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Some days, nothing seems more inviting than the serene surface of the ocean. Those days are more common for Dazai than for anyone else. He gazes out over the water where lazy waves roll one over another, whispering to him with their gentle murmur. The ocean’s endless expanse stretches into the horizon. What would it feel like to submerge in this vast calmness? Would the water seep into his body and finally silence the noise in his head?
A gust of wind blows by, carrying a fresh scent of the ocean with it. Dazai closes his eyes and breathes in until he feels as though his lungs could burst. His hair dances in the wind, as if it possessed a will of its own. A bitter taste of salt stings his tongue when he licks his lips. Is this how it would feel down there in the water?
“What are you doing?” a voice asks from somewhere nearby, a familiar sound. It sends a wave of warmth down Dazai’s body, releasing the icy grip the ocean had on his heart.
“What do you think I’m doing?” Dazai responds, his mouth curving into a smile.
“If you’re thinking about jumping in…” the voice replies, trailing off. “You know my opinion on that.”
Dazai opens his eyes. If he turns to his right, he will find a boy with a warm smile and eyes made of sunset. A smile is still on his face, ready to mirror Atsushi’s own, a rare one that doesn’t feel foreign on his face like a mask. His heart beats a little harder in his chest, a little faster, waking him back to life. He turns—
No one is there.
Dazai frowns. He’s grown so accustomed to finding Atsushi by his side that it gives him pause when he realizes that he’s alone. He checks on his left, scans the people scattered around the park, but there’s no sign of a familiar head of silver hair and the black and white outfit.
Strange.
“I should sleep more,” Dazai mumbles to himself, running a hand through his hair. Perhaps the wind played a trick on his ears. He shouldn’t let himself get distracted so easily when there’s always something lurking in the shadows of Yokohama, waiting for the Armed Detective Agency’s moment of weakness.
The ocean breeze seems colder now, and the sun, though still bright, feels distant. When Dazai glances back at the water now, it no longer appears as inviting as before. On a closer look, he spots mist rising from its surface, a sure sign of how cold it would be in contact with his skin. Freezing to death must be an excruciatingly painful experience which is far from the peaceful end he’s seeking. The waves seem to whisper a different story now, one of icy depths and relentless currents.
Dazai turns away from the water, directing his steps towards the Agency.
*
Once can be a coincidence. Twice is a pattern.
On the slow days at the Agency, Dazai usually finds some excuse to leave the office. The incessant tapping of keyboards and the rustling of paper in the otherwise quiet room quickly becomes unbearable, so it’s better for him to get out of there sooner than later. Annoyance can make him slip too easily—push his jokes one step too far, say one word too many. The Agency doesn’t deserve to deal with Dazai at his worst.
He ends up at a bar. It’s some random hole-in-the-wall he’s never set foot in before. Since the hour is still early, it’s almost empty, with only a middle-aged bartender behind the counter and a single customer swaying on a stool, clearly already intoxicated. There’s nothing special about this place, just colorless walls and worn-out seats in the booths. The air smells faintly of spilled beer and stale smoke. Most people would avoid this kind of suspicious location, but it’s just what Dazai needs. Even if the whiskey here leaves a lot to be desired, at least it will sting his throat enough to serve its purpose while he thinks.
As he approaches the counter, he leans against it casually, maintaining a comfortable distance from the other customer. The bartender is busy wiping a glass, and Dazai catches his attention with a small, polite smile. His thoughts drift back to the events of the previous day while he waits to order.
What was that? Was Atsushi real or just a figment of Dazai’s imagination? The voice was as clear as day. Dazai could never mistake Atsushi for anyone else.
Is this someone’s ability, or am I just losing my mind?
Dostoyevsky is gone. Fukuchi is gone. Is there a new, unforeseen threat Dazai didn’t anticipate? The idea gnaws at him, each thought a new seed of doubt sprouting in his mind.
A cold shiver travels down Dazai’s spine. This situation reminds him too much of the time that’s forever ingrained in his memory, when his mistakes cost him the life of a dear friend. His chest tightens with the phantom pain of old wounds. Control is slipping through his fingers again and it feels like falling from a tall building with no ground to meet him below.
