Chapter Text
It has been fifty-three days since Osamu Dazai last tasted real meat.
It has been fifty-three days since Dazai felt the fresh taste of goodness on his tongue.
It has been fifty-three days since he felt that euphoria of his canines breaking down mouthwatering sustenance.
Fifty-three days of starvation.
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦
Osamu Dazai never had much of an appetite.
Ever since he was a child, he'd turned down meal after meal after meal. Breakfast, lunch, dinner - it didn't matter. He wasn't hungry. Dazai was never satisfied. Never. Not with fruits or vegetables, not with beef or pork, not with rice or pasta. He didn't understand how people could eat things like that and feel satisfied. Not when he couldn't stomach a single bite of rice. Sometimes he could go for crab. Dazai could always go for crab, however useless it was to his wants.
Because there was something else his stomach desired.
Some may call it disgusting. Most people would. Dazai knows his coworkers would writhe in disgust if they knew. He knows his estranged parents would vomit onto the floor at the mere mention of it. He knows that, if everyone knew, strangers would keep their distance; run in terror, maybe.
At some point the thought was amusing.
Now? Not so much. Not so much when it's been fifty-three days and his mouth waters the second his brain supplies images of what he craves.
And, god, does he crave it.
But right now? Right now, Dazai is laying on his unmade futon in his ADA apartment with the lights off. It's midday, and he knows it. Kunikida has called his phone several times, and each time he lets it ring, lets angry-worried voicemails flood his ears, and every time, his mind wanders as the repetitive melody fills the dank silence of his flat. He thinks about normal stuff. Suicide. Nooses and guns and his past mistakes. And fresh meat.
God, he's hungry.
Dazai should get up. Stretch. Try to eat breakfast, even though he knows full well it won't satisfy his hunger. He should change his bandages and put on his work clothes. He should brush his teeth and avoid every single thought of consuming pure delicious goodness. He should go to work. Solve some cases. Annoy Kunikida.
He shouldn't be moping in his bed, starving and malnourished, thinking about things that'll get him worked up.
Dazai groans, rubbing his eyes with pale hands. It's been a while since Kunikida last called, which either means the tall blonde has given up, or presumed Dazai dead after a successful attempt on his life. And if he assumed the latter, there'd be a member of the detective agency at his door soon enough. As pathetic as Dazai was, he didn't need anyone seeing him like this.
He eventually gets up, shuffling from his bed to the bathroom. He flicks on the light, immediately regretting it as the bright white blinds him momentarily, a migraine forming. Dazai leans on the bathroom counter for support as he fumbles for his toothbrush. He grabs hold of it, finally, and squirts toothpaste onto it. He runs the toothbrush under flowing tap water, only to realise he forgot to pay his water bill yet again. Three drops of water land on his toothbrush. Dazai sighs heavily. He twists the tap back to its original place, and starts brushing his teeth anyway.
Dazai's tired gaze drifts from object to object: a razor; the shower curtains; the bandages laying haphazardly on the counter before him, messy and a little stained. Still clean. They hadn't been worn yet. Finally, Dazai's eyes land on the mirror. He looks like absolute shit. Sickly pale skin, deep eyebags, a skinny frame, and prominent cheekbones. He can't show up to work like this. Internally groaning, Dazai spits out his toothpaste and puts his toothbrush back in its holder before crouching down and retrieving a bag hidden under the counter. It's not dusty, with how frequently he uses it.
He straightens his legs and drops the bag onto the counter. It's a makeup bag. He started using makeup when he was nineteen, bored and locked up in a safe house with nothing to do. It was fun at the time, but now, all he uses his skills to cover eyebags and make his cheeks look fuller. Because he doesn't want anyone to ask why he looks so tired. Why he looks so starved of food. Food. Jesus…
Dazai finishes up in the bathroom soon enough. He doesn't bother showering or changing his bandages: he did both of those not too long ago, anyway. He changes into his work clothes and attempts to look like a normal human being, not a gluttonous monster that was drooling at the mouth for a little taste of meat. Dazai thinks he passes off well enough. No one has dared to mention it in his twenty two years of living, if he doesn't.
