Chapter Text
Atsushi turns the knob of the gachapon machine, tired eyes following the familiar clunk as another plastic capsule tumbles down the spiral chute and lands in the pickup slot below.
Crouched cross-legged on the floor between rows of brightly colored machines, he flips open the little door and lets the smooth capsule roll into his waiting palm. His thumb slips beneath the seam, popping the lid apart with practiced ease. He peers inside.
“Mmm not again…” he groans. A tiny yellow duck keychain stares back at him with its permanently cheerful face.
Atsushi pouts before snapping the capsule shut once more. He tosses it onto the growing pile beside him, where dozens of duplicate capsules rattle together in a mountain of transparent plastic. His other side is far more satisfying. New prizes lay scattered across the floor like little treasures: a fuzzy cat keychain with oddly coarse fur beneath his fingertips, a kabuki actor frozen mid-tennis swing, the Peanuts mascot surfing atop a tiny surfboard, a handful of anime characters whose names he has never bothered to learn, and a miniature keyboard that chirps out Für Elise whenever he presses one of its tiny keys.
He sighs through his nose, shoulders slumping as he hangs his head. Still, his hand finds his pocket on instinct.
Another coin, another turn.
Gachapon machines have been Atsushi's guilty pleasure ever since entering the Port Mafia at thirteen.
Some people unwind with cigarettes until their clothes permanently smell of smoke. Others drown themselves in liquor or gamble away enough money to lose homes they can never win back. Atsushi has seen executives and subordinates alike destroy themselves chasing distractions that only leave them emptier than before.
His vice is different.
After a day spent extorting money, threatening lives, washing blood from his hands, and drilling terrified recruits into competent killers, sitting on the floor surrounded by colorful machines feels...peaceful. It is probably an addiction by now, one he has quietly enabled by buying machine after machine until an entire storefront became necessary. Yet of all the terrible habits a Port Mafia executive could cultivate, this one doesn't leave him feeling like more of a monster than he already believes himself to be.
If anything, it reminds him that somewhere beneath all the violence, there is still a part of him capable of finding joy in something as small as a mystery capsule.
Even the tiger lurking in the back of his mind seems amused by it. The beast grows unusually quiet whenever Atsushi feeds another coin into a machine, content to wait and see what prize fate decides to offer. The guessing game apparently entertains her enough to leave him in peace, which has been a rare luxury as of late.
Another clunk echoes through the empty shop.
Atsushi retrieves the capsule and twists it open.
A pink frog keychain sparkles softly beneath the fluorescent lights. He turns the capsule in his hand, watching the glitter shimmer against the plastic.
It’s cute, but its another duplicate.
With another disappointed sigh, he places it atop the ever-growing pile before fishing yet another coin from his pocket.
The hesitant voice of a young lady cuts through the quiet hum of plastic and fluorescent lights.
"Hey, Atsushi-san?"
Atsushi pauses, another coin pinched between his fingers. He turns his head, his gaze drifting past the seemingly endless rows of brightly colored gachapon machines lining the walls before settling on Lucy Montgomery. The former Guild member stands near the front counter, hands clasped together in front of her as though unsure whether she'd interrupted something important.
Hiring Lucy had been one of the better decisions he'd made over the past few years.
She was resourceful, always keeping an eye out for newly released machines or older models she stumbled across while wandering the city. More than once she'd returned from an errand with a pamphlet or an online listing she'd insisted he didn't already own—and more often than not, she'd been right. She was dependable, kind, and more than capable of handling herself, something Atsushi appreciated. Strong enough that he never found himself worrying about whether she needed a place to stay alongside the job he'd offered.
When Mori had discovered he'd hired an ex-Guild member to run the front of his secret gachapon store, the boss had merely laughed beneath his breath. That quiet chuckle had been permission enough.
Atsushi hums, the sound low and tired as it scrapes against his throat. "Yes?"
Lucy wrings her wrists together before asking, "Um...you still want me to close the store at twelve tonight, right?"
Atsushi nods. The shop opens at ten every morning and closes at twelve every night. It had followed that schedule ever since he'd purchased the building under one of the Port Mafia's many cover companies, disguising it as an ordinary hobby shop while secretly housing his ever-growing collection.
"Yeah, I do. Why?" he asks, fishing another coin from his pocket. "Would you like to leave early?"
He wouldn't blame her if she did.
Lucy was still young. Full of energy, curiosity, and the sort of restless excitement that made evenings feel wasted if spent indoors. It was only natural someone her age would rather spend the night at restaurants, bars, or wandering Yokohama than standing behind the register while a twenty-two-year-old Mafia executive quietly obsessed over plastic capsules.
Instead, Lucy quickly shakes her head.
"Ah, no, that's not—" She cuts herself off, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her phone. The screen springs to life, bathing her face in pale blue light. After glancing down at it, she looks back toward Atsushi with visible hesitation. "It's...already 11:59."
Atsushi blinks. His eyes drift toward the clock hanging above the doorway.
Sure enough, it’s 11:59 pm.
"...Oh."
Heat creeps into his cheeks before he can stop it.
Had it really been four hours already?
He glances at the mountain of duplicate capsules beside him.
...Apparently it has…
Lucy is quick to jump in before the silence can become awkward.
"I mean—if you're not done with your machines, I could stay an extra ten minutes!" she blurts. "I don't mind! Besides, I've found a good story on my phone to read to help pass the time and—"
Atsushi is already shaking his head, one hand lifting in a dismissive wave as he turns back toward the machine.
"No, that's fine, Lucy," he sighs. The coin slides into the slot with a familiar metallic click. He wraps his fingers around the knob and turns.
Clunk.
"You can go ahead and start closing up. I'll lock up behind you."
The capsule rolls neatly into the pickup tray. Atsushi retrieves it, twists it open, and peers inside. A smiling dolphin with its eyes squeezed shut greets him from within the plastic shell.
Another duplicate.
With the weary resignation of someone who has experienced this disappointment hundreds of times before, he flicks the capsule onto the growing mountain beside him. It bounces once before settling against the duck and the glittery frog.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind waiting,” Lucy offers sweetly before, after a brief moment of hesitation, adding in a much quieter voice, “Then um…maybe afterwards we could go out and grab dinner? It—it can be my treat!”
The hopeful spark in her voice makes Atsushi cringe despite himself.
It’s too sweet, too earnest, too star-struck to make him feel anything but awful about himself. Lucy’s affections are...nice to receive after a day’s worth of hard work, but that’s all they are. Nice. Like listening to a child compliment the shoes Atsushi wears despite the dried blood covering the soles. Whether Lucy simply chooses not to think too hard about what kind of work allows him to own a place like this or genuinely believes he’s a better man than he is, Atsushi doesn’t know. He isn’t sure which possibility makes the guilt sitting in his chest heavier.
So, like he always does whenever Lucy accidentally lets her feelings peek through, Atsushi ducks his head and plays the oblivious card. It has worked every time before, gently redirecting her without forcing her to confront a rejection outright, and he hopes tonight will be no different.
“That’s...very sweet, Lucy, but I don’t want you to have to wait for me,” he explains, slipping another coin into the slot before wrapping his fingers around the knob and giving it another practiced turn. The mechanism clicks beneath his hand before another capsule disappears down the chute with a satisfying clunk. “The night is young, and a beautiful girl like yourself shouldn’t spend it wasting away behind a counter.” Atsushi pretends not to hear the sharp intake of breath behind him as he reaches into the pickup tray. “You just go through your usual routine and leave the keys to me.”
He twists the capsule apart and peers inside. Nestled within the clear plastic is a tiny shiba inu wearing an absurdly oversized purple top hat.
It's, unfortunately, yet another duplicate.
Letting out a quiet sigh through his nose, he flicks the capsule onto the steadily growing pile beside him.
Behind him, Lucy coughs awkwardly.
“Uhhh right! Okay…” She squeaks, sounding as though she’s trying very hard to pretend the last thirty seconds never happened. Atsushi simply hums in acknowledgment before feeding yet another coin into the machine. Soon enough, the familiar sounds of Lucy closing up the store begin filling the quiet shop.
Atsushi doesn't even notice when Lucy leaves.
At some point, the familiar sounds of the register closing, the lights near the storefront clicking off, and the lock turning in the front door all blend into the steady rhythm of coins and capsules until they become nothing more than background noise. His entire world narrows to the machine in front of him, to the smooth brass knob beneath his fingers and the quiet hope blooming in his chest every time another capsule disappears down the chute.
The capsule rolls into the pickup tray.
He opens it.
Another duplicate.
He sighs, tosses it onto the ever-growing mountain beside him, fishes another coin from his pocket, and tries again.
Clunk.
Another duplicate.
Again.
Clunk.
Another duplicate.
The tiger in the back of his mind gives an almost amused huff every time his luck fails him, as though finding entertainment in watching him stubbornly refuse to quit. Atsushi ignores her. There are only two keychains left in this series that he hasn't collected. Statistically speaking, one of them has to appear eventually.
By the time another ten duplicate capsules have joined the pile, the soft chime above the entrance rings once more.
For a brief moment, Atsushi assumes Lucy has forgotten something.
Without bothering to look up, he slips another coin into the machine.
Only when no familiar apology follows does he finally glance toward the entrance.
Standing in the doorway is Mori Ougai.
