was a sharp pain at first. A sharp pain that dulled, quickly becoming a familiar thrum. The good kind of pain. The kind that reminded him he was alive, reminded him that being “alive” meant existing as a vessel, reminded him that personalities and emotions were merely shams, façades that proved the soul is a convenient hypothesis with little weight. Concepts like this, souls and personalities, emotions and morals, all were unstable theorems. Reactions, pain and pleasure, those were fact.
So Dazai continued moving his fingers, eliciting more of that elusive experience classified as pain.
Chuuya gently reached out to pull Dazai’s prying fingers away from bloody bandages. Upon skin-to-skin contact, the panicking boy froze immediately, in the worst of ways.
Dazai resisted. Sounds emitted from the dark-haired boy that were uncommon at best, inhuman at worst.
The sensation morphed from sharp and comforting to hot, familiar, and invasive.
What was happening?
His only form of grounding, toxic or not, was being ripped out from his grasp. The one thing he could control in this manic state was no longer within reach.
“Stop!” He screamed, spiraling as control slipped from beneath his fingers. Nothing his brain commanded was received by the rest of his body. The shaking and trembling, screaming and hyperventilating, his reactive instincts took over.
More voices surrounded him, but the ability to put voice to face to name was beyond his current state. Their words were jumbled, nonsensical.
“Medical…”
“He needs…”
“…What happened?”
“panicked”
“he can’t…I tried…”
Fragments of their conversations danced cruelly in his brain.
His genius mind heard every snippet of each conversation, but even his keen observations couldn’t penetrate the haze around his thoughts, the fog formed by fear, trauma, and a series of unidentified feelings.
“STOP!” He screamed once more, before chanting the word over and over under his breath, as if a mantra. “Stop, stop stop stop stop stop stopstopstopstop—”
--
His voice was flat, listless; that was the first thing Atsushi noticed when he came to check on his mentor.
Atsushi’s incredible sense of smell meant he could physically smell the emotions of those around him, one of the few exceptions being the emotions of Dazai. Ever since Atsushi learned about this facet of his ability, he was baffled by his inability to smell anything other than indifference on his mentor. At first he considered it might be a side effect of No Longer Human, since abilities couldn’t touch the man. But after developing a better understanding of the limitations surrounding Dazai’s ability and his overall personality, Atsushi realized the block he experienced was a direct result of the massive walls Dazai constantly hid behind.
So when Atsushi smelled an unfamiliar scent, he knew something was very wrong.
This is what Dazai-san smells like? Atsushi thought to himself. He shriveled at the thought, the scent that permeated reeked of death and decay. A scent so foul, that Atsushi refused to believe it belonged to Dazai. Whether or not his blood was stained mafia black, there was goodness in the man’s heart, and nothing could prove to Atsushi otherwise.
His epiphany was a catalyst. Tiger-like reflexes kicked in as Atsushi dropped everything and ran to the conference room, which was luckily unlocked.
There was blood. Not a lot, but enough. It stained previously pristine bandages, trickling past their torn ends, decorating icy, pale hands.
Whimpering. A body huddled under the massive wooden table, quaking and distressed.
Chuuya’s overbearingly angry presence was astoundingly calm. Soft. The executive held Dazai’s fingers in his own, despite the younger’s physical attempts at protest.
The sound of Atsushi’s entrance, despite a quiet one, was startling. Chuuya’s head whipped around, eyes wide with spite. Dazai pulled his legs closer to his chest, covering his ears and shutting his eyes. Chuuya’s grip remained, involuntarily cupping Dazai’s ears in sync.
“What the hell are you doing?” Chuuya asked, forcing the bitterness out of his voice as much as physically possible, opting for a tone of confusion.
“What did you do to him!?” Atsushi snapped, filled with every flavor of fury.
Chuuya released a deep exhale. Fighting in front of Dazai would only make things worse, but he couldn’t exactly leave his old partner alone and take a quick detour to scold his dumbass apprentice.
“It’s none of your business,” Chuuya managed a mildly hostile sneer through grit teeth. Sensing the shift, Atsushi recognized the cue and instantly lowered his voice, mimicking Chuuya’s.
“It is my business, Chuuya-san,” Atsushi replied, “Dazai-san is family to me. To all of us. What is going on?” Chuuya would be lying if he said he wasn’t somewhat impressed with Atsushi’s sudden display of maturity. The kid was blooming with empathy, bursting at the seams.
“Kid, he’s having a panic attack. I’ve seen this before and I have it under control—” as Chuuya was about to finish verbally kicking Atsushi out of the way, Dazai grew eerily quiet. Amber eyes widened for a split second before going deadpan. His mouth formed a thin, emotionless line.