He eats a simple breakfast consisting of absolutely no nutrients and a bit of whiskey, just to get his head in the game. He grabs his probably-dead phone and makes his way to the door, grabbing his tan coat from the coat rack in the entryway. He twists the doorknob. There's a loud knocking at his door that second, only for his door to swing open a second too early to reveal a worried Atsushi, hand still raised and in a fist.
“Nice to see you, Astushi-kun.” Dazai quips. His voice is still raspy, damn him. Dazai looks at the meal before him. Atsushi's eyes are wide and worried- it's obvious he didn't expect Dazai to answer the door (so early, might he add); his clothes and white hair ruffled; and a little bit of sweat building by his eyebrow. He had rushed here, probably scared and concerned due to Dazai's tendencies.
“...Nice to see you, too, Dazai-san.” The white-haired boy answers. His tone is worried and relieved and questionative all at once.
“What brings you to my doorstep?" Dazai slinks outside and into the hallway, closing the door behind him and the smell of fresh air hits him. It wasn't exactly refreshing, but it was better than the mildew smell of his apartment.
“Kunikida-san was distressed,” Atsushi explains, “because you didn't show up at the time you usually do. And you didn't answer any of our calls. He sent me to check up on you.”
Dazai shrugs, his casual smile natural to the untrained eye. “What can I say, Atsushi? I'm a man of mystery. Gotta keep everyone on their toes, no?”
Atsushi brings a hand to his shirt, unconsciously fiddling with his black tie. Dazai's eyes follow his hand, a simple curiosity coming over him. “Still, Dazai-san… we were worried. With your tendencies and all…” There's a yellowish-purple colour blooming by Atsushi's thumb, stark against his skin.
“Ah, Atsushi-kun, there's no reason to fret. You people will get gray hairs before thirty.” Dazai jokes, bringing his eyes away from the younger's hand.
“Come,” Dazai continues. He slings an arm around the others’ shoulder. It makes Atsushi jump and invades Dazai's nostrils with an appetising aroma. “Let's go to work, then!!”
Alas, he doesn't like bruised meat.
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦
“Kunikida-kunnnnnnnnnnnn, no…” Dazai moans in anguish. He lays stomach down on the sofa, head titled and cheeks squished. Kunikida stands before him, tapping his foot on the ground restlessly, Dazai's headphones in his hand. Dazai reaches out for the device with a lazy, bandaged hand, but his arm easily flops down onto the sofa again.
“Dazai, I swear to all the gods up there, if you don't get up right this instant-!” Kunikida's brows furrow as he speaks.
“Don't wanna…” Dazai groans, burrowing his face into the cushioning.
Dazai can feel Kunikida's glare burning into his skull. The feeling was familiar, for many reasons. One, because the blonde always ended up glaring at Dazai like he owed him money; two, because it reminded him of a certain redhead; and three, because that was the way he, too, looked at certain people. Food, too. Dazai's stomach growls.
“I'm hungry, Kunikidaaaaaaa…” He complains, flipping onto his back to give puppy-dog eyes to Kunikida. “Feed me first…”
The taller sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I swear, you're like a child.”
Kunikida was right. Dazai did feel as if he brought out too much of his careless, silly persona in the Armed Detective Agency. It's tiring to do, but it made his coworkers question him less.
“You're behind on paperwork-”
“I'm always behind on paperwork!”
“-and I don't have enough patience to deal with you. But you're getting it all done by the end of the day.” Kunikida says.
“Eh? Kunikida, Mr. Stickler-for-rules, letting I, Osamu Dazai, rest?” He inquires. “Hm. Getting it done by today…”
“Don't even think about giving your paperwork to Atsushi.” Kunikida warns.
