Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Death.
It was something he had been chasing since the age of fourteen. Yet, against all odds, he made it to twenty-three. Was the world mocking him? Laughing as it dangled fate in front of him like some cruel joke? He should be grateful, shouldn’t he? The sweet embrace of death is finally within reach, and for once, he doesn’t even have to lift a finger.

So why does it feel so bitter?

Stage four lung cancer. All those years of rotting in a shipping container, breathing in sewage and filth, had finally caught up to him. Ironic. He had spent years flirting with death, only for it to claim him in the one way he never planned for.

The whole situation was laughable. The suicidal maniac, wishing he wasn’t dying? Maybe it was never about death. Maybe it was about
purpose. Because without one, why bother prolonging existence?

But now—now that his end is certain—he finds himself hesitating.

Maybe he was just a coward. Always flaunting suicide, always waiting for death to take him, yet never fully committing. A lifetime spent dancing on the edge, only to hesitate when the fall finally came.

Was that it, then? Had he been lying to himself all along?

The thought made him laugh—low and bitter. He’d always worn death like a second skin, let it slip into his words, his gestures, his very existence. And yet, here he was, faced with the one certainty he never had to orchestrate himself, and for the first time, he felt something almost like regret.

How utterly ridiculous.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling of his dimly lit apartment. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and lingering traces of cheap alcohol. His body felt heavy—tired in a way he wasn’t used to. It wasn’t the kind of exhaustion that came from sleepless nights or reckless fights. This was deeper. Final.

He exhaled, slow and measured.

Maybe he should tell someone. Not for their sake, but for his own amusement. How would they react? Would Kunikida get that deep crease in his forehead, his mouth pressed into a thin line as if he could somehow lecture Dazai into being healthy? Would Atsushi look at him with those wide, pitying eyes? Would Chuuya—

Dazai shut his eyes.

No. He wouldn’t tell Chuuya.

Not because he was afraid of the reaction, but because he already knew it. Chuuya wouldn’t waste time on pity. He wouldn’t offer kind words or empty reassurances. No, Chuuya would get mad. He’d spit curses, call him an idiot, demand to know why he hadn’t done anything about it sooner—why he always had to be so goddamn difficult.

And Dazai… Dazai wasn’t sure he had the energy to fight back.

A slow, humorless smile curled at his lips.

Maybe he really was a coward.

He’d have to tell the Agency.

But how?

"Hey guys! I know we just barely defeated Fyodor and we're finally getting back to normal, but surprise! I have stage four lung cancer and about six months to live!"

Yeah, that would go over well.

Dazai let his head fall back against the couch with a sigh before pushing himself to his feet. His body protested the movement, joints aching with a sluggishness that hadn’t been there before. He ignored it. There was only one solution to a problem like this—cheap booze and the illusion of control.

Maybe if he drank enough, he could drown the cancer along with everything else.

The thought made him laugh—short, dry, humorless.

He shuffled to the small kitchenette, pulling open the cabinet where he kept a collection of bottom-shelf alcohol. He had better taste than this, once upon a time. But now? Now he just needed something strong enough to burn. He grabbed a bottle at random, twisting off the cap and taking a deep swig. The liquor scorched his throat, settling like fire in his stomach.

Good.

He leaned against the counter, bottle dangling from his fingers, and let his mind drift. How long could he put it off? Telling the Agency, that is. A month? Two? Would they even notice before his body made the decision for him?

Kunikida would, of course. The man was too perceptive for his own good, and it wouldn’t take long for him to realize something was off. Dazai could already imagine the way Kunikida’s brows would knit together, suspicion giving way to frustration, then anger, then—

Pity.

Dazai took another drink.

That was the worst part, wasn’t it? He didn’t want their sympathy. He didn’t want soft voices or careful glances or people walking on eggshells around him. He wanted things to stay the same. For Kunikida to scold him, for Atsushi to look up to him with that misplaced admiration, for Ranpo to mock him in that lazy, knowing way.

But time was running out.

And soon, whether he wanted it or not, everything was going to change.

He woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and the unmistakable weight of regret pressing against his skull. His mouth was dry, his stomach unsettled, and his entire body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry.

Perfect.

Dazai groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he forced himself upright. Empty bottles littered the floor, evidence of last night’s attempt to drink his problems away. Unfortunately, all he’d succeeded in doing was giving himself a headache and delaying the inevitable.