The bartender has been polishing the same glass for at least ten minutes now. The dishcloth he’s using doesn’t seem to be doing much to clean the glass, considering how dirty it looks even from the distance, and Dazai is losing his patience. He raises his hand to get his attention when he hears someone speak to him.
“Isn’t it a little too early for a drink?”
Startled, Dazai jerks his head in the direction of the voice. For a fraction of a moment he sees a flash of Atsushi’s face—the exasperated but fond smile he often directs at Dazai when he’s had enough of his antics, his bright eyes like the sunsets frozen in time. The sight is so vivid, so real, it’s like a punch to the gut.
Then he’s gone again, leaving Dazai staring straight at the drunkard by the bar.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” the guy spits out, growling. His breath reeks of alcohol and his eyes are bloodshot, unfocused.
Dazai only blinks at him in confusion as his mind takes a moment to catch up.
With no response from Dazai, the guy clumsily slips off the bar stool, barely avoiding falling to the floor in the process, and slowly advances towards Dazai. He’s clearly itching for a fight, his movements clumsy but full of intent.
Dazai gives up on the drink and decides to leave the bar before things escalate. He pushes away from the counter, making his way to the door with deliberate calmness, not wanting to provoke the drunkard any further.
“Yeah, I’m definitely losing my mind,” he murmurs to himself as the door to the bar closes behind him. The noise of the bar fades, replaced by the quiet hum of the city outside. He takes a deep breath, but the heavy, unsettled feeling in his stomach remains.
*
“Atsushi-kun, do you remember when you told me about the visions you had of me when I was in prison?” Dazai asks when they’re on the way back to the office after a successfully finished case.
It was a straightforward one, just a simple search for a missing person who turned out to be a kid running from home. Atsushi didn’t even need his help with tracking the runaway, and Dazai had a suspicion Kunikida simply wanted him out of the office—which, in all fairness, was fully understandable.
The streets of Yokohama are bustling as they walk. Neon signs flicker to life as dusk approaches, casting colorful reflections on the pavement. It’s been a few days since Dazai’s last “hallucination”, or whatever that was. Atsushi is real this time. Dazai has double-checked, just to be sure, but a triple-check won’t hurt, so he brushes his shoulder against Atsushi’s again. If he’s more touchy with Atsushi than usual, Atsushi doesn’t comment on it. He’s been smiling to himself all the way back to the office, clearly proud of himself for dealing with this case so quickly, and he has every right to feel that way. Normally, Dazai would offer him a little praise, maybe even buy him a bowl of chazuke with Kunikida’s wallet to celebrate, but a strange anxiety settled within him ever since he first heard Atsushi’s voice in his head.
Atsushi looks up. A hint of red adorns his cheeks, but he looks away before Dazai has a chance to comment on it. The fading light highlights the gentle curve of his smile.
“Of course I do,” he mumbles. “Why do you ask?”
I think I see you too now, Dazai imagines himself saying.
How would Atsushi react? Accustomed to Dazai’s usual antics, he would assume that Dazai was pulling his leg at first. If Dazai let himself sound a little more honest, it would probably make Atsushi stop in his tracks in the middle of the sidewalk. He’d be a bit confused, trying to make sense of Dazai’s words. When the truth sank in, his cheeks would surely flush an even deeper shade of red than they already are, and Dazai would never stop teasing him about it.
Yet Dazai doesn’t say those words aloud. Instead, he looks at Atsushi and wonders how the boy can remain so blissfully unaware of the immense impact he’s had on Dazai’s life. They’ve known each other for only a few short months, but so much has happened since then. The thought weighs heavily on Dazai, a mix of gratitude and something deeper that he can’t quite name.
His lips curl up into a familiar teasing smirk, much more comfortable than the honesty he was about to spill. Wearing a playful mask is easier, the reactions to it easier to anticipate.
“I was just wondering if you’re still dreaming about me. How do I look there? Am I more handsome in person or in your dreams?”
Atsushi lets out a weary sigh, shaking his head. “Dazai-san, please. Don’t make me regret telling you.”
Dazai laughs, ruffling Atsushi’s hair as the boy tries to bat his hands away, but the laugh sounds empty in his own ears.