“Who said I was thinking about that~?” Dazai teases. He wasn't, for once. He was thinking about what to eat tonight. How to acquire said food. How appetising the meal before him looks. Dazai licked his lips, suddenly noticing their dryness. “I'd never in my life!!”
Dazai's headphones hit him square in the nose.
Later in the day, after much lousing around and actually getting through a stack of paperwork without gnawing on his hand, he's called to Yosano's office. Why? Probably just some random checkup he forgot. Or…
“Osamu, you can always talk to me.” It's this damned talk again. “Not just as your doctor, but as a friend. I need to see what's under all that gauze soon enough, you know. You can't run from that.”
“Mm-hm,” Dazai knows this conversation by heart. Over the past two years of him working at the ADA, he's gotten used to it. He knows he should let up and show Yosano, but he doesn't exactly desire the reaction he knows would come. Dazai showed someone once. They didn't react well. And then there was Mori, who'd seen every inch of injured skin on his body. Mori might've been concerned then, but it was shadowed by how much of a monster he then knew Dazai was. “I'm sure of that, but, Yosano-sensei…”
“Akiko is fine, Osamu.” She interrupts.
“I know that,” Dazai frowns. “Anyway. Yosano, you're like a sister to me - a really, really annoyingly persistent sister. So I'd like to do what I did with my biological siblings, and impolitely deny your request.”
Yosano scoffs. She, too, must've heard this a thousand times by now. Dazai says it a lot. “Sure.”
“Now, if you don't mind, I have many things to do. Paperwork, helping our dear Kunikida-kun, paying my water bill…”
Yosano doesn't look amused. “You're not running away from this, Osamu. I've let you off the hook for the last two years.”
Dazai groans, sinking into his seat - one of the medical beds. “And I'm sure you can do it one more time. Keep your two year streak going!!”
“That's not the point. What I'm saying is that you can't keep avoiding this. As your doctor, I need to know about any injuries and health issues.”
“I don't have any.”
“Then let me see what's under your bandages.”
“...”
“Osamu.” Yosano warns.
“Oh, would you look at the time! Don't wanna be staying overtime, do I?” Dazai stands up and hurries to the door, giving the agency's doctor a grin.
“Osamu Dazai, you get back here this instant!!”
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦
Osamu Dazai does not cut himself.
The gauze he wears is not to cover cuts or scars. It is not to act desperate and beg for attention. It is not to seem mysterious and alluring. It is to shield his skin from prying eyes. It's to protect everyone around him. It's to avoid the questions.
Dazai lay slumped against the counter in his bathroom, clad in nothing but gauze. A weak armour. He's known that all his life. His eyes trace the grout of the dirtied tiles, mind and body exhausted. He finds solace in it. Solace in the darkness and the cold tile pressed against skin. Solace in the pain of starvation. Solace in the way his mind aches with a dull discomfort.
His legs twinge, sore and angry, and he brings his knees to his chest. He was pathetic, hiding behind this white cloth. He's tired. Too tired to eat. Too tired to starve. Too tired to attempt. Dazai can push himself for another few days. He can't bear dying in such a slow, torturous way: a way that makes him want to rip his hair from his head and claw his insides out. He needs something. Sustenance. Dazai is hungry.
Sluggishly, his eyes travel across the floor and to his arms, sheathed in that dirtied white armour of his. His hand picks at a frayed end of the gauze, pulling at it. The bandages start to unravel. Layers and layers of cloth fall away. It creates a pool of soiled white at Dazai's feet.
Bare arms. No. His arms are damaged. Like a dog mutilated it. It was not a dog who did that. Not a dog that bites and tears at his flesh. Not a dog that savours the taste of Dazai's skin. Not a dog who waters at the mouth even now.
Dazai's index finger, slender and nimble, runs across the wounds. Every gash, every dip, every rough patch where skin yellowed and died, every mark and bite- old or new, is embraced by his fingertips. He presses hard on his wounds, feeling pain flood his nerves and a shudder run down his spine.