The darkness outside swallows half the older man's silhouette while the harsh fluorescent lights illuminate the other, carving sharp angles across his face. His black coat billows gently behind him as the night's breeze slips through the open doorway, dramatic enough that another person might have found the entrance intimidating.
A younger recruit probably would have.
Atsushi merely looks at him for a second before turning back toward the machine. The knob rotates beneath his hand.
Clunk.
Another capsule drops into the tray. He twists it open. A frog.
Again.
Without ceremony, he flicks it onto the duplicate pile just as Mori's footsteps begin echoing across the polished floor. They are unhurried and measured. Each one drawing closer until the older man's shadow stretches across Atsushi and the machines surrounding him.
Even then, Atsushi doesn't stop. He reaches for another coin.
The quiet rustle of expensive fabric reaches his ears, followed by the faint scrape of polished shoes against the floor. Curious despite himself, Atsushi finally turns his head.
Mori has seated himself cross-legged beside him. His attention isn't on Atsushi at all. Instead, the Port Mafia boss is leisurely sifting through the pile of newly acquired trinkets, lifting one keychain after another between elegant fingers as though browsing merchandise in an ordinary shop rather than sitting on the floor beside one of his executives after hours.
"That's quite a pile you've made," Mori muses to himself. Then his fingers pause. He plucks a tiny chocolate cake keychain from the collection, his violet eyes immediately brightening as a delighted smile spreads across his face. "Mind if I take this one? I think Elise will love it!"
Atsushi regards him with a perfectly flat look before turning back toward the machine, his hand already disappearing into his pocket in search of another coin.
Truthfully, he isn't surprised Mori is here.
The boss had been one of the first people to discover this little hobby years ago. Atsushi had expected ridicule—perhaps even an order to stop wasting his free time on something so childish—but Mori had merely laughed before remarking that the pastime suited him. Of all the addictions a Port Mafia executive could develop, capsule toys were, in Mori's opinion, among the healthiest. Since then, the older man had never mocked him for it.
Only three people outside the shop knew who truly owned this place: Mori, the president of the Armed Detective Agency, and the Agency's brilliant detective, Ranpo. Yet of the three, Mori was the only one Atsushi genuinely welcomed through its doors.
"That's not from the duplicate pile, so no," Atsushi replies simply.
For a normal subordinate, refusing the Port Mafia boss so bluntly would have been unthinkable.
Atsushi merely feeds another coin into the slot.
Beside him, Mori lets out an exaggerated, thoroughly childish whine.
“Awwww, c'mon, Atsushi! Her pretty blue eyes will light up! Her cheeks will go pink! And her smile will be so radiant…” Mori trails off dreamily, already picturing the scene in his head. Atsushi spares him a single, unimpressed glance before gesturing toward the mountain of duplicate capsules piled between them.
“There's a cherry cake keychain in the duplicate pile,” he says, returning his attention to the machine. “You can take that one.” It's the best compromise he's willing to offer. He doesn't mind people taking from the duplicates—they're duplicates for a reason—but if he wants any hope of completing the collections from certain series, he can't very well go around giving away the pieces he'd only managed to win once.
Mori's face immediately brightens. Without a shred of dignity befitting the Port Mafia boss, he crawls across the floor until he's sitting on Atsushi's opposite side, enthusiastically digging through the mountain of plastic capsules. They rattle noisily beneath his hands until he finally locates the one he wants. Popping it open with practiced ease, he lets out a loud gasp, eyes sparkling as he lifts the tiny cherry cake keychain into the fluorescent light.
“Ooooo, it's even cuter than the chocolate cake!” he exclaims, carefully slipping the prize into his coat pocket as though it were something priceless. Then, almost sheepishly, he looks back toward Atsushi. “Say, if you have any pastry keychains, can you save them for me—er, Elise?” he asks hopefully.
Atsushi can't help the small smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Sure.”
His attention returns to the machine as another coin disappears into the slot. His fingers curl around the knob, giving it another practiced turn before the familiar clunk echoes through the quiet shop. As the capsule rolls into the pickup tray, he finally decides to acknowledge the real reason Mori has come all the way here.
“…So?” he asks, lifting the capsule into his hand. “What do you want?” The question comes out blunter than he intends, but Mori doesn't seem remotely bothered by it.
“Ohhhh, nothing much, nothing much!” Mori replies with an airy wave of his hand. “I'm just here to pass on some news.”
Atsushi twists the capsule apart.
Another duplicate.
With a quiet sigh, he tosses it onto the pile beside Mori's crossed legs before raising an eyebrow at the older man. “Can it not wait until tomorrow?” he asks. When Mori merely smiles back at him, Atsushi tries again. “During a meeting, maybe?” Still nothing. “…Y'know, when we're at work?”
The laugh that escapes Mori a second later tells Atsushi he'd never been serious in the first place.
“I'm afraid not,” Mori says, amusement dancing in his violet eyes as he shakes his head. “It's very confidential.”
So it isn't actually nothing much.
Atsushi exhales slowly through his nose before shifting his body away from the machine entirely. Coins remain forgotten in his pocket as he turns to face Mori fully, his earlier irritation giving way to reluctant attention.
“Alright…?”
For a long moment, Mori simply watches him with a smile that Atsushi has learned never bodes well. It is the sort of expression the boss wears moments before revealing a carefully planned operation—or dropping a problem directly into someone else's lap.
Then Mori opens his mouth.
“Dazai is going to start courting you tomorrow.”
Everything inside Atsushi stills.
His eyes widen.
His throat abruptly goes dry.
His fingers twitch uselessly against his knees while, somewhere deep within his mind, the tiger throws back her head and lets out a furious howl of refusal that rattles through his consciousness. His heart sinks heavily into the pit of his stomach, cold dread settling over him far faster than any bullet ever could.
Suddenly, sitting on the floor of his little gachapon shop, surrounded by colorful capsules and smiling keychains, Atsushi feels much older than twenty-two.
Dazai Osamu is...a very interesting mafioso.
He had been taken in by Akutagawa when the boy was merely fourteen, already displaying flashes of intelligence that not even Atsushi felt capable of fully comprehending. At the time, Atsushi had been tasked with mentoring Chuuya Nakahara, another recent addition to the Port Mafia, and because the two boys were so close in age, Mori had suggested that they train together beneath both Atsushi's and Akutagawa's supervision.
Atsushi hadn't been thrilled with the arrangement. He had never been particularly fond of Akutagawa, least of all the older executive's ruthless methods of teaching. Every lesson seemed to end in bruises, broken bones, or lectures delivered through violence. Still, Mori had asked, and Atsushi hadn't exactly been in a position to refuse.
The difference between their students had become apparent almost immediately.
Where Chuuya clung to Atsushi with the unwavering loyalty of a dog who had finally found someone worth trusting, Dazai behaved more like a feral cat. He scratched, bit, talked back, wandered off, and somehow managed to discover every single one of Akutagawa's buttons before pressing them with alarming enthusiasm. More often than not, training sessions ended with Dazai beaten bloody for his insolence while Akutagawa stood nearby looking as though he'd gladly continue if permitted.
Atsushi had pitied him, just enough that, after training concluded and everyone else drifted away, he'd linger behind.
He'd help Dazai sit up. Ask about the strange suicide manual the boy insisted on carrying everywhere in his coat pocket. Ask him what his favorite food was. Sometimes, on particularly quiet evenings, Atsushi even found himself admitting pieces of his own life—how difficult it had been adjusting to the darkness of the Port Mafia, how heavy the work sometimes felt, how exhausting it was pretending none of it bothered him.
Dazai had listened with startling sincerity. And every time Atsushi looked over, the younger boy was staring at him exactly the way Chuuya often did: stars shimmering in those impossibly large brown eyes, cheeks faintly pink, the unmistakable beginnings of a hopeless little puppy crush written all over his face.
It had only grown worse from there.
Dazai complained endlessly about being Akutagawa's protégé, something Atsushi secretly found immensely satisfying considering the spectacular expression it always earned from Akutagawa. The older executive's face would twist as though he'd bitten directly into one of Kajii's lemons, and that alone almost made the complaints worth listening to.
And whenever they weren't on missions, Dazai somehow managed to appear wherever Atsushi happened to be. Sometimes he'd bring a new joke he'd been saving all day. Sometimes he'd ask strange philosophical questions that left Atsushi thinking about them long after the conversation ended. He’d share a new suicide method he read in his book. Other times he'd simply walk beside him in comfortable silence.
It had been...nice.
Dazai had a peculiar way of making Atsushi question the worldview he'd spent years carefully constructing. He made ridiculous observations at the worst possible moments, laughed at things nobody else found amusing, and somehow managed to make the weight pressing against Atsushi's heart feel just a little lighter after years of sinking deeper and deeper into the Port Mafia's darkness.
Atsushi had found it cute.
Until he'd realized Dazai's little puppy crush wasn't disappearing.
And now, four years later...here they were.
Atsushi drops his face into his hands with a muffled groan. "...No..." The word comes out weak, almost pleading.
This can't be happening.
Dazai…
Dazai is seriously going to try courting him?
Sure, he'd flirted before. Thrown Atsushi lingering looks that practically dripped with affection, slipped shameless compliments into ordinary conversations, invaded his personal space whenever the opportunity presented itself. Atsushi had always dismissed it as youthful dramatics. Half jokes. Half genuine. Something Dazai would eventually laugh about once he grew older.