“Dazai-san?” Atsushi asked, hoping to get any sign of sentience from his mentor. Though his attempts were in vain, as Dazai’s eyes were hazy, blank. Empty.
“Hey, shitty-Dazai, what’s going on in that genius brain of yours?” Chuuya attempted to keep his tone casual, hoping the familiar sounds would pull him back to earth.
It didn’t quite work, but Dazai did look up, maintaining eye contact with Chuuya’s endlessly blue eyes.
Chuuya held the contact as he whispered gently, “It’s just me, shitty-Dazai. Your slug.” Atsushi nearly doubled over at Chuuya’s comment but had the decency to keep his utter shock to himself. Chuuya hated referring to himself as belonging to Dazai. He especially despised calling himself by one of Dazai’s prized nicknames, but desperate times and all that took precedence.
The embarrassment proved worth it as a flicker of recognition decorated Dazai’s dark gaze. The younger man looked so small, crouched in on himself, typical bravado entirely erased. Pale lips opened as if to speak, only to close seconds later.
Chuuya took the attempt to speak as a positive sign, continuing to whisper as gently as his rough exterior would allow.
"You’re at work right now. At the stupid detective agency,” Atsushi bristled, but stayed quiet so Chuuya could continue, “He’s not here. Mori can’t hurt you.”
Dazai’s eyes flew wide open as he averted his gaze to scratched up hands.
“Chuuya?”
The voice was painfully soft, possessing the quietness of a child. Chuuya blinked, surprised and thankful for Dazai’s attempts to communicate.
“I’m here,” he replied, mimicking Dazai’s tone in hopes of appearing less threatening.
“I—”
There was a knock at the door. Not quite soft enough to really be considered a knock, more like a banging sound.
“Oh my God,” Dazai’s voice deepened, returning to a normal tone as the sound brought him back to reality.
To the grim reality of everything that just happened.
Everything that was beyond his control.
Everything two living human beings witnessed without his choice.
Without his consent.
Dazai’s fists curled into themselves.
Panic defiled consent, but he knew it was of no fault to Chuuya and Atsushi.
“Shit!” Chuuya cursed loudly, knowing full well what was about to happen.
“Dazai, you lazy-ass, your time is up!” Kunikida shouted on the other side of the door.
How long had it been?
“Uh, Kunikida-san, Dazai just needs a min—” Atsushi began.
“Kuni-chan! I knew you would miss me!” Dazai trilled, tone entirely misaligned with his dead expression.
Atsushi did a double-take.
“Dazai-san, it’s ok—” Atsushi said quietly, once again cut off.
“You lazy waste of bandages, open the damn door and get back out here before I break it down!”
Chuuya mentally thanked Atsushi for locking the door after coming in, as opposed to his own earlier mistake.
“But Kuni-chan~” Dazai whined, face mostly blank with the ghost of a fake smile, “Chu-chu and I were about to make loooooove!”
“Jesus Christ, Dazai!” Chuuya yelled, groaning in annoyance. He knew the game Dazai was playing and despised it.
“You’re disgusting!” Kunikida shouted in response, “And you’re wasting precious time! If you don’t get your ass out here in exactly 2 minutes and 33 seconds, I swear to God I’ll kill you.”
Dazai’s eyes lit up with a glimmer of what one could call hope.
“Really Kunikida-kun, you would do that for little ‘ol me!?! How kind of you!!” Dazai cooed, tone so cheery, it approached believability.
“Why do I even try?” Kunikida complained as he stomped off in frustration. As soon as his steps faded to the distance Atsushi turned back to Dazai, eyes brimming with concern.
“Dazai-san, are you ok?” Atsushi asked innocently. Dazai stood up and stretched, smiley demeanor back as though it never left.
“Of course Atsushi-kun! Anytime Chuuya-kun pays me a visit I can’t help but feel wonderful!!”
Atsushi eyed Chuuya, a concerned glint shared between the two. Chuuya shrugged, a miniscule gesture that, while noticed by Dazai, was small enough to be ignored.
“Dazai-san…it’s ok if you’re not… ok. You don’t have to pretend like everything is fine.” Dazai turned to look out the window, his eyes far, far away from the ADA
“You worry too much, Atsushi-kun,” he replied quietly, “now, I should probably get back to work. Or bothering Kunikida-kun. Or both!”
“Mackerel, can we talk about this—” Chuuya started, agitation rising.
“You got your answer, didn’t you?” Dazai responded with a dark smile that had no business living on the face of a 22-year-old. His voice was low, a threatening undertone tucked behind his words.