Dazai says he despises pain. But Osamu Dazai is a liar. And when he sinks his teeth into his own flesh, all does is savour the taste on his tongue. Because Dazai is hungry.
He always is.
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦
“I paid my water bill!!” Dazai exclaims.
“... That's all you did this weekend? No exciting excursions or anything like that?” Atsushi responds. The two of them sit at their desks on a cool Monday morning, work slow and uneventful. The day is rather tame. Like the calm before the storm.
“Well,” Dazai continues, “I did go to a bar on Saturday, I believe.”
“‘You believe’?” Atsushi questions. Dazai can sense the concern in his voice, just waiting to splurge out and surface.
“It was a fun night.” Dazai chirps. In reality, it most definitely wasn't. He had sought out a different pleasure, a different hunger, that night. Something to distract himself. But he had strayed from his purpose soon enough, the thought of alcohol, the bittersweet burn of it, too alluring to stay away. Dazai's still hungry. The people sitting with him…
“Can you two stop with the chatter and get to work?” Kunikida half-demands. His hands move at lightning speed on his laptop, replying to emails and doing whatever else the ex-maths teacher does. Dazai can't be bothered to learn.
“Understood, Kunikida-san.” Atsushi replies, right as Dazai says: “You got it, Mr. Boss Man!”
Kunikida gives him a glare.
Dazai grins.
Soon, however, the three of them fall into their usual rhythm, a cycle of offhand comments made by Dazai and the others reacting to it, until the group falls quiet as they work through papers and emails. The Armed Detective Agency is never silent. Yet, right now, this would be the closest one would ever get to tranquillity.
At 12 PM sharp, Kunikida halts his work to eat lunch. Atsushi, Kyoka, Ranpo, and the others soon follow. Most of them go down to Café Uzumaki, while the others wander off. Dazai stays in his seat. He's half-asleep and can't stomach the thought of eating normal food, so he simply tries to take a nap.
Of course, his thoughts wander. As they always do. He thinks about Kunikida - his ideals, his work, his face, his personality, the way he strived for perfection. He thinks of Atsushi. The way he talks, his smile, how he's stubborn and never gives up. And Yosano - annoyingly persistent, the sister he never had. They’re nothing like Dazai. Nothing like starving, pitiful Dazai. They can act normal, be normal, eat normal. And now, Dazai wonders what their appetites are like. If they get excited at the sight of dessert the way he does when he smells fresh meat. If they can't stomach the food they hate - if they couldn't stomach the foods Dazai hated. How would they react then? How would they react when they learned what a monstrous, gluttonous beast he truly was? Would they look at him in disgust? Fear? Or maybe…
“You should eat something.” Someone above him says. The tone is condescending, almost. This was not a suggestion. Who this voice belongs to is not a mystery.
“I stole some food off Atsushi earlier," Dazai grumbles. He doesn't open his eyes to look at the eldest detective; he doesn't lift his head from the desk. “I'll be fine.”
Ranpo exhales sharply. “You know that's not what I mean.”
At that, Dazai's right eye cracks open. He's always known that Ranpo knows. Ranpo just never did anything about it, from what he could tell. But now he was here. “Can't exactly do that right now.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Ranpo responds. “You're being put on a mission soon - 2 PM.”
“Okay?” Dazai frowns. After a few moments, he raises his head from the table and stretches a little, arms sore and body exhausted. He knew what Ranpo was getting at.
Ranpo looks unimpressed. Extremely so, as a frown tugs on his lips and his heterochromatic eyes narrow - like some disappointed mother. Dazai's well aware of that look. He's also aware of the way his stomach is begging for sustenance. And the Ranpo looks so…
“Stop staring at me like that.” The detective crosses his arms.
“Like what?”
“Like you're going to eat me.” Ranpo states. “It's weird.”
“Boo,” Dazai grumbles. His gaze flicks away from Ranpo. It lands on the window instead. Inviting. “You're no fun, Ranpo-san…”
“Sure,” The other huffs.