He should get up. Should clean, should at least pretend to be a functioning human being before someone—probably Kunikida—showed up to yell at him for being late. But the moment he swung his legs over the side of the couch, his stomach twisted violently in protest.

Ah.

Dazai barely made it to the sink before he was coughing up the remnants of last night’s drinking spree. The action left him breathless, his chest aching in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. He braced himself against the counter, panting.

It was getting worse.

He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, swallowing down the taste of bile. The dizziness would pass. It always did. He just had to keep moving.

With slow, deliberate movements, he washed his face, ran a hand through his hair, and threw on a fresh coat. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him look somewhat presentable. He could fake his way through the day. He’d done it before.

The Agency would suspect nothing.

At least, that was the plan—until he stepped outside and nearly walked straight into Kunikida.

Dazai blinked, caught off guard. Kunikida, on the other hand, just narrowed his eyes.

“You’re late,” he said, voice clipped with irritation.

Dazai forced a lazy smile. “Ah, Kunikida-kun! How cruel—you didn’t even give me a chance to make a grand entrance.”

Kunikida crossed his arms. “You look like hell.”

Dazai laughed, light and easy, as if his entire body wasn’t screaming in protest. “Flattery so early in the morning? I must be special.”

Kunikida didn’t smile. His sharp gaze flickered over Dazai, and for a brief second, there was something else there—concern, maybe. Suspicion.

Dazai ignored it.

He clapped a hand on Kunikida’s shoulder, steering them both toward the Agency. “Come on, let’s go! The world isn’t going to save itself.”

Kunikida grumbled but didn’t push.

For now, Dazai could pretend.

Chapter Text

Dazai was a good actor. A master of performance, always dancing just out of reach, his movements effortless, his lines rehearsed to perfection. But his stage wasn’t a theater—it was the world itself. And the audience? Everyone who thought they knew him.

Smiles and laughter masked the empty shell beneath, an illusion so well-crafted that even he almost believed it sometimes. So lying to the Agency about his health—well, that was easy.

Unfortunately for Dazai, the Agency knew him.

The cracks in his act were subtle at first, barely noticeable. His usual laziness became exhaustion. His ever-present smirk faded just a little too soon. And then there was the cough.

The first time, no one said anything.

The second time, glances were exchanged.

By the third, the air in the office shifted, tension creeping in at the edges of their conversations. He could feel their eyes on him, sharp and questioning, but no one spoke of it. Not yet.

Except, of course, for the one person who never let things slide.

“You’re sick.”

Yosano’s voice cut through the air, matter-of-fact and unwavering.

Dazai, mid-page flip of a stolen newspaper, barely lifted his gaze. “Eh? You wound me, Yosano-sensei. Are you implying that I, the picture of perfect health, could be anything but?”

“I assume you’re not going to let me give you a check-up right now,” Yosano said, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unwavering. “So get some cold medicine and take it easy. But if it gets worse, I will force you into my clinic.”

How troublesome.

Dazai hummed, tapping a finger against his chin as if considering her words. “Ah, Yosano-sensei, your concern is touching! But truly, there’s no need. A little cough never hurt anyone.”

Yosano’s eyes narrowed. “A little cough doesn’t leave someone looking like that.”

Dazai tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Like what?”

“Like you haven’t slept in a week,” she said bluntly. “Like you’ve been running on fumes for months. And don’t even try to blame Kunikida for overworking you—I know you haven’t done a single report in weeks.”

Dazai sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Ah, to be so distrusted! Whatever happened to faith in one’s coworkers?”

Yosano rolled her eyes. “Save the act. You know I don’t fall for it.”

Unfortunate. But expected.

Dazai merely grinned, the picture of ease, before lazily folding his newspaper and standing. “Well, since you’re so worried about me, I suppose I’ll be kind and take my leave early today. After all, rest is the best medicine, isn’t it?”

Yosano watched him with clear suspicion, but she didn’t stop him. “Just don’t be stupid,” she muttered.

Dazai, as always, ignored perfectly good advice.

---

The late afternoon air was crisp as he stepped outside, the sun casting long shadows across the pavement. He slipped his hands into his coat pockets, exhaling softly.

That had been close.

He knew Yosano wouldn’t drop it. None of them would, not once they started noticing. And now that they had, his time was running out in more ways than one.

