Work Text:
The Armed Detective Agency was used to Dazai Osamu being strange.
They were used to the bandages, the lazy posture draped across office furniture like he had been poured there, the flippant smiles that masked something sharp and dangerous underneath. Dazai was a man who treated death like a punchline and pain like an old friend.
So at first, no one thought much of it.
At first.
It was Kunikida who noticed the change.
He noticed everything.
One rainy morning, Dazai strolled into the office ten minutes late, humming cheerfully, a paper bag of canned coffee swinging from his hand. He was wearing his usual beige trench coat—but something about it felt… deliberate. The cut was cleaner. The buttons were fastened properly. Underneath, instead of his usual loosened shirt and chaotic layers, there was a neat vest, a pressed collar, and a tie worn straight instead of half-tangled.
Kunikida’s pen paused mid-scratch.
“…Dazai,” he said slowly. “Why are you dressed like that.”
Dazai blinked. “Like what?”
“Like you own an iron.”
The office went quiet.
Dazai laughed, loud and careless. “Wow, Kunikida-kun, are you complimenting me? I didn’t know you had it in you.”
But Kunikida frowned.
Because Dazai hadn’t denied it.
It wasn’t just the clothes.
Over time, they noticed the way Dazai stood when he wasn’t pretending to slouch—relaxed, observant, quietly alert. They noticed how he chose the corner seats in cafés, how he positioned himself so he could see the door and the windows without looking like he was watching them.
They noticed the books.
Not philosophy. Not suicide manuals.
Novels.
Simple, unassuming paperbacks tucked into the inner pocket of his coat. Dazai never mentioned them unless asked, and even then, his answers were vague.
“A recommendation,” he’d say lightly. “From someone I respected.”
Someone.
Dead men, Kunikida thought grimly, tended to leave habits behind.
Atsushi was the first to say it out loud.
It happened during a late evening stakeout. The rain had soaked the city in silver, and Dazai stood beneath a streetlamp, coat collar turned up, hands tucked casually into his pockets.
Atsushi watched him from across the street.
“Dazai-san,” he said hesitantly, “you remind me of someone.”
Dazai turned, eyebrow arching. “Oh? A handsome and talented man, I hope.”
Atsushi swallowed. “No—I mean, yes—but… you feel like someone who’s already lived a long time. Like you’re carrying… someone else with you.”
For a moment, Dazai didn’t joke.
The streetlamp flickered.
“…That’s an odd thing to say,” Dazai replied softly.
Atsushi flushed. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” Dazai interrupted, smiling again. “You’re not wrong.”
He didn’t elaborate.
Later that night, Kunikida found Dazai on the Agency balcony, city lights sprawling beneath them. Dazai leaned against the railing, coat draped neatly around him, eyes distant.
“You left the Mafia,” Kunikida said, not accusing. Just stating fact. “But you brought something with you.”
Dazai chuckled softly. “Only bad habits.”
“No,” Kunikida replied. “You brought a standard.”
Dazai stiffened.
Kunikida continued, voice firm but careful. “You don’t dress like someone who wants to die anymore. You dress like someone who wanted to protect others.”
Dazai looked away.
The city blurred.
“He told me to save people,” Dazai said quietly. “To be on the side that does.”
His fingers tightened in his coat sleeve.
“So I suppose,” he added, almost inaudibly, “this is what survival looks like.”
Not freedom.
Not happiness.
But wearing the shape of the man who taught him how to live.
Kunikida said nothing.
Because some ghosts didn’t haunt you.
Some ghosts held you upright when you would otherwise fall apart.