Apparently not.
Apparently he'd been dead serious the entire time.
Peeking through the gaps between his fingers, Atsushi looks toward Mori.
Immediately, he regrets it.
The older man's expression is positively glowing.
His violet eyes sparkle with poorly concealed delight, the corners of his lips curled upward in that infuriating smile he only ever wore when watching someone else walk willingly into disaster. Even without looking, Atsushi can practically smell the entertainment radiating from him.
His stomach sinks.
"...Mori," he says carefully, dread creeping into every syllable, "please tell me you didn't encourage him to do this..."
Unfortunately, Mori's smile only grows wider.
"What kind of man would I be if I didn't encourage him?" he asks, sounding genuinely offended by the notion. "As the boss, it's my duty to uplift my fellow mafiosos and cheer them on from the sidelines!" Then, after only a heartbeat's pause, he adds almost casually, "Besides...I think you two would make a very interesting couple."
Atsushi lets out another long, suffering groan, dropping his forehead back into his palms.
He can't believe this.
Not only had Dazai decided that now was the perfect time to begin seriously courting him...Mori had actually given him permission.
Instinctively, Atsushi opens his mouth with a rebuttal.
"He's too—"
"He's eighteen now," Mori cuts in smoothly, "so you can't say he's too young anymore."
The words die in Atsushi's throat.
...Right.
That had always been his strongest argument. Every time Dazai's flirting became too obvious, every time those lingering stares lasted a little too long or another shameless compliment slipped from the younger executive's lips, Atsushi had comforted himself with the same thought.
He's just a kid.
But he’s not a kid anymore.
Atsushi grimaces before scrambling for another excuse. "I'm his—"
"Superior?" Mori interrupts once again, amusement dancing in his violet eyes. "Not anymore. Or have you forgotten Dazai is an executive now?"
His stomach squirms relentlessly.
That excuse disappears just as quickly.
"...It's..." He winces before forcing the words out anyway. "...It's inappropriate?"
Even to his own ears, the argument sounds pitifully weak. They're members of the Port Mafia. Morality had never exactly been one of the organization's defining characteristics.
Mori seems to agree. "Really, Atsushi?" he asks, one eyebrow lifting. "You can't think of a better excuse than that?"
The older man chuckles quietly to himself, closing his eyes for only a moment before opening them again. When he does, his gaze seems to cut straight through Atsushi, effortlessly peeling away every flimsy excuse he'd tried to hide behind.
"But," Mori says, his voice unexpectedly gentle, "I suppose if you really don't like Dazai, you can always turn him down."
Atsushi latches onto those words with startling desperation. He drops his hands into his lap and meets Mori's gaze head-on.
"That's what I plan to do." The declaration comes out firmer than he feels. After a brief pause, however, his shoulders sag. "He won't be happy with me, Mori."
His voice softens into something quieter.
"He's going to need someone who can not only entertain him for decades..." Atsushi murmurs, absentmindedly turning an unopened capsule between his fingers. "...but someone who can keep up with his mood swings."
Dazai is a contradiction Atsushi has never managed to solve.
Some days, he's all laughter and impossible energy, draping himself over Atsushi's shoulders, sneaking flirtatious remarks into otherwise ordinary conversations, or passionately reciting whichever bizarre suicide method he'd most recently discovered in that worn little handbook tucked inside his coat.
Then there are the bad days. Days when Dazai disappears entirely. Those are the days Atsushi quietly leaves the comfort of his gachapon shop and makes his way across Yokohama to the rundown apartment Mori had arranged for Dazai after Akutagawa discovered the boy had been living in a junkyard.
Atsushi never announces why he's there. He simply lets himself inside, sits beside Dazai in the silence, and stays until he's certain the younger man won't make good on yet another promise to end his own life.
A life without Dazai would be a very sad and very boring one.
The realization settles in his chest with uncomfortable ease.
Across from him, Mori watches with a smile that, for once, almost looks genuine.
"Sounds a lot like you, Atsushi."
Atsushi is already shaking his head before Mori even finishes speaking.
"It's not," he replies without a second thought.
Because it isn't. Dazai deserves someone brighter. Someone younger at heart. Someone who isn't already exhausted by life before twenty-three. Someone who hasn't spent years convincing himself that blood on his hands can never truly be washed away. Atsushi wouldn't be good for Dazai.
Truth be told, Atsushi isn't sure he'd be good for anyone.
"And," he mutters beneath his breath, attempting a joke that falls painfully flat even to his own ears, "I think I'd bore him to death."
Mori doesn't laugh. The silence that follows feels strangely heavy. Atsushi lifts his head, studying the older man's unreadable expression for a moment before deciding he'd had enough of this conversation. "...Have you eaten dinner yet?"
Mori blinks, visibly surprised by the abrupt change in subject. A heartbeat later, his usual smile slips back into place.
"I haven't," he admits. "I figured we'd find somewhere to eat after I delivered the wonderful news." He tilts his head thoughtfully before asking with suspicious innocence, "Chazuke?"
Atsushi's shoulders immediately slump.
Of course.
He can never say no to chazuke.
Mori knows that better than anyone.
"...My very own death row meal," Atsushi sighs, pushing himself to his feet with considerably less enthusiasm than he'd had when chasing capsule toys only minutes earlier. "You really are the best boss in the world."
Mori's smile turns teasing once more.
"I do try."
When Atsushi steps through the Port Mafia's front doors the next afternoon, he feels like he's walking toward his own execution.
The hallways seem colder than usual despite the oversized black cardigan draped over his shoulders, its fuzzy sleeves swallowing his hands whenever he tugs them over his fingers. Normally, the familiar route to his office is accompanied by soft greetings and the occasional smile exchanged with passing subordinates. Today's no different for them. Mafiosos bow respectfully as he passes, offering polite "Good afternoons," expecting the same warm greeting they receive every day.
Instead, Atsushi only gives a silent nod.
He can't bring himself to utter a single word.
Byakko prowls restlessly in the back of his mind, pacing circles within his consciousness, her tail lashing with growing agitation. She doesn't understand why they're anxious. She only knows that something feels wrong. Every passing stranger is watched with suspicion, every footstep echoing down the marble corridor sounding almost like the beginning of an attack.
The tiger's instincts are preparing for danger, blissfully unaware that the source of Atsushi's unease isn't a rival organization or an assassination attempt.
It's Dazai.
Or rather the fact that Dazai intends to court him.
The thought alone is enough to make Atsushi's stomach twist.
But retreat isn’t an option, not for someone like Atsushi.
By the time Atsushi reaches his office, the knot in his stomach has only grown tighter. Hoping routine might distract him, he hangs his cardigan over the back of his chair before immediately burying himself beneath the stack of reports awaiting his approval.
A drug bust successfully concluded. He signs the bottom of the page without hesitation. A hostage rescue that had ended with unnecessary casualties. His pen pauses long enough to circle several names before leaving himself a reminder to speak with the team leader personally.
A newly discovered ability user whose profile suggests considerable potential. That file is quietly slid into another pile reserved exclusively for Mori.
Then comes a report detailing a group of recent recruits whose performances have remained consistently abysmal despite repeated instruction. Atsushi rubs tiredly at his temple before recommending one final round of training. If they fail again...they'll have to be taken out behind headquarters and shot.
His pen moves almost automatically, initials marking approvals, comments filling margins, confidential documents separated from ordinary paperwork with the practiced efficiency of someone who has repeated this routine hundreds of times before.
Usually, the familiar rhythm settles his mind. Today, it accomplishes nothing. The unease continues to churn inside him, bubbling relentlessly until it feels as though the pit in his stomach might finally spill over. Even Byakko grows louder, her restless pacing giving way to irritated snarls that leave Atsushi's fingernails threatening to lengthen against the surface of his desk.
If only Dazai were here to distract—
The thought never has the chance to finish.
His office door suddenly slams open with enough force to rattle the framed certificates hanging along the wall, the impact nearly wrenching it from its hinges entirely. Atsushi's head snaps upward on instinct, every trace of panic hastily buried beneath the composed expression expected of a Port Mafia executive.
Standing in the doorway is none other than Dazai himself, looking entirely unapologetic.
He has always been the only person in headquarters with the audacity to enter Atsushi's office without knocking, regardless of whether the door is unlocked. If anything, locked doors seem to encourage him.
Dazai strolls inside as though the room belongs to him, his long coat swaying behind him with each step. He makes a beeline straight for Atsushi's desk, the single brown eye not hidden beneath his bandages already sparkling with a familiar warmth that sends another unpleasant twist through Atsushi's stomach. It isn't subtle anymore, not after Mori's little revelation.
"At-su-shiii~" Dazai sings, drawing out every syllable of his name with infuriating cheer. His smile widens another inch as he comes to a stop in front of the desk. "Good afternooooooon~"
The smile Atsushi manages in return feels strained even to himself. “Good afternoon, Dazai. What can I help you with?”
Dazai wastes no time closing the remaining distance between them. He plants both hands firmly against the surface of Atsushi's desk before leaning so far forward that the difference in their heights is impossible to ignore. Seated in his chair, Atsushi suddenly feels much smaller than he has any right to, forced to tilt his head back just to maintain eye contact with the younger executive looming comfortably over him.