With that, Dazai turned and walked out of the room, leaving Atsushi astonished and Chuuya pissed. The younger boy turned to Chuuya, bright eyes wide with confusion.
“Chuuya-san, what was that abo—” Atsushi began, quickly cut off by a glower.
“You don’t speak of this to anyone,” Chuuya snapped, darkness rivaling Dazai’s.
“But, what if he’s not ok?” Atsushi asked, voice going up in pitch as his calm exterior began to fade.
“This is Dazai,” Chuuya muttered, fixing his hat and moving towards the door, “he’s never been ok.”
He left.
Atsushi stood alone in the room, feeling so much.
Confused. Angry. Hurt.
Anxious.
Hurt.
Anxious.
Atsushi was very anxious.
He bit his lip hard, a bad habit he had picked up recently. Inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, he knew he had to talk to Dazai.
As he approached the exit of the conference room, he was interrupted by a small voice.
“Is Dazai-san ok?” Kyouka asked. Atsushi grimaced, unsure of how to reply. Chuuya’s words lingered in his mind. He had no interest in exposing Dazai’s personal business, but on the other hand he really didn’t like the idea of lying to Kyouka, someone who trusted him with her life and vice versa.
“It’s… I don’t know. I don’t think so,” Atsushi mumbled. Kyouka tilted her head, perplexed.
“It was about the mafia, wasn’t it?” She asked, voice as deadpan as Dazai’s. Atsushi nodded, looking at the scuffed shoes upon his feet.
“Yes.”
It was quiet as Kyouka nodded in understanding. She didn’t press further, just took Atsushi by the wrist and led him to the door.
“Where are we going?”
“To get ice cream.”
Atsushi stopped and stared in bewilderment.
“What? No, I have to talk to Dazai-san and make sure he’s alright! I can’t just go and—” Kyouka narrowed her eyes, pondering.
“Ok. We’ll get Dazai-san ice cream too,” she stated, as if this was the only logical conclusion in the entire universe of possible conclusions.
Because, of course it was.
Atsushi hung his head in defeat. His voice was weak, bordering comical.
“Alright, you win. Let’s go… get ice cream…?”
Kyouka nodded, expressionless but clearly excited in her body language.
Dazai was in the bathroom.
He’s been in the bathroom.
The lights are off.
They’ve been off.
He never turned them on.
It’s been minutes that were hours and hours that were seconds and seconds that were Hell incarnate.
He remained skillfully still, as though any physical motion was a threat to his composure.
Perhaps it was.
The voices and sentences he could hear outside and down the hall were disregarded, despite his ability to process each and every conversation.
Dazai stayed in the dark, not a lick of interest in the lure of incandescent lights.
The two young agency members strolled casually into the office, returning from their lunch break, ice cream in hand. Kyouka licked her strawberry one while Atsushi held both a vanilla and chocolate cone that were on the verge of melting.
“You’re 3 minutes and 42 seconds late,” Kunikida chastised, not bothering to look up from his work.
“I’m sorry Kunikida-san, we were getting ice cream,” Atsushi apologized sheepishly.
“Hmph,” Kunikida grunted, “where is that waste of bandages? He disappeared nearly an hour ago when Nakahara left and conveniently left all his work behind.”
Atsushi eyed the room with a nervous gaze.
“I’m looking for him too actually.”
“We have his ice cream,” Kyouka chimed.
“How rude! To purchase sweets without bringing one for the world’s greatest detective?!” A voice called out, startling Atsushi to the point of almost dropping the ice creams. Almost.
“I’m sorry Ranpo-san,” Atsushi apologized, “we were looking for—”
“He’s not going to eat it,” Ranpo said with a shrug as if Dazai, of all people, was the easiest math problem of all time.
“What do you mean?” Atsushi asked, concern gnawing back into his voice.
“Exactly what I said,” Ranpo said with a bored sigh, “honestly your efforts are probably wasted at this point and if you don’t want to waste food too you should give that ice cream to someone who will actually enjoy it. Like me!” Atsushi sighed, Kunikida remained stoic and invested in his work, and Kyouka looked directly at Ranpo.
“It’s for Dazai-san,” she replied.
At that time, Dazai strolled up. He looked exactly the same as always, any remnants of his panic lost in the ether that were endless black eyes.
“What’s for me?” He chirped.
“Oh, Dazai-san! Can we uh—Can we ta—”
“We brought you ice cream,” Kyouka said, cutting Atsushi off without a second thought. She grabbed a cone from his hand and held it out to Dazai. A baffled expression crossed Dazai’s face before he chuckled at the offering.