How incredibly annoying.

————
The breeze was pleasant, carrying the last warmth of the afternoon as the sun dipped lower in the sky. His feet moved without direction, without thought, until he found himself here—where he always ended up when he was tired of pretending.

Oda’s grave.

Dazai sank down beside the gravestone, resting his head against the cool stone. The tree overhead provided a comfortable shade, its leaves rustling softly in the wind. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, letting his eyes flutter shut.

Then he inhaled. And coughed.

Hard.

The fit tore through him without warning, sharp and relentless. He doubled over, pressing a hand to his mouth as his body rebelled against him. It didn’t stop. His vision blurred, lungs burning, until finally—finally—it passed.

Dazai sucked in a shallow breath, wiping his hand against his pants—

Pause.

Blood.

Dark red, smeared across his palm.

He stared.

Then, without meaning to, he laughed. A short, breathless chuckle that bubbled up into something louder, something uncontrollable, something bordering on hysteria. He laughed and laughed, shoulders shaking, head thrown back against the stone.

Because of course.

Of course, it had come to this.

All those years teasing death, and now it had finally crept up on him, slipping past his defenses in the quiet, inescapable form of his own body failing him.

How ironic. How fitting.

He pressed a trembling hand to his face, smothering the last of his laughter. His chest ached—not just from the coughing, not just from the illness, but from something deeper, something nameless.

Dazai sighed, letting his head rest against Oda’s name once more.

“I guess I don’t have to try anymore,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

The wind carried his words away, and for the first time in a long while, there was no answer.

———

A restless night.

Dazai tossed and turned, caught in a haze of half-consciousness, sleep slipping through his fingers like sand. His body ached—his chest tight, his throat raw—but eventually, exhaustion won. Sleep wrapped around him, pulling him under.

And then—

A knock. No, pounding.

“Dazai! Open up! You’re late for work—even more than usual!”

Ah. That’s what he forgot to do. Set his alarm.

With a groan, Dazai forced himself upright, his limbs heavy and unwilling. Before he could even make it to the door, it slammed open, Kunikida standing in the doorway like the wrath of God himself.

“Good morning, Kunikida~! You seem to be in such a pleasant mood,” Dazai crooned, his voice rough and scratchy from sleep—and other things.

Kunikida rolled his eyes, clapping his hands together once in irritation. “Get ready. Now.”

Dazai whined, stretching dramatically before shuffling off to the bathroom, dragging his feet the entire way.

Kunikida sighed and sat down in one of the rickety chairs in Dazai’s small kitchenette, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. He glanced around the cluttered space, unimpressed but unsurprised. The place was a mess—crumpled papers, empty bottles, discarded clothes—

Wait.

His eyes caught on a pile of clothes in the corner. Normally, he wouldn’t spare them a second glance. It was Dazai after all. But there, on the pant leg, was something that made his stomach drop.

A dark smear. Deep red.

Blood.

Kunikida’s fingers twitched. His rational mind told him it could be from a case—Dazai was reckless, always getting into fights he barely put effort into winning. But something felt off.

He stared at it, at the dried, rust-colored stain against the fabric.

And for the first time, an uneasy thought settled in his gut.

Something was wrong with Dazai.

Chapter Text

Kunikida, with the patience of a saint—or perhaps just a man too stubborn to give up—eventually managed to drag Dazai’s lazy, uncooperative body to the Agency.  

Of course, the moment they arrived, Dazai made a point of not touching the ever-growing pile of paperwork on his desk. Instead, with all the enthusiasm of a man with absolutely no responsibilities, he strolled off to pester the Agency’s resident tiger.  

Kunikida pinched the bridge of his nose. Typical.  

But he wasn’t about to let this slide. Not today.  

With a sharp inhale, he turned on his heel and made a beeline for Yosano. She barely had time to glance up before she felt a small but firm tug on her coat sleeve.  

“Hm?” She blinked, then raised an eyebrow as she took in Kunikida’s uncharacteristically tense posture.  

“Come with me,” he muttered under his breath, voice low enough to avoid drawing attention.  

Curiosity flickered in her gaze, but she didn’t argue. She followed, heels clicking softly against the floor as Kunikida led her down the hall. A quiet click sounded as he shut the door behind them, sealing them inside the Agency’s medical office.  