“Ughhhh, you can help me by scratching this itch on my side. It's been killing me all day—” Dazai begins dramatically, only to stop midsentence the moment he gets a proper look at Atsushi's face. His playful expression flattens almost instantly. “…You're pale.”
Atsushi feels a bead of sweat slide slowly down the side of his forehead.
“I…” A nervous laugh escapes him before he can stop it. “I feel a little under the weather today.”
Dazai doesn't answer.
He simply keeps staring.
It isn't the sort of stare most people give. Atsushi has long since learned that Dazai doesn't merely look at people. He observes them. Dissects them. It often feels as though the younger man is peeling away skin, muscle, and bone until all that's left are the thoughts someone desperately wishes to keep hidden. Under that unwavering gaze, Atsushi suddenly becomes acutely aware of every nervous twitch his body makes.
“I'll be fine,” he adds a little too quickly, waving one hand dismissively between them. “The tiger will clear it up as she always does.”
Still nothing.
Meeting Dazai's eye properly, Atsushi finds the younger man's brow drawn together in concentration, lips pursed ever so slightly as he silently pieces together information only he seems capable of noticing. The office falls strangely quiet around them, broken only by the ticking of the clock mounted above the bookshelf.
Then, just as suddenly as his concern had appeared, understanding washes across Dazai's face.
“…Mori told you, didn't he?”
The accusation lands so abruptly that Atsushi can't stop the breathless, “What?” that tumbles from his lips.
Dazai doesn't seem to hear him.
His shoulders slump with visible disappointment, frustration coloring every word that leaves his mouth. “Oh, c'mon! That backstabbing piece of—” He catches himself. Almost comically, Dazai straightens his posture, smooths down the front of his coat, and removes his hands from Atsushi's desk, collecting himself into something that vaguely resembles a proper gentleman. Atsushi knows better than to believe the act.
“Whatever,” Dazai sighs with a dramatic wave of his hand. “It can't be helped. What's done is done.”
The ease with which he accepts Mori's betrayal catches Atsushi off guard, but he refuses to surrender so quickly. Lowering his eyes back to the paperwork spread across his desk, he picks up his pen and pretends to reread the report in front of him.
“I don't understand what you're talking about.”
Dazai clicks his tongue loudly. “You do,” he says, sounding as though he's gently scolding a particularly stubborn child. “You're just pretending to be oblivious, which is really cute, but it isn't going to do me any favors in the long run.”
…well shit.
So Dazai knows.
Before Atsushi can think of another excuse, Dazai is already moving again.
He rounds the desk with effortless confidence until he's standing beside Atsushi's chair. One hand settles against the backrest as he leans down once more, closing the distance between them until only a few inches remain. Atsushi's breath catches instinctively. For the first time in years, sitting in his own office, surrounded by familiar furniture and stacks of paperwork, he feels strangely defenseless.
“So,” Dazai murmurs, that single visible eye shining with unmistakable affection, “how about it, Atsushi? Are you ready to be wooed?”
Atsushi inhales slowly through his nose before letting the breath escape through parted lips. He closes his eyes. Counts to ten. Opens them again.
Dazai is still there.
Still smiling.
Still looking at him with that impossible mixture of teasing confidence and unwavering devotion.
Carefully, Atsushi reaches upward and wraps his fingers around Dazai's bandaged wrist. The contact lasts only long enough for him to gently lift the younger man's hand away from the back of his chair before he lets go again as though the touch had burned him. Dazai doesn't seem offended in the slightest. If anything, he looks amused.
“Dazai,” Atsushi says quietly, his voice carrying a seriousness it rarely does.
“Hm?”
“I'm never going to like you the way you like me.”
The words leave his mouth with surprising steadiness.
“You're a friend to me. Nothing more.” He meets Dazai's gaze directly, hoping honesty will succeed where avoidance has failed for four long years. “Those are my feelings on the matter.”
Dazai merely hums, tilting his head ever so slightly as though Atsushi has said something mildly interesting rather than delivered what should have been a definitive rejection. There isn't even the slightest flicker of disappointment on his face. If anything, he looks thoughtful.
“But feelings change,” he counters easily. “I've heard from some chatty birds that it takes time, effort, maybe even a specific person to make someone's feelings sway.”
Atsushi doesn't have to think very hard about who those "chatty birds" are.
Kouyou Ozaki and Mori Ougai
The two of them had probably spent an entire afternoon discussing romance over wine before deciding to fill Dazai's head with ideas.
A tired sigh escapes Atsushi before he can stop it. “You'll be wasting your time courting me, Dazai.”
The words come out firmer this time, because they have to.
Because Dazai deserves certainty before he wastes years chasing after something that will never happen.
Atsushi simply isn't the kind of person someone should fall in love with.
He's spent too many years convincing himself of that to believe otherwise now. There is something fundamentally wrong with the way his heart works. It knows loyalty. It knows friendship. It knows how to devote itself to the Port Mafia, to Mori, to the people placed under his care. It knows how to sit beside a lonely teenager in a rundown apartment until dawn just to make sure he survives another night.
But love? The sort of romantic, sexual love Dazai so obviously wants…
Atsushi has never believed himself capable of returning it.
He can be someone's fleeting crush, someone's one-night infatuation, someone they enjoy being around for a while before inevitably finding another person capable of giving them everything Atsushi can't.
Dazai would be miserable with him.
Better that he realizes it now than years from now.
Yet Dazai doesn't retreat an inch.
“It's my choice how I spend my time, Atsushi,” he replies softly. “Whether it ends up being a waste or not is for me to decide.” Then, as though presented with the perfect opportunity, Dazai leans in once more. Close enough that Atsushi feels warm breath brush lightly against the shell of his ear. “And spending time with you is never a waste,” Dazai murmurs, his voice dropping into something quieter, gentler. “It's wonderful.”
The words slide over Atsushi like rain over stone.
Or at least...he desperately wishes they did.
Instead, they settle somewhere uncomfortably deep inside his chest, where he pointedly refuses to acknowledge them.
All Dazai receives in return is an exhausted look. “You'll regret it.”
“Hmmmmmm.” The low vibration of Dazai's thoughtful hum sends an involuntary shiver across the back of Atsushi's neck. “No,” he whispers with quiet certainty. “I don't think I will.”
Just as abruptly as he'd invaded Atsushi's personal space, Dazai rocks back onto his heels, granting him enough room to breathe without feeling cornered. The seriousness lingering between them evaporates almost instantly, replaced by the familiar dramatics Atsushi has long since come to associate with him.
“Now c'mere,” Dazai whines, reaching forward to catch Atsushi's free hand before the older executive can pull it away. “Scratch me! Put those kitty claws to use!”
Atsushi stares down at the bandaged hand now clinging shamelessly to his own before slowly lifting his eyes toward Dazai's face.
"...You have the attention span of a goldfish."
Dazai only beams wider.
Thankfully, nothing really seems to have changed between him and Dazai.
Once the younger executive finally gets dragged out of Atsushi's office by a thoroughly disgruntled Akutagawa—who looked one teasing remark away from throwing Dazai through the nearest wall—the day gradually settles back into its familiar rhythm. Atsushi spends the better half of the afternoon tucked away behind his desk, reports spread neatly before him as one subordinate after another filters into his office to discuss recent missions, disciplinary concerns, and performance evaluations.
His earlier anxiety lingers somewhere in the back of his mind, but with every completed report and every problem solved, it becomes a little easier to ignore.
Kouyou is the first executive to stop by after lunch. The elegant woman doesn't even bother hiding the amused smile lingering behind her fan when she glides into his office, greeting him with far too much satisfaction for someone simply requesting assistance.
She asks how his day has been going, her lilting tone making Atsushi immediately suspicious that Mori has already shared yesterday evening's conversation with her. Fortunately, she never brings Dazai up directly. Instead, she requests Atsushi's assistance with one of the interrogation rooms, claiming the prisoner has become unusually cooperative whenever someone "pleasant" is nearby. Atsushi reluctantly agrees, making a mental note to question Mori later about exactly how many executives have apparently become invested in his nonexistent love life.
Not long after Kouyou departs, Higuchi timidly knocks on his office door.
The young woman has only recently been promoted to command unit leader, and although she's grown noticeably more confident over the past year, she still enters Atsushi's office with the nervous posture of someone expecting to be reprimanded. It doesn't take much encouragement before she begins explaining her concerns.
The Black Lizard has proven far more difficult to manage than she'd anticipated, largely because she lacks the intimidating presence needed to keep seasoned veterans in line. Atsushi listens patiently before offering several suggestions, reminding her that leadership isn't built solely through fear. Respect lasts considerably longer. By the end of their conversation, Higuchi leaves looking considerably lighter than when she'd arrived.
Atsushi quietly writes himself another note.
Speak to Hirotsu.
The old man has undoubtedly been encouraging the others to tease their new commander. It isn't malicious—Hirotsu simply enjoys watching younger members find their footing—but Atsushi suspects Higuchi could do with a little less "encouragement."
Later that afternoon, his work takes him to the training grounds.
Gin and Tachihara are already drilling the newest recruits through the regiment Atsushi had outlined for them earlier that morning over text. Rather than interrupting, he settles onto one of the metal benches bordering the practice yard, quietly observing. Every correction Gin makes matches his instructions almost perfectly, while Tachihara balances her precision with enough enthusiasm to keep the exhausted recruits pushing forward.