*
There’s a bottle of sake on the table. It’s knocked over and Dazai doesn’t even notice the leftover liquid spill onto the small table while he’s absorbed in his own thoughts. With his head resting on the table, he lazily traces the words on the label with his eyes, one cheek pressed against the smooth surface. The dim light of his apartment casts long shadows, and the faint hum of the city outside seeps through the thin walls.
His mind is fuzzy. It’s a pleasant sensation, but it’s not enough. Insistent thoughts still crowd in his head and he wants them to stop, he wants them gone, even if only for a few hours before they come back full force. The numbing haze of alcohol offers a temporary escape, a brief respite from the relentless torrent of his consciousness.
A few more glasses of sake will do the trick.
He reaches for the bottle to fill his glass again when he hears a voice.
“Dazai-san,” it says. Just three simple syllables, but it’s enough to be Dazai’s undoing.
He squeezes his eyes shut. Even if Atsushi is only a product of his imagination, he doesn’t want him to see him in this state. Shame and despair twist together in his gut, tightening their grip with every passing second.
He remembers clearly the moment Atsushi told him about his own visions.
The office was quiet. Everyone was still struggling to regain their normal routine after the intensity of their fight against the Decay of Angels. Few new cases came in as the citizens of Yokohama were slowly learning to trust the Armed Detective Agency again. Dazai was lying on the office sofa, eyes closed but not asleep, until Atsushi sat next to him.
The room had been filled with the soft rustling of paper and the occasional click of a keyboard, a fragile peace that felt almost sacred after the chaos they had endured. Atsushi thanked him then, for the words Dazai apparently had said to him, a voice clear in Atsushi’s head somehow despite the distance and thick prison walls between them. He insisted those words helped him push forward and find the right way when the situation was dire, as if Dazai his personal guiding light.
Dazai smiled and joked in response, not letting it show how much the revelation froze the blood in his veins. The weight of those words hung heavy in the air, a silent testament to the unintended influence he wielded.
Manipulation is the best trick in his arsenal. He’s honed this skill over the years, learned it straight from the very best at the craft. It’s what allowed him to keep Akutagawa on a tight leash, which seemed like the most effective way to deal with him back then. The consequences of that strategy still haunt him to this day, but he was trying to do things differently this time, he really was. Turns out the effect is still the same—a puppet that Dazai created according to his whims.
He didn’t want to do it to Atsushi, never to him. He shouldn’t have become involved. All he does is break and destroy, especially the things he cares about. There’s no way his words will do any good for Atsushi. One day, Dazai’s voice in his mind will turn sour and ruin him.
Dazai is no role model. Following in his footsteps is a sure path to hell.
“You are good,” Atsushi’s voice in Dazai’s head insists.
Dazai reaches behind himself without looking. His hand easily finds a new full bottle, and he chugs gulp after gulp until unconsciousness takes him and the bottle falls out of his hand. The room spins and the soft thud of the bottle hitting the floor is the last sound he hears before darkness envelops him, a bittersweet escape, if only for a moment.
*
“Is everything okay?”
Startled, Dazai jumps in his seat before he can remember that he’s at the Agency office and it’s perfectly normal for Atsushi to actually be here, not just in Dazai’s head.
Nothing is okay. He’s barely sleeping these days. Whenever he has an urge to do something even remotely self-destructive, Atsushi’s voice appears in his head, urging him to stop with gentle words and encouragements. Dazai has given up on trying to make sense of it all.
By now, Atsushi must’ve noticed Dazai’s strange reactions towards him, but he hasn’t said a word about it yet. The office around them is bustling with the usual sounds: the soft clicking of keyboards, the rustling of papers, and the occasional murmur of conversation. It’s a familiar symphony that should be comforting but feels strangely distant.
Dazai averts his gaze from the computer screen, where a blinking cursor mocks him on a blank document he should be working on.
“Of course. I'm peachy!” He grins, but he can feel Atsushi’s eyes search his face too closely for comfort. The smile feels tight on his face, almost like a mask that doesn’t fit properly. “If only this report could write itself, though,” he adds in a whine, a weak attempt to deflect the attention from himself.