Then, almost in perfect unison, they both spoke:  

“Something is wrong with Dazai.”  

Silence.  

Yosano crossed her arms. “I knew it,” she muttered. “You’ve noticed too, huh?”  

Kunikida exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “He’s always been reckless, but this is different. He looks—” He hesitated, his lips pressing into a tight line before settling on, “—worse.”  

“He’s hiding something,” Yosano said bluntly.  

Kunikida nodded. “I saw blood on his clothes this morning.”  

That made Yosano still. “How much?”  

“A smear. Not fresh, but enough to be concerning. And I don’t remember him coming back from any cases injured.”  

Yosano’s gaze darkened. “Neither do I.”  

A heavy pause settled between them, tension thick in the air.  

Kunikida inhaled, steadied himself. “We need to find out what’s going on. If it’s something serious—”  

“It is something serious,” Yosano cut in, her voice sharp with certainty. “Dazai might be good at lying, but his body isn’t. The way he moves, the way he coughs—it’s not just exhaustion.”  

Kunikida clenched his fists. “Then we don’t wait. We force his hand.”  

Yosano smirked, cracking her knuckles. “Finally, something I am allowed to beat him up for.”  

It was meant as a joke, but neither of them laughed.  

Because if Dazai really was sick—if he was in trouble—  

They had no idea just how much time they had left to help him. 

———

Once Dazai successfully sweet-talked Atsushi into taking half of his workload—because really, what were juniors for if not doing the work their seniors so graciously delegated?—he flopped down into his desk chair with a satisfied sigh.  

Pause.  

No yell from Kunikida.  

Odd.  

Usually, by now, there’d be a righteous outburst about responsibility, duty, or some nonsense about teamwork —as if Kunikida wasn’t just enabling Dazai’s habit of pawning off paperwork onto the nearest unsuspecting victim.  

Curious, Dazai glanced over at Kunikida’s desk.  

Empty.  

Hm.  

His gaze drifted next to Yosano’s desk. Also empty.  

Uh oh.  

Problem in paradise.  

Yosano and Kunikida missing at the same time? That wasn’t a coincidence. That was a conspiracy.

Dazai leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers idly against the armrest. It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. He hadn’t exactly been careful—he knew that. But still, for them to pick up on it this quickly…  

A small smirk curled at the edges of his lips. Impressive.

He supposed that meant he needed to start covering his tracks better.  

Or, more realistically, he needed to be prepared for whatever they were planning to pull next.  

Because if he knew anything about Kunikida and Yosano, it was that they weren’t the type to let things go.  

And when they wanted answers?  

They got them. One way or another.

—

Dazai barely had time to sit up before he heard the distinct sound of heels clicking against the floor, followed closely by the measured, deliberate steps of a man on a mission.

Ah. So they were already making their move.

He schooled his expression into something pleasant just as Yosano and Kunikida appeared in his periphery. Both wore matching looks of suspicion—though, in Yosano’s case, there was a touch more amusement, like a cat toying with its prey.

“Oh? Back so soon?” Dazai drawled, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I was just about to start working, you know.”

Kunikida’s eye twitched. “No, you weren’t.”

“Such little faith in me! It wounds my heart.”

Yosano ignored his theatrics entirely, instead scanning him with a practiced eye. Whatever she saw only deepened the frown on her face.

“Up,” she ordered.

Dazai blinked. “Pardon?”

“Up,” she repeated, jerking her chin toward the hallway. “We’re doing a check-up. Now. ”

Dazai sighed dramatically. “Yosano-sensei, I appreciate the concern, truly, but I assure you, I’m in perfect health—”

Yosano’s patience, it seemed, had already run dry. She reached down, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him to his feet with zero regard for his protests.

Dazai barely had time to react before Kunikida was gripping his arm, effectively preventing any escape.

“I’d suggest you walk on your own,” Kunikida said, voice tight with irritation, “but if you’d prefer to be dragged across the floor, I’m more than happy to oblige.”

Dazai sighed, shoulders slumping in resignation. “How cruel.”

But he let them lead him toward the infirmary all the same.

He supposed he could humor them.

For now.

—

The infirmary was quiet, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights.

Dazai sat on the exam table, legs swinging idly as Yosano rummaged through a cabinet, pulling out supplies with an air of efficiency. Kunikida stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching him like a hawk.