As Atsushi watches, several recruits steal nervous glances toward him. One offers a respectful nod. Another manages a hesitant smile. This time, Atsushi finds himself returning them. Small smiles, admittedly, but genuine ones all the same.
Perhaps because Dazai hasn't appeared again, or because surviving that conversation had reminded him that the world hadn't actually ended.
Eventually, Gin calls for a short break.
Almost immediately, the recruits drift toward Atsushi's bench like ducklings following after their mother, forming a loose semicircle around him. Their eyes practically sparkle with curiosity as questions begin pouring out one after another.
How should they improve their footing?
Was there a better way to conserve stamina during extended operations?
What did Executive Nakajima focus on when he first began training?
He answers each question as thoughtfully as he can, occasionally demonstrating a stance or adjusting someone's posture with a gentle tap of his hand. Watching their confidence slowly grow is strangely satisfying. Personnel has always been his favorite division for precisely this reason.
Eventually, Gin claps her hands together.
"Break's over."
The recruits scatter almost immediately, hurrying back toward the training field before either instructor can change their minds.
By the time Atsushi makes his way through headquarters once more, the familiar scent of food drifting from the cafeteria reminds him that he skipped lunch again. He considers grabbing something small, exchanging a few quiet words with acquaintances lingering in the corridor, before his eyes wander toward the large clock mounted high along the wall.
Almost time to leave.
A quiet sense of relief settles over him.
Returning to his office, he slips his oversized black cardigan back over his shoulders before locking the door behind him. As he steps outside headquarters and begins walking toward the streets of Yokohama, the corners of his mouth lift almost unconsciously.
His gachapon shop is waiting.
With any luck, perhaps today's pulls will finally complete that stubborn collection.
"Atsushi-san!"
The familiar voice pulls him from his thoughts.
Stopping mid-step, Atsushi turns just in time to see a motorcycle roll smoothly alongside the curb.
Perched confidently atop it is Chuuya Nakahara, his auburn hair catching the fading evening light as he removes one gloved hand from the handlebars to wave. The motorcycle itself is immediately recognizable—the one gifted to him years ago by his friend Albatross.
Like Dazai, Chuuya has truly grown into himself.
Atsushi has mentored many members of the Port Mafia over the years, but Chuuya remains, without question, the one he's proudest of. Watching the once-hotheaded teenager mature into one of the organization's finest mafioso’s has been one of the greatest privileges of his career. Chuuya excels in combat, strategy, leadership—everything Atsushi had hoped he'd become. Seeing the younger man now, carrying himself with the confidence he'd worked so hard to earn, fills Atsushi with an overwhelming sense of fondness.
Sliding both hands into the pockets of his cardigan, Atsushi tilts his head.
"You and that loud motorcycle make quite the sight."
Chuuya immediately rolls his eyes.
"It's badass! And it just got a touch-up, so it looks cooler than ever before!" he boasts proudly, swinging one leg over the seat before hopping onto the pavement. He gestures enthusiastically toward the motorcycle's side.
Curious despite himself, Atsushi steps closer. Sure enough, the paint has been redone. The deep crimson gleams beneath Yokohama's evening lights, richer and far more vibrant than before, making the entire machine impossible to ignore.
"And still noisy."
Chuuya huffs in mock offense.
While Chuuya adores the motorcycle, Atsushi has never shared the sentiment. The engine is far too loud for his sensitive hearing, and Byakko despises it even more than he does. Every time it roars to life, the tiger mistakes it for another predator challenging her territory. She immediately stirs within Atsushi's mind, hackles raised, desperate to answer the mechanical growl with one of her own.
As always, Atsushi gently reins her back before she can so much as bare her teeth.
“Hop on. Let's go somewhere fun,” Chuuya says, tilting his head toward the empty seat behind him.
As tempting as the offer is, Atsushi already has plans. Plans involving a quiet shop, colorful capsules, and the faint hope that tonight would finally be the night he completed that stubborn collection.
“Not tonight,” he says, forcing just enough regret into his expression to make the excuse believable, even if he feels anything but disappointed. “I have somewhere to be.”
The moment the words leave his mouth, Atsushi realizes he could have chosen a better excuse. Chuuya has always had an unfortunate habit of latching onto the smallest details whenever Atsushi tried being vague.
“Oh?” Chuuya asks, curiosity already lighting his face. “Where to?”
Atsushi only has a second to think. He needs something believable—something that will discourage Chuuya from asking any more questions. “A friend's place,” he answers. “He promised me dinner, and I skipped lunch. It's a no-brainer.”
The reaction is exactly what he'd expected.
Chuuya's shoulders sag ever so slightly, the playful confidence draining from his expression as disappointment settles across his features. “…Sounds like a date.”
Atsushi tries not to dwell on how crestfallen the younger man suddenly looks. If the lie accomplishes its purpose, then perhaps it's kinder in the long run.
“It might be,” he replies with a small shrug. “But I doubt anything will come of it.” He offers Chuuya a reassuring smile before taking a step backward. “You have fun on your night out, Chuuya.” Turning on his heel, Atsushi begins walking once more, already imagining the familiar clunk of another capsule tumbling into a pickup tray.
“Ditch the date!” Chuuya's voice follows after him. “I'll take you somewhere nice!”
Atsushi doesn't stop walking.
“I can't,” he calls over his shoulder. “I told him I'd—”
“Please.”
The single word is so quiet that it should have disappeared into the evening air. Instead, it echoes louder than the motorcycle engine ever had. Atsushi comes to a halt. Slowly, he turns around.
Only now does he really look at Chuuya.
The younger executive's usual confidence has cracked around the edges. The grin he'd worn only moments ago is gone, replaced by a tension Atsushi somehow hadn't noticed before. His shoulders are held too tightly, his jaw just a little too stiff, blue eyes carrying a weight that hadn't been there at headquarters.
Something is wrong.
Atsushi's chest tightens with guilt.
How had he missed something so obvious? Had he really been so eager to spend the evening opening plastic capsules that he'd overlooked the clear signs of distress on the face of the person he'd once mentored?
No.
He refuses to ignore a cry for help.
Whether as the executive overseeing Personnel or simply as Chuuya's former mentor, it's his responsibility to make sure the younger man is alright. Someone with an ability as powerful as Chuuya's can't be left to wrestle with mounting stress alone.
...Not that Atsushi needs to justify it professionally. The soft spot he's always had for Chuuya is already urging him to pry open whatever has managed to steal that easy smile.
Within seconds, he's walking back toward the motorcycle. “Seems he just canceled on me,” Atsushi says casually, not even bothering to glance at his phone.
“EH?!” Chuuya blurts, staring at him in disbelief. “YOU WERE LYING TO ME?! ATSUSHI-SAN!”
Suppressing the urge to smile, Atsushi swings one leg over the motorcycle and settles onto the seat behind him. It's a tighter fit than most people would probably find comfortable, but they've ridden together enough times over the years that neither of them thinks twice about it.
“You trust my word too much, Chuuya,” Atsushi says as he adjusts the hem of his cardigan before wrapping his arms loosely around Chuuya's waist to steady himself. “You need to pay closer attention to people's voices, their expressions, their body language. Even your most trusted friend can lie to you.” His tone softens as he settles comfortably against the younger man's back. “No matter how small the lie,” he murmurs, “you should always be ready to catch it.”
Chuuya lets out a quiet grumble, though Atsushi can feel the younger man's heartbeat speeding up beneath his hands.
“You can't lecture me anymore.”
Atsushi smiles warmly, the expression aimed more at himself than at the young man sitting in front of him. “I can,” he replies with quiet amusement. “I'm still your superior.”
The words have barely left his mouth before he feels Chuuya tense beneath his arms. Atsushi blinks. The sudden stiffness isn't born from embarrassment over being lectured. It's something else.
And almost immediately, understanding settles into place.
...A promotion.
Of course.
Chuuya has been working harder than anyone lately. Longer hours, more missions, more responsibility. Ever since Dazai had been promoted to executive at sixteen, Chuuya had quietly pushed himself to close the distance, refusing to let himself fall behind. Now, at eighteen, already leading the Flags and proving himself time and time again, it isn't difficult to imagine what he's been striving toward all this time.
Executive.
A seat beside Atsushi.
A chance to show the Port Mafia that he's more than just Dazai's rowdy dog.
The realization makes Atsushi's chest ache.
“Ah...” he murmurs softly, resting his chin lightly against Chuuya's shoulder for only a brief moment. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
Chuuya doesn't answer right away.
Instead, a series of low grumbles escapes him, somewhere between an annoyed huff and an embarrassed growl. His fingers tighten around the handlebars before finally relaxing again. “…Can it wait until we get to a restaurant?” he mutters after a long pause. “I don't wanna talk about this out in the open.”
Atsushi nods against his shoulder.
“Of course.”
Without another word, Chuuya twists the throttle.
The motorcycle's engine roars to life beneath them, its deafening growl tearing through the evening air as they pull away from the curb. The sound immediately sends a sharp spike of discomfort through Atsushi's heightened hearing, forcing him to suppress a wince. Deep within his mind, Byakko recoils with an irritated snarl, mistaking the mechanical roar for another tiger. Anxiety ripples through both of them in equal measure, leaving Atsushi quietly grateful when the city streets begin swallowing the sound as they disappear into Yokohama's evening traffic.