Dazai's eyes flit back to Ranpo. His frown deepens.
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦
The afternoon air is fresh against Dazai's skin. His hair whips and whirls, the thrill of the chase replenishing energy. He hasn't felt this rejuvenated in fifty-six days. Adrenaline courses through his body, and for a moment, he forgets all that is wrong.
“Keep up, Kunikida!!” Dazai shouts over his shoulder. “The guy's getting away!”
Dazai was ahead of Kunikida, not because of speed, but because of intelligence. He weaves through shortcuts and calculates routes, and soon enough, he's ahead of the many they're chasing. Waiting for the criminal and Kunikida to show. These two partners have done this dance quite a lot, when it comes down to tracking run-away delinquents. They're experienced. Perfect for the job.
Distant yells come from the nearest alleyway. He watches a man emerge, a triumphant grin on his face. In Dazai's eyes, this person isn't bad. Two murders and an unpredictable ability. A weak one, from what Dazai can assume, but an ability nonetheless. This person isn't bad. He's just made mistakes. Mistakes punishable for jail.
Or to become someone's next meal.
“You…” Dazai half-wheezes (no, he's not in shape; yes, the adrenaline faded). “Stop right there. By the… name of the law, or whatever.”
The criminal comes to a halt. Surprise is written all over his face. What a stupid guy…
“You heard him.” Kunikida emerges from the same alleyway, gun in hand. It's raised and pointed directly at the offender.
Said offender starts to plead and beg and comprise. He steps towards Kunikida, movements slow and almost unnoticeable. Dazai notices, of course. Notices how the man stiffens ever so slightly, ready to make a move. His ability must not be an offensive one. Dazai does not move: Kunikida has to see through the criminal. The criminal spouting bullshit to try and distract them.
Yet the man does not pay attention to Dazai. A stupid move. Dazai watches as the offender reaches into his pocket, sees how the man's muscles flex and move under his skin. Dazai wonders what it would feel if he bit into the person's skin. Still, Dazai sees the man pull out his own gun - simple and compact. Dazai watches as the man's grip tightens around the trigger finger.
It's only then, when his partner is threatened, when Dazai slinks behind the criminal. His mood is dampened. He's disappointed in this person's abilities. Disheartened by the fact the criminal doesn't notice Dazai's skinny, bandaged arms until his hand is around the man's weapon and he elbows him in the stomach. Dissatisfied when the man's grip loosens around his gun, dropping it into Dazai's slender hands.
Dazai's arm moves on its own, and suddenly the shell of the gun is pointed at the back of the offender's head.
“Don't worry, Kunikida-kun!!” Dazai pats his coworkers' shoulder. This cheerful act makes him wants to claw his own insides out. Especially when his meal is right there… “I'll clean up! Make sure the body is sent to the, uh, wherever it's supposed to be.”
Kunikida does not look convinced. He wasn't exactly happy when he saw blood explode from the criminal's head. Maybe even traumatised after the brain splatter. And Dazai as the culprit. Dazai himself wasn't all too content. He didn't enjoy killing people, not in the slightest. He never did, and he wouldn't now. But Dazai had no choice earlier. “I appreciate you doing that on my behalf, Dazai, but are you sure you won't mess it up?” Dazai's partner asked.
“You dare doubt my skills?” Dazai gasps. His tone is less playful. Less vibrant. The smell of fresh meat so close, so alluring… “Kunikida-kun, you shan't!!”
Despite his actions, it's clear Kunikida picks up on at least some of his true feelings - whether it be from the way Dazai speaks or moves, he's not quite sure. Kunikida sighs. “Fine. I'm entrusting you with this job. Please,” Kunikida narrows his eyes. To mask the worry written clear over his face. “do not mess this one thing up.”
“You got it, Mr. Boss-man!!” Dazai even does a mock salute.
Soon, Kunikida has left the crime scene, off to fill a report of what had happened. Dazai is left alone. No-one in sight.
What transpires next is Dazai's business and Dazai's business alone.