Honestly, the whole setup was a little excessive.

“So,” Dazai said, tone light, “is this the part where you finally cut me open to see if I’m actually human?”

Yosano didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she snapped on a pair of gloves and gestured for him to sit still. “Shirt off.”

Dazai blinked. “Oh, Yosano-sensei, at least buy me dinner first—”

“Shirt. Off. ”

Kunikida sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just do it, Dazai.”

Grumbling under his breath, Dazai unbuttoned his coat, then his shirt, letting it slide down his shoulders. Yosano’s gaze swept over him, sharp and clinical.

Her frown deepened.

Even Kunikida, for all his professionalism, stiffened slightly at the sight.

Dazai was thin. Too thin. His ribs were more pronounced than they should have been, his skin stretched a little too tightly over his frame. There were bruises along the visible part of his skin—some faded, some fresh—telling a story neither of them had been around to witness.

But what caught Yosano’s attention the most was the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

Too shallow. Too uneven.

She pressed two fingers against his wrist, feeling for his pulse. Then she reached for her stethoscope, pressing it to his chest.

“Breathe in,” she instructed.

Dazai did as told.

The moment the sound reached her ears, her expression darkened.

A rattle. The kind that spoke of something deep, something wrong.

She moved the stethoscope lower. “Again.”

Another inhale. Another rattle.

Kunikida shifted, uneasy. “Well?”

Yosano pulled back, lips pressing into a thin line.

“I’ll need to run some tests,” she said, voice carefully even. “But this isn’t just a cold.”

Dazai tilted his head, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh? Do I finally have the plague?”

Yosano didn’t smile. “No jokes, Dazai. I’m serious.”

And that was when Kunikida noticed it—just for a second, the briefest flicker of something behind Dazai’s eyes.

Resignation.

Like he already knew.

Kunikida took a step forward, jaw clenched. “Dazai.”

Dazai’s smirk didn’t falter. “Yes?”

“You knew something was wrong, didn’t you?”

A pause. “Maybe.”

Kunikida’s hands curled into fists. “And you didn’t think to tell us?”

Dazai tilted his head, as if considering it. “Didn’t seem important.”

Yosano exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the exam table. “Dammit, Dazai.”

For once, he had nothing to say.

Because what could he say?

That he had already accepted it? That he had known for days and chosen to do nothing? That it was easier to pretend it didn’t matter?

Silence hung thick between them.

Finally, Yosano straightened, removing her gloves. “I’m ordering scans. Today.”

Dazai didn’t protest. He just smiled, something small, something tired.

“Whatever you say, Doctor.”

Chapter Text

The Agency was many things—efficient, resourceful, a hub of highly skilled individuals with abilities that defied logic.

What it wasn’t , however, was a fully equipped medical facility.

So, much to Dazai’s immense dismay, Yosano had wasted no time in shipping him off to a proper hospital. Kunikida had gone with them, naturally—partly out of obligation, partly out of pure, stubborn concern.

And now, here he was.

Lying under an MRI machine, the thing whirling and clanking around him, loud enough to drown out even his own thoughts.

He’d done this before.

The familiarity of it was almost amusing.

The cold press of the table beneath him. The way the machine encased him, trapping him in a space that felt just a little too small. The rhythmic, mechanical noises that never failed to make his ears ring.

Yes, he’d been through this before.

He already knew what the results would say.

He already knew what was coming.

It wasn’t exactly a surprise anymore.

In the waiting room, Yosano sat with her legs crossed, arms folded, her foot tapping impatiently against the tiled floor.

Kunikida was beside her, tense as ever, glancing at the clock every few minutes as if willing time to move faster.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence stretched, heavy and unyielding.

Then, finally—

“Yosano,” Kunikida said, voice low, measured. “Do you think—” He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. How bad do you think it is?”

Yosano exhaled slowly, fingers drumming against her arm.

“If it was just exhaustion, he would’ve bounced back by now,” she said. “If it was a cold, it wouldn’t have lasted this long.” Her jaw tightened. “Whatever this is, it’s something that won’t go away on its own.”

Kunikida pressed his lips into a thin line. “You think he knows?”

Yosano’s gaze darkened.

“…Yeah.”

Kunikida’s fists clenched.

They both knew Dazai.

If he did know, and he hadn’t told them—

That meant it wasn’t something simple. It wasn’t something that could be brushed off or cured with rest and medicine.