“That was very sweet of you, thank you Kyouka-chan, Atsushi-kun,” Dazai smiled, though his hand wavered, not quite accepting the gift, “but I just had lunch and I’m not very hungry.”
Ranpo eyed Atsushi with a criticizing glare, “Told ya so.”
“Are you sure, Dazai-san?” Atsushi prodded gently, “We got chocolate and vanilla because we didn’t know which you would want. You don’t have to eat the whole thing but I’d rather it not melt…”
Dazai sighed and looked away, uncharacteristically somber, “Sorry Atsushi-kun. You should give it to Ranpo-san or Kunikida-kun.”
“Please!”
Atsushi yelled, shocking himself and everyone around.
This was never about ice cream.
“I appreciate the gesture Atsushi, it’s very sweet,” Dazai replied, refusing eye contact, “I should really get back to work before Kunikida has heart palpitations.”
--
Hurt.
Atsushi was hurt that Dazai didn’t—wouldn’t trust him. Couldn’t.
Dazai had seen him at his worst after all, starving on the streets without a roof over his head. Crying unshed tears at the death of his headmaster. Through the mental breakdown that ensued following Q’s attack. Dazai had been there for him through it all—why was it so hard to let his student reciprocate? Why did he deny Atsushi even the smallest pieces of personal information, trivial things like his favorite ice cream flavor or if he even liked ice cream?
It was too much.
--
“Why don’t you trust me!?” Atsushi yelled, tears forming in the corner of his eyes. “You’ve been here for me since the day you met me—why won’t you let me be there for you!?” His voice was shaky though his conviction refused to back down.
The office had grown quiet as discomfort ensued.
Whether or not they tried to hide it, all eyes were on the two. Atsushi holding the rejected melting ice cream cone and eyes of tears, and Dazai with his stone-cold expression, one he wore less frequently since his mafia days. The unwanted attention made his mouth tense and chest tighten. Dazai liked being the clown, but had no interest in being the center of attention outside of his protective jest.
“Please, Dazai-san, talk to me,” Atsushi begged. Dazai remained frigid, his entire body unmoving.
“I have to go, Atsushi-kun,” Dazai reached out, grabbing the half-melted vanilla ice cream cone from his hand, “thank you for the ice cream.”
For the second time in the day, Dazai walked out on his student.
This time, Atsushi followed. Leaving his chocolate ice cream to Kyouka, he bowed his head in an apology to the room and darted out.
The rest of the agency remained tense even as the source of said tension had left the room. Kyouka looked down at the rest of her strawberry ice cream and the melting chocolate one, then looked back at Ranpo.
“You can have it, Ranpo-san,” Kyouka said, offering the chocolate cone to the enthusiastic recipient.
“At least someone here has a brain!” Ranpo cheered, taking the ice cream greedily, “I don’t work for free after all.”
Only a few blocks.
He just had to make it to the dorms.
The walk he knew so well, he could do it in his sleep.
But why was it so hard?
Barely down the flight of agency steps, and he could feel his gangly legs giving in.
No.
No, he couldn’t. Not here.
Not so close to everyone. He had to push through it.
Vanilla trickled down, seeping into bloody bandages. A color that was almost pink. He ignored it.
His legs moved as fast as he could force them, ignoring the light-headedness washing over.
He exited the building, running down the back passageways only known to the creatures of the night that lurked in the mafia.
There was an alleyway.
That’s where he ended up before collapsing.
Did his legs give out or was the ground simply yanked from beneath him?
He didn’t know. Didn’t care enough to care.
Everything hurt. Everything felt wrong.
Why was he like this?
Atsushi ran, following the extraordinarily faint, lingering scent of Dazai’s leftover anxiety. It was surprising how quickly, and easily, Dazai evaded his student. Atsushi may reside on the ADA’s offensive team, but Dazai had a lifetime of mafia training on his side.
Within a few minutes though, the scent grew stronger, stagnating. Atsushi sprinted, nearly missing a narrow alleyway, shrouded in musty buildings, littered with trash. A white and tan figure stood out, balled in a corner. The figure had his head between his knees, pulled up to his chest. A glimmer of hope sounded in the boy’s thoughts as he noticed a white, piece of food in firmly held in Dazai’s hand.
A melted ice cream cone..
“Dazai-san,” Atsushi said in a voice so assertive, one would doubt it’s owner. The huddled figure chuckled, a sound that artfully encompassed intimidation and despondence in lieu of sadness.
“Atsushi-kun,” his voice, though weak, sounded so like his normal self that Atsushi couldn’t help but startle, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Despite the predominantly cheery tone, the dark-haired man refused to oblige Atsushi’s attempts at eye contact. Had they been on the phone or talking in different rooms, Atsushi would never have been able to tell Dazai was anything other than his perfectly normal self.