Atsushi doesn’t look convinced, but it’s the best Dazai can do at this moment. He can’t summon the energy to fake his usual level of cheerfulness and be the Dazai they have all become accustomed to. He feels like an actor who played in the same tv series for too long until he’s outgrown his role.
Not unlike the vision of him in Dazai’s head, this Atsushi sees too much too. Some time later, he leaves his desk for the office kitchenette and the faint sound of a boiling kettle reaches Dazai’s ears. The gentle hum of the kettle is a brief distraction, a small comfort amidst the chaos in his mind. When Atsushi returns, a scent of jasmine tea wafts around him. He approaches Dazai, holding two cups, and without saying a word, he places one of them in front of him.
Dazai looks into the steam rising from the cup, feeling the warmth hit his face. As he peers at the surface of the tea, he catches a glimpse of a distorted reflection of himself, with tired eyes marked by prominent dark circles.
He should've done something to hide them before he left for work in the morning.
“It’s strange to be back at the office as if nothing happened, isn’t it?” Atsushi says quietly, looking into his own cup. The softness in his voice contrasts with the heavy thoughts weighing on Dazai’s mind. “I still expect something to leap out on us from and attack at every moment. I can’t believe we can still sit here together, deal with simple cases where nobody wants to kill us, and write our reports.”
Dazai lets his eyes flutter close. “Yeah, me neither,” he murmurs, the words barely louder than silence.
*
What follows is a series of miserable days. Dazai feels tired, but it’s an exhaustion that’s settled deep in his bones, weighing him down. No amount of rest can ever make it better.
He lays sprawled on the floor of his apartment with the unforgiving hardwood against his back, a dull throb in his head pulsing with every ragged breath. Alcohol buzzes in his veins, but he doesn’t have enough for it to make the constant noise quieten in his mind. If only getting up to get more didn’t feel like an impossible task right now.
Suddenly, Atsushi comes into his view.
“Go away,” Dazai mutters, fatigue lacing his voice, even though his hallucinations always do what they want, ignoring all his pleas to be left alone. It would solve half of his problems if he could just make them disappear with a few words, but that seems to be too much to wish for.
Atsushi kneels on the floor next to him. He remains silent, but the worry etched on his face speaks volumes. The room is dim, the only light filtering through the dirty window, casting shadows that flicker as Atsushi moves closer.
“Nothing to say this time?” Dazai scoffs. “Something about how good I am or how I should take better care of myself or any other bullshit?”
Atsushi frowns, his brows knitting together. “Dazai-san, what are you—”
“I see you all the time, everywhere,” Dazai cuts him off, his voice ragged. “No matter where I look, you’re there. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
“What are you talking about?”
Dazai’s eyes narrow, searching for any sign that this Atsushi is different from the ones he’s been seeing. But the concern in Atsushi’s eyes is too genuine, the warmth in his presence too real. Dazai’s chest tightens as a mix of relief and confusion washes over him.
“Are you... real?” Dazai asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He reaches out a trembling hand, half-expecting it to pass through Atsushi like smoke, but Atsushi catches it, holding tightly.
“Yes, Dazai-san,” Atsushi says, his voice firm. “I’m real. I’m here. But you’re scaring me a little. Are you okay?”
For a moment, Dazai just stares, the touch grounding him in a way that feels almost foreign. The weight on his chest eases just enough for him to take a full breath. The relentless fog in his mind begins to lift, even if only slightly.
“I’ve been worried about you,” Atsushi continues. “We all have. You’ve been... distant.”
That’s one way to put it, Dazai thinks. Even if he knew how to explain it all, the jumbled thoughts that crowd his mind, he’s too tired to try. Words fail him, slipping away like water through his fingers.
He curls his fingers tighter around Atsushi’s hand instead. “Can we stay like this?”
Atsushi offers a faint smile, even if worry still lingers in his eyes. “Of course,” he says, settling more comfortably beside Dazai. The floor must be sticky from all the spilled alcohol and Dazai feels a pang of regret for keeping Atsushi there, but the warmth radiating from Atsushi is a comfort he can’t resist.
He doesn’t want to let go yet.