They eventually find somewhere to eat, though Atsushi suspects Chuuya chooses the restaurant more for its reputation than its menu. It is the sort of high-end place with golden lighting, polished floors, and a line of well-dressed patrons waiting outside despite the evening chill.
The host takes one look at their faces and immediately forgets the existence of everyone else, ushering them inside with a pale smile and a voice that trembles only slightly. Chuuya pretends not to notice. Atsushi pretends even harder, allowing himself to be led to a quiet table near the back where the music is soft enough for conversation and the staff knows better than to hover too closely.
Once dinner arrives, Chuuya finally starts talking. At first, it comes out stiff and irritated, all sharp edges and grumbled complaints about being overlooked despite doing everything asked of him.
Then, slowly, as Atsushi listens without interrupting, the frustration spills out properly. Chuuya talks about Dazai becoming executive at sixteen, about how hard he has worked since then, about leading the Flags, taking on dangerous missions, proving himself in combat and strategy only to remain just short of the title he wants. Eventually, his voice drops into something quieter as he asks Atsushi what else he needs to do. Atsushi lets him finish completely before answering.
He tells Chuuya that power has never been his problem. Everyone already knows how strong he is. What Chuuya needs now is restraint, patience, and proof that he can command loyalty without letting pride answer every insult thrown his way. Chuuya scowls through most of it, but he listens.
By the time dinner ends, the tension in Chuuya’s shoulders has eased. He drives Atsushi back to his condominium without much complaint, though the motorcycle is still loud enough to make Byakko grumble the entire ride. When they arrive, Chuuya stops near the entrance and lets Atsushi climb off first. He thanks him for the help, awkward but sincere, then wishes him sweet dreams.
That catches Atsushi off guard for half a second, mostly because Chuuya has never said anything like that to him before, but he brushes it off as his protégé attempting to be sweet after a vulnerable evening. He bids him goodnight as well before heading inside.
The lobby staff is already accustomed to Atsushi’s late-night routine. They greet him politely, wish him a wonderful night, and do not ask questions as he crosses the polished floor toward the elevator. Once inside, Atsushi slumps against the wall, the metal bar catching slightly against the fuzzy fabric of his black cardigan. Only then does the full tragedy of the evening settle over him.
He didn’t get to visit his gachapon shop once!
His fingers itch with the need to turn a knob, to feel a capsule fall into his palm, to finally complete that stubborn collection waiting for him beneath fluorescent lights.
Lucy is probably locking up by now.
He could technically break in, considering he owns the building, but the thought of Lucy arriving tomorrow morning to discover signs of forced entry is enough to discourage him. That would lead to questions, panic, and probably another concerned offer for dinner. So when the elevator reaches the top floor and opens directly into his living space, Atsushi decides, with great reluctance, to let it go for now.
The decision lasts exactly three steps.
The deeper he walks into the main room, the more the hair along the back of his neck rises. Someone is here. Byakko lifts her head immediately, silent and watchful, but when Atsushi rounds the couch, the tension drains from his body all at once.
Dazai is stretched out across the couch, eyes closed, breathing slow and even.
He looks entirely too comfortable for someone who has broken into Atsushi’s home without permission. Apparently, he had been waiting for him and fallen asleep somewhere along the way.
Why? Atsushi doesn’t know, but the sight makes his heart clench despite himself. With a quiet sigh, he steps away long enough to retrieve a blanket from the basket beside the mounted television before returning to the couch. Carefully, he spreads it over Dazai’s body.
The movement makes the younger executive stir.
“Atsushi?” he grumbles sleepily.
Atsushi shushes him, tucking the blanket near his shoulders and neck so the warmth curls around him properly. “Go back to sleep,” he whispers. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
A pout forms on Dazai’s lips. “I…want to talk to you now…”
Atsushi scoffs softly. “I know, but I’m tired too,” he says. “So let’s wait until sunrise.”
Dazai grumbles again, his face half-buried in the blanket. “Mmm. Don’t wanna wake up that early.”
Yeah, neither does Atsushi.
Despite himself, he smiles and runs a gentle hand through Dazai’s hair. “The afternoon, then,” he compromises easily. “I’ll make us breakfast for lunch.”
Dazai nods sleepily, but the moment Atsushi tries to pull his hand away, his fingers snap around Atsushi’s wrist, keeping him in place. “…There’s enough room for two people on the couch…”
Atsushi sighs, fond and exhausted all at once. Even like this, half-asleep and barely coherent, Dazai is still trying to woo him. “I know. That’s why I bought it,” he says softly. “Now let me go so I can sleep—”
“Atsushiiii,” Dazai whines, his grip tightening around his wrist.
Atsushi’s expression softens, though his voice stays gentle and firm. “You can’t force me to cuddle you, Dazai,” he whispers. “Consent is important, especially when trying to…woo someone. Surely Kouyou has told you that.”
Dazai doesn’t respond.
The silence speaks loudly enough.
It makes Atsushi’s heart twist slowly in his chest, but in the end, Dazai lets go of his wrist. With a tired sigh of his own, he whispers, “Goodnight, Atsushi.”
Atsushi turns on his heel and whispers back, “Goodnight, Dazai.”
Then he walks into his bedroom and closes the door behind him, ready to slide into bed and pass out after such an exhausting day.
Atsushi wakes almost the minute the clock beside his bed rolls over to noon.
Normally, mornings—or rather, afternoons—are uncomplicated affairs. He throws the blankets aside, drags himself out of bed before he can convince himself to sleep another hour, and wanders into the shower. The rush of hot water is usually enough to chase away the lingering haze of sleep, leaving him awake by the time he finishes drying his hair.
Today, however, there is one very important difference.
Dazai is sleeping in his living room.
Or...at least, he had been when Atsushi went to bed.
The realization alone is enough to keep him rooted beneath the covers for several long seconds as he stares blankly at the ceiling.
He still has no idea what Dazai wants to talk about. Last night's conversation had ended peacefully enough, but that hardly meant the younger executive had abandoned his ridiculous plans of courting him. If anything, Atsushi suspects the opposite. Dazai is nothing if not persistent, and there are very few things more dangerous than a determined genius with too much free time.
If it were entirely up to Atsushi, he'd simply call in sick. He's done it before—more than once, in fact—and every single time Mori had somehow seen straight through the excuse before teasing him mercilessly the following day. Unfortunately, pretending to be ill isn't exactly an option when the very person he's hoping to avoid is already somewhere inside his home.
With a long, resigned sigh, Atsushi rubs both hands over his face.
Avoiding the conversation won't make it disappear. Whatever Dazai wants to say, whatever embarrassing stunt he has undoubtedly planned, Atsushi will simply have to endure it.
Steeling his nerves with one deep inhale, Atsushi throws the blankets aside and plants his feet firmly against the floor. Instead of turning toward the adjoining bathroom as he does every other morning, he shuffles straight for the bedroom door. His hand settles around the knob before he hesitates only briefly, then pulls it open.
Almost immediately, something warm and pleasant drifts toward him.
Actually, now that he thinks about it, the smell had already been lingering in the air when he'd first opened his eyes.
Its rich, savory and a little sweet.
The unmistakable scent of bacon sizzling in a pan mingles with freshly cooked eggs, making both Atsushi's stomach and the tiger tucked inside his mind perk up with equal enthusiasm.
Following the smell almost on instinct, Atsushi wanders farther down the hallway until the living room comes into view. His condominium's open floor plan leaves the kitchen completely visible from the lounge, and the sight waiting there is so unexpected that Atsushi nearly stops walking altogether.
Dazai stands at the stove wearing one of Atsushi's aprons.
The black fabric hangs loosely over his clothes as he hums quietly to himself, completely absorbed in the pair of frying pans before him. One holds strips of bacon curling and popping in their own grease while the other cradles eggs cooked with a level of care Atsushi has never once associated with Dazai Osamu.
Slowly, almost cautiously, Atsushi approaches the kitchen island.
He slips onto one of the tall stools without making a sound, folding his hands together atop the countertop. Dazai has undoubtedly noticed him already—Atsushi knows better than to think otherwise—but the younger man remains focused on flipping bacon with practiced precision, apparently determined to finish what he's started before acknowledging his audience.
Atsushi simply watches.
His eyes blink once.
Twice.
Three times.
The image stubbornly refuses to change.
Dazai...is cooking.
Not merely fumbling through a recipe or setting something on fire.
Actually cooking.
Atsushi has known Dazai for years, and during that entire time the younger executive's culinary abilities have consisted almost exclusively of producing charcoal disguised as food. Yet here he stands, humming beneath his breath as breakfast fills the apartment with mouthwatering aromas strong enough to make Atsushi's tongue unconsciously brush against the backs of his teeth.
His stomach chooses that exact moment to growl.
"...I'm dreaming," Atsushi announces at last, his sleepy voice breaking the comfortable silence. He shakes his head once as though trying to wake himself. "I'm dreaming, and—and Dazai isn't—"
His words die abruptly in his throat.
As though sensing the exact moment Atsushi reaches peak confusion, Dazai turns away from the stove to properly face him. “Nope, not a dream, sweetheart,” Dazai purrs, effortlessly flipping another strip of bacon with a pair of tongs. The grease crackles cheerfully in the pan as though agreeing with him. “But I can definitely see why you'd think that~”
Atsushi responds with an unconvinced grumble before letting his chin fall onto the cool marble countertop. The cold surface feels pleasant against his skin as he continues watching Dazai move through the kitchen with surprising familiarity. There is no hesitation in his movements. No frantic searching through cabinets or peeking into drawers to find utensils. Somehow, somewhere, Dazai has apparently memorized where everything belongs.