The epiphany scared him shitless.
“Stop it,” Atsushi said, aggressively sincere in his approach, “stop pretending like everything is fine, it’s ok if it’s not.”
Dazai’s plaster smile remained, growing even wider as they spoke.
“Oh Atsushi-kun,” he muttered, shaking his head. Atsushi expected Dazai to deflect, throw another unnecessary joke into the space between them. He did not expect the murderous glare that was shot his way.
“I’m trying to keep it together.”
I need to keep it together.
The venom accompanying his words struck Atsushi hard, eliciting a new fashion of hurt the boy had yet to properly experience.
Not understanding why, Atsushi felt like a chastised child all over again. As if he did something wrong by being there for his friend.
It hurt more than he cared to admit.
A special kind of hurt that could only be triggered by Osamu Dazai.
Then, there was a shift. A slight adjustment in posture, breathing, and tone. Dark eyes glued to the grimy concrete below, his voice cracked ever so slightly, “Let me have this.” The tension in his face morphed into a sick shade of defeat, betraying his stand-offish mask and myriad of walls.
Atsushi took the cue, surpassing his own trauma response. Instead of fighting, the younger boy took a seat next to his mentor. He took the ice cream cone out of Dazai’s shaking hand and looked at it with an intensity that no ice cream cone should typically warrant.
“Why didn’t you throw it out?” Atsushi wondered aloud. Dazai shrugged.
He paused, mind whirred with all the things he should say and how he should behave when someone showed him kindness.
In the mafia, the only people capable of such things were Odasaku and Chuuya.
At the ADA, kindness came in abundance.
It had been four years and Dazai still wasn’t use to it. He wondered if he’d ever be.
A lackluster, “I didn’t want to waste it,” was all he could muster.
How unusual it was, he had spent four years in the mafia and four years out of it, two of which include his time with the ADA. And yet, it felt an impossible task to rewire his brain to accept the gifts one could only receive in the light.
Though, he was just a child back then. An abused and exploited—
No.
No, he wasn’t a child. He was a demon.
The mafia’s very own Demon Prodigy.
Who was he, to excuse his actions out of claim of humanity?
“You shouldn’t think so hard about everything,” Atsushi said, pulling Dazai out of the dark hole that lived eternally in his mind.
“As wise as ever, aren’t you Atsushi-kun?” Dazai hummed in response. It was unusual, hearing his own lines used against him.
“You don’t…” Atsushi spoke with careful vigor, “you don’t need to talk about whatever upset you. But I don’t…” he trailed off, searching for the right way to explain the feelings that welled deep within.
“I don’t want you to feel so alone. Because you’re not! You have me, and Kunikida-san, and everyone else at the agency. We all really care about you.”
Dazai couldn’t keep down the doubtful scoff that crept into his throat, “Sure.”
“Stop that!” Atsushi scolded.
“Stop what? I know that Atsushi-kun cares about me, but the others? I’m too intelligent for false hope. My sense of self won’t be diluted into disillusion.”
“Your friends are not a disillusion! We care about you and you’re just going to have to deal with it!” Atsushi’s voice rose in pitch, mimicking his internal desperation. He admired his mentor in so many ways, even doubting that the man could ever fail at anything in his life—save for suicide.
But even a perfectionist prodigy lacked. Struggled. Lost.
Dazai rested his cheek on his knee, daring to look into the shimmery sight of Atsushi’s eyes. Golden hour was approaching and the bright flecks that entered his irises were so unlike the mundane, the man couldn’t help but feel a pang of appreciation.
Frustrated, confused, and skeptical, Dazai couldn’t process how his pupil managed to care so much for the most vile of demons.
“You don’t have to do this, you know?” Dazai muttered casually, “Tomorrow’s going to come and we both know this will never be spoken of ever again.”
Atsushi shrugged as he responded, “Okay. But don’t you think—if it’s not going to be spoken of ever again, wouldn’t it make sense to let it out? Get things off your chest knowing that even if I tried to bring it up, you could—would—just deny it?”
Dazai grimaced, then smiled.
“You’re a great student, Atsushi.”
The next day came.
Dazai didn’t sleep, but no one at the Agency had to know.
Chuuya stayed with him, despite an onslaught of protests, hurtful words, and a forgotten Parisian trip.
Dazai was secretly thankful, but Chuuya didn’t need to know.
Atsushi and Kyouka brought him breakfast.
He smiled, but didn’t eat it.
Atsushi looked at him with knowing eyes.
What lay beneath them, nobody but him and Dazai needed to know.