It was something serious.

The kind of serious that made even Dazai unwilling to talk about it.

And that was what scared them the most.

—

Dazai was placed into a hospital room shortly after the MRI, the sterile white walls pressing in around him. The faint scent of antiseptic filled the air, clinging to everything. It was the kind of place he’d always despised—too clean, too clinical, too full of lingering ghosts. 

Yosano and Kunikida were pulled into the room not long after, the door clicking shut behind them. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Neither of them spoke, but their presence weighed heavily in the room, their unspoken concerns hanging in the air.

 It didn’t last long. 

A quiet knock. The door creaked open, and a doctor stepped inside. Middle-aged, tired-looking, his coat pressed but slightly wrinkled, as if he’d spent far too long in it. He offered a small nod before sitting down, hands folded neatly over his clipboard. 

A slow inhale, a measured pause. Then—

 “Based on the results of your scans and tests, we’ve confirmed a diagnosis of stage four lung cancer.” 

Silence.

 “At this stage, the cancer has metastasized, meaning it has spread beyond the lungs to other parts of the body. Given the extent of progression, our focus shifts to managing symptoms, slowing the spread, and maintaining quality of life. There are treatment options available, including chemotherapy, targeted therapies, and immunotherapy, but these are not curative at this stage.”

 The doctor’s voice was steady, practiced. He had likely delivered this speech countless times before. A routine tragedy, wrapped up in clinical professionalism.

 “We’ll discuss a plan tailored to your specific case,” he continued, his tone carrying a quiet sympathy. “Our team will be here to guide you through every step.” 

Dazai wanted to laugh. 

He’d heard this all before. 

The same speech. The same condolences. The same futile list of options. 

The first time, when he’d gone alone, he had listened carefully, let the weight of it settle over him. He’d sat through the explanations, nodded along, and then, when it came time to make a decision—

 He had declined.

 And he would do so again.

 A sharp inhale from beside him broke the silence—Yosano. She barely made a sound, but he knew her well enough to recognize the shift in her expression, the barely restrained reaction. 

She recovered quickly. “Thank you,” she said, clearing her throat. “We’ll discuss what—” 

“No treatment.”

 Kunikida and Yosano’s heads snapped toward him in unison. 

The doctor hesitated. “Mr. Dazai, I understand this is a lot to process, but I highly recommend—” 

“No.” Dazai’s voice was calm, almost bored. “I already heard all of this before. I made my choice then, and I’m making it now.”

 Yosano’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. Kunikida, beside her, had gone rigid, his jaw set, his knuckles white where they rested on his lap.

 “You already knew?” Kunikida’s voice was low, dangerous.

 Dazai merely shrugged. “For a while now.” 

A sharp breath, the kind that was barely restrained frustration. Kunikida’s glasses glinted under the harsh hospital lighting as he turned away, pressing a hand over his mouth. 

Yosano, on the other hand, was less inclined to silence. “You absolute idiot,” she hissed, stepping closer. “You knew. You knew, and you said nothing?” 

Dazai tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “What difference would it have made?” 

“The difference is that we could have done something earlier!” Yosano snapped. “You—” She inhaled sharply, visibly steadying herself. “You don’t get to make this decision alone, Dazai. Not when it affects everyone around you.” 

His smile didn’t waver. “Ah, but I already have.”

 Kunikida slammed his fist onto the bedside table. The loud crack made the doctor flinch. 

“You don’t get to just give up,” he bit out. His voice was shaking—not with anger, but with something deeper, something raw. “That’s not what we do.” 

Dazai looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, he sighed, tilting his head back against the pillows. 

“I’m not ‘giving up,’” he murmured. “I’m just… choosing how this ends. Isn’t that what I’ve always done before? Trying to take my own life, just this time it’s a little different.” 

Silence.

Heavy. Unrelenting. Suffocating.

Yosano’s nails dug into her palms. Kunikida’s hands trembled where they rested against the table, still tense from the impact.

And Dazai—Dazai just lay there, head tilted back, eyes half-lidded, looking for all the world like this was just another fleeting conversation, another minor inconvenience.

Kunikida was the first to break.

With a sharp inhale, he turned on his heel, pacing to the far side of the room. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers clenching tight before forcing them back down.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was taut with barely restrained emotion.