His gaze drifts farther down the counter. The rice cooker is quietly steaming away in the corner.
Rice.
For breakfast.
Rice, sunny-side-up eggs, and bacon. A simple, easy breakfast.
...Wow.
“Since when were you able to cook?” Atsushi blurts before he can stop himself.
Dazai's visible eye glints with unmistakable amusement, though he keeps most of his attention on the eggs as he gently nudges them around the pan.
“Oh, Atsushi,” he sighs dramatically. “Have you ever known me to fail at anything I truly set my mind to?”
“Yes.”
The answer arrives so quickly that Dazai actually freezes.
A second later, an indignant whine fills the apartment. “Heeeey! That's not the right response!” Dazai protests, shooting him an exaggerated look of betrayal. “You're supposed to say, 'Of course not! That's why they call you the Demon Prodigy!'” His voice rises into an overly sweet imitation that is apparently meant to represent Atsushi.
Atsushi only stares harder.
“You couldn't tie your tie for almost two years.”
The memory surfaces so vividly that he almost smiles.
Countless mornings before executive meetings, Dazai had wandered into Atsushi's office looking thoroughly put together except for the tie dangling uselessly around his neck. Without fail, he'd shove the fabric into Atsushi's hands.
“And I learned, didn't I?”
“I...” Atsushi pauses. Well. He can't really argue with that. Dazai hasn't asked him to tie one in years. “…That's true,” he concedes reluctantly. “But ever since I've known you, you've been a complete kitchen hazard.” His eyes narrow thoughtfully. “What changed?”
For the first time since he'd entered the kitchen, Dazai hesitates. It's brief, barely more than a tightening across his shoulders, but Atsushi notices.
Then the tension melts away just as quickly.
“Motivation.”
“Motivation?” Atsushi echoes.
Dazai turns toward him again, leaning one hip lightly against the counter while the bacon continues sizzling behind him. “A change in motivation,” he explains simply. The smile tugging at the corners of his lips is softer than the ones he usually wears. Less teasing. Almost...content. “Back then,” Dazai continues, “I didn't have any reason to learn how to cook because cooking would've meant...” He trails off for a moment, searching for the right words. “…Taking care of myself.”
Atsushi nods slowly. That much makes sense. Dazai has never been particularly interested in looking after his own well-being. Meals were skipped, sleep ignored, injuries brushed aside with careless laughter. Convincing him to eat a proper dinner had once required enough persistence that Atsushi had nearly considered it an additional part of his job description.
“But,” Dazai says, pushing himself away from the counter to check on the rice cooker, “that changed once I started working toward a different goal.”
His smile stretches wider.
“Want to guess what it was?”
The look he gives Atsushi is painfully familiar. It's the same one from yesterday. The same one from his office. That quiet, unwavering affection paired with an almost obsessive devotion that somehow makes Atsushi feel as though he's the only person in the room.
His throat tightens.
His ears begin to warm.
Dazai learned to cook...for him.
Atsushi coughs awkwardly into his fist before quickly looking away, his eyes landing on the steadily steaming rice cooker instead. “I don't think I need to,” he mutters, his voice noticeably quieter than before. After a brief silence, he asks the only question that really matters. “But...this breakfast really is for us?”
Or perhaps more accurately…
Is it really for me?
When Atsushi finally risks another glance toward the stove, Dazai is already looking back at him. The teasing confidence has disappeared entirely, replaced by a warmth so genuine it almost catches Atsushi off guard. “Of course it is.”
Dazai turns back toward the stove to finish plating breakfast, and without meaning to, Atsushi's eyes follow him. At some point over the last four years, the lanky teenager he'd once worried over had quietly filled out into a young man. His shoulders are broader now, his frame stronger than Atsushi remembers, the apron strings stretched neatly across his back—
The realization startles Atsushi enough that he immediately jerks his gaze elsewhere, fixing it stubbornly on the rice cooker as though it has suddenly become the most fascinating object in the apartment.
He doesn't say another word.
Instead, he waits quietly at the counter for breakfast, pretending very hard that his heartbeat hasn't become just a little more difficult to ignore.
By the time Dazai finishes cooking, the entire condominium smells warm and inviting.
He moves around the kitchen with surprising efficiency, dividing the food between two plates before setting one down in front of Atsushi. A generous mound of rice sits beneath a perfectly cooked sunny-side-up egg, the golden yolk glistening beneath the overhead lights, while several crisp strips of bacon rest neatly along the side. Curious, Atsushi glances toward the place beside him only to discover an identical plate waiting there. Apparently, Dazai hadn't made himself anything different. Whatever breakfast he'd decided Atsushi deserved, he'd given himself the exact same meal.
Setting the frying pan aside, Dazai slips the apron over his head and leaves it in a rumpled heap atop the counter before retrieving two pairs of chopsticks. He rounds the kitchen island and settles onto the neighboring stool with all the familiarity of someone who belongs there, sliding one pair toward Atsushi before keeping the other for himself.
“Thank you, Dazai,” Atsushi says quietly. The gratitude comes out sounding oddly defeated, as though he's reluctantly surrendering to a battle he hadn't realized he'd been fighting.
“Oooo,” he hums with a crooked grin. “Don't thank me yet.” He gestures dramatically toward the plate resting in front of Atsushi. “Try it.”
Atsushi narrows his eyes with just enough suspicion to make Dazai chuckle before finally lifting his chopsticks. He gathers a small bite of rice coated in the rich egg yolk and brings it to his mouth.
The moment he tastes it, his eyes widen.
The rice is warm without being dry. The yolk coats every grain with a richness that isn't overwhelming, and the seasoning is so simple that each flavor has room to stand on its own. It's comforting in the same way chazuke always is—humble, uncomplicated, exactly the sort of meal that settles deep into one's chest after a difficult day.
An involuntary moan escapes the back of his throat.
Beside him, Dazai nearly jumps.
“Holy shit...” Atsushi mumbles around another bite before he can stop himself.
Whatever dignity he'd been trying to maintain disappears almost instantly as he digs enthusiastically into the rest of the meal. It isn't extravagant. It isn't complicated. Somehow, that only makes it better. The breakfast reminds him of the comfort meals he throws together for himself whenever work leaves him exhausted or he needs something dependable after a particularly bad day.
Soft laughter bubbles up beside him.
“Ooo, Atsushi,” Dazai teases, resting one cheek against his palm as he watches the older executive enthusiastically devour breakfast. “Who knew you had a potty mouth?” Only then does Dazai finally pick up his own chopsticks. “You know,” he continues between bites, “the last time I heard you curse like that was during training. You were yelling at Akutagawa.”
“I always curse at Akutagawa,” he replies matter-of-factly. “You'll have to be more specific.”
To his surprise, Dazai's cheeks immediately flush. “Oh?” His visible eye brightens almost dreamily. “Do you? Ah...I wish I can always be there to hear you snarl at him~”
The image alone seems enough to delight him.
Atsushi ducks his head sheepishly.
“I...I try not to do it in front of others,” he admits, absently stirring the rice with his chopsticks. “It's pretty unprofessional of me, but Akutagawa just—”
The words die on his tongue before he can finish them.
He doesn't listen.
He doesn't think.
Well...he does think, but only for about two seconds before barging headfirst into whatever half-baked plan has lodged itself in his mind. Then everything inevitably goes wrong, casualties start piling up, and Atsushi gets called in to clean up the aftermath before anyone else dies. It happens so consistently that Atsushi sometimes wonders if Akutagawa plans around the assumption that he'll eventually arrive to fix whatever disaster he's created.
Realizing where his thoughts are heading, Atsushi quickly shuts his mouth around another bite of rice.
No.
He doesn't need to spend breakfast complaining about work.
After swallowing, he looks back at Dazai and settles on a much simpler explanation. “Akutagawa has a way of getting under my skin like nobody else.” A small, almost mischievous smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as another comparison immediately comes to mind. “A bit like how Chuuya is the only—”
“UGHHH, NO! DON'T YOU DARE BRING HIM UP!” Dazai interrupts with a pitiful whine before lightly smacking Atsushi's shoulder, the childish gesture drawing an unexpected laugh from the older executive. “WE WERE HAVING SUCH A WONDERFUL CONVERSATION! YOU, ME, OUR HATRED FOR AKUTAGAWA, SO DON'T RUIN IT BY BRINGING CHIBI-CHAN UP!”
As Dazai's hand falls away from his shoulder, he mutters something beneath his breath.
“That slippery slug...cutting into my plans even when you're not even here...”
Atsushi has the distinct feeling he was supposed to miss that entirely. Unfortunately for Dazai, heightened hearing isn't something he can simply switch off whenever it's inconvenient.
Deciding not to embarrass the younger man by acknowledging it, Atsushi quietly lets the comment pass and instead turns his attention toward the untouched bacon resting beside his rice. Setting his chopsticks down, he picks up a strip between his fingers and takes a bite.
The crisp exterior gives way with a satisfying crunch before the smoky richness melts across his tongue. Atsushi manages to suppress the pleased moan threatening to escape this time, but a soft, contented chuff slips through his nose all the same.
Deep within his mind, Byakko answers with an approving rumble.
Apparently, the tiger enjoys Dazai's cooking even more than Atsushi does.
“Did I win Byakko's favor?” Dazai asks, immediately recognizing the soft chuff for what it truly is.
Atsushi can't help the small smile that answers the question.
Most people saw Byakko as nothing more than an ability—a weapon that happened to live inside his body. They spoke about her as though she were another limb or another technique to be deployed whenever violence became necessary. Dazai had never done that. Ever since he'd first learned about the tiger years ago, he'd spoken about her as though she were another person entirely, someone with opinions, preferences, and feelings independent of Atsushi himself.
“You've done more than just that, Dazai,” Atsushi says honestly before taking another bite of bacon. After swallowing, he adds, “This was very sweet of you to do. I deeply appreciate it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Dazai's visible eye brighten almost impossibly. The blush dusting his cheeks deepens another shade, and for just a moment he looks absurdly pleased with himself.
“Well,” Dazai says, unable to suppress the grin threatening to split his face in two, “I did just learn how to make bento boxes, so expect more of it!”
Atsushi's eyes widen so quickly he nearly inhales the bite of bacon still in his mouth. He coughs once into his fist before turning toward Dazai with what is meant to be a stern glare but probably comes across as more exasperated than intimidating.
“You don't actually intend to keep making me meals, do you?!”
Rather than looking embarrassed, Dazai somehow appears even more confused by the question. Perched atop the tall stool, he instinctively tries to lean back before remembering there's nothing behind him. Instead, the stool spins lazily beneath him as he rocks from side to side.
“Why wouldn't I?” he asks, the blush never leaving his face. “There's an old saying in European folklore that I believe rings true here in our country as well.” His smile softens into something almost smug. “‘The way to a man's heart is through his stomach.’”
Atsushi sighs through his nose. “I've heard the saying...” he admits.
How could he not?
Back before joining the Port Mafia, food had been something to survive for rather than something to enjoy. Even after entering the organization, he'd heard the proverb countless times from cooks, subordinates, and civilians alike whenever someone complimented a particularly good meal.
“I've only ever heard people use that saying as a compliment to the cook...usually when they're asking for seconds, not trying to court someone.”
The playful spinning abruptly stops. Dazai's stool falls still. When Atsushi looks back over, the younger man's expression has changed completely.
His smile remains, but there's something darker tucked behind it now. Possessive. Intent. The look settles over Atsushi with enough intensity that his stomach twists uneasily.
Atsushi actually does know. Years of reading have taught him more obscure animal behavior than he'll probably ever have use for. He opens his mouth to answer, but Dazai beats him to it.
“Showing a potential mate that you're capable of hunting and bringing them food.” Tilting his head ever so slightly, Dazai smiles in a way that makes Atsushi wonder, just for a second, which one of them is actually carrying a predator inside them. “And really, Atsushi...what are we if not a pair of civilized animals?”
The words settle over him with startling weight.
Atsushi's mouth goes dry. Heat rushes into his face so quickly that he has no choice but to look away, retreating to the safety of the breakfast sitting in front of him. His heart pounds hard enough that he's half convinced Dazai can hear it.
Just what the hell was that?
It takes him several long moments to collect himself. Even then, the words stumble out with an obvious stutter.
“Times have obviously changed since then.”
He tries to dismiss the argument, but the thought refuses to leave him alone.
If he were anyone else...If he were someone capable of loving another person the way they deserved to be loved…
Atsushi has the uncomfortable feeling he might have fallen for that line right then and there.
He quickly buries the thought before it can settle any deeper, clearing his throat as he finally forces himself to look back at Dazai. “And...” A faint, crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “You'll need to do more than cook me food if you want me to fall for you.”
Dazai lets out a long, theatrical sigh beside him, though it lacks any real disappointment. It sounds more like the weary exhale of someone who's heard the same argument countless times before and has already accepted that he'll simply have to keep trying. “Yeah, I know, your standards are unfairly high, but I intend to reach them.”
He pauses only briefly before adding in the same conversational tone, “And if I don't, I'll just slit my wrists and die.”
Atsushi nearly inhales the bacon still sitting in his mouth. Swallowing as quickly as he can, he fixes Dazai with the sort of tired stare that only years of friendship could produce. “Please don't do that—”
“Oh! Maybe I can use that as a way to get dates out of you!” Dazai interrupts, suddenly sitting up straighter as inspiration flashes across his face. Stars seem to glitter in his visible eye as he points excitedly toward Atsushi. “Atsushi, if you don't go on a date with me this afternoon, I'm going to hang myself in your living room!”
Atsushi's eyes narrow immediately, though not for the reason Dazai is probably expecting. “Ah—but the stench will stick to my furniture?!”
Dazai hums thoughtfully, genuinely considering the logistical flaw in his plan before nodding to himself. “In your office, then!”
Atsushi can only stare. Beneath the absurdity of the conversation, a knot of disappointment and genuine concern settles inside his chest. If Dazai ever truly decided to use his own life as leverage, Atsushi knows it would work. He wouldn't be able to gamble on the possibility that it was another joke.
“Dazai,” he says quietly, setting his chopsticks down for a moment, “please don't use your life as leverage to make me date you.”
Thankfully, Dazai isn't nearly as heartless as the rest of the Port Mafia often makes him out to be. The younger executive immediately deflates with an exaggerated pout, resting both elbows against the counter.
Fiiiiineeee.” His shoulders sag dramatically before he brightens again just a little. “But I do think I've earned myself a reward, don't you think?”
“A reward?” Atsushi repeats, genuinely confused.
Then realization dawns.
“For cooking?!” His voice rises in disbelief. “Everyone can cook, Dazai! I'm not going to reward you for something every proper adult can do with a little research and practice!”
Dazai hangs his head, looking thoroughly defeated, and for several peaceful seconds Atsushi assumes the matter has finally been dropped. Then, just loud enough for Atsushi to hear, Dazai quietly mumbles, “Aww man...and I worked so hard on it too...”
…
It's such an obvious guilt trip.
After the suicide comments, this tactic is infinitely easier to deal with, yet somehow it manages to worm its way beneath Atsushi's defenses in an entirely different way. His gaze drifts down to the now-empty plate resting in front of him. The breakfast had been wonderful. Comforting. Thoughtful. And when was the last time someone had come into his home and cooked for him? More importantly, when had Dazai—someone who struggled to take care of himself most days—ever done something like this for anyone else?
The answer is obvious enough that Atsushi's resolve begins to crumble.
With a slow, resigned sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“...Fine,” he mutters. “One date.”
The words seem to short-circuit Dazai completely. His body gives a tiny jolt before his expression goes utterly blank, as though his mind has abruptly stopped functioning and is desperately trying to reboot itself. Atsushi decides he'd better keep talking before he has the chance to regret what just came out of his mouth.
“But I don't want to go to a fancy restaurant,” he says firmly. “And it can't be in Yokohama.”
Dazai opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
Nothing comes out.
The silence stretches on for several seconds before he finally clears his throat, his voice noticeably quieter than before.
“This isn't out of pity, is it—?”
“It's your reward for making me a good meal,” Atsushi replies before the question can linger any longer. “You can choose the place so long as it meets my prior criteria.”
Another long silence settles between them.
Then, slowly, a blush begins creeping across Dazai's cheeks once again, spreading all the way to the tips of his ears.
…its really cute.
Atsushi watches it for perhaps a second longer than he should before looking away. It's a shame, really. If circumstances were different...if Dazai had fallen for someone capable of returning those feelings...he imagines that blush would be a wonderful thing to admire.
“I'll make sure you enjoy yourself thoroughly, Atsushi,” Dazai promises with a small bow of his head, offering more respect than Atsushi is fairly certain anyone else in the organization has ever managed to coax out of him.
Atsushi can't help the amused huff that escapes him. Sliding off his stool, he gathers both of their empty plates into his arms and carries them toward the sink.
“Let's clean these dishes and get ready for work.”
Despite being the one who cooked breakfast, Dazai makes no move whatsoever to help wash up. Normally Atsushi might have scolded him for it, but today he lets it slide. Pulling a pair of long rubber gloves over his hands, he squirts dish soap across the porcelain and turns on the faucet, welcoming the familiar rhythm of warm water and scrubbing.
Warm water runs over Atsushi's gloved hands as he continues scrubbing at the plates, his movements slow and methodical. The repetitive rhythm usually quiets his thoughts. Today, it only gives them room to wander.
“Why can't you love me?”
The voice arrives so suddenly that Atsushi's grip tightens around the porcelain.
He keeps scrubbing.
“Why...when I love you so much?”
His jaw clenches. Soap begins to foam thicker beneath his fingers as he unconsciously presses the sponge harder against the plate.
“I see…”
The words curl around his mind with cruel familiarity.
“You're just incapable of love.”
Atsushi lowers his head, staring into the sink until the water blurs the reflection looking back at him. His hands continue their steady work, scrubbing just a little harder than necessary, as though enough pressure might erase the voice along with the grease.
It doesn't.
So he buries it where he always does, forcing the memory back into the darkest corner of his mind before it has the chance to linger.
By the time the last dish is rinsed clean, his expression has settled into its usual tired calm, giving no indication that anything had disturbed him at all.