“So that’s it?” he asked. “That’s your grand conclusion? You knew. You let this fester. You waited until there was nothing left to do—just so you could die on your terms?”

Dazai smiled. “Now you’re getting it.”

Kunikida whirled back around, his expression caught between fury and devastation.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he spat.

Dazai hummed. “Many things, if you ask a professional.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Yosano snapped, stepping closer to the bed, voice sharp enough to cut through steel. “This isn’t one of your stupid games, Dazai.”

“Who said it was?”

“That’s exactly the problem,” she said. “You’ve always treated your own life like it’s disposable. Like it doesn’t matter. ”

Dazai let out a soft chuckle. “You say that like it does.”

“It does ,” Kunikida bit out, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Even if you refuse to believe it, even if you refuse to act like it—your life matters to people. To the Agency. To—”

He cut himself off.

For a brief second, something raw flickered across his face—something unspoken, something far too heavy for words.

And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in a long while, Dazai had no quip to offer in return.

The doctor, caught in the tension of the room, shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps it would be best if I gave you all some time to discuss—”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Dazai said lightly. “My decision is final.”

Yosano clenched her jaw.

“No, it isn’t,” she said, and there was something dangerous in her voice now, something that brooked no argument. “Because you don’t get to just decide to waste away in front of us and expect us to accept it.”

“Ah, but—”

“No.”

And suddenly, she was closer. Close enough that Dazai could see the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly.

Close enough that he could see the glint of something furious in her eyes—something desperate.

“If you won’t fight for yourself,” she said, voice dangerously soft, “then we’ll do it for you.”

Dazai blinked.

“Yosano,” he started, but she was already turning away.

“I’ll handle the paperwork for treatment options,” she told the doctor, ignoring Dazai’s protest entirely. “Even if the bastard refuses, we’ll find something. I don’t care what it takes.”

The doctor hesitated, glancing uncertainty between them. “If the patient declines treatment—”

“Oh, he’ll take it,” Kunikida said, voice ironclad. “We’ll make sure of it.”

Dazai exhaled through his nose, something dangerously close to laughter bubbling in his chest.

“Ah,” he murmured. “So that’s how it is.”

He should’ve known better.

He should’ve expected this.

Yosano and Kunikida had never been the type to back down.

Not in the field. Not in battle.

And apparently—not even when he was making the decision to die.

A slow smile tugged at his lips, something almost amused.

Almost fond.

Almost.

No, Yosano.”

Dazai’s voice was sharper now, cutting through the thick tension in the room like a blade. He wasn’t joking anymore.

He pushed himself up against the pillows, eyes narrowing as he met Yosano’s glare head-on.

“What? I get treatment, I live another what—two, three months? I spend that time confined to a bed, hooked up to machines, dealing with the side effects of everything you throw at me—just to live one more day ?”

His voice didn’t waver, but there was something underneath it, something raw.

“When, in the entire time you’ve known me, have I ever willingly prolonged this life?”

The words hit like a slap.

Yosano’s lips parted slightly, but no words came.

Kunikida inhaled sharply, his fists tightening. “That’s not—”

Dazai turned to him, cutting him off with a sharp look.

“It’s the truth.”

Silence.

Then—

“That’s bullshit. ”

Yosano’s voice was low, dangerous.

“You think we don’t know that you’ve wanted to die, Dazai?” Her fists were clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white. “We know. We’ve always known.”

Dazai huffed a laugh, but it was bitter. “Then why are we still having this conversation?”

“Because you’re not choosing this.”

Yosano stepped closer, her gaze burning. “All those years? Those attempts? That was you trying to take control of your own death. But this? This isn’t control. This is you giving up because the choice was taken from you before you could make it yourself.”

Dazai stilled.

A slow blink.

Then—

He smiled.

And it was sharp, bitter, laced with something dangerously close to understanding.

“You’re cruel, Yosano.”

She exhaled through her nose. “Yeah, well. Takes one to know one.”

Kunikida let out a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Enough of this.”

He turned, fixing Dazai with a look that dared him to argue. “You’re getting treatment.”

Dazai tilted his head. “And if I refuse?”

Kunikida didn’t even hesitate.

“Then we’ll force you.”

Dazai stared at him.

Then, slowly, his lips curled.

“Now that,” he murmured, “I’d like to see you try.”

And just like that, the